Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(19)

Agnes waited through a few tries, then took pity on the woman. “Is there something you didn’t want to share earlier?”

“I was afraid of being misunderstood.”

Agnes recollected that according to Carnet, Marie-José had contributed no more than basic facts about herself and a lack of knowledge about anyone’s movements during the hours in question. “You’ve remembered something?”

“Yes, that’s it.” Marie-José looked so relieved Agnes wanted to scold her. “I remembered that I didn’t hear Monsieur Graves when I was cleaning the library. That’s harder than remembering something you did hear, isn’t it?” She paused. “He was in the library when I started dusting but he wasn’t there the entire afternoon. I’m sure of it.”

“And he said he was?”

“Yes. And it may have been long enough to. Well, you know. Go outside.”

After they had covered the timing of Nick Graves’s coming and going as clearly as Marie-José could remember, Agnes had another question. “Did you notice him interested in Felicity Cowell?”

“We all were.” Marie-José stopped herself. “Not in the way that you mean, but she was interesting. And beautiful. Plus she was British. I loved to hear her talk. Not that she did much, and never to me.” She laughed awkwardly. “She was mysterious and beautiful.” She studied her fingernails as if inspecting a new manicure. “He was flustered around her. When I saw them together, I mean.”

She stood. Agnes didn’t stop her and, after apologizing for her earlier reticence, Marie-José excused herself.

Agnes locked her bedroom door, thinking about Nick Graves and wondering how many other lies were told during the evening. She changed into the borrowed nightgown, lowering the flame in the oil lamp near the bed. At least now she had a real lead. And a suspect.





DAY TWO





Six

Agnes dressed at dawn, thankful daylight meant she could at least pretend to work. She had slept poorly, her dreams filled with images of George, a somber George whom she had married but hadn’t really known. Now, facing the morning with the same clothes and damp shoes, her mood worsened. She finished washing up and ran a hand through her flattened hair. After slipping a small bottle of hand lotion from George’s emergency kit into her pocket, she exited the bedroom and trudged through the dark corridors. Relieved to find the morning meal had been laid out as promised, she helped herself to a croissant and cup of coffee before starting on a self-guided tour. She wanted to work, needed to work.

Last night she had made a sketch of the chateau, just enough to study the general layout. Now she was interested in what she might have missed the previous evening. Lacking electricity, the spaces were an uneven mix of dark and light. She felt a shiver of apprehension and wished the cell towers were repaired and that her phone worked.

Too many rooms and too much silence. She traced the route from the outside door by the kitchen—glad to hear voices at work—to the victim’s workroom at the opposite side of the chateau, then to the room called the fur vault, before backtracking to the door near the kitchen which led to the lawn, wondering if that was the way Felicity had exited. Standing on her tiptoes she peered through the small window set high in the heavy door. The storm had resumed for several hours in the night and no footprints could have survived the frozen mess of blowing ice. Obtaining evidence at the crime scene was unlikely before, and nearly impossible now.

Her mind wandered down the halls and through various scenarios before locking on the obvious. They had no fixed points for the hours before Felicity reached the bench and was struck down. No one claimed to have seen or heard her and the sheer size of the estate lent the claims credibility. She could have been in her workroom—as expected and evidenced by a cold cup of tea—but why was she wearing an evening gown? Did she leave on her own or did someone lure her away? Was the cold tea left from the night before, meaning she hadn’t returned to her workroom the day of her death and they could eliminate that room from their inquiry?

Agnes pondered the questions. Too many questions. Was the bench Felicity’s destination, or was she on her way somewhere else? Was she there by choice, chance, or design? With no answers, she studied her sketch of the chateau again. Remarkably, there were only two exterior exits or, perhaps more important, entrances. On the principal level, there were doors that opened onto the interior courtyard; however, from there everyone still had to pass under the heavy iron portcullis and through the main gate. The other outside access was this small door near the kitchen leading down through the foundation to the lawn. Two points of entry or exit.

Agnes returned to the entrance hall and felt a weight press on her. There were dozens of ways to travel through the chateau unnoticed and the more she walked the more she felt the profundity of the silence. She worked her way up the various flights of stairs until she emerged to stand on the walkway at the top of the northeast wall. The morning was cold but clear and she pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. Lighting one, she took a drag, edging closer to the parapet for shelter from the slight wind. The covered open walkway ran the circumference of the chateau’s ramparts and linked the turrets. The outer wall was crenellated, while the inner wall intersected with the roof overhead. Despite this, ice had driven under the roof to almost completely coat the walls and floor. Everywhere she looked—as far as the eye could see—ordinary forms were outlined in ice, creating a surreal landscape.