Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(34)
“Who uses this room?” Agnes asked.
“No one, not now. Years ago, Antoinette’s couturier would come from Paris with the gowns basted together and finish them according to her specifications. Friends of my mother’s say she was exacting, the kind of client a couturier adores and hates. Balenciaga dressed her until he retired.” Marie-Chantal smiled and Agnes felt the room light up. “Have you seen the portrait of her in the blue salon? Painted just before her marriage. It was a different time and she was only fifteen, but the portrait is magnificent. She looks young and old. Fresh and lovely, yet already strong and determined. I’ll show you sometime.”
While listening, Agnes walked through the small side door to the adjoining room, following the trajectory of damage left by whatever had happened the day before. There were three tall mirrors on wheeled stands, a wire dressmaker’s form, and a row of hooks on the wall. With only a few straight-backed chairs, and no rugs, the room looked and felt empty. Nothing appeared disturbed. There was an even smaller door in the corner; it opened to a twisting spiral staircase. She led the way and Marie-Chantal followed, carrying a yellow hat laden with feathers that she had removed from a box.
Agnes negotiated the stairs, bracing herself against the walls to prevent a nasty tumble. She asked a question over her shoulder. “Everyone has an opinion, but I would like to hear your thoughts: why was Felicity Cowell wearing that dress?”
“This is the psychological part of the mystery, isn’t it?” Marie-Chantal turned the hat in her hand as she descended, accustomed to the tortuous stairs. “Vanity, a desire to connect with that particular dress—after all, it does have a special history—curiosity. Who knows? I’ve always wanted to try on one of the early Balenciagas. Legendary designs, but I didn’t want to ask. Actually I’m afraid that they’ll be too small, and I don’t think I can face a corset.” They reached the bottom of the flight.
“But why that dress?” Agnes looked up and down the corridor, sighting the spot where they had discovered the vomit and wondering if Felicity felt ill and came down the stairs for help. Was it as simple as that? Perhaps she wasn’t running from someone, but was seeking help. That still didn’t explain her going outdoors. It was as if there were two parts to her trajectory and this moment in the hall was the break between them.
“I don’t know if it matters what she was wearing. Of course she might have been trying to impress someone. Maybe she was going to steal it.” Marie-Chantal shook her head. “No, I don’t mean that, although it might have been clear to her that we wouldn’t have known.” She rested the tiny hat on her head and studied her reflection in a nearby mirror. “Maybe she was just having fun and saw something by chance. Or someone. And had to go down. Or maybe she was running away from something.”
“You mean someone,” said Agnes. She raised her hand to smell the lotion. It reminded her of something. Not George, but something. Or someone.
Marie-Chantal removed the hat and shrugged. “It’s all just guesswork. It really doesn’t matter. She’s dead.”
Ten
Agnes asked a final time if there was anything else the little girl remembered or wanted to tell her. Mimi shook her head, and Agnes smoothed the girl’s hair and scooted her off the sofa. Then she thanked the nurse for her time.
She took a moment to decide what to do next. She was tired and cold. It was only noon and already the day felt long. At the other end of the room Arsov’s nurse settled a blanket around his shoulders and across his legs, speaking close to his ear. To delay the return trip to the chateau, Agnes joined them.
“Talk of being capable of killing someone is nonsense,” Arsov said without preamble.
Agnes took her place on the same chair she had occupied the night before and Arsov angled his wheelchair to face her. Before she had a chance to greet him properly, a maid pulled a rolling cart nearby. With a practiced flourish the butler removed domed silver covers from the food. Arsov grinned. Agnes noticed that the staff now had outdoor clothes on over their uniforms. It made for a bizarre scene.
“Don’t eat much anymore, but I still like to look at good food,” Arsov said. Lunch was a delicate filet of perch, accompanied by small potatoes and asparagus. A light wine sauce was on the side.
“Impressive with the power out,” Agnes said, touching her heated plate, slightly in awe of the attention to detail.
“Pay them enough and they’ll figure out a way. Brought my cook from Paris. Got rid of my secretary and everyone else when I came here, but I nearly cried at the thought of never tasting Antoine’s food again, so I bribed him to leave France. You would have thought I was asking him to move to the Ukraine. I promised that if he’d stay with me three more years I’d set him up in his own restaurant anywhere in the world. He’ll filet his hand to keep food on the table so I don’t have reason to back out of my promise.”
The butler opened a bottle of white wine and poured three glasses, offering one to Frédéric Estanguet, who was slouched deep in a chair near the French doors, far from the fire. He had offered to accompany Agnes, saying that no one should be outdoors alone in the cold. She hoped the change of atmosphere would help him recover from the shock of seeing the dead woman’s body the night before. Despite her hopes, during the walk she had grown irritated. Wasn’t there a Good Samaritan code of behavior? Seeing him now, she was angry. They had all had a bad experience. She wanted to tell Estanguet to buck up. He’d seen a dead body, not had one fall on him.