Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(51)

“I’ll assume you haven’t stolen from yourself to collect the insurance, but what about the people who live here and work here?”

“You might say we are self-insured, but to your other point, someone we know stealing from us, I really don’t think—”

“You didn’t think anyone would be murdered here either. Strip away what you want to believe and tell me who might steal. Now is the time to admit that a dear relative is a kleptomaniac.”

“That would be a relief,” Vallotton said. “Discovering Aunt Antoinette has an Achilles’ heel.” He stood and walked around the room, occasionally touching something. Agnes was reminded that every table was filled with precious objects: a small Corot on a stand with postcards tilted in front, a sketch by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec in a sterling silver frame. Things so valuable even she recognized their worth. She smiled at what she would have to describe to her boys when she saw them. Then George sprang to mind and tears welled.

Vallotton looked at her sharply. “Surely I should be more upset than you?”

She swallowed. “I know you don’t want to think someone in the household stole from you, but we need to consider everyone. Starting with the staff.”

“I would start with family and friends, easier for us to sell the pieces.”

“Then family first.”

“You think of everything here as mine, and I suppose technically you are correct, but we don’t see it that way. I may be the steward, but the chateau and its furnishings are ours collectively. Since the death of my father, that means me, my brother, my aunt, and MC. If any one of us wanted something—particularly these small things—all they need to do is take it. We keep good records, so it would be nice to know that it was moved or sold, but no one would care.”

“How is that possible? These objects are valuable. You have to care if someone took them.”

Vallotton stopped and opened a drawer. Agnes stood to see what he indicated. “You have to be joking,” she said. The drawer was fitted with felt to hold coins. Heavy antique coins. Vallotton lifted the covering and held one out to her. It was a dull rich gold.

“My father loved his coins and stamps. We played with them as boys, not carelessly, but with an interest. Handle the pieces, learn about them, enjoy them. That’s why we collect, to give the things life. I would rather a piece be broken—or stolen—if that’s the exchange for living amongst them.”

She took a different coin and held it up to the candlelight. “A crass question, but how much is this worth?”

Vallotton leaned near to examine it. “Good selection. Priceless.”

Agnes dropped the coin back into its tray. “A meaningless sentiment.”

“No, a literal word. If there is one known example of something that cannot be re-created then how can you assess a value? If it is lost, then no price can bring it back. Like the loss of a person, each one unique. Priceless.”

Agnes rubbed her forehead. “Ralph Mulholland, Madame Puguet, and the rest of the staff. They aren’t your family. They might take something.”

He laughed. “Have you spent any time with Josette Puguet? She is devoted to us. My father left her a legacy. Enough for her to retire to the South of France and hire her own housekeeper. But she wouldn’t dream of leaving.”

“And Mulholland?”

“That’s a question for my aunt, but I doubt he would insult her with such behavior. Besides, his parents left him an orphan and he’s old enough to have control of his inheritance. And I don’t think any of the staff would steal from us. What would they do with the things? Hard to dispose of if you don’t have a connection with an auction house and proof of ownership for whatever you are selling. The items on your list are no ordinary trinkets. Someone needs a connection to the black market. A professional.”

“Then we’re left with someone—a professional—walking in the front door and leaving undetected.” Agnes didn’t say that she could easily have pocketed a few valuables. She remembered what the marquise had said about Estanguet that first night. Strangers wandering her halls like a hotel. “Or someone who took the pieces for another reason. Sentiment maybe? No interest in selling, but they like the looks of them and want to own them?”

Vallotton frowned. “Possible. And it’s also possible someone wandered in. We no longer have the large staff that my father kept. His butler retired when he died. The man kept an eagle eye on the comings and goings and there was more live-in help. My aunt manages things differently. Although to walk in brazenly would suggest someone who knew they could move about freely with little chance of detection, and they would have to know their way around or risk running into someone.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Agnes looked again at the list. “How much do you think the things on this list are worth?”

“Hard to tell. Several pieces could go for a good sum to the right buyer or at auction. But fenced on the black market the amount would be lower. Maybe you’re right and they were taken for how they looked, or sentimental reasons. It is a bit odd that the pieces are valuable but not excessively so.”

“There is another answer: Felicity Cowell.” At his sharp look Agnes hesitated and pulled at the hem of her skirt. “Hear me out. She is the victim no matter what else we learn, but she was knowledgeable. Her employers say this, you agree, and her fiancé says she had an incredible breadth of knowledge. A breadth that stretched beyond the paintings and sculpture you are considering selling. Add to this we now know she didn’t come from money. What if she arrived and the lure of such disposable wealth tempted her? Maybe this explains why she didn’t want to sleep at the chateau.”