Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(32)

“Just a mess of her things. Looked liked she knocked a table over.”

“You didn’t move anything?”

“Of course not.”

“What do you think about the clothes?”

“Good quality. Businesslike if you’re in a high-end business. But she doesn’t take care of them. Probably has plenty and doesn’t need to make them last.”

Agnes was surprised. Petit had more imagination than she’d given him credit for.

“What about another possibility? Stand here, in the doorway. You can’t see her clothes from here. Maybe they fell in a messy pile or maybe they were shoved underneath the table. Could she have been hiding them?”

Petit crouched to study the angle from a normal person’s height. “She might have kicked them there on purpose but it’s the same thing, careless with her belongings.”

“What about the broken mirror? That’s a little too careless. An antique silver mirror. Probably valuable, and in her work she deals with antiques every day. She should have more respect, don’t you think?”

Agnes pulled a piece of tissue paper from one of the storage boxes and used it to pick up the mirror, leaving the handle visible. The monogram was so elaborate that it took a moment to work out the letter V. “It belongs to the Vallottons. I don’t think she would drop it carelessly.”

“The handle was a distance from the glass,” Petit said, “like it scattered when it broke.”

“Not like this?” Agnes indicated a straight drop. “The trajectory would be affected by the weight of the handle; it’s solid whereas the glass oval is even heavier.” She tried to work out the release in her mind, testing different positions. The mathematics were easy enough. Gravity and weight and velocity were precise elements. She moved a few feet closer to the door, looking carefully at the labels on the boxes as she went, finally locating the one she needed. White silk with diamonds. “Coronation. 1804,” was written in spidery faded script.

“She starts here, at the door, and looks into the boxes.” Agnes ran her hand lightly along the lids that were not quite put back in place and the few that were still open. “She’s looking for something specific, or simply curious until she comes to this one. The gown worn to Napoleon’s coronation.” Agnes made as if she was opening the box lid and mimed removing the dress. “She lays it aside and takes off her clothes. Or maybe she had already taken off her clothes. Maybe she folds them neatly, maybe she drops them in a heap right away.”

“Is she alone?” Petit asked.

“That is the question, isn’t it? For now we don’t know. Maybe someone was watching her.”

“Maybe they picked out that dress?”

“Good point, but did they force her to take that dress, threaten her in some way, or was this fun and playful? A striptease. We know that her clothes came off and landed on the floor. Somehow they ended up under that table. She threw them there or kicked them. Or someone else did.” Agnes stood back and looked again. “Look at the trajectory of the items. At the angle and the movement—of the clothing, of the glass breakage. It’s in one direction. I think she started here, the clothing was disturbed—we don’t know how—and the mirror was thrown or tossed, all as she moved from where I am standing to…” She looked across the room. “To the other door.”

“She was running from someone?”

“Or with someone. A game of dress-up or a violent episode.” Agnes wondered if the broken hand mirror was the beginning of the killer’s violent behavior. Perhaps Felicity Cowell kicked the clothing as she fled her attacker? He or she threw the mirror and it hit her, or missed and broke on the floor. Or she threw the mirror? No, that would put the assailant between her and the other door. Agnes ran her hand through her hair. Who among the household wouldn’t care that they broke something valuable? Not one of the staff, but the Vallottons. Or Mulholland? His godmother would forgive him almost anything. He was British and perhaps his visit to the chateau had less to do with seeing the marquise and more to do with following a young woman to Switzerland. Agnes studied the objects, willing them to speak in the same way that data from financial crimes had spoken to her for years. There were always patterns; it was a matter of finding them.

“Maybe fear or panic caused her nausea,” she said.

“Question for the doctor,” Petit said. “Questions I can’t answer. No one can answer.” He stepped near and folded his arms across his chest. “I think I can make it to the top of the hill and to the hospital. I’ve studied it and with a rope and some help … My wife needs me. She shouldn’t be having this baby alone.”

“André, I understand. I’ve delivered three sons and my husband was with me.” Tears sprang to Agnes’s eyes at the memory of her first pregnancy. And their trip to the hospital. It was the middle of the night and George had been thrilled, and his excitement had countered her last-minute fears. Where had that happiness gone? The trickle of memory threatened to overwhelm her.

“What if something happens?” Petit said. “What if this one doesn’t go right and she dies and I wasn’t there?”

“There’s nothing we can do. You know that truthfully you can’t climb that hill. There’s a good chance you would end up with a broken arm or leg, and what good would that do your new baby when you’re all home together in a day or two? Your wife’s not alone, she’s in a hospital where they deliver babies every day.”