Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(52)
“A premeditated crime?”
“I wondered if she didn’t stay here because the room she was shown was so isolated. Then when we met Thomason, I thought she wanted somewhere private so he could join her at night. He might have been embarrassed to tell us. Now I wonder if there was a different reason. She recognized the possibilities. Madame Puguet told me she gave Felicity a complete tour the day of her arrival. To orient her, I suppose.”
“More likely to size her up. Josette is very proprietorial about us.”
“Either way she had a chance straightaway to see that many rooms were unoccupied, and that might have planted the seed and caused her to change her mind and stay in the village. She could take a few things each day in a briefcase or purse.”
“And hide them in her hotel room?”
“We will look into it but she wouldn’t have kept them there. No one disputes that she was very clever. She would have stashed the objects somewhere else.”
Vallotton wound a clock absently. “This is becoming a bit farfetched. She’s unfamiliar with the village, with the entire area, yet comes up with a place to store valuables not in her hotel room or workplace. Someplace safe where she has access without a car. I’m not sure I could do that and I’ve lived here my entire life.”
“Maybe it was premeditated. She could have an accomplice who took the goods.”
“Unfortunately, this makes more sense.”
“And they have an argument and she dies.” They sat back and looked at each other. “It’s a strong hypothesis,” Agnes admitted reluctantly. “When Graves told me the woman he knew admitted to doing whatever it took to survive I assumed prostitution.”
“Makes sense; you knew she was taking her clothes off for money.”
“But maybe she also stole? Harry Thomason could be her accomplice and we only have his word for their relationship. She never mentioned a fiancé and didn’t wear a ring.”
“A classic return to the scene of the crime?” Vallotton half laughed. “Doubtful.”
“Maybe this is how he is leaving the crime scene. How do we know he spent last night at the Beau-Rivage? That’s a long way from here. He could have met her yesterday afternoon and they had an argument. She dies and he panics. The theft was a perfect crime, years spent looking at valuables and not having them yourself. Needing just a bit more to buy a first flat as a married couple. Something goes wrong at the end. Maybe she gets cold feet. Something triggers an argument and he strikes in the heat of anger or he has planned it all along and lures her outside. He starts to leave but the storm catches him.”
“He didn’t spend the night outdoors,” Vallotton said. “It was bitter and he’d be near dead dressed like he was. That was cold weather gear, but not suited for sustained low temperatures.”
“Not outside but somewhere close. The garage? Pick a big old sedan and you’d be quite comfortable, he might even turn on a car for extra warmth. Or the Orangerie? Warm enough to save the plants. More ice falls and the next day he pretends he’s just arrived.”
“Another suspect, and this time you have a motive.”
“Yes, and it isn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be.”
Nineteen
It took the butler three minutes to open the door but it felt like three hours.
“Could have waited until morning,” Petit said, teeth still chattering as they followed the man deeper into the mansion. Agnes wasn’t about to tell him that the theft was only an excuse to escape the chateau. It was claustrophobic with Carnet somewhere within the walls. He couldn’t leave, though she was certain he wanted to, and she was worried that he would seek her out; try to talk about George and what had happened. Try to explain. She shuddered at the thought.
“You think he’ll let us look around?” Petit whispered. Agnes wished she’d told him to find a bottle of champagne and take it to bed to celebrate fatherhood alone. She hadn’t been thinking clearly when he offered to accompany her.
Vladimir Arsov received them like a potentate welcoming foreign ambassadors, dismissing any notion of theft with a negligent wave of one hand and offering wine and food with a second wave toward the butler. When they refused refreshments, he suggested a tour of the formal rooms of the mansion. Petit took the handles of the wheelchair from Nurse Brighton and Agnes lit the way with her flashlight, deciding that this qualified as a distraction.
The doors of the lakeside ground-floor rooms were aligned along a single axis, an enfilade that ran the length of the mansion providing a vista through each room. As they walked, Petit asked a hundred questions while Arsov pointed out details of interest, waving a bony finger in vague directions. Agnes wished the light was stronger. Much of the detail was obscured by the darkness: an amber screen belonging to the Romanovs, Marie Antoinette’s writing desk, Ming vases. Occasionally a servant crossed their path, a pale face illuminated by a flashlight or candle, but mostly they walked alone through the vast gilded rooms.
“The marquise,” Arsov said, motioning to the large portrait of a young woman next to an even larger portrait of a man draped in a lion skin.
“Beautiful,” Agnes murmured, aiming her flashlight in the direction indicated. The painting was a duplicate of the one Marie-Chantal had shown her in the chateau. Here the frame was as impressive as the art. She estimated the weight of the frame and canvas and wondered how they held it to the wall. She could barely keep a lightweight photo from falling to the floor in her house.