Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(26)

“The edges of both entry and exit are clean,” Blanchard said. “Something about seven inches long. We have a deep, precise wound. A thin sharp blade that entered from the back here”—he used his free hand to indicate the wound they had observed the night before—“and passed through the chest cavity before reaching the chest wall, which it pierced.”

Agnes nodded, stifling a shudder. She’d seen enough. Gently they returned the corpse to its back.

Blanchard pulled his gloves off and brushed the hair from his forehead. “Her attacker struck with force, either through strength or fury. The location of the wounds combined with the lack of blood and other presentation that I observed indicate rapid cessation of heart function. Near-immediate death.”

“Someone who is an expert at wielding a knife?”

“Not necessarily. Force and luck may play a role equal to expertise. An expert might strike carefully to be assured the blade would slip through the ribs. Fury could do the same job, driving the blade against the ribs, forcing it to slide past.”

Agnes stepped away from the table and Blanchard re-covered the body with the foil blanket, then the canvas.

“You said that she was seated when struck.”

“Technically she may have been standing,” he said. “Although the angle of the blade was a clean stroke down. If she was standing, her assailant would have to be much taller than her.”

“Like Petit?”

“Taller even than him.”

“Or standing on something.” Agnes paused. “Like a bench?”

“Not on that bench, at least in my opinion. She fell too near it. And the position of her legs makes it appear that she was seated and pushed forward.”

Agnes sat on a nearby chair. “She was sitting like this? And shoved forward?”

Blanchard considered. “I don’t know how near the front edge she was sitting, or what her posture was.”

Agnes tried to imagine what it would feel like to be pushed. Different than falling since a natural collapse happened from the shoulders down. She tried it. Head and shoulders settling in on themselves toward the chest. Arms in and finally toppling forward headfirst. She straightened.

“She didn’t strike her head?”

“I see what you are getting at and no, not what I believe you mean by the head. She didn’t roll forward and hit the top of her skull. She landed on the side of her face in the lower quadrant. The cheekbone and below.”

“And her wrist was broken under her? Broken because she fell on it?”

The doctor nodded. Agnes considered the sequence of injuries. Head erect, not tucked down, propulsion forward, not a collapse down. She hunched her shoulders and relaxed. “Give me a push.”

Blanchard touched her between the shoulders.

“Not there, push where the blade entered. I need the direction of motion.”

She sensed Blanchard eyeing her, judging where to strike and hesitating.

“I’m ready for you. And you don’t have a knife. You won’t hurt me.”

He pushed forward with his knuckles and Agnes knew that wasn’t what Felicity Cowell felt, but it did propel her forward and she gave in to the motion. As she slid from the chair instinct kicked in. She stumbled to her feet. Dissatisfied, she glanced around until settling on the mound of cloth sacks in the corner. She moved them to the floor in front of the chair.

“Do it again.”

This time Blanchard was firmer and she was mentally prepared to not resist. She fell forward, catching herself on her palms just before her face struck the bags. She was dusting herself off when the door to the outside opened. Carnet entered. “The good doctor decided to strike you down?”

“An experiment,” Agnes said. “We believe Felicity had her head tucked down when she was thrust forward. She didn’t have time to get her hands under her although she tried to. That’s why she broke a wrist. I landed on my knees. I think my legs would have shot back and extended under the chair if I’d passed out. Hers might have caught on the stone legs of the bench.”

“We can check the photographs,” Carnet said.

“She died so quickly she didn’t have time to stir,” said Blanchard.

“She was not expecting a blow,” said Agnes.

“Either she was alone or comfortable with whoever was with her,” Carnet said. “Comfortable enough to let them walk behind her.”

Agnes thanked the doctor and motioned Carnet outside.

“Petit and I finished walking the entire place. Every room,” he said.

Agnes raised an eyebrow.

“Every room we could find,” he said. “I’m sure we missed a stair here or there. It’s impossible to figure the place out. Stairs tucked away. Corridors that end abruptly.”

“I could have helped.”

“No, I’m working for you. You’re in charge and I am—”

“The experience?”

“The legs. The housekeeper says a knife is missing,” he added.

“There are probably a half dozen missing in my house, doesn’t mean they’re murder weapons. Julien Vallotton just told me the six-year-old discovered the body, and he only came along later. I don’t think anyone gave it a thought; just sent her to bed with hot chocolate and never considered she might be a material witness.” Agnes took a deep breath. “To be fair they left her with the nurse. But they certainly didn’t say anything to me about it last night.”