Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(46)

“Remembering?”

“Yes,” Agnes said, surprised. “More accurately, trying not to forget.” Long shadows flickered between them.

“Be careful what you struggle to recall. In my experience the result is suspect. A filter across the truth and the haze of time. The desire to remember plays tricks.”

“It’s my husband, I have trouble recalling his face.”

The marquise blew her candle out, plunging the room back into near darkness. “Be thankful. That is all I remember of mine. His face the last time I saw him.”

Agnes waited for her to continue but the woman was gone. She sat in silence, listening. Then heels tapped. They were brisk, not those of the elderly marquise. A moment later Marie-Chantal hesitated at the threshold, framed by the reflection of her flashlight beam.

“I stayed here once—in the bedroom next door I mean,” she said. “Years ago. A house party Julien organized when we were all at Le Rosay. I was sorry she didn’t sleep there. It’s such a pretty room. I didn’t think to ask why she didn’t.” Marie-Chantal was beautifully dressed in a dark knee-length cashmere sweater dress over tall high-heeled boots. Agnes wondered how it was possible that such a woman could be unhappy.

Marie-Chantal started to remove her scarf, then stopped as if realizing that the room was exceptionally cold. “It seems neglectful now that I didn’t even know she was engaged. She didn’t wear a ring.” Unconsciously Marie-Chantal glanced to her own left hand and enormous diamond.

“Apparently they were waiting to get the ring from his family.” That much Harry had mumbled to Agnes.

Marie-Chantal moved to the front of the desk and flipped the catalogue open, aiming her light across the pages. “The few times we spoke, she talked about her work. The art here, and the sale. She loved what she did.”

She moved toward the paintings and leaned against the wall, aiming her flashlight beam over them. “Wonderful pieces, but here they are the leftovers. Have they told you I paint?” She stepped back as if studying the canvases carefully. “Are you familiar with Morandi? There is one here. Or maybe Julien has it with him in London. Morandi painted only one thing his entire life. Bottles. He was a great favorite of my studio instructor in Paris. One thing, he would say. Paint one thing over and over and you have to infuse it with yourself, you can’t simply go through the motions.” She stepped away from the canvases. “I painted Julien. Sketches, careful studies in oil. Extravagant period pieces. Over and over. Interest. Infatuation. Obsession. You heard us earlier?”

Agnes nodded carefully. Wondering why it had never occurred to her that George might be having an affair. This beautiful woman suspected her husband, and yet that had never been her fear. Perhaps it should have been. Something about the smell of lotion jogged her memory. Had she simply not suspected?

“Then you might guess that we were once a couple,” Marie-Chantal continued. “Call it what you will. In the end I wanted to paint him but not marry him. Perhaps on some level I wanted to be him. Daniel needs me. Julien doesn’t. He’s not selfish, it’s simply that he can stand alone.” She smiled sorrowfully at Agnes then, with a last look around the room, left.

Immediately Agnes felt the best piece of art had left the room. Then she wondered which part of the conversation was the most important. She had a suspicion that Marie-Chantal knew the impact she had on people; she would have to. Pulling her notebook from her handbag, Agnes checked her notes in the dim light. Marie-Chantal had left the marquise for some time during the afternoon of the murder to let Winston out into the courtyard. But he wasn’t a child. One couldn’t ask a Great Dane if she’d left him alone for a few minutes. Who would know? Was it possible Marie-Chantal was jealous of Felicity Cowell? Jealous of more than her professional life? Either a long-standing association or a spur-of-the-moment attraction between the dead woman and Daniel Vallotton that escalated into spousal rage? A flirtation gone too far? Marie-Chantal admitted to a strange kind of obsession with Julien, but possibly that was covering for her other obsession—an obsession with her husband.

Felicity Cowell had been attractive even in death. Beautiful in life. Just as Marie-Chantal was beautiful. Agnes tapped her pen on the desk’s edge. She took one last look around the workroom before blowing out the candle. She was left with a different sense of their victim and liked it. She hoped that put her in the right frame of mind to speak to Harry Thomason again. He might be suffering heartbreak, but her first concern had to be for the dead woman, no matter her real name.





Sixteen

Yet another beautiful room, was the first thought that occurred to Agnes when the housekeeper led her to Harry Thomason. In the past hour he had changed out of his heavy outdoor clothes into wool trousers, a linen shirt, and a cashmere sweater provided by the family. Incongruously, his feet were still in slippers, of the type Agnes associated with old men. Thomason looked tired and pale, but otherwise at ease in his surroundings. She knew from experience of death that words didn’t help so she skipped elaborate condolences.

Petit was already there, notebook in hand, waiting. Eager to avoid the appearance of a police inquisition she had asked Julien Vallotton to join her as well. At first he carried the conversation and Agnes was not surprised that his social skills were up to the awkwardness. He easily led the discussion toward the questions that had to be asked.