Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(48)

“We can arrange for you to see her later. Right now I need to know more about the days before she died. We should be able to retrieve a record of her mobile phone calls tomorrow or the day after, but you may be able to help us now. Had her mood changed while she was here, or was she upset or worried about anything?”

“Why would she be upset? This job was an honor for her.” He nodded to Vallotton. “You’re important clients and for her to come here was exciting. Felicity worked hard. Harder than any of us and she was brilliant. You can’t imagine her memory. She never forgot a painting or face or name. I’m good at what I do, I’m industrious and enjoy it, but she was different. She was special.”

Agnes resisted the temptation to probe him about Felicity’s earlier life and other name. He might know, or Graves could have lied. Although she doubted it. As Vallotton said, Graves would know that they could verify his story soon. If she asked Thomason she couldn’t take the words back and he was so fragile. She remembered her own struggle with the details of George’s death. Questions about Felicity’s character could wait. Or could they? She glanced at Petit, sucking on the end of his pen, diligently taking notes. She wished Bardy was here.

Thomason smiled wanly. “We were both London outsiders. It’s a hard world to break into and that was part of what bound us together. London was our adopted home and we loved it and swore we would never leave.”

Carnet entered the room, stretching his hand out to greet Thomason. Agnes tried to stand, but her knees buckled. George, was all she could think.

“Monsieur Vallotton.” Madame Puguet appeared in the doorway. “Dinner is served.”

Agnes knew that Julien Vallotton expected her to postpone the meal in order to finish questioning Thomason, but she couldn’t speak. With a backward glance he led the younger man out of the room. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was certain it was audible. How had she not guessed? Nausea threatened. She placed a hand on Carnet’s arm to stop him. With her other hand she pulled George’s small bottle of hand lotion from her pocket.

“Must have dropped it,” Carnet said, taking it from her. “My sister sends it from Australia. Some special concoction she pretends I need.”

Again she tried to stand but couldn’t. She couldn’t find her balance. Her legs wouldn’t bear her weight. “It was in my car. George put it there.” Silence stretched between them. “You didn’t even know George.”

She felt him go still, like an animal judging the risk of flight.

“I told you I met him once, at the shooting competition.”

“That was only a few minutes,” she said. “And this is yours. I smelled it just now on your hand when you reached for Thomason’s. It’s a distinctive aroma. Unique. You knew George much better than that, didn’t you?”

She raised her eyes to his and saw in them horror intermingled with truth. His mouth was open as if he was torn between speech and silence. He didn’t move until she finally stood.

“You told me the first night here that George loved me and the boys, as if you knew.”

“We met at the shooting match.”

“A few minutes doesn’t—”

His words overrode hers, tumbling out as if unstoppable. “We met there. It was the beginning.”

She wanted to tell him to stop, but couldn’t.

“I’d never felt that way before. We only spoke for a few minutes but he called me later and we met. Love at first sight, if you can believe it. And he felt the same. It only lasted a few weeks.”

Agnes calculated rapidly. Her skin was cold and clammy and she steadied herself against the edge of the table. Her mouth went dry and she felt her heart accelerate. She couldn’t breathe. “Three months,” she heard herself say.

“No, six weeks until I ended it. I couldn’t face what we were doing. I couldn’t live with myself. He was married. We had to hide every emotion. At work, I could see your face when he called, and I knew he was telling you he had to work late. And I would leave right after you and meet—”

Agnes felt the room tilt and her chest constrict. She held out a hand as if to stop him, half wondering if she was dreaming, but his mouth continued to move, saying these terrible things. These treacherous things. She had had so many strange dreams after George’s death that there was an element of repetition. She tried to speak but couldn’t. Her throat had closed.

“He called me, texted me, emailed,” Carnet continued, “but I wouldn’t see him. I thought this was the right thing to do. An abrupt break was necessary. I didn’t think about what he was going through. I didn’t let him reach out to me once I had made up my mind. I loved him but didn’t want him to ruin his life, ruin the way his boys thought of him, destroy you, and so I ended it.” His expression was one of total despair. “I never once, you have to believe me, never thought he would—”

“Kill himself over you.”

They looked at each other, mirror images of horror. Agnes broke the gaze first. Then she ran from the room.





Seventeen

“Nausea. No more nausea,” Agnes said, wiping her hand across her lips, feeling residual pain from the dry heaves flash across her ribs. She pressed a tissue to her eyes and dried her tears. For the first time she looked around. She had wandered far from where she started and it took a moment to orient herself. The furnishings came into focus and she leaned heavily against the open door. It was twice her height and intricately carved. The door swung back, striking the wall. She straightened and moved farther into the room, trying to not think. Shoving images from her mind as fast as they appeared. George. Carnet. George and the boys. George at the shooting match with Carnet. That final day under the Pont Bessières.