Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(62)
The bed was narrow and not long, but it was impressive with a tall headboard enclosing three sides. High overhead a carved coronet was surmounted by white plumes and draped with purple velvet that extended to brackets on the headboard, resulting in a tentlike effect. Arsov lay covered by a blanket amidst the splendor. Overwhelmed by emotion, Agnes drew near. Thin and frail, his glasses had been removed and with them some of his dignity. He looked so old he resembled a helpless infant.
The size and scale of the room further diminished him. The space was filled with framed photographs and small art objects, and in the center three deep-cushioned chairs surrounded a small table. The room was clearly filled with carefully selected mementos and Agnes thought it should be called a memory chamber. She stood quietly while the nurse continued her examination: taking Arsov’s pulse and making notations about other vital signs.
“Can you tell me your name?” the nurse asked, bending over the bed.
Agnes heard the mumbled response, but the words were too slurred and low to understand. The nurse placed her hands in her patient’s and asked him to squeeze. Agnes watched closely for an indication of Arsov’s health. He gripped the nurse’s right hand, while his left one remained limp. Nurse Brighton made a few more notations, then added another blanket to the one already tucked in around him. When finished, she poured herself a glass of water from a carafe and drank it down. Agnes realized that the nurse was more upset than she let on.
“I was a nurse at a private clinic in London,” Nurse Brighton said, studying Arsov. “Monsieur was in for treatment and we met and he liked me. I’d never thought to leave my job there, but he pays well and this was my chance to retire early with some earnings put aside.” She took another long swallow of water.
“What would they do for him at the hospital?”
“There’s no need for a hospital. He didn’t have a stroke; he had a transient ischemic attack. He’s having trouble seeing and speaking, similar to a stroke. And he’s confused. But it will pass. We’ll keep him warm and comfortable and he should recover.”
She walked to the far side of the room and opened the heavy drapes all the way, letting daylight flood the space. “Anyway, it was part of my contract that I agree to attend him here regardless of his medical condition.”
The bedroom occupied a corner of the mansion and in one direction the view to the lake was magnificent. In the other, the view gave onto the grove separating the property from the chateau.
“In the event of a decline in his health—like today—he insisted that he be treated here,” Nurse Brighton said. “In this room, and that I keep the drapes open.” She shrugged her shoulders as if the details weren’t of interest, although she would follow the instructions faithfully.
They looked at the man in the bed. His skin was gray and his breathing shallow.
“He is weaker than he looks,” she said. “All this talk of the past, then the idea that the girl is missing, it was too much for him. He’s old and shouldn’t be bothered.”
Twenty-two
Agnes stood in the cold marble entrance hall of the mansion and reread the note in her hand. The handwriting was shaky and fatigue made the words blur even more. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and resisted the temptation to interrupt Arsov’s butler, who was clearly upset. She wondered how much was worry that the old man’s illness would mean lost jobs here, and how much was genuine concern.
“I’m sorry,” she interrupted, “but I actually came to ask Monsieur Arsov about the message he sent me this morning.”
“The note, yes.” The butler regained his composure. Then he paled. “It was evidence? Now he can’t speak and it will hurt your investigation and that poor woman’s killer will go free.”
“I’m not sure his message had anything to do with the investigation. Unless you know something about it?” He looked aghast at the suggestion.
She expressed her sympathy one more time and drew a distressed Marie-Chantal Vallotton out the front door. A few steps down the drive they stood in silence, Agnes reflecting on the old man’s health.
“He can’t be that ill,” she said. “No matter what Nurse Brighton says, they would have called for a helicopter if he was in danger of dying. The lawn is broad enough for an air ambulance to land. She must know what she’s doing.”
Marie-Chantal pressed a hand to her face. “I think I need to be alone.” She darted down the drive as quickly as she could in her heels.
Agnes watched her leave, also pleased to be alone for a moment. She reread the note Arsov had sent and tried to understand the meaning: I have been too strict. Please come see me.
She was flummoxed. Strict with who, with what? And what did this have to do with her? When the maid set the note by her plate at breakfast she had assumed it was related to the murder investigation; there was no other reason for Arsov to want to see her. Now she wasn’t certain. What if he wasn’t thinking clearly in the hours leading up to his collapse? “Too strict” sounded more like something to do with the little girl, Mimi. Perhaps the note wasn’t even intended for her.
Slipping the note into her coat pocket, she turned toward the edge of the lake, foregoing the treacherous drive. Here the light snow provided traction and she walked more confidently, thinking about the problems facing them. Unfortunate as Arsov’s condition was, he was not her worry. Felicity Cowell was.