Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(12)
“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 chateau 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.