Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(68)
Thomason’s face drained to white with shock. Petit shifted in his chair as if preparing to catch the other man if he collapsed. Agnes knew she had to ask Thomason about the baby.
“How … who…” Thomason’s words were choked and barely audible. He shoved away from the table, his chair falling backward. Some deeply ingrained reflex made him apologize to Vallotton, then he abruptly fled the room. Vallotton glanced at Agnes, then walked after the young man.
Agnes watched Petit close his notebook carefully.
“I’ll go check the tunnel now if you don’t need me anymore,” he said.
She nodded, wondering if he was getting too strong a lesson in the possible pitfalls of parenting. Alone she picked up a heavy silver knife and balanced it in her hand, thinking that her heart was so heavy she could understand how an end to suffering was appealing.
Twenty-four
“This trip gets more and more interesting,” Doctor Blanchard said, pulling on his outdoor gear. “What you need is a forensic pathologist, but you also needed a regular pathologist so I’m as good at standing in for one as for the other. Actually, I’m a bit more interested in this problem. Occasionally people find bones in the woods or in a field in my village and they need to know the story. Usually animal bones.” Coat, hat, and gloves in place, he decided he needed a last sip of hot coffee. Agnes didn’t blame him and tried to stem her impatience. She was so tired she thought she would fall asleep if she sat down, but more coffee was out of the question. Her hands were nearly shaking with caffeine.
“’Course then they have a question because there’s only one or two specimens. I think anyone would recognize a whole cow if they found it.” Blanchard snorted a laugh. “Bones are interesting when you start to compare the diets and other factors that—”
Before he could get too far into his lecture, Agnes asked what he proposed they do with their skeleton.
“Julien Vallotton told me he has a good camera so we start with that, and then I’ll plan to remove the remains before they are overly exposed to the elements or an animal hauls them away. Who can help?”
Twenty minutes later, Agnes watched from an upper window of the chateau. Carnet and Doctor Blanchard walked to the damaged grove carrying a camera, small shovel, broom, and plastic tarp. She was thankful she was seeing Carnet again for the first time at a distance. She leaned closer to the window and something moved against her leg. Patting her coat pocket, she remembered the small book she had taken from Arsov when he collapsed. She pulled it out, noting the age and condition of the delicate leather cover, careful not to damage it. The front pages of the book were stuck together and she opened it near the middle. The pages were covered with handwriting. It wasn’t Arsov’s; that was clear. The old-fashioned script was a woman’s. A young woman’s or girl’s, she amended, studying the careful rounded flourishes. She skimmed a few pages, excerpting only bits and pieces, when something made her stop. Dates. This was a diary. She was reading in February of an unknown year during the Second World War.
I’ve counted the days since my last period and there are too many days and I know that my health is poor. Madame already worries too much about me and there is nothing to be done. There is too little food, and I worry constantly. When I am in bed, alone in my room and cannot sleep, I think of her strength and try to emulate it, but I always fail when morning comes. The only thing that can distract me when my cough erupts is thinking of him.
Agnes smiled, remembering her own early crushes. This sounded like a young woman.
Today is six months since we met and I cannot speak to him or even write to tell him how I feel, how he has changed my life. I had hoped to find a way to send a letter, but Madame says it is too dangerous, even if we knew where to send it, and she is right, the last thing I can do is risk his life. I have decided that I will write to him here, and when we next meet I will give it to him.
Agnes leaned against the wall, unsteady. Young love. Full of promise. And agony. She turned the page and was surprised that it was in the form of a letter. A letter intended for Arsov. That was why Arsov had the diary. This was Anne-Marie’s.
Mon Amour, One day when we are old and gray and sit along the Seine enjoying baguettes like we have not eaten now in many in year …
Agnes skimmed ahead.
… I will remember this war and think not of the bad days, but only that it brought us together. Isn’t that enough? We will forget everything that happened to us, we will make our love cancel all the death, the death of our loved ones.
Thinking of Arsov, Agnes smiled. Their love had canceled all other tragedy.
You have my answer, we will marry and it cannot happen quickly enough. Come back to me and we will be united the moment you walk through the door. Then you will be mine forever. I miss you. Return to me dear heart.
She prepared to turn the page when Julien Vallotton appeared at her shoulder. She slipped the book back into her pocket. Vallotton looked out the window briefly.
“You recognized the name of Thomason’s home,” he said. “Once he calmed a little, I asked him about it. They inherited the property from his mother’s family, Harley House, home of the Smythson-Markums.”
“‘My house,’” Agnes said, remembering the words penciled in Felicity’s book beside the photograph of the tall gray house in the north of England.