Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(57)

A shadow flickered across the fireplace and Estanguet emerged from the dark. He lifted his hand from the candle he was shielding and the glow extended across Mimi. “I can carry her for you,” he said. Sleepily, Agnes decided that he could re-take his title of Good Samaritan.

While he gathered the girl, Marie-Chantal looked at Agnes doubtfully. “If you were looking for a book there are better ones, to read I mean, in the blue sitting room. That’s where we keep the ordinary books.”

Agnes stretched and stood, wishing them goodnight. She had come here for a book. She must have fallen asleep the moment she sat in the deeply cushioned chair. Running her flashlight beam down the shelves she wondered if she should take one now. It wasn’t clear how the volumes were organized. By language? Or subject? There was a section in Latin, another in Greek. She knew that she was too tired to read, yet now she wasn’t sure she could fall asleep again. The sense of peace she had felt at Arsov’s had vanished during the cold return to the chateau, and she was further unsettled by Petit’s prattling happiness, his boundless joy at the newness of fatherhood.

She walked the length of the library, delaying the inevitable return to her room and the numbing loneliness that visited her most nights. She’d read about spouses committing suicide after their partners died and had thought that was only for the old and the weak. But this—this despair was rooted so firmly she finally understood how the mind closed options until there was only one. The numbness was as painful as the aching of her heart.

Her light flashed across a bronze bust and the craggy features reminded her of Arsov. She studied the man’s deep-set eyes and wondered why Arsov’s story hadn’t filled her with the sense of longing and despair that Petit’s mindless jabbering had. As she walked toward the doors she wondered if it was because even in Arsov’s happiness there was a shadow of despair. Just as his despair was filled with the joy of living. She was sure he would have said it was his Russian soul, but there was something more. Some balance that she hadn’t yet grasped. Perhaps the tragedy he had known during the war had colored his happiness as her own tragedy would certainly color her future. Was it about acknowledging the worst that could happen? Was that enough? Arsov and Madame had lived through the worst that a human could endure and woke the next day and the next. Was that all it took?

Inside her bedroom she closed the door and leaned against it. Unbidden, a sob erupted. She wept for herself and for George until she was wrung dry of any feeling. She felt the hours pass, half-awake and half-asleep. Somewhere in the distance a clock chimed and she counted the bells. It was late, or early, depending on one’s perspective. Wiping her eyes, she looked around and relit a candle. She had difficulty focusing: Had she heard a noise or was she dreaming? What had she dreamt? A tapping sound? She couldn’t remember, and that made her think she had heard something.

The curtains were closed against the cold and only a thin sliver of moonlight darted through the folds, but it was enough to see by. She sat up in bed with the blanket clutched to her throat, wishing she had checked the walls for hidden entrances. The cold air stimulated her senses and she leapt up, angry with herself. Swiftly she walked to the window and threw back the heavy curtains, scanning the lawn for signs of someone causing mischief, but the moonlit acres were empty. Trying to visualize what was above and below her room she heard a noise, a slow thump, thump right outside her door. She crossed the room in five long steps and flung the door open. The marquise stood in the middle of the corridor, her expression severe. She hesitated slightly when she saw Agnes.

“I wanted to check the fire in Mimi’s room. There’s always danger with a fire at night.”

Agnes wanted to add, yes but it keeps you warm. There certainly wasn’t a fire lit in her room.

“She has a Kachelofen.”

Agnes nearly smiled. She had forgotten the marquise’s ability to read minds. She had seen a few of the ceramic stoves over the years. Tall structures, wonderfully warm by all accounts. And not dangerous to leave lit unattended. She started to ask the marquise if she knew anything of Arsov’s past when the other woman spoke.

“Does Mademoiselle Cowell have any siblings?”

“None that her fiancé knew of. Or Nick Graves.”

“The American student,” the marquise said, the tone in her voice causing Agnes to believe what Julien Vallotton said about the woman not meeting anyone new, ever. “This evening Julien told me that Mademoiselle Cowell had another name.”

“Courtney Cowell, we believe,” said Agnes.

The marquise stood as silent as a statue, so still she didn’t appear to breathe. “Interesting to keep a surname but change the Christian name.”

“Easier to get new paperwork, you can call yourself by almost any nickname you want and make it semi-official, but a surname is harder to fix.”

“Unless you are adopted or married.”

“She’s a bit old for adoption, but she could have formally petitioned to change her name if she’d wanted. Maybe she had.”

“Is Monsieur Estanguet still here? I do not know that name. He is not from the village, is he?”

“We’re all still here, I’m afraid. Impossible for anyone to be evacuated. And Monsieur Estanguet is from Estavayer-le-Lac. He’s got the farthest to go. Probably wishes he’d not bothered to help us down the hill now.”