Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(16)
She turned a corner and found the marquise staring down a flight of stairs. Backlit by flickering torches set in the walls, her profile was strong and beautiful despite her age. Her candelabra dripped white wax on the floor and Agnes liked the imagery and suspected the other woman knew the effect she had. According to Petit, the marquise had been widowed young. That meant that the vast majority of her years had been spent in this place where centuries of her ancestors had lived before, walking these same steps illuminated only by candlelight. Agnes clicked off her flashlight.
The marquise acknowledged Agnes with a nod, before glancing down the staircase to the door leading to the lawn. Agnes knew it was likely the victim walked—or ran?—through that door to her death.
“She has nothing to do with us,” the marquise said. “Or perhaps it is that we had nothing to do with her. Not in a way that would lead to her death.”
“She died here; there will be a connection. We’ll find it.”
“She seemed a smart sort of person, but not altogether truthful.” The marquise glanced at Agnes. “Don’t mind me, I am judging too harshly. She was young and the young always have their secrets. I have been reading Diogenes and have become too immersed in his theories.” She turned as if she could see all the way down the stairs and across the lawn to the bench. “To fall and die like that; it is a feeble generation.”
“I suspect feebleness had little to do with her death.” Agnes stifled a yawn. They stood shoulder to shoulder in silence.
“My nephew tells me Mademoiselle Cowell was wearing the coronation gown.”
“Her gown was white, with stones on the bodice, if that’s the one he means.”
“It is distinctive, white pleated silk with a spray of diamonds. It was worn by one of my ancestresses to Napoleon’s coronation. Julien is quite sure that is what Mademoiselle Cowell was wearing.”
“Stolen?” Agnes willed the word back as soon as she’d said it.
“How could it be stolen when it was on our property?” The marquise smiled coolly. “Mademoiselle Cowell had leave to look at our possessions as part of her work on the auction.”
“I understood it was only art for sale?”
“Clothing can be art.” Before Agnes could respond the marquise continued, “No, it was not part of the auction but perhaps what she called staging. Unnecessary in my mind, although that is Julien’s concern and I told her as much. I only point out the gown as a matter of interest and to suggest that you will find her own clothing in the fur vault where she may have changed. Perhaps there you will also find … a clue. That is what you are looking for, isn’t it? The reason you and your colleagues must stay the night. The reason for these questions.”
“You could call it that, a clue.”
“There are others who stay as part of this interrogation. The man who found a way down from the village for your colleagues, Monsieur Estanguet? I met him in the corridor a moment ago. It is like living in a hotel, strangers walking into and out of bedrooms.” The marquise fingered her rubies. “He was distressed, nearly incoherent.”
Agnes wished she had asked the doctor to attend to Estanguet. “He saw the body. I’m sure he’ll feel better in the morning. It is the shock and the cold. We were outside too long.”
“Death is a shock, and the death of a young person is a double tragedy.” The marquise searched Agnes’s face. “Do you have children, Inspector Lüthi?”
“Three boys.”
“To have a child die would be a terrible thing. What parent would be satisfied with an explanation? What sibling would understand? My brother was a very old man when he left us, a century of living. But with a child there would be no talk of having lived a full life. You want a child to live forever, or at least to die after you, so the illusion of living forever is complete.”
Agnes understood. What if one of her sons had died instead of George? Could she have survived that horror? Even for the other boys? Or would she have been only two-thirds of a person forever? This was the first time she’d been away from home in the evening since George’s death and a thousand worries crowded her head. Were the boys safe? How could she know without seeing them herself? How could she have returned to work knowing there would be nights like this? Sybille was right: she should be with them.
“The bond between a parent and child,” the marquise continued. “Permanent, yet an intangible connection. I wonder, would you recognize your boys if you hadn’t seen them since they were young? Two or three years old maybe, not fully formed. Would you know them after years? Decades even? Is the bond that strong?”
Agnes forced her mind to send the message that her boys were safe and well and that she shouldn’t worry. Their grandparents loved them and would care for them. “Yes,” she managed, “because I would recognize myself or my husband in their faces.”
“I had not thought of that. Of course recognizing a family characteristic would make it simpler. A physical bond.” The marquise turned away from her. “Mademoiselle Cowell’s parents will be devastated. Their loss will be hard.”
The dismissal was firm and Agnes said good night and clicked her flashlight on again. The Great Dane appeared from the shadows, and she was pleased. Winston was a comfort, not merely his size but his calmness. This was his territory and he had no fear. She laughed out loud; fatigue was making her fanciful.