Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(27)
“Not surprising. How can anyone be normal living the way they do? They’re trapped in another century and not even the last one.” Carnet glanced up at the chateau. “You may have missing knives; here they count the silver every night and one is missing from yesterday’s tea tray. A tray taken to the library.”
“Where we find Nick Graves,” said Agnes. “It couldn’t be this easy. What kind of knife?”
“A pear knife, whatever that is. I’m going to have Madame Puguet show one like it to Blanchard. If we’re lucky it will match the entry wound.”
“It’s time I talk to Graves, then the child.”
Walking away she hazarded a smile. It felt good to be in charge.
Eight
“I’m sure your embassy would also love to hear from you, but the phones aren’t working.”
Agnes had taken the measure of the American college student, Nick Graves, and found him lacking. He was just a kid, a tall muscular kid full of bluster. With his khaki pants and button-down blue-striped shirt she could have guessed his nationality from twenty meters. His attitude didn’t alter her first impression. In the vast space of the Vallotton library, he ranted and raved against the police, swearing his first call would no longer be to the embassy but to his congressman. While he paced around a table she kept her features expressionless, not admitting she knew what a congressman was. She pondered the dichotomy that had made her an American in Switzerland and a Swiss in America. She was positive that everyone else in the household suspected her American connection at first meeting, whereas Graves seemed to have no hint of her parentage. Sitting astride two cultures had bothered her more since George’s death than at any other time in her life.
Admiring the library in daylight, it was more remarkable than she remembered from her hurried tour the night before. Occupying the length of one wing of the fortress, the double-height space was lined with heavily carved bookshelves picked out in fine gilding. At regular intervals the bookcases turned toward the exterior wall of the chateau to create deep niches in front of the tall windows overlooking the lake. Partially enclosed twin spiral staircases at each end of the room led to the narrow walkway at the second level. From there the bookcases extended to the carved and painted ceiling high overhead. The central space of the room was occupied by four long tables covered with antique globes and other artifacts. Nick Graves had appropriated one of the tables, spreading books and papers across the surface, and this was where Agnes had found him.
He rounded the table a final time, abruptly flopping onto an upholstered chair, long legs extended, trying to look relaxed and at home.
“It’s routine,” she repeated, feeling a bit malicious that she didn’t switch to English. Graves’s French was good enough to be serviceable, although the accent was straight off-the-boat American, but that wasn’t the reason. She wanted to keep him off guard. “We need to know where everyone was yesterday afternoon. I’m only confirming what you told Monsieur Carnet last night. I like to hear things for myself.”
He had just mumbled something about not spending his day staring at his watch, when from all corners of the library clocks drummed nine. “I can see how it would be difficult to track time here,” Agnes said, privately wondering how the family stood the constant reminder that the hours were passing. “Try guessing,” she said. “You were in the library until…”
“I might have left,” he said. “I like to pace. I went to the next room to walk a bit. Came back in and then left.”
“This was before or after tea was served?”
He paused briefly. “Both, I suppose.”
“You were out of the library more than in?”
“Yeah, just in the next rooms, like I said.”
“It’s surprising that you left.” She took a deliberate look around. “Most people would find this space large enough to accommodate the need to stretch their legs.”
He stared at her glumly. “Ice and wind were hitting the windows and driving me nuts. I needed to get out.”
She made a note in her book. “You knew Mademoiselle Cowell before arriving?”
He frowned, his handsome face suddenly that of a sullen child. “I suppose not. No.” Agnes cast him a quick look but didn’t interrupt. “I met Felicity Cowell when she came here. She worked in the library for a few days. Afterward she mostly stayed in her workroom.”
“Which is reached by the small stair in the next corridor?”
“That’s one way, but she used the other stair mostly. The one from the outside, near the portcullis. I never went up there. She liked to be left alone.”
“Did you leave her alone?”
“You think I harassed her?”
“No, I meant more of a friendly visit. Perhaps you got to know her, some personal details that would help us in our investigation. Right now we’re having trouble contacting her family or place of employment. Networks are down and we’re not a priority call according to those making the decisions.” She paused. “You felt someone was harassing her?”
“No, I meant that you … never mind. Yeah, I tried to talk to Felicity but she wasn’t interested. Why would I kill her?”
“You’ve already said why—she wasn’t interested in you. Of course, we may be wrong about that. The victim isn’t necessarily perfect. Maybe she was preying on you or knew something she shouldn’t have.”