Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(21)

“Slept badly,” she mumbled.

“I should think so. Forced to stay in the house where the crime happened. Probably not the usual routine.”

He was frowning at her cigarette and she didn’t want to tell him that she had never been part of this routine and didn’t know what was usual. “How well do you know the American staying here?” she asked. “Nick Graves.”

“The fellowship student? Not at all. I think he was cordoned off in the library last evening. I steered clear of all but my family.” He paused. “He’s the, what do you call it, prime suspect? My aunt will be thrilled. She’s convinced I did it. Coming from London, proximity to the dead woman. Probably she thinks I am most likely to slither out of an arrest—she can’t imagine you would imprison my father’s son.” He raised his binoculars again. “She’s a bit old-fashioned. I’m certain you would love nothing more than to put me in cuffs and have done with it.”

“Fortunately your plane arrived after Felicity Cowell died.”

They stood side by side for a moment watching the activity of her colleagues below, Agnes aware of Vallotton’s height and elegance compared with her own disheveled appearance.

“I merely wondered if you knew him.” Last night she was prepared to take Marie-José’s story at face value. In the strong light of day she would question all motives.

“Bardy and my father were lifelong friends. Fellow stamp collectors.” Vallotton turned to face her. “I’m glad he sent you. We must seem callous; certainly there were no tears last night. I’ve often wondered what an outsider would think of my family and never had the chance to ask.”

“I’m hardly the usual outsider.”

“What does usual mean? We never meet anyone new—truly new. My aunt has possibly not met anyone new since the last world war.”

“Impossible.” Agnes crushed the remains of her cigarette under her heel then self-consciously picked it up and tucked it in her pocket. She couldn’t tell if Vallotton was amused or contemptuous. Either way, much as she wanted not to like him, she did. “You were introduced to Ralph Mulholland last night.”

“I’ve met him before, years ago. Anyway, he is my aunt’s godson, not really someone new, is he? She’s known him his whole life, he is like family to her. I mean someone new. Someone not tied to us in a way that we can pigeonhole immediately. We know exactly how far to trust someone, what to say and not say. Even the maids are the daughters of old maids. Plus we probably own the houses they grew up in.”

“You don’t know the American, that means he’s new.”

“Nick Graves? I haven’t met him, and haven’t any plans to.” Agnes frowned and Vallotton shrugged. “The people I know are troublesome enough. The last thing I need to do is add others, full of unknown quantities and expectations, to the list.”

“Not very trusting, are you?”

“Based on your time here, should I be?”

She leaned nearer the edge of the parapet to check Carnet’s progress. For a moment she had a sense of vertigo. She felt the pull of the ground. The sense of inevitability. This was how it felt in that final second before George fell. Vallotton gripped her arm and pulled her back.

“You’re ill.”

“No.” Embarrassed, she couldn’t explain. She leaned near the edge again, this time prepared for the heady sense of tipping. She pointed down the ice-coated wall. “Are we above the door from the back hall, the one near the kitchen?”

Vallotton motioned for her to follow him. He stopped three-quarters of the way around the east turret and pointed down. Agnes gripped the wall and leaned over. Sighting the door, she studied the path Felicity might have walked from door to bench.

“Why was she sitting there?” She bit her lip, wishing she hadn’t spoken out loud.

“Normally the lawn is appealing, and there’s a promenade along the lake.” When she didn’t comment, Vallotton laughed, blue eyes flashing. “You’re going to need me if you want the rest of my family, and the servants for that matter, to cooperate. They’ll answer your questions, but you need more. I’m not very trusting and it’s a family characteristic. But I trust you. I trust Bardy and he sent you.”

Agnes admitted that what Vallotton said was at least partially true. This was an unusual situation and she might need someone from the family to smooth things over. Bardy’s claim that there was no possibility Julien Vallotton was involved in the crime had better be right. She was about to stake her reputation on it.

“The appealing view is what I mean,” she said. “Who would sit on a hard bench fifty meters from the shore, surrounded by a clump of trees, when they could sit in a pavilion near the shore under a beautiful roof?” Although the pavilion was encased with ice, the outline of the octagonal structure was clear.

“You aren’t seeing the grove at its best,” Vallotton said. “Although I think its best is now a thing of the past. Before the storm it was a pleasant place. Arsov is wheeled out there most days. Marie-Chantal likes to set up an easel in the shade. When you live on a lake it can lose its appeal.”

Agnes glanced toward Carnet again. Beyond him was Petit. She angled her head and farther away saw a much smaller figure staring up the frozen hill. Mulholland again. Although it was impossible to be certain at a distance. The form appeared to be a man’s, but it could be a tall woman well bundled against the cold with a heavy coat, hat, and scarf. She pictured Felicity Cowell’s clothing. The thin evening dress and a man’s coat. An unlikely combination in an unlikely place.