Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(11)
“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 chateau 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 chateau 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 severe 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.