Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(66)
“You like architecture and barely remembered it, and this is your house. Besides, your cook never saw him. If he is interested in architecture I’d think he’d ask her to reveal the secrets of the kitchen, or ask you. You could give a tour. There’s something not right about him.”
“He’s a bit of an odd one, but I know a lot of people who are far more off. He probably is bored. Maybe he was hungry in the night. Mysterious door looks interesting and he gives it a try.”
“I think the mysterious door was concealed when he found it.” Agnes thanked the cook as they retraced their steps through her domain. “Mulholland roaming around at night is, I suppose, no stranger than you working outside just now. I thought you had people to do that sort of thing for you.”
“It is my property,” Vallotton said. “Surely I don’t look that feeble?”
“Everyone else seems to be safely inside.”
“I think my brother is chomping at the bit. He’d be ice fishing or skating or something dangerous if he could walk properly. Mulholland is likely bored with the storm keeping him in. Even Mimi has outdone herself with this latest round of hide-and-seek. At least MC is entertained looking for her. Only my aunt’s routine isn’t changed by man or ice.”
They entered a sitting room near the main hall and a maid took Agnes’s coat and handed her a heavy sweater to ward off the indoor chill; it was easy to become accustomed to such thoughtfulness. Vallotton stepped into another room and reemerged minutes later having exchanged outdoor boots and sweater for his usual elegant attire. They held their hands out to the fireplace to warm them. Vallotton asked the maid if Harry Thomason was still in the breakfast room, while Agnes asked her to find Petit and the doctor.
When she heard Petit approach, Agnes motioned Vallotton to the breakfast room. They found Thomason sitting alone at the cleared table, looking worse than he had the day before after his long, cold walk. Agnes was tempted to believe that this was how grief looked, then she remembered why she was here and took a seat a few chairs down from him. He had to be treated as a possible suspect. Vallotton joined them, pouring himself a cup of coffee from a silver pot before choosing a chair opposite Thomason. Petit selected a chair against the wall where he could take notes unobtrusively.
“The others ate earlier,” Thomason said, as if they were expecting a party.
“I’ve news,” Agnes began. “About Felicity. The doctor is fairly certain she was killed by a knife or long blade. It punctured her heart and she—” She caught herself before completing the sentence with: had bled out into her chest cavity. “She died nearly instantly. Within a few minutes. Probably without time to understand what was happening.” She hesitated. “It would have been painless.”
The image of George flashed through her mind. Carnet appearing from nowhere, kneeling beside her on the street, saying it happened fast and that George hadn’t felt anything. One minute he was alive and the next, nothing. Agnes swallowed. She had known it was not that simple. There was a moment in between. Did it matter that he had done this to himself? Had he regretted his decision in the seconds it took to fall from the Pont Bessières? Had he seen the end coming—the hard pavement at the center of the Rue Centrale—and at the last moment cried No!
“He assured me that she would have only felt a slap on her back. No pain. Death came rapidly.” Agnes swallowed, remembering that long day. Shock, despair, and anger in quick succession, all overloading her emotions. Then Carnet driving her home and the final horror, in some ways worse than telling the boys, of telling George’s parents. They understood the finality of death.
She focused on the task at hand, and on the information in Carnet’s note. He had spoken on the radio with the gendarmerie. They had communicated with their counterparts in London. Most of Nick Graves’s revelations about Felicity Cowell were now confirmed.
“You won’t be the one to tell her parents,” she began. “The police in the United Kingdom sent an officer to them with the details and by the time you’re back in London they will be through the first stage of grief, and you can be a comfort.” She fought rising panic. She had not been a comfort to Sybille. She was a reminder.
Thomason looked up bleary-eyed. “Her parents aren’t living. They died years ago and she lived with distant relatives until she was old enough to be on her own. They treated her well enough, but she felt she was a burden; they were much older and had their own lives and suddenly she was dumped on them. They’ll be sorry, and may miss her but won’t grieve. I am her family now.”
Petit looked up sharply and Agnes willed him to silence. She felt Julien Vallotton’s subtle reaction and she shifted uncomfortably, wanting to look at him but also unwilling to show Thomason her confusion. The message Carnet had relayed to her from the gendarmerie was simple but clear. The police in the United Kingdom had done their part and confirmed that Felicity Cowell was Courtney Cowell. Her parents were very much alive and well and they had shared details about their daughter’s life, including her real name and education. Or lack thereof. Agnes was thankful Vallotton had the gift of silence and tried to remember what Thomason had said the day before. Something that made her think he understood that Felicity was trying to make it in a world much different than her background. Something was wrong, but she wanted him to show his hand first.