Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(29)

“I like the library, and they let people use it. A retirement project.”

“Were you a teacher?”

“Nothing of the sort. Started off as a guide. Hikes. Did some steep hills but not mountain climbing. That’s how I know we are stranded here. People think they can out-anger or out-think any obstacle but it’s not so. Mother Nature has a way of beating you down. She likes to fool you.”

Agnes remembered him staring at the bench earlier that morning. “Mademoiselle Cowell didn’t seem like a person to be outdoors in a storm. You said you didn’t know her?”

“I didn’t know her to recognize her, maybe I’d heard her name.”

“She’d been at the chateau for two weeks, and you are here often. I’m surprised. She used the library some.”

“I’ve been away for nearly a month myself. Vacation.”

Agnes had to smile at a vacation from retirement. “Not a good time to return, in the middle of a storm.”

“I’d picked my date and here I was. Didn’t think it would be a storm like what came. As I said, Mother Nature can be tricky. Saw your man, Carnet, and knew he wasn’t fit to walk down, not like he was planning to. People think they can sit and slide. They don’t realize that the ice will take you, hurl you off the edge. He needed something to hang on to, no different than mountain climbing. And crampons. Something to grip.”

“You got them down the hill safely.”

“She ought to have had more respect for the storm and stayed inside.”

“It must be a change to retire from an outdoor life and sit in a library and do research.”

“I left working as a guide long ago, when I was still nearly a boy. Met a man on one of my tours who liked what I could do with a needle. Fixed his tent and he talked me into apprenticing as a tailor. Took over from him when he passed and sewed my way through a lifetime.”

“What led you to do research here? I wouldn’t have known it was possible.”

“Fate.” He sat forward in his chair. “I was having a drink at the hotel in the village—they have nice views—and there was a caravan of trucks passing by and going down the hill. It was summer, and we could see them from the terrace. The waitress knew the village gossip and told me who was moving in.” He paused. “Vladimir Arsov.”

“Recently? I thought he’d lived here forever.”

“Last summer. The day before the Fête Nationale. Trucks and trucks of things they brought. The day of the Fête they have tours here, and I came down out of curiosity to see what kind of man had so many belongings. Someone told me the chateau library was open to research by the public.” He set his cup down. “It seems like so long ago.”

She knew that most of the furnishings and larger paintings at Arsov’s belonged to the Vallottons and were already in place when the old man arrived with his truckloads. Estanguet would be truly amazed if he saw the inside of the mansion.

“You must like history.”

“What? Yes, I do.”

“Do you have a topic, something special you are interested in?”

“This and that. There’s lots to read and see here.”

Agnes thought about her retired parents and understood the need to feel like you belonged and could still be productive. Estanguet likely puttered about most days.

“You hadn’t met Felicity Cowell. You must know Nick Graves, though?”

“He’s been here since the new year. About six weeks. I know all the fellowship winners who come through. I’m a help to them, know my way around the organization of the books. Know where the maps are kept.” He thumped his leg. “She shouldn’t have been outdoors on a day like that. The young are foolish. But foolish doesn’t mean you deserve to die.”

Agnes wondered how it was that her boys stayed safe. They did foolish things. How did anyone manage to stay safe? She sat back and took another sip of coffee and made an effort to shake off melancholy. Despite the tragedy and the gloomy atmosphere, they were at one of the few places in the region used to doing without modern conveniences. And the food was excellent.





Nine

Carnet brought news to the library, and Agnes followed him to where Blanchard was waiting. They instructed her to lean near the wall of the corridor. She did, quickly stepping back, grimacing. “You’re sure it’s hers?” The acrid smell of vomit was offensive at a close distance.

Blanchard slapped one hand against the other. “Deductions are what we’re making until we can get her to a morgue, but I think we’ve hit on something important.”

“Walk me through it again,” Agnes said, suspecting that the doctor was enjoying himself. He looked better than he had earlier in the ice house.

“The maid”—Carnet glanced at his notebook—“Marie-José, found the mess while sweeping. She’s a smart girl and didn’t clean anything.”

“She assumed it was Mademoiselle Cowell’s?” Agnes asked.

“Said a family member would have called for her to clean up right away. Had to be someone,” Carnet hesitated, “‘inconsiderate’ is the word she used; I’d say embarrassed.”

“I didn’t notice any odor or residue in her mouth,” said Blanchard, “and I did look for obvious signs of obstruction. But the cold would have tempered the smell. Now I’ll give her another look. Of course, the lab will swab when we get her there.”