Swiss Vendetta--A Mystery Page 4

  “When did Mademoiselle Cowell arrive? Officer Petit lives in the village and remembers seeing her last week.”

  The marquise rose and crossed to stand nearer the fireplace, warming her hands in front of the blaze. Before Agnes could repeat her question the door opened and a man entered. At a glance Agnes knew who he was: Julien Vallotton, the château’s owner, and the marquise’s nephew. Petit had described him as good-looking, early forties, tall. Good-looking was an understatement. He had a masculine version of his aunt’s fine bone structure with a thick head of nearly black hair slightly brushed with gray at the temples. But it was his eyes—a cold piercing blue—that arrested her attention. He kissed his aunt on both cheeks then held out his hand to Agnes in greeting.

  “Julien, dear, could you see if the others are coming?” the marquise said. “We don’t want to keep the inspector waiting. I’m sure the police have other duties tonight with the storm.”

  Agnes hoped the nephew was more forthcoming. “Madame la marquise was confirming the date Felicity Cowell arrived.”

  “A fortnight ago, it must have been,” Vallotton said. “We spoke the day before she traveled.”

  “It was her first trip here?”

  “To our home, yes, but Switzerland? I don’t know. Our conversation was brief, centered wholly on the auction.” He paused. “She was British. Or I assumed she was. We were both in London when I called, and her schoolgirl French was competent but the accent—” He stopped in mid-sentence. “I did ask where she was from, but she didn’t say, and I didn’t care to inquire again.”

  Agnes turned a page in her notebook. “What was your general impression of her?”

  Before he could answer, the door to the corridor opened and a young man entered. He had clearly come straight from out-of-doors, his face was red with cold despite his healthy tan, and he had bits of snow and ice in his hair. He moved quickly, straight to the fireplace, shedding layers as he went, a few scarves, gloves, coat. His hawkish features were tempered by a thick swath of dark blond hair that fell over one eye, and her first impression was of energy. At a second glance, he seemed brittle. Using the shadows, Agnes moved unobtrusively away, mentally running through the list of names the marquise had mentioned, assigning a label. The woman’s godson, she guessed.

  “I can’t believe someone would be murdered here,” the man exclaimed. “Christ, you would think we were safe enough. Someone needs to think about security—”

  The marquise interrupted him, quickly introducing her nephew to Ralph Mulholland, using the old pronunciation, Rafe, adding that Vallotton surely remembered her godson. For her part, Agnes was pleased to have guessed correctly. She was also surprised by his accent. The young man was British. Another geographic connection to the victim.

  Mulholland headed to a cabinet where he poured light brown liquid into a delicate glass. He gulped it down with a flick of his wrist and poured another, pressing his other hand to his chest as if to still his heart.

  “I saw the cops, the lights. They were huddled over someone.” He shivered, then walked to the marquise and bussed her cheeks with a kiss. “Don’t you worry, no one would lift a hand to hurt you.” Finally he noticed Agnes in the shadows. He lifted an eyebrow and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Didn’t realize we have guests.”

  “Inspector Lüthi is questioning us,” said the marquise.

  Mulholland’s face drained to white. “I shouldn’t have made sport of it.” He hesitated, then stepped forward, quickly recovering his poise and offering to get a drink for anyone in need. Agnes doubted there would be any takers since she could see into the open cabinet and there was only sherry and champagne, and this was definitely not the moment for the latter.

  “Blasted cold outside,” Mulholland said. “Inspector, you don’t look like you are from the little station on the hill. I have always wanted to stop in and see the operation. It seems charming.”

  “What led you to believe the victim was murdered? I think that is what you said? Murdered?” Agnes asked.

  Mulholland gulped his drink down and turned to set the glass on a table. Agnes had never seen so young a man drink sherry with such fervent appreciation.

  “Have you questioned everyone else? I’m afraid I won’t have anything to add. I just saw the police.”

  Agnes glanced at the marquise and found that the woman’s expression was a mask of polite convention. It struck Agnes that Mulholland didn’t ask who was killed. An interesting lack of curiosity or a lazy display of knowledge he shouldn’t have. It also struck her that Mulholland had seemed genuinely worried when he first entered the room. Panicked even.

  “It was Mademoiselle Cowell,” the marquise said in a level tone.

  Agnes watched the expression on Mulholland’s face carefully: relief, surprise, horror, dismay. The emotions were so fleeting it was difficult to determine their order or even swear positively to their appearance. Mulholland started to pour another drink, but the slim decanter was nearly empty and he stopped and smiled thinly at Agnes. “I apologize. I’m afraid the police remind me of when my parents died. I overreacted, and badly. One does in these situations. You asked me a question.”

  “You seemed to think it was murder and not an accident. I wonder why?”

  “Certainly you don’t think I did it and confessed so easily. My fancy education taught me more than that.” Mulholland changed tone. “During a storm like tonight, one of the local boys could have taken care of an accident or a suicide. Instead they’ve called in the troops.” He arched an eyebrow. “Or am I wrong? You’re not local.”

  “No, your reasoning is correct. The young woman was deliberately killed. Did you know her?”

  “Of course, she was here every day, all day, for the last week or so. Two weeks. She arrived the night before the party. And had dinner with us then. I saw her a few times more. Seemed a nice girl, common but amusing and very clever.”

  “Did you see her today?”

  “You mean before—” Mulholland gripped the edge of the sofa. “No, although I wouldn’t have. I had a late night and rose ’round about noon. Went for a walk and paid a visit to our neighbor.”

  “Neighbor?” Agnes asked.

  “Our resident oligarch.”

  “Ralph,” interrupted the marquise. She shifted to face Agnes, fingers twined in the chains of rubies. “Monsieur Arsov has let a house from us, a villa built for my great-great-grandmother. We are quite isolated below the village and it is a comfort that the other property is no longer vacant. You should have a tour; it is a lovely example of neoclassical architecture, and Monsieur Arsov has complemented the furnishings with his own very interesting collection.”

  Agnes nearly swore. She’d been focused on the storm and the château and had forgotten the neighboring mansion. With the power outage it was a black hole in the night. Invisible. Sorting through mental images from trips on the lake, her memory offered the excuse that the mansion was a neoclassical gem overshadowed by the hulking château like a delicate piece of porcelain next to a mountain. She calculated that the grove of trees where they discovered the body was about midway between the two properties.

  “We will interview the other household,” she said. “For now, Monsieur Mulholland, if you could be more precise about your movements this afternoon. When you crossed the lawn to Monsieur Arsov’s, did you take a path or the drive? Those kinds of details. It will help us establish a timeline.”

  “I’m very vague about it all. As I said, I’d been up late, really till dawn and was still a bit under the weather when—” Mulholland was interrupted by a loud crash as the door flung open, the knob hitting an armoire against the wall. The marquise shuddered.

  “Merde,” a man’s voice exclaimed.

  The entire party turned and Vallotton rose, almost stepped forward then stopped. Agnes tried to fade into the background. This must be the brother, Daniel Vallotton. Petit hadn’t told her he was in a wheelchair. One glance was enough to see he had recently suffered a sev
ere injury. His right arm was weighted by a plaster cast while his right leg was propped stiffly in front of him, partially covered by a blanket.

  “Can’t believe you let me sleep through all the excitement,” Daniel Vallotton said, struggling to turn a wheel with his one good arm. From behind him, still in the dark shadows of the hall, a woman’s voice echoed, “You’ve caught my scarf. Wait, no, I’ve got it.” And the wheelchair lurched into the room.

  The dynamic of the room changed, but whether as a result of the startling beauty of the woman or simply pent-up nerves it was impossible to tell. Agnes surmised the woman was Daniel Vallotton’s wife, Marie-Chantal. She nearly had to shake her head to stop staring. Marie-Chantal Vallotton was a living piece of art, not heavily made-up or the creation of a plastic surgeon, but a simple natural beauty.

  Daniel wheeled himself awkwardly to his brother and offered his unbroken left hand. “Didn’t think you’d turn up. MC, give your brother-in-law a kiss.”

  Marie-Chantal didn’t move. “We’ve already said hello. Earlier, downstairs.”

  Julien Vallotton stepped away from the door. He moved to the cabinet where Mulholland had poured a drink and glanced at the bottles. Agnes watched the marquise give him a nearly imperceptible shrug.

  “Inspector … is it Inspector?” Daniel said. “My wife told me we were being gathered. I feel positively left out of the excitement. Presumptuous to think a cripple like me wouldn’t want to be involved in the speculation.”

  Agnes approached to greet husband and wife formally. The blanket had shifted and she noted the man’s leg was held together with dozens of thin metal rods protruding through his calf. Despite his injuries, Daniel Vallotton looked the picture of health. Weeks of inactivity hadn’t softened his physique or detracted from his charms. He wore casual trousers with one leg cut away below the knee to accommodate his injury and the arm of his sweater was slit and rolled up above his elbow. The trousers were of a fabric and cut from the orient, the V-necked sweater was gray cashmere. After exchanging greetings, Marie-Chantal rolled the wheelchair in front of the nearest fireplace and turned Daniel toward the room. She pulled an upholstered stool close by and sat, long legs extended in front of her, with an arm on the edge of her husband’s chair. A bit incongruously she also wore a long scarf and small hand-knit hat as if unsure about the temperature indoors. In the flickering candlelight she resembled a fairy from a long-past age: delicate and almost too beautiful for earth. The diamond of her engagement ring reflected filaments of light from the fire onto the walls. The pattern was like a scattered constellation. Silently the Great Dane moved to sit near her, head lowered, waiting to be petted, and Agnes watched Julien Vallotton. He looked resentful.

  “With the police here I will come clean and admit I took a tranquilizer after lunch,” Daniel said. “Paid a visit to the surgeon this morning and the doctors pushed and probed so much my leg was killing me. I slept through the whole afternoon—”

  “And would have slept through tonight if I hadn’t made him get up,” Marie-Chantal said, running a finger along the stiff line of the cast on his arm. While Marie-Chantal continued to talk, Agnes watched the assembled group. The atmosphere of the room had changed. It had electrified. As they arranged themselves it occurred to her that a photograph would tell a different story than the moving picture in front of her. A still shot would capture the cozy intimacy of the Vallotton couple, their faces and figures striking in their perfection; the marquise distinguished on her silver chair in the center of the room; Ralph Mulholland crossing between her and the bottle of sherry; and Julien Vallotton sitting apart, not needing the comfort of a companion to feel at home. That was what a still shot would capture. Ease, comfort, and beauty.

  The moving reality was different. The motion of Marie-Chantal’s hand on her husband’s arm took on an edge of nervous tic, Ralph Mulholland’s attention to the pouring of drinks was overdone, and the marquise’s silence was so studied it was loud. Julien Vallotton tried to fade into the background and only the marquise appeared at ease. Agnes considered the two brothers and saw a family resemblance, the younger brother easygoing, the elder more careworn; the resemblance extended to their aunt. A handsome family. When Julien Vallotton glanced at her, Agnes couldn’t help but think that with those looks and that fortune she was surprised he wasn’t married.

  Four

  “Murder?” Vladimir Arsov’s butler released his grip on her coat and Agnes neatly caught the wool garment by the collar, thinking she should have phrased the situation more delicately. Clearly, the dark trek from the château to the neighboring mansion had chilled the part of her brain that dealt with social niceties.

  A credit to his profession, the man recovered quickly, plucking her coat away and indicating that she should remain in the reception hall while he spoke with his master. He disappeared into the dark shadows of the mansion and Agnes regretted having slipped her flashlight into her coat pocket. There were a few lit candles on a far table, but the oval hall was large and therefore mostly bathed in shadow. She waited, glad to have a moment before she questioned the household. The storm had abated and she had made the walk alone despite Carnet’s admonition that she could fall and Petit’s fear that she would run into the murderer. In her absence they would finish cordoning off the rooms used by Felicity Cowell and question the remainder of the household.

  The palest flicker of light shone through a wide doorway across the hall and she listened carefully but couldn’t make out any sounds. She was quite alone. Quickly, she slipped her shoes off, hoping the Oriental rug would be a relief from the saturated leather. It was. Her toes warmed until they had feeling. She flexed them, glancing around, pleased that the Arsov mansion lived up to expectation. The exterior of the nineteenth-century stone residence was constructed along clean, elegant lines with long rows of doors and windows uncluttered by towers or crenellations. To her delight the interior was a combination of perfect proportion and decorative splendor. Baseboards, window and door frames—essentially every piece of wood used in construction—were gilded, and all glowed in the candlelight. Along the perimeter of the oval room a series of six hand-painted porcelain urns towered over her. She was peering closely at the design of the nearest one when the butler returned.

  Slipping on her shoes, she followed his long, thin shadow into an enormous salon, halting when she saw the uniformed staff arrayed in a line. A very old man in a wheelchair was addressing them. Vladimir Arsov, she presumed, feeling she’d stepped into the second act of a not-very-modern play.

  Her overall impression of the household didn’t change over the next two hours. She sat as close as possible to the lit fireplace in the small sitting room assigned to her, carefully working her way through interviews with Arsov’s staff. First was the somber butler, followed by three young female maids, who in turn were followed by a slew of male servants and, finally, of all things, a laundress. By that time she needed to stand and stretch her legs. The butler, now wearing gloves and a scarf over his black tailcoat, appeared from the dark hall with a tray bearing steaming coffee in a delicate porcelain cup. He stood over her while she drank, conveying that the gardening staff did not live on the premises. In a slightly stiff tone he shared that the chauffeur was also absent. When Agnes finished her coffee and retook her seat, the butler ushered in the last of the resident staff: a chef trailing his assistants, each wearing tall pleated hats and pristine white aprons.

  When finished with them, Agnes reread her notes and wondered if it occurred to anyone in the household that they were essentially locked in under surveillance all day. The outer doors were bolted and alarmed at all times, and the butler monitored comings and goings like a hawk studying his prey. And while at work, they worked. Cleaning, polishing, cooking, serving. Never alone. Never unsupervised. During the critical hours when Felicity Cowell was killed there were so many corroborating alibis it sounded straight from a television script. Now, glancing at her watch, she saw that it was after midnight. Thankful that t
he Vallottons had graciously invited everyone who was trapped by the ice to stay the night at the château, she wanted nothing more than to return there and collapse exhausted into bed even if it was likely the killer was lurking within the walls. Surely her bedroom door would have a lock.

  Unfortunately, there were still three people on her list: Vladimir Arsov himself; his private nurse, Madame Brighton; and Mimi, a six-year-old girl. None of them were suspects: Arsov not physically able to strike down a young woman, the nurse never out of his sight during the hours in question, and the six-year-old whom Agnes ruled out based on age. Cold and fatigue ran bone deep and these last interviews were nearly too much to face, but it had to be done. Arsov was master of the household and had already insisted she speak with his staff first. He couldn’t be made to wait until morning.

  She held her feet to the fire until the soles of her shoes nearly cracked, then, physically ready, she rang the old-fashioned bellpull for the butler. He led the way, lighting the floor in front of them with his flashlight. Entering the room where she had first met Arsov and his staff, Agnes wished she’d chosen to return to the château and a warm bed. Thirty or forty candles had been lit; however, in the vastness of the space they only highlighted the darkness of the corners and ceiling. She felt the same chill she had experienced when crossing the empty lawn. There was no telling what lurked in the distance.

  The old man turned when she entered but didn’t speak and she confirmed her earlier impression that Vladimir Arsov was not a handsome man. She wasn’t sure he had ever been, although it was hard to tell now that old age had collapsed his face into crevices. He snorted through nubs that extended from the plastic tube running from an oxygen tank, and, peering out from behind his large black-framed glasses, he looked like an ancient child. The man’s suit was too large for his diminished form, but even to the untrained eye, it was obviously hand-tailored of fine fabric. For a moment she wondered if Arsov was ill or merely old, for during their brief conversation earlier, the sparkle she had noticed in his eyes conflicted with the decay of his body, and the smell she usually associated with old people was absent, disguised by a faintly odd mix of cologne and medicine.