Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(44)
“We’re not making progress,” Agnes said suddenly, deciding it might not be “our” investigation. Based on Bardy’s recommendation, she had trusted Julien Vallotton this far, she might as well trust him all the way. “We may never know who did this. The chances of trace evidence are almost nonexistent, given the storm.”
“One of us might confess. There’s still time.”
“And now we have a victim who was not who she pretended to be and for days we are stuck here with no access to her life in London. Every hour means evidence is eroding. And there can be jealousies and guilt that follow someone missing for ten years. There can be petty office troubles or evidence of mind-boggling deceit that is uncovered and I’m stuck here, maybe for another day or two, with no more information to go on.” She rubbed her forehead and half laughed. “That may be the best news in fact, because when things return to normal, someone, Bardy in particular, will want to know what direction to take this investigation and I won’t have any idea.”
Vallotton opened a book that lay on the desk. It was filled with glossy photos of country houses of England. “Strange book for her to bring here.”
“It’s not yours?”
“Ours are stamped on the flyleaf.” He flipped through a page or two. “I remember when this property came up at auction. Nearly bought the place. Beautiful nineteenth-century topiary gardens.”
Agnes read the caption. She didn’t know where Cumbria was in England, but it looked cold and dark. For a moment she dreamed of sunny Florida, a place she usually hated but sounded good right now. “Why would you buy a house there?”
“A developer planned to purchase the property and destroy it to make room for a row of execrable cheap modern houses. Fortunately someone turned up and bought the house to live in.” He thumped the book shut, but Agnes opened it again. She turned the pages one by one. Near the back there were words penciled in the margin next to a photograph of a Tudor-era mansion. The fa?ade was flat gray stone punctuated by leaded windows. It was impressive in an austere, cold way.
“‘My house,’” Agnes read the penciled note.
Vallotton looked over her shoulder. “You think Mademoiselle Cowell wrote this? If she’s from a modest background then this isn’t her family home, and it’s certainly not where she lives in London. Do you have her address in the city?”
“Yes, from her handbag.” Agnes gave him the address and he thought for a moment. “Nice neighborhood, the kind of place you want a younger sister to live if she is trying to escape the posh family home; could be expensive, but wouldn’t have to be. Definitely flats or a townhouse and not what is in this photograph.”
“A good address to aid her pretense of an affluent background?”
“Certainly. Someone on Evelyn’s staff would have noted it when she started work and it would have sent a subtle signal of ‘she’s one of us.’”
Agnes opened the auction catalogue and glanced at the handwritten notes. “Looks like the same handwriting; mind you, I’m not an expert.”
Vallotton studied the two samples side by side, then read the printed caption next to the photograph. “‘Ancestral home of the Smythson-Markums.’ Name doesn’t mean anything to me, and you’re right that it wasn’t Mademoiselle Cowell’s home unless she has a triple secret life as a Smythson-Markum. From what Graves said she has been true to her last name throughout. Maybe she just liked the house. Marked it as a goal. A concrete manifestation of her dreams. No different than saying one day I will live in New York City or exhibit work at the Pompidou Centre.”
Agnes was about to agree when Winston rose, giving a few seconds’ warning before Marie-Chantal arrived. She was flushed and out of breath.
“I’ve been looking everywhere.” She glanced accusingly from one to the other. “I wish mobile phones would work again. Felicity Cowell had a fiancé.” She paused deliberately. “He’s here and he’s upset.”
As they followed Marie-Chantal down the stairs, Vallotton leaned close to Agnes. “About Squaw Valley, let’s not tell my brother. He thinks I was at Stanford, doing post-bac studies, not trying out his lifestyle for the winter.”
“You didn’t like it?”
“I loved it, but in the end we are who we are, and for me that life could only be one season.”
Fifteen
Harry Thomason was in his late twenties, handsome in a boyish sort of way, the kind of man who would never look old. His dark hair was cut so it fell long over his brow and he looked fit without the build of an athlete. Despite winter gear, he appeared tired and cold.
“It’s taken me most of the day to get here,” he said, adding that he was currently a guest at the Beau-Rivage Palace hotel on the lake in Ouchy and was worn-out with worry that he hadn’t heard from Felicity in days. He peeled off his outer garments and, without hesitating, handed them to the housekeeper.
“The blasted storm ended any hope of a phone call. Clearly couldn’t fly back to London, so I decided to see her. Roads are closed even if I had a car. The hotel had some cross-country skis left by a guest, but they don’t work on the ice, so I dumped them after a bit, kept the poles, and walked.” They all glanced to his boots as if assessing the difficulty of the task. “Kept to the lake edge. Thank goodness it’s flat because it was slick as hell and hard going. Where’s Felicity?”