Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(31)
“He doesn’t think I know,” Marie-Chantal sounded choked, “about the other women.”
“You think Daniel was having an affair and she threatened to tell you so he killed her? Pretty fast work, two weeks to start an affair and get it to the point where she would have such a hold over him.”
“Don’t be a hypocrite. You thought the same thing when you arrived. I heard you ask Antoinette how well Daniel knew her. We’re stuck here for weeks. She’s beautiful and smart and he would be attracted. How could he help it?”
They were silent and Agnes stopped walking. She was near the top of the stairs and didn’t want to disturb them yet.
“I don’t know what made you dream this up,” Vallotton said. “Although just being here is enough of an excuse. I know it drove my mother mad, but you need to listen to yourself. Besides, Daniel can’t walk, how can he have an affair, much less stab a woman in the back outside in a storm? You’re being ridiculous.”
Marie-Chantal gave a strangled cry. “Of course he can walk.”
Agnes tiptoed halfway down the stairs then clumped her way up again. When she reached the top, Vallotton was alone. He looked perplexed, not worried.
“She doesn’t mean half of what she says and didn’t know you were here.” He glanced up and Agnes noticed the large mirror. She hadn’t been looking up, but it was clear that Vallotton had seen her reflection in it. She flushed. “People with secrets shouldn’t stand in corridors and raise their voices,” he said. “Besides, I don’t think my brother had anything to do with Felicity Cowell’s death.”
“Pretty damning when his wife is suspicious,” Agnes said, although she couldn’t believe a man whose leg was riddled with thin metal rods had stabbed a woman outside in a storm. She looked in each direction before turning down the hall.
“I may not have the highest opinion of Daniel, but I’m honest enough to admit that most of what I pretend to believe is the result of jealousy.”
“You, jealous of him?” Agnes gave Julien Vallotton a hard glance.
“Sure, I inherited the responsibility and he got the woman I wanted to marry. Cause enough for a good case of jealousy.”
Agnes wondered how much of what Vallotton said was true; wouldn’t he want to protect his family above all? “Why would his wife suspect him?” She turned a corner and headed up another flight of stairs, hoping she would end up at the fur vault. Vallotton followed.
“She doesn’t,” he said. “She’s just tired. Probably wishes she hadn’t married into the family at all, which is, sadly, our usual state of affairs. My father, handsome, affluent, and influential, managed to have four wives. My mother was the last. Daniel’s only on number one. He has some misery to make or he’ll never catch up.”
It all sounded too flippant to have the weight of truth. On the other hand she would have to speak with Daniel Vallotton again and see if he could walk. Apart from his injuries he was a strong man.
She stopped in front of a door and Vallotton nodded. “Fur vault.”
Leaving the problem of Daniel Vallotton for later, Agnes unlocked the door. Earlier she had looked inside the room where Felicity Cowell’s clothes had been found; now the space was flooded with natural light. She frowned at the realization that Petit had opened the shutters, altering the scene, although it appeared that he had photographed everything else in place. Shelves lining the walls were filled with long boxes, all neatly labeled in faded script. There was an enormous mirror on castors and a few marble-topped tables strewn with lamps, but otherwise there was no furniture. A set of modern clothes lay crumpled on the floor.
There was a loud rumbling noise outside and Vallotton crossed the room to the window. It overlooked the spot where the body was found and, among the fallen trees, a man with a chain saw was gesticulating to Carnet.
“I think we may have a clash of opinions about starting the cleanup from the storm,” he said, leaving.
Alone, Agnes pulled a pen from her handbag and used it to lift an article of clothing from the floor. The skirt of a dark suit. Next to it lay a tailored jacket and simple white blouse. Nearby was a pair of shoes. Good leather with a high but sensible-enough heel. A far cry from the white silk dress embroidered with diamonds that Felicity Cowell had died wearing. Agnes rocked back on her heels and studied the clothes. Even if she had a reason to wear that dress, why had the woman left the room barefoot? She hadn’t planned to be outside. Had she panicked? Agnes thought about the pregnancy, then decided that Doctor Blanchard was right. She was speculating far beyond the evidence.
She maneuvered between the boxes of clothing to the center of the room and used her pen to nudge the mobile phone that lay on the floor. No markings, though they assumed it was the dead woman’s. Unfortunately the battery was discharged and there was no way to tell when she had last used it. Much more interesting for the moment was a heavy silver-backed hand mirror with the glass shattered out of the frame. She studied its placement, then turned and ran a hand down a row of boxes, randomly lifting a lid. Old dresses wrapped in tissue paper; likely worth a fortune. Turning slowly, taking in the details again, an idea formed in her mind.
Footsteps pounded in the corridor and Petit arrived out of breath. “Carnet said you wanted to see me.”
She was pleased he had managed to push impending fatherhood from the forefront of his mind and even more thankful he hadn’t broken a leg while walking off his anger. “You photographed these rooms: what did you think was important?”