He was so defiant it gave her a second of pleasure to tell him that Arsov was not receiving callers, and for what reason. Her pleasure was short-lived as Mulholland’s haughty expression swiftly altered to despair. He pulled a cigarette from a heavy gold case and lit it with shaking fingers. “It’s not possible. The old man is a horse.”
“His nurse says he’ll recover; it’s only been a few hours and he’s resting comfortably.” She took pity on him. “You should visit; they’ll want him to know his friends came by.”
“Friends?” Mulholland stood abruptly. “He wouldn’t even—” He stopped midsentence. “You make me nervous.”
“You mentioned that before and I asked your godmother.” Agnes smiled briefly. “Petit was in uniform the night we arrived and I thought that was what bothered you.” She held his gaze, something she had learned to do with her oldest son. “But your parents died in Africa, didn’t they? And, according to the marquise, you were told by the headmaster while at school, so you have no painful association with the police. Maybe your nerves are caused by another incident, another reason?”
Silence stretched for a long minute.
“Hard for either of you to know what associations the mind makes, isn’t it?” Mulholland said. “War refugees can’t stand the slamming of a door, but the sound of a gun doesn’t bother them. Maybe I do fear the sight of you. Maybe there is an unconscious association.” He nibbled the edge of a fingernail. Agnes winced at the sight of his damaged hands. They were a reminder of his terror in the ice house. Before she could question him further, there were footsteps and the marquise entered the room followed by Julien Vallotton. Mulholland took advantage of the distraction and fled, leaving Agnes determined to talk to him again very soon.
The marquise was dressed in wool trousers and a jacket with a fox stole around her shoulders for added warmth. Despite the simplicity of the clothing, Agnes knew these were expensive garments. She also thought Vallotton looked slightly amused at his aunt’s sudden interest in what was happening outside her suite of rooms. Agnes stood and greeted them both.
“Inspector Lüthi, we must apologize for embroiling you in another little mystery,” the marquise said.
“All of the valuables should be traceable eventually,” Agnes replied. “Once the power is on we will contact major auction houses.”
The marquise stopped her. “You may keep my nephew informed; it is of no interest to me if these trifles are found. I was speaking of the discovery of bones in our garden. Have you learned anything about them? Julien had very little to say other than that you brought an expert”—she made it sound like a very bad word—“to inspect them.”
“I don’t know about an expert, however, Doctor Blanchard is knowledgeable and thinks they are a few decades old. He took photographs and—” Agnes stopped, realizing that the details might be disconcerting.
“I would like to meet this doctor—I believe I remember him as a small boy, his mother used to have a shop in the village—and see where the discovery was made.” The marquise led the way down the long hall to the door. A maid trailed them, dispensing coats and scarves.
“I am familiar with the boundaries of the old cemetery,” the marquise said. “We played there as children, imagining the forgotten dead would rise up and claim us.” She allowed herself to be draped in a fur while Agnes shrugged on her coat.
“Julien,” the marquise continued, “I think that was your father’s way of terrorizing me. I always assumed—even hoped—that one day we would discover older remains on the property, predating our family’s time here. As a girl I was quite enthralled with archaeology. Of course, I hoped it would convince my father to take me somewhere exotic. Persia was my dream, but I would have settled for Egypt. I ended up in France.”
When they reached the stair to the outside door, Madame Puguet stepped from the kitchen and asked if anyone had seen Mimi. No one had seen her since she was put to bed the night before. Agnes sympathized. Her oldest son had spent a good part of one summer hiding. It was hard to make children understand why their parents were desperate with worry. She and George had spent more hours than she liked to recall searching across roads and creek beds, every time finding their son holed up safe and sound, often thrilled with the search he had watched from a high perch. Not knowing enough about the girl’s favorite hiding places to be of help, she ignored the family discussion and studied the lawn. She knew these were not ancient bones, but the marquise would see that for herself quickly enough.
Once outside, it was clear that the temperature hadn’t risen and the air, though still, was bitter. Agnes shivered despite her coat, but the marquise was well bundled in furs and Vallotton appeared oblivious. They made their way in near silence. Doctor Blanchard was standing at the edge of the gaping hole, stomping his feet to warm them. Agnes thought he was lucky he’d been in his outdoor farm clothes when he arrived at the château. Personally, she didn’t think she’d ever be warm again, but perhaps that was only the feeling in her heart. At the last minute she saw Carnet standing waist deep in the hole. She stopped, unable to speak, barely able to see through a mist of emotion.
Through the haze she heard Blanchard chatter, clearly delighted that the marquise was interested in the skeleton. He launched into an explanation of his process. After photographing the area, he and Carnet had used a small broom to expose the parts of the skeleton that were on the surface. Tattered fragments of fabric covered a small portion of the remains. He had brushed the dirt from the hips, part of one arm, and the skull as well as a leg. The femur Winston had removed lay in place again. The rest of the bones were trapped in the frozen earth.
“This was not a proper grave,” the marquise said when the doctor paused.
He agreed. “It’s hard to know how deep the body was when buried. A grave may have been dug. I know the village well, but not this landscape. Does anyone remember details of the terrain before the tree fell and dislodged the ground?”
“Flat, or nearly, out from the bench to the tree,” said Vallotton.
“There is a continuous low slope up to the château,” Agnes said, rousing herself. Vallotton and the marquise studied the area as if it was new to them, and Agnes added, “The bones might have started out nearer the surface. A small mound might have blended with the slope, then add irregularities expected at the base of the tree and you might overlook it, thinking it was roots near the surface. Leaves pile up in a grove and the ground thickens over time.” She felt Carnet studying her and avoided his eyes. Was it possible that two days ago she was so ashamed about her imagined role in George’s death that she didn’t want to see him? Where was his shame?
“For most of my life this grove was a dense wood,” said the marquise. “It was planted when the mansion was built in the 1840s. That particular Madame Vallotton thought herself a very modern woman and she hated the sight of the château and intended for the wood to block the view. It did, growing up over time and thickening into a dense miniature forest. My brother was of the opposite mind-set. He liked the view between the two residences and thinned the trees about fifteen years ago. Before that it would have been possible for a shallow grave to go undetected.”
“The grove would also have concealed someone digging a deeper one,” added Agnes, imagining the hate or fear that would fuel the digging of a secret grave. For a second she allowed herself to bury Carnet. To cut him from their lives. To backtrack and stop the forward motion leading to disaster.
“When I was a boy, Daniel and I would pretend to hunt wild boar here,” said Vallotton. “It was a dense wood then.”
“With the damage to the area around the bones I can’t fully evaluate the grave site,” said the doctor, “but she appears to have been deliberately wrapped in a covering. I hesitate to qualify it as anything more than material or fabric and can’t tell yet if it was a simple cloth or formed into a shroud or clothing or designed for some other use. I’ll collect everything, taking photographs as I do, and we’ll see if there are othe
r clues as it is uncovered. The ground is frozen solid and I risk damaging anything we find if we dig more. Best to do some preliminary investigations—what’s available at the surface—and preserve the rest of her until the temperature rises.”
“Her?” asked the marquise.
The doctor said a few words about the condition of the bones and the evidence from the pelvis that they were those of a relatively young woman. The group stood in silence for a moment.
“Is it possible she fell asleep by the tree and died of cold or an injury or illness?” asked Vallotton.
Agnes shot him a look. Why did they always retreat to intellectual discussions and peaceful solutions? This woman had been buried in a lonely grave. Not even a grave. A hole in the ground. She didn’t drift off into a peaceful sleep. When was it enough: murder, theft, a skeleton? When would one of the Vallottons show a crack in the façade of acceptance? She caught a glimpse of Carnet’s expression and knew that he was thinking the same thing.
Doctor Blanchard was speaking. “Doubtful,” he said. “Look at these fragments of fabric under her skull and how they appear to come up and over the face; and here in the arm area you have the same thing. She may have been wrapped head to foot in the material in a way that means she didn’t do it herself. I postulate it must have been different from normal cloth and for that reason fragments still remain whereas the other clothing, if there was any, has long disintegrated. Possibly it was oilcloth. That might explain the resistance.”
“How did she die?” the marquise asked, drawing closer. “You say that she was young.”
“Age based on her teeth and her pelvic bones.” Blanchard stepped into the hole and used the broom to clear a bit more earth from the skull. “Other evidence suggests that she is beyond adolescence, but the teeth look young. As we age, the teeth grind down. Hers are still rounded.” He brushed the forehead of the skull gently, then cleared away some more loose dirt down her shoulder and arm.
“Of course, I’ve not done a complete study,” he continued, “but there is no suggestion yet of the cause of death, although a bullet or knife could pierce an organ with no damage to the bone.” He cleared more earth from the woman’s other hand and looked closer. “There’s a piece of jewelry.” He loosened a finger bone and slid a ring off, rubbing it on his pant leg. “A signet ring.”
The marquise stepped to the edge of the hole and took it from him. After a cursory glance, she handed it to back to the doctor. “It is not one of ours.”
Blanchard turned it over for inspection. “Large enough to be a man’s. Clearly not ancient. No date or engraving. I’ll keep it with the bones. Turn them all in together.”
The marquise sat down suddenly on the bench. She clutched her fur to her throat, and a flicker of concern crossed Vallotton’s face. Agnes hoped the older woman wasn’t having an attack of some sort. The memory of Arsov’s weak body still bothered her and they were nearly the same age. She glanced toward Arsov’s and the marquise followed her gaze.
“How is he?”
“Nurse Brighton is confident he’ll recover.”
“He shouldn’t be told about this,” the marquise said. “Very unsettling to hear of another corpse, no matter its age, when one is ill.” She clutched her fur closer to her throat and slipped her hand through the crook of Vallotton’s arm, standing. “Although it is fascinating what one can learn from bones. I suppose this is even more intriguing than the death of poor Mademoiselle Cowell.”
Agnes felt the accusation.
They were only a few steps away when the marquise stopped. “Doctor Blanchard, when you are finished, please have the bones reinterred in the cemetery at Ville-sur-Lac. Once we are able to communicate, I will give instruction that the remains be buried in the Vallotton plot. She has been one of us for this long and we take care of our own.”
Agnes started to follow the Vallottons indoors when movement caught her eye. She peered toward Arsov’s, studying the nearest window. The old man’s bedroom, she now knew. There was a figure behind the glass. The figure moved and she recognized the broad flaps of Nurse Brighton’s cap. Hesitating, Agnes turned toward the mansion. It would be better to tell the nurse what they had discovered. She could keep the story from the sick man. Otherwise the servants were likely to gossip and who knows what tales would emerge.
With a feeling near to waking, Agnes had a revelation about the theft. Walking from the open grave, she reminded herself that she also needed to lay Felicity Cowell to rest.
Twenty-seven
The nurse swept an appraising look around the room. “He thinks he’s stronger than he is, don’t tire him.”
Agnes took a step nearer Arsov’s bed. “He can hear me?”
The nurse, never eager to praise, had informed her that this was what she had expected. Arsov had regained consciousness and would recover. To Agnes, the recovery seemed like a miracle. The old man was propped against pillows, his eyes half-opened.
“I’ve been dreaming,” he said.
Agnes glanced out the large window to the open grave where they found the skeleton and was thankful he couldn’t see the place from bed. Despite what the nurse said, Arsov looked weak. The marquise was right: he didn’t need news of death. Even a death decades old.
“I came to return your book,” she said, extracting the diary from her coat. “I didn’t mean to take it…” She stopped herself before mentioning the reason she had accidentally slipped it into her pocket.
“Hers,” he said, stretching out a hand. “Her story. I was dreaming of her.”
Agnes held the book out but he motioned her away. “Read to me,” he said.
She hesitated before taking a chair. These were very personal writings. With a glance at the old man she flipped the diary open and selected a page at random. “The date is April and this is what is written.” She looked up to see if he was serious, then began:
“I have had so many moments of panic and terror and then, today, the worst happened.”
She stopped. This was not a soothing story. However, there was a faint smile on Arsov’s lips, so she continued.
“I stepped from the bakery with the boys holding my hands and a tall German ordered me to halt. You cannot imagine what those words sound like in his foul tongue. He did not even bother to speak French! I tried to squeeze the boys’ hands reassuringly, but I felt my knees knock together and I was afraid I would blurt out either an obvious lie or refuse to answer a routine question.”
Agnes turned the fragile page carefully.
“I don’t remember what he asked or how I answered. All I could see were the trucks taking us away to the work camps.”
Agnes drew in a sharp breath. Arsov tapped his hand impatiently on the bedcover. She continued reading.
“I would have failed my brother and Anthony and his parents and everyone I love. Then, just when I thought we were lost, a long black car pulled up and the door opened and She stepped out. She wore high heels and a long black skirt with a fur around her shoulders and I think she is the most elegant person I have ever seen.”
Agnes smiled. This had to be Madame. Clearly Arsov and Anne-Marie shared an admiration for her. She kept reading.
“Her hat was at a perfect angle with a long feather running off the brim and everyone on the street stopped to watch. The stupid German didn’t notice her coming behind him until she spoke. It was in his nasty Boche language; however, I can’t describe it, when she spoke it almost sounded beautiful.”
Arsov stretched his hand to the edge of his bed, running his fingers carefully as if searching for something. “Is she gone?” he murmured. “Dragon nurse? Is she gone?”
“I can get her.” Agnes rose.
“No, in drawer. A cigarette.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
“You think I worry about health at my age? Give me cigarette.”
Agnes reached forward and opened the drawer, spying the hand-rolled cigarettes cradled in a silver box. She held one for him and lit it after
removing his oxygen tube and shoving the tank away. She felt like a schoolgirl again: positive she would get in trouble with the headmistress but unable to stop herself. Hopefully Nurse Brighton would stay away until he finished. Hopefully he wouldn’t die without the oxygen.
“Read,” Arsov said, eyes closed and fingers clutched around the rolled white paper. A small hazy ring hovered above him. “Read. This is one of my favorite parts. I can hear her voice in the words. I can feel our paths coming together. This is what led her to me. The moment that changed my life.”
Agnes opened the diary and found her place. “‘I still don’t know what she said to le Boche,’” she continued reading,
“but he gave me a look that should have pushed me into the curb, then he turned and walked away. I thought I would faint with fear, and she said to me in a low voice: Get in the car. And, like that, I knew we were saved. The boys were so overwhelmed they sat holding hands in the backseat, ogling the fine furnishings of the interior. Madame didn’t speak or ask me any questions; it was as if she already knew the answers, and we drove to the apartment where I was living and she told me what to do in a few short sentences. She kept the boys in the car while I ran through our tiny rooms, collecting things to take with me.”
Agnes held the place with her finger. “Madame is the woman you told me about. Who taught you to survive?”
“Read.”
“It seems silly that I trusted her so quickly; after all, she spoke German and could have been in collusion with them. Wouldn’t that be like a fairy tale: the beautiful woman who bewitches the children and takes them away? But that is not what happened. We had so few things of value, only a few changes of clothes and a toy or two, photographs. I ran back out to the big black car, threw our cases in the back and sat on the seat beside her while she drove us out of town. Not toward the château, which is where I now know Madame lives, but in the other direction, south toward the next village. The boys had fallen asleep, and Madame had me cover them with a blanket from head to toe.
Swiss Vendetta--A Mystery Page 22