Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(65)

“There was a family cemetery on the property,” Vallotton said, “from the earliest days, but I was always told it was at the other end, near the cliff, and all of the bodies were moved about three hundred years ago to the new churchyard in the village.”

“I don’t think these bones are that old,” Agnes said. “That looks like remains of fabric.” She pointed to strands extending from the frozen ground.

“The bones aren’t new.” Vallotton brushed dirt away with a gloved hand.

“No, they’re not recently buried; however, I also don’t think this was part of a cemetery. There would be some evidence of even a simple wood coffin. Nails or something.” She hesitated to touch anything, although she wasn’t sure if it was out of respect for the dead or in anticipation of the investigation that would have to occur. “We can hardly get assistance to the living right now, so I don’t think anyone’s going to come see about this for some time. We should cover the bones again.”

“I’ll get a tarp and hold it down with stones. Keep the animals away,” Vallotton said.

Agnes glanced at Winston, who was studying her with equal interest. Suddenly she wanted to know more immediately. “Let’s ask Doctor Blanchard to look first, maybe he can tell us something.”

Taking the dog with them as a preventative measure, Agnes and Julien Vallotton entered the chateau.

“When was this door put in?” Agnes asked, remembering Marie-Chantal’s comment that it was recent.

“I don’t know. A hundred years ago? Hundred twenty-five?”

Agnes decided the family had a different idea of time than she did. They climbed the stairs to the main level where Winston shook himself and trotted off in search of other adventures. Agnes remembered a more important architectural question.

“I found Ralph Mulholland locked in the ice house this morning. He used an underground tunnel. A tunnel no one told us about.”

Vallotton looked surprised.

“It led from the pantry?” she added. “Or someplace in the kitchen.”

Julien Vallotton frowned, rubbing his forehead. Finally he nodded slowly. “I’d forgotten about it. Hasn’t been used in my lifetime if it’s really there.” He led the way toward the kitchen, sending the startled cook into a flurry of confusion.

“It’s here, monsieur. I’ve never seen the door open, but I know where it is,” the cook said, wiping her hands on her apron and leading them to the secondary corridor. They went deeper into the service part of the chateau than Agnes had gone the day before. The corridor turned before dead-ending.

“When was the last time you were in the kitchen?” Agnes whispered to Vallotton.

“My aunt frowns on it.”

“Never?” Agnes was aghast.

He grinned at her. “When I was a boy, I used to sneak down for treats.”

“Greedy little beggars, you and Monsieur Daniel were,” the cook called over her shoulder, making Agnes laugh. “Here’s the door.” She pointed into a small room. “The old cook told me it was all ramps out to the ice house, no stairs. Built that way to carry the ice sculptures. Must have been lovely. Well, I’m back at my work now.”

The cook left and Agnes flicked on her flashlight. The storeroom had glass panes at the top of the interior wall, borrowing some light from the hall lamps. Not overly large, it was empty with a sturdy door set in the back wall. A canvas curtain was pushed into the corner. If Mulholland had pulled the curtain back then that was the reason neither Carnet nor Petit had noticed the door themselves. The door was slightly open, the heavy latch not fastened.

“This doesn’t make sense,” said Agnes. “Mulholland said he couldn’t get back in.”

“Hand me your light,” Vallotton said, opening the door all the way.

“I’m going with you.”

She followed Vallotton into the darkness. The corridor was lined with rough lumber. It was fairly wide and the stone floor sloped down gradually. There were slight grooves in the surface.

“Marks from a rolling table, I’d say. Must have used a hand cart to bring ice up.” Vallotton ran his beam along the floor before moving it ahead of them. They’d gone ten or fifteen meters when they reached another door. Vallotton tried to open it, shoving with his shoulder. It didn’t move.

“Look,” Agnes said. There was a long iron bolt at both the top and bottom of the door. “The one on the bottom must have slipped down and closed.”

Vallotton fiddled with it. “Moves easily enough. Bad luck on Mulholland’s part. Door must have swung shut and the bolt was perfectly aligned. It dropped.” He thumped the door. “It’s too thick to hear through, plus we’re well underground now. He was right, no one would have heard him here. Should we go on?”

“No, Petit and Carnet will walk the length in case—” she didn’t complete the sentence.

“I understand. Evidence about Mademoiselle Cowell’s death. I’ve told you I didn’t do it and don’t know who did. I certainly am not concealing knowledge of the tunnel to hide evidence.”

Agnes hoped not. That would end her career as fast as it put him in custody. She led the way back to the kitchen.

“Why was Mulholland down here at all?” she wondered.

He arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Bored? Maybe he likes architecture and was curious?”