Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(17)
At the top of yet another long flight of winding stairs, she found Petit dozing in a hard-backed chair in the hallway. She swept her flashlight down the wall of the corridor and counted the doors, looking for the eighth. Knowing that the other rooms were quite possibly occupied, she counted the doors twice. Winston’s nails clicked as he turned to leave. Finally she looked at Petit, wishing he had disappeared while her back was turned.
“We’ve got her tucked away nice and tidy,” he said.
Agnes motioned for him to continue, too tired to ask questions, yet knowing she needed to let him report so they could both go to bed.
“In a kind of old ice house. Doctor Blanchard wants her kept cold and decided it would suit. And we’ve walked the perimeter and finished blocking off all the rooms the victim used. I think Monsieur Bardy would be pleased.”
“Felicity Cowell,” Agnes said automatically. “Not the victim. She had a name. She is a person.”
“Absolutely, Mademoiselle Cowell.” Petit took a step forward, wincing. He ducked to bring his face near hers. “I took pictures of everything. On my camera phone, but the resolution is good.”
“You’re in pain, what happened?”
“Slipped coming down the hill, from the bruise on my leg I guess that my radio fell off and I landed on it. Couldn’t see my own hand in front of my face and didn’t know it at the time. Radio’s gone for good, I think.” He edged closer to her. “You won’t mention this to Bardy?”
“He won’t care about your radio. It’s more important that we sleep and be fresh for tomorrow. In daylight we’ll look at the crime scene again.”
“Not another word. I’m Officer Petit reporting to sleep duty as of now.” He started to leave. “I never thought in all my life that I’d get a chance to stay here. Most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Agnes crossed the threshold of her assigned bedroom, wondering how it was that her eyes were still open and her brain functioning. An oil lamp was burning, giving off just enough light for her to see the general outline of the space even before she ran her flashlight beam around. The wallpaper pattern was of vines laced with yellow flowers and the heavy curtains and upholstery, even the spread on the bed, matched it. The double bed was topped by a high dome of material stretched over a wood frame, and the effect caused Agnes to smile despite her weariness. No wonder Petit was looking forward to his night here.
She slipped off her ruined shoes and saw an old-fashioned linen nightgown folded on her pillow. The sight of it made her uncomfortable. The Vallottons and their servants saw to everything; they would have no problem creating a story out of whole cloth for the police if they wanted. Standing beside the bed, silently debating the ethics of wearing a nightgown possibly provided by the killer, she was startled when a light rap on her door was followed by Carnet’s soft “Vous êtes là?”
Shaking her head to wake herself, she plucked her notebook from her handbag and slipped on her damp shoes before stepping into the wide corridor. “Everyone is settled for the night,” Carnet said when she emerged. “I wanted to talk to you about a few things.”
“Of course, I was just going over my notes.” There was a small table a few feet away, and she pulled a chair over. Her flashlight provided enough light to read by, and Carnet picked up another chair and joined her. He rubbed his temple as if countering a headache.
“I had better luck getting straight stories out of the Arsov household,” Agnes said. “I made a mistake and should have spoken to the Vallottons individually. Instead they were vague and probably not entirely truthful. Someone has to have known her better than they admit.”
“Tomorrow will be time enough.” Carnet rubbed his forehead again.
“To have their stories straight.”
“Agnes, I doubt this is the work of the household as a group. They’re not conspiring against us as we sleep. They’re anxious and worried. No matter how carefully someone constructs a story there will be holes. Tomorrow will do.”
“Did you talk to the rest of the household? The ones who aren’t family?”
“Each and every one of them.”
“There aren’t as many as I’d think in a place this large. Not as many as next door.”
Carnet nodded. “You interviewed the marquise, the Vallotton brothers, and Marie-Chantal Vallotton?”
“And the marquise’s godson, Ralph Mulholland. As Petit said, Julien Vallotton technically owns the property since his father died two years ago, but he lives mostly in London. His brother lives here with his wife. Mulholland is visiting, although I get the idea that it is an extended visit with no end in sight. He’s British, although he doesn’t admit to knowing Felicity Cowell before.”
Carnet nodded. “I spoke with the housekeeper, Madame Puguet. There’s only a couple of maids here now. The others, including a nanny for the little girl, were out, stranded by the storm. The cook is here. And another man—an American college student—called Nick Graves is doing research in the library. He’s been here for a few weeks. Part of a fellowship from his university sponsored by the Vallottons. Across the lot of them a great deal of trying to remember where they were. Conflicting stories. Nothing of real importance. Yet.”
“Are you sure we can discount Julien Vallotton?”