Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(58)

The marquise glanced toward Mimi’s room.

“She’s handling this well. Better than some adults might,” Agnes said, thinking about Estanguet.

“The mind of a child is difficult to understand,” said the marquise. “Their fears. Their concerns. Adults lie, conceal, pretend, but they do it for reasons that can be deduced through logic. Children have imaginations that cannot separate fantasy from reality. To them a fairy story is real. Just as real as a story about something that happened outside their door. They lose that as they mature, but for a time their mind is open. As adults we close ours.”

“Perhaps that’s why Mimi isn’t traumatized.”

“You are very concrete, whereas I was speaking in larger terms.” Without another word the marquise walked silently toward the stairs.

A bit affronted, Agnes stepped back into her room. She settled in bed and listened. Nothing. She glanced at the walls and wondered if there was a concealed door, trying to summon the will to search. She closed her eyes, too tired to get up. Unbidden, an image crept into her consciousness: Carnet and George. She shuddered slightly then she laughed, a sound tinged with hysteria. Their relationship defied imagination, and if it weren’t for the naked emotion she had seen on Carnet’s face, she would have believed it more likely to be a story he concocted to alleviate her self-blame. The idea that George had fallen in love with Carnet, enough in love that he couldn’t live without him, would have sounded ridiculous only a few hours earlier, but in the depths of the night, after exhausting herself of any other emotion, she knew that it was possible. And that she could accept it. Her husband had not died because of her, but because of himself. She took a deep breath. When did the sequence of events start or stop? Did it start with that fateful day at the shooting match? She had cajoled George into going, even though he had promised to take their youngest son fishing. Was this sequence of events punishment for her selfishness? What would have changed if he hadn’t met Carnet? Would it have been merely another man on another day? And what if Carnet hadn’t cared who was hurt by their actions: she and George would have divorced, their boys and his parents not understanding. Her parents-in-law were too much a part of the old customs of their village and way of life to have accepted homosexuality, even if the law did. Their instinct would have been to cut George from their lives, and then what of her, of the boys? Reminders. Still to blame, surely.

Rubbing her eyes to stop the tears, Agnes understood that at some deep level she was thankful that George had chosen to die because of what he couldn’t have, and not because of what she couldn’t give him. Now she could see the impossible situation he faced. He knew what his parents would think if they found out about Carnet, but to have found love and lost it was equally heart-wrenching. He must have felt that he was in a dark hole with no way out. The Lüthis would never have accepted that their son was gay. And he had already lost the man he loved. Imperceptibly a burden lifted from her heart. She rolled over, wrapping herself in the down cover, embracing the weight of sleep.





DAY THREE





Twenty-one

The sun was well over the horizon, although Agnes wouldn’t have guessed it from the temperature outside. Squinting against the sun, she focused on keeping her footing. The lane between the chateau and the mansion was coated with a layer of thick ice partially covered by a more recent crust of snow. It required steady nerves and luck to traverse. To keep her mind off falling, she silently debated gloved hands in-pockets or out-of-pockets. Out-of-pockets won as more conducive to catching herself during a tumble.

Much of the focus was an effort to ignore André Petit sliding along beside her. Now that he was a father, he was a squirting fountain of questions on parenting. If parenting hadn’t reminded her of George she wouldn’t have minded. Today that was a topic she had to avoid. Anything that reminded her of George or her children would take her down the dark path of questions and regret. Therefore she tuned Petit out. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice. Rhetorical questions, apparently.

They’d chosen to walk to Arsov’s on the lane rather than cross the lawn. A plan better in theory than in practice since it was quickly apparent that ice coating a hard surface was slicker than ice on grass. Only forty-eight hours after the storm began and she wanted to banish winter forever.

“Do you think Monsieur Carnet is safe on his own?”

Petit’s question jolted Agnes back to attention.

“Of course he is.” She toned down her annoyance midsentence, replaying breakfast in her mind. Afraid that Carnet would seek her out, she had latched onto Petit as a natural buffer. Unfortunately she had told him that they shouldn’t be alone because of the murderer. She should have told him he had to stick by her side so she could evaluate him before sending a recommendation to the cantonal police with his application. It was too late to change her story now.

“Carnet’s experienced and capable,” she said. “He’ll be fine.”

“I understand. I’ll stay close to protect you.”

Not what she had in mind, the image of the weak inspector. Perhaps not too late to change her story.

“What’s that?” Petit halted, slamming his arm out across her chest. She stumbled and nearly fell, holding on to him for support. Only when she was steady did she hear the noise. Pounding? A man shouting?