Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(13)
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 the Vallottons had graciously invited everyone who was trapped by the ice to stay the night at the chateau, 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 chateau 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.
“She’s sleeping soundly,” Agnes remarked as she approached. The little girl, Mimi, lay curled up on a long silk sofa, covered by a thick blanket. A stuffed elephant lay wrapped under her arm.
“I asked Monsieur Vallotton to allow Mimi to remain here,” said the nurse. “She was traumatized and out in the cold too long. I want to keep an eye on her.”
“Shouldn’t she be with her parents?” Agnes asked.
“She lives with the Vallottons.” The nurse moved the blanket higher up the girl’s shoulders and touched her forehead as if checking for fever. “Adopted by old Monsieur Vallotton when her parents died.”
“She’s fine. Cognac cures most things,” Arsov said.
Agnes noted the empty chocolate pot and cup nearby and her gut hollowed. She had used the same technique on her boys the night she told them their father died. The familiar soothing chocolate concealing the sleep-inducing cognac. She buried the memory and sat across from the old man in a wide, deeply cushioned chair. The arms were gilded and she was reminded of the marquise’s silver chair earlier in the evening. The rich certainly liked their precious metals on display.
Under the watchful eye of the butler, who now wore earmuffs in addition to his gloves and scarf, a stream of servants brought in more candles to expand the circle of light. Beck-and-call parade, it looked like to her, yet somehow different than what she had experienced at the Vallottons’. The marquise gave the impression of austere control, whereas Arsov’s staff appeared as more of a stage piece, with everyone playing their part until they exited behind the curtain. Brighter now, even the salon resembled a stage set more than a living space. Agnes wouldn’t have blinked if Napoleon and Josephine had walked in trailing their court.
Satisfied that Mimi was resting peacefully, Nurse Brighton draped a blanket over Arsov’s shoulders in addition to the one he normally kept over his legs. The blankets gave him bulk and it was possible to imagine him as a younger, more powerfully built man, while the trick of candlelight made his wheelchair fade into obscurity. He flipped the oxygen cord onto the top of his head and removed a richly carved gold lighter from his pocket. The nurse sighed in exasperation and snatched the entire apparatus away, dragging the small tank across the room and away from the open flame. Arsov took a long drag on his cigarette and closed his eyes as he exhaled, then he coughed like it was his last breath. Nurse Brighton murmured something about being unable to recharge the oxygen tank without electricity but she didn’t move to stop him smoking.
Agnes peered into the corners of the room, wanting to remember the details to tell her boys. And Sybille. The wallpaper was cut velvet and matched the burgundy curtains, and the paintings were palatial: life-sized portraits and great battle scenes. Ten pairs of glass-paned doors filled the wall overlooking the lake, and groupings of chairs and sofas and tables extended across the parquet floor. She estimated the room was large enough to house a tennis court. Truly amazing. The nurse drew a chair close to the fire, extending her white-clad legs and feet near the flames.