Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(69)

“At least we know she was trying out the idea,” he said, “and it confirms that she and Thomason had a relationship. Hadn’t you wondered? You had proof of what Graves said—her name, her other life—but still wondered if Thomason was telling the truth about the two of them.”

“He’d have to be a good actor.”

“Not entirely. The relationship could have been in his mind only. Now I think there’s enough to agree that she was thinking of his house as possibly hers.”

“True. What else did Thomason say to you?”

“I barely asked about Harley House when he broke down again. I offered him a sedative and left him in his bedroom. It was cruel to ask more. I think he’s not inventing his connection to her.”

“You’re right, I believe that he had asked her to marry him, but I still need to talk to him; we need to know what he knew about her pregnancy. He’s not in the clear yet.” She turned to face Vallotton. “We’ll give Thomason a little time; until then, what about the missing items? I haven’t forgotten about the theft.”

“Maybe I’ll care next week, but today, knowing a woman died violently I can’t feel that it matters. They were simply things. I have many others.”

Through the ice-frosted window Agnes watched Carnet and Blanchard glance from the site where they found Felicity Cowell to the newly uncovered grave only a few meters away. With so many trees destroyed, the area was now visible from the chateau’s windows.

“I’m afraid I have to care today,” she said. “Maybe Felicity thought Thomason expected her to have money of her own? He certainly thought she came from money. Who knows how far the lie had gone before she realized that Thomason was interested in her romantically. Maybe she introduced herself as having a trust fund, isn’t that what you people usually have?”

Vallotton frowned as Blanchard knelt. “How old do you think the bones are, really?” he asked. “I realize they’re not new, but ten years? Fifty? A hundred? That piece of fabric, or whatever it was, makes me think they’re newer than I would like.”

“Any missing relatives in the family tree?”

“You should also ask about friends of relatives, servants, who knows where this will lead. I have a bad feeling.”

Suddenly, Agnes did as well.





Twenty-five

No one had a right to put her here. That was her first thought when she woke. Then she realized that her elephant, Elie, was not with her and she wanted to cry. She had dozens of hiding places in the chateau, most where she could see and hear what others were doing without being observed. There were cozy warm places and dusty uncomfortable places, but this was different. This place was cold and damp and scary. She hadn’t seen a face when the hands covered her mouth and nose and she had tried every trick she could think of: struggling, kicking, then pretending to go limp. That’s when the nasty person hit her. Or at least that’s what she thought had happened. Now, lying on a cold damp floor, her head hurt and she wished above all things that Elie was with her.





Twenty-six

Ralph Mulholland walked through the room pulling on an outdoor coat.

“You recovered quickly,” Agnes said. He was startled to see her and she took advantage of his hesitation and asked him to be seated, pointing out the fire in the hearth and saying that it was small but put out a surprising amount of heat.

“I’m surprised you are going back outside after your overnight ordeal. I thought you’d be sleeping.”

“Madame Puguet gave me a concoction to drink, set me right up again.”

“You should have seen the doctor. Let him look at your hands.”

He scowled. “She knows what to do.”

Agnes wondered at the household’s distrust of outsiders. Surely an unknown doctor was better than a housekeeper if you have suffered a shock.

“But outside so soon?” she said. “Is that a good idea?”

“Probably have nightmares if I sleep. Besides, I’m not a child. I can do on a few hours’ nap. I’m going to talk to Monsieur Arsov. A neighborly chat. That’s allowed.”

He was so defiant it gave her a second of pleasure to tell him that Arsov was not receiving callers, and for what reason. Her pleasure was short-lived as Mulholland’s haughty expression swiftly altered to despair. He pulled a cigarette from a heavy gold case and lit it with shaking fingers. “It’s not possible. The old man is a horse.”

“His nurse says he’ll recover; it’s only been a few hours and he’s resting comfortably.” She took pity on him. “You should visit; they’ll want him to know his friends came by.”

“Friends?” Mulholland stood abruptly. “He wouldn’t even—” He stopped midsentence. “You make me nervous.”

“You mentioned that before and I asked your godmother.” Agnes smiled briefly. “Petit was in uniform the night we arrived and I thought that was what bothered you.” She held his gaze, something she had learned to do with her oldest son. “But your parents died in Africa, didn’t they? And, according to the marquise, you were told by the headmaster while at school, so you have no painful association with the police. Maybe your nerves are caused by another incident, another reason?”

Silence stretched for a long minute.