Swiss Vendetta--A Mystery Page 3

  Estanguet edged closer. “This is a woman? How could this be a woman?”

  Agnes glanced at the mound of ice, biting her tongue. It was unwise to share her opinion that it was probably a doped-up society girl. “Definitely a woman. I saw her face.”

  Blanchard used a small tool, first measuring the thickness of the ice, then cracking the hood back from the woman’s head. Ice scattered in the wind. He ran his hand across her skull and neck.

  Estanguet looked so ill he distracted Agnes from her preoccupation with Carnet and the cold. They should have taken the doctor’s bag from the man and sent him indoors to get warm. He didn’t need to see this. She took his elbow and pressed her flashlight into his hand, indicating the direction of the château. He shook his head, seemingly unwilling to leave until there were answers, and she sympathized. For a novice there was something both horrible and fascinating in the scene: the dead body both an object and a human. Very different from her years with financial crimes.

  Petit emerged from the whiteout and Agnes noticed that he was still absently patting at his coat and waist. That boded ill for the missing radio, and with the phones dead any communication with the outside world. She glanced around. They were isolated on this node of land below the cliff. She should have opted to go home when she had the chance. The weather put even Sybille’s company in a pleasant light.

  Blanchard spoke over his shoulder, squinting into the wind. “No evidence of a head injury. You can see how she fell away from the bench, not against it.” He brushed falling sleet from the body. “Face forward. Damage to her cheekbone probably from the fall and not before, broken bone but no bruising. The blood wasn’t flowing anymore. Maybe she had a seizure or some other medical condition? I can’t see anything else until we get more of this ice off her.” He rubbed his hands together and put his gloves back on. “Merde, it’s cold out here. Too early to tell if she died of natural causes. Who did you say found her? She’s not familiar to me. Does anyone know her?”

  Petit spoke up. “Julien Vallotton stumbled on her and called us. He gave us her name, she’s not local.”

  “No matter. How do you want to handle it?”

  They all turned to her and Agnes wanted a cigarette more than she wanted to breathe: wishing Carnet wasn’t here, and furious that the road to the village was impassable, although if she made it to the top of the cliff the highways would be closed by now. No phone, no way out, and no way to consult with Bardy. She didn’t need this on her first day on his team. Why hadn’t he made it here? She moved nearer the protection of the canvas walls, willing herself to focus, remembering a snowstorm early in her marriage. The joy of two days trapped at home together with George. Happier days that should have lasted forever.

  “Completely frozen to the ground,” Blanchard called over his shoulder. “That’s one way to establish time of death. Take a few of this,” he motioned to Carnet, who was using his camera phone to document the scene.

  Agnes turned to Petit and gestured to Estanguet. “Take him inside.” For a moment she was tempted to use the excuse of impending frostbite to join them and leave Carnet in charge. Only the memory of George stopped her. He’d been her biggest supporter from the day she applied to the police force, insisting she had good instincts and they’d be lucky to have her. She wouldn’t let him down, even now.

  “I’ll look at the storm pattern,” Blanchard said. “We’ll do better to get her up and out of here quickly. Sad to think she might have taken a tumble and died, although probably not the only one tonight.”

  He chipped away at the ice, uncovering first the dead woman’s face, then her coat-clad torso. When he reached the legs, Agnes shivered again. The long thin skirt had fallen to the side and the woman’s bare legs, incongruous with the boots, looked cold. She wished they would hurry and cover the body again, but she didn’t say anything, knowing that the woman was beyond feeling just as her husband had been.

  It had been cool that day, a cloudy gray day typical of Lausanne in autumn. The ambulance driver had covered George before she could look, angering her and later making her grateful. There had been so many people around, watching and judging. Later she understood the sand on the road was there to absorb blood. That day she had seen only the outline of her husband’s covered form, the flash of emergency lights, and the chatter of horrified pedestrians. It had started to drizzle and Carnet was there, encouraging her to leave. Other officers pulled her toward a waiting car, asking if her children were with her; could they call someone to come for her; was her purse still in the café? They had talked and talked, to her and over her head, and all she wanted was to see George for herself, to remember every detail. She remembered tiny things like the rip down the sleeve of his jacket where his arm wasn’t quite covered by the sheet. A shame, for he loved that coat. It was the same today. The body was clad in a beautiful dress irreparably damaged by the ice, the coat torn. She looked up.

  “Her coat wouldn’t have torn like that when she fell.” She stooped near the doctor and Carnet joined her. Together they shielded the body. The wind had shifted again and ice seemed to arrive from all sides.

  “You’ve got good eyes,” Carnet said. “The slit looks new, made by something sharp, a knife maybe, doesn’t look like a snag on a nail. Could have been cut before she put it on.”

  “The fabric’s not frayed.” Agnes held the flashlight, curiosity making her forget the cold. She gestured for Carnet to sweep the remnants of ice away from the area.

  “If you want to see underneath you’d better cut it away,” Blanchard said. “The whole bit’s frozen solid, moisture in and on the fabric, and you won’t get it off her any other way. I’m going to keep her cold until we can get her somewhere to do a proper autopsy. I don’t have many medical tools with me, mostly my … farm tools.”

  Carnet cut a large piece of the dead woman’s jacket away, careful to keep his blade far from the incision they were studying. Agnes focused her attention. She wasn’t thinking clearly. She had allowed the place and the weather to numb her to the possibility that this was a crime. When Carnet tried to lift the material it wouldn’t move. Carefully he touched one edge of the fabric with his knife, lifting it slightly. It pulled away and they crouched nearer, trying to protect the area from the storm. Blanchard pulled the bottom of the fabric away, shining his light on it. There was a dark frozen mass concealed between the body and jacket.

  “Not natural causes, I suspect,” he muttered, running his hand under the fabric and separating it from the frozen blood. When the material of the jacket lifted away, Blanchard removed the layer of red ice and slipped it into a plastic container taken from his satchel. Beneath lay white flesh marked by the slit of a blade.

  Agnes knew before Blanchard spoke that this was the reason they were here. This woman had been stabbed. She felt a thrill. This was violent crimes.

  Three

  A half hour later Agnes and Carnet stood in the cavernous entrance hall of the château, feet wet and coats tossed to the side, having decided to begin interviewing the household while Petit and Blanchard attended to the body. They had quickly settled into their former way of working, and while their old habits reestablished themselves, she knew there was a difference. Carnet watched her carefully when he thought she wasn’t looking, and she could see the pity and curiosity in his eyes. It was maddening.

  Despite the thickness of the château’s stone walls, she could hear the storm howling and was struck by a sense of foreboding. All around them the walls were fitted with a collection of medieval weapons. High overhead dozens of fat candles burned low in an iron chandelier and the light glinted off the weapons, casting shadows. Agnes’s confidence slipped another notch and she hoped the darkness concealed her concern. She wanted to take the lead in the investigation; she needed to in order to start a new life without George. She took a deep breath, wished for a cigarette, and tugged at her waistband. She had stopped smoking at home but kept a pack in her car for emergencies, and there were always em
ergencies.

  Behind her, Estanguet emerged from the shadows. “The Vallottons will be up those stairs,” he said, pointing into the darkness. “Officer Petit said they’re gathering in the marquise’s sitting room. That’s the door on the left.”

  “You’re familiar with the château? You know the family?” Agnes asked. Estanguet had guided them from the small side door to the front hall with a confidence that spoke of familiarity and she was again thankful he had helped Carnet and the doctor navigate the icy road down from the village. If he hadn’t, she would be totally reliant on Petit. Not an adequate substitute for Bardy.

  “I use the library.” Estanguet mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. His coat was open and his shirt damp. “I know the place.”

  Before Agnes could ask more questions Estanguet stumbled, catching himself on the corner of an iron-banded leather trunk. His color was poor yet he was sweating, and she wondered if he didn’t have hypothermia. The last thing they needed was for their Good Samaritan to take ill.

  “You need to warm up by a fire. Have a hot tea or something stronger. Perhaps une eau-de-vie?”

  “She was really dead, the lady outside?” he asked.

  Agnes regretted allowing him to watch the police at their work. A situation Bardy would surely have handled differently. She exchanged a glance with Carnet and he took Estanguet’s elbow and guided him into the darkness. Agnes went in the other direction, up the broad stairs that were fitted inside the north tower off the entrance hall. She slowed after the first steps. The household was likely in a state of shock. It was a mistake to let Carnet leave. She was too close to her own grief to wade unaided through the sentiment in others. Moreover, Carnet knew what questions to ask. People found him sympathetic. In unguarded moments at the station some of the men snickered behind his back and said it was a trait—like dressing well—that came with his lifestyle. She knew it was simply because he chose to listen.

  He had listened to her that terrible day George died. His hand gripping hers. Tears forming in his eyes. Her confidence ebbed. There wasn’t anything to lift her up. She needed her boys. To at least hear their voices. She gripped the carved balustrade, recalling the earlier phone conversation with her mother-in-law. Sybille, who had never liked her, who blamed her for the death of her only son. Every word, every greeting, laced with anger until the barest perfunctory exchange was charged with emotion. That was the atmosphere that would be waiting up these stairs. People angered, perhaps blaming one another. She took another step, wishing she had dry shoes and that her feet weren’t so cold. Then she remembered that among those waiting, someone was possibly experiencing a very different emotion. Someone happy. Satisfied. A murderer.

  In the distance a door opened and shut. Startled out of her reverie, Agnes trod the final stairs. The light at the top was stronger. The wide corridor was illuminated by candles fitted into wall sconces and candelabras. Glimpsing the paintings and tapestries lining the walls, she pursed her lips. A fortune in things; a museum where people lived. She felt the thickness of the carpet beneath her feet, quite a difference from the hard stone of the entrance hall.

  Pausing at the door where the family was waiting, she took stock of her appearance. Her short hair was practically standing on end. Her suit was a damp mess and her stockings had runs in both knees from kneeling beside the body. She took a deep breath and swept into the room. Once across the threshold she stopped abruptly, realizing she was at a disadvantage. She should have arranged for a place less them and more her.

  The room was large, divided into three seating areas. Near one stone hearth, cards were laid atop a marquetry table as if a game had been interrupted. Throughout the room a collection of antique clocks was scattered on various surfaces. Fabricated from bronze, gold, and porcelain, each ticked away the minutes creating a nearly musical sound together. Collected on a table was an arrangement of pocket watches with cases ranging from ornate to the simplest elegance, and throughout the room there was a carelessness in the placement of all the objects, as if they were of great value but also touched and admired. A Great Dane lay in front of the far fireplace. He raised his head briefly then laid it back on his paws.

  An elderly woman was seated in front of the nearer fireplace on a low, broad chair upholstered in pale green fabric. All around her flickering candlelight was exaggerated by large mirrors on the walls and over the mantels. She was dressed in a slim wool dress so deeply red it went black in the questionable light, handmade leather pumps on her feet. Despite the roaring fires the room was chilly and across her shoulders she wore a silver fox stole that almost, but not quite, hid the strands of Indian rubies, some large as quail’s eggs, that dangled from her neck. Her white hair was neatly rolled low on the back of her head.

  Agnes swallowed. If she wasn’t the marquise, she should be. A matching chair was opposite, separated by a small table. The arms and legs of the chairs glistened, and Agnes stifled a gasp.

  “We are fortunate these were not melted for coin,” the marquise said, introducing herself as Antoinette Vallotton de Tornay. “I brought the pair to Switzerland after the death of my husband. We hid them throughout the war, not their first. I think it remarkable that such things were made; on the other hand, what better use for wealth before banking: to form the metal into something usable.”

  Silver, Agnes thought, wanting to ask if the chairs’ frames were solid and somehow knowing they must be.

  “You are here to speak to us about the deceased,” the marquise continued, motioning for Agnes to be seated. “I’m afraid we know very little about her.”

  Agnes pulled out her notebook, pleased not to face the entire family at once. The matriarch was intimidating enough. “Could you tell me who is at the château tonight?”

  “I have no idea.” The older woman’s voice was calm and polite. A void stretched between them and Agnes realized that the marquise was a rare person who welcomed silence.

  “Officer Petit said I should speak with you first. You must know who else lives here?” The old woman didn’t look senile although it was possible.

  “That’s not what you asked. You asked who is here tonight. Certainly I know who lives here. We are a small household.” She listed names, speaking rapidly. Agnes took notes.

  “And who is here now?” she asked, when the marquise finished.

  “I’ve said: I have no idea. According to Officer Petit, my nephew discovered Mademoiselle Cowell. That means he has arrived from London. Personally, I’ve been in my suite of rooms since luncheon and have only seen my maid, Marie-José. She brought tea.”

  Agnes changed tacks. “Could you clarify Felicity Cowell’s role in the household? She’s not local, I take it.”

  The marquise fingered her chains of rubies. “My brother’s testament outlined the sale of certain pieces of art, the proceeds to be given to organizations he was fond of. My nephew is organizing details of the sale and Mademoiselle Cowell works for the auction house he has a relationship with in London. That is why he is here this weekend, to observe her progress. You will have to ask him about the specifics.”

  “Monsieur Julien Vallotton arranged for her to organize the auction?” Agnes recalled what Petit had said about the man who discovered the body. Vallotton lived in London. That was a rule of violent crime she did know: the one closest to the victim was often the culprit. Convenient that Vallotton arranged for her to be here, arrived the day she was killed, and was the one to discover her.

  “You phrase that interestingly,” the marquise said. “I doubt he arranged for her, certainly he engaged the firm, but my brother purchased many items through them over the years.”

  “Do you know why Mademoiselle Cowell was outside this afternoon?”

  “We have lovely grounds. People often go outdoors to walk along the lake.”

  “In a winter storm?”

  The marquise didn’t respond.

  “She was wearing clothing unsuited to the outdoors,” Agnes added. “It leads to question
s.”

  “Unsuited?” the marquise said. “There are many ways one can dress unsuitably. I’m afraid you will have to be more specific, although the few times I saw Mademoiselle Cowell she appeared well-groomed enough.”

  “You saw her only a few times?”

  “My housekeeper had prepared a room, however Mademoiselle Cowell declined to stay here. The pretty little yellow room next to the west tower. It is not in the family wing, and she would have had her privacy and the adjacent room to do her business. One would hope she might have been more considerate.”

  Agnes was surprised anyone would turn down an invitation to stay at the château. Her colleagues had accepted the housekeeper’s invitation to stay the night quickly enough. Of course that was also because it was impossible to make the climb up to the village. Carnet had shared details of their descent and even with Estanguet’s expert guidance, wearing crampons borrowed from villagers, and clinging to a rope Estanguet strung for them, he and the doctor were fortunate they hadn’t broken their necks.

  “Mademoiselle Cowell was wearing an evening dress when she died,” Agnes said. “With a man’s overcoat and heavy boots. They were too large. Not hers.”

  The marquise’s clear gaze didn’t waver. “Fascinating, and definitely inappropriate, but I have no idea why. She was a very pretty girl, but insecure. I am not certain she was entirely as she appeared to be.”

  Agnes wondered if this was a subtle way of shifting focus from the household onto the victim. Or was the marquise trying to be helpful? She was surprised by the lack of a pretense of sorrow or anger or any emotion. “What do you mean? Not as she appeared to be?”

  “Nothing particular. Simply an observation.”