Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(61)

Agnes shot Marie-Chantal a glance. She would have described Arsov as gregarious, in the manner of an old man used to getting his way and controlling the conversation. He’d talked easily enough the day before.

“He told me a little about his time in the Second World War,” she said.

“Really?” said Marie-Chantal. “He’s never said a word about his past to me, or to anyone as far as I know. It’s all business, business. Not as emphatically as others; that’s what makes him charming. But still, business. The dollar versus the franc, the pound versus the yen. Boring, but there’s something in how he talks. As if he really doesn’t care about the money.” She turned to Agnes. “That’s it. He can out-think the others but I wonder if he isn’t laughing at them.” She smiled. “No matter, let’s hope Mimi is driving him mad this morning. He gives her hot chocolate until she’s sick. We pretend we don’t know. You have to feel sorry for her, an orphan living with us in this big lonely place. I knew her parents and I suppose they knew what was best when they named Daniel’s father her guardian in their will. Of course, they didn’t think they’d die before him. Mimi needs some fun. She needs to be spoiled.”

When they reached the mansion, Arsov’s butler hadn’t seen Mimi. However, he admitted that one of the other servants had attended the door for some time that morning. Marie-Chantal kept up a stream of chatter. “We wouldn’t normally call this early but with Mimi vanished—”

“What’s this about Mimi?” Arsov demanded as they crossed the threshold into the large salon. His wheelchair was pulled near a table laden with breakfast foods. Agnes smelled hot scones and eyed the silver coffeepot wishfully. Her own breakfast seemed hours ago.

“Madame Puguet is convinced Mimi was stolen from her bed last night,” Marie-Chantal said, pulling off her gloves. “She disappeared, vanished, and no one knows what happened. I’m here to ask if she wandered—”

“Stop,” Agnes said, moving swiftly past her.

Arsov was pale, his expression vacant, and he seemed to no longer hear them. They reached him together and Marie-Chantal knelt and patted his face lightly. Agnes looked over her shoulder for the butler but the man had disappeared.

“He didn’t faint,” she said, pushing Marie-Chantal away. She put her ear to the old man’s chest. “He’s breathing naturally, but his color’s worsening. I think he’s had a stroke.” Arsov slipped forward, a small leather book tumbling from his lap. Agnes caught the book and shoved it into her pocket, supporting Arsov on her shoulder. He felt as frail as a baby bird. His breath on her neck was a faint trickle of air.

Marie-Chantal called out and within seconds Nurse Brighton arrived. One glance at the scene in front of her and she ran swiftly toward them, wings of her hat flapping. Agnes moved out of the way, telling herself that it was irrational to be surprised. Arsov was old and ill.

“We can get an air ambulance,” she said. “They’ll send one for an emergency. I think our radio is working reliably—”

The nurse stopped her with a wave of the hand, her attention focused on her patient. “No ambulance. He doesn’t want to spend his last days in a hospital or hooked up to machines.”

She yanked a tapestry bellpull multiple times and the butler and several male servants arrived at a run. Her orders were calm and professional and two of the men gently held Arsov upright in his wheelchair and propelled him toward his bedroom, leaving the other servants to wander off looking bewildered and upset. The nurse gave Agnes and Marie-Chantal a doubtful look, then swept from the room.

“This is my fault,” Marie-Chantal cried, when she and Agnes were alone. “I should have thought about how it would sound just two days after—” She covered her face with her hands. “I can’t even remember what I said, but it was bad, wasn’t it? Madame Puguet doesn’t think Mimi was stolen away. She’s hiding, like always. I made it sound dramatic and now he’s had a stroke and will die and it’s all my fault.”

Agnes tried to console her. Marie-Chantal pushed away. “I have to know. Antoinette will never forgive me.” She headed from the room.

Agnes thought Marie-Chantal was too upset to charge into a sickroom. “Let me ask. I can make sure Nurse Brighton doesn’t want to call an air ambulance.”

Marie-Chantal glanced around the room. “Take the oxygen. They’ll need that. Please take it and find out. I have to know if I killed him.”

Agnes picked up the small container and, after straightening her skirt, walked the long enfilade along the fa?ade, through open door after open door, for once immune to the grandeur of the spaces. At the opposite end of the mansion, nearest Chateau Vallotton, the wheelchair was parked in a doorway. Arsov’s bedroom. The sight of the discarded blanket on the empty leather seat was heart-wrenching and she prepared herself for the worst. The door to the room was open, but the interior was mostly hidden by a large trifold tapestry screen. She took a step in and the nurse turned from her task, frowning. Reluctantly she waved Agnes forward.

“This is why I guard him so closely. He’s more frail than he lets on.”

Agnes handed the nurse the oxygen container then noticed another, larger one, in the corner. “Madame Vallotton is worried and wanted me to see—”

“Save your breath. It doesn’t do any good to worry once something has happened.” Nurse Brighton led Agnes around the screen into the room, giving a satisfied smile when she gawked. “The bed is supposed to have belonged to Napoleon, or maybe a Prussian king. I didn’t pay much attention to what he told me about it.”