Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(70)
“Hard for either of you to know what associations the mind makes, isn’t it?” Mulholland said. “War refugees can’t stand the slamming of a door, but the sound of a gun doesn’t bother them. Maybe I do fear the sight of you. Maybe there is an unconscious association.” He nibbled the edge of a fingernail. Agnes winced at the sight of his damaged hands. They were a reminder of his terror in the ice house. Before she could question him further, there were footsteps and the marquise entered the room followed by Julien Vallotton. Mulholland took advantage of the distraction and fled, leaving Agnes determined to talk to him again very soon.
The marquise was dressed in wool trousers and a jacket with a fox stole around her shoulders for added warmth. Despite the simplicity of the clothing, Agnes knew these were expensive garments. She also thought Vallotton looked slightly amused at his aunt’s sudden interest in what was happening outside her suite of rooms. Agnes stood and greeted them both.
“Inspector Lüthi, we must apologize for embroiling you in another little mystery,” the marquise said.
“All of the valuables should be traceable eventually,” Agnes replied. “Once the power is on we will contact major auction houses.”
The marquise stopped her. “You may keep my nephew informed; it is of no interest to me if these trifles are found. I was speaking of the discovery of bones in our garden. Have you learned anything about them? Julien had very little to say other than that you brought an expert”—she made it sound like a very bad word—“to inspect them.”
“I don’t know about an expert, however, Doctor Blanchard is knowledgeable and thinks they are a few decades old. He took photographs and—” Agnes stopped, realizing that the details might be disconcerting.
“I would like to meet this doctor—I believe I remember him as a small boy, his mother used to have a shop in the village—and see where the discovery was made.” The marquise led the way down the long hall to the door. A maid trailed them, dispensing coats and scarves.
“I am familiar with the boundaries of the old cemetery,” the marquise said. “We played there as children, imagining the forgotten dead would rise up and claim us.” She allowed herself to be draped in a fur while Agnes shrugged on her coat.
“Julien,” the marquise continued, “I think that was your father’s way of terrorizing me. I always assumed—even hoped—that one day we would discover older remains on the property, predating our family’s time here. As a girl I was quite enthralled with archaeology. Of course, I hoped it would convince my father to take me somewhere exotic. Persia was my dream, but I would have settled for Egypt. I ended up in France.”
When they reached the stair to the outside door, Madame Puguet stepped from the kitchen and asked if anyone had seen Mimi. No one had seen her since she was put to bed the night before. Agnes sympathized. Her oldest son had spent a good part of one summer hiding. It was hard to make children understand why their parents were desperate with worry. She and George had spent more hours than she liked to recall searching across roads and creek beds, every time finding their son holed up safe and sound, often thrilled with the search he had watched from a high perch. Not knowing enough about the girl’s favorite hiding places to be of help, she ignored the family discussion and studied the lawn. She knew these were not ancient bones, but the marquise would see that for herself quickly enough.
Once outside, it was clear that the temperature hadn’t risen and the air, though still, was bitter. Agnes shivered despite her coat, but the marquise was well bundled in furs and Vallotton appeared oblivious. They made their way in near silence. Doctor Blanchard was standing at the edge of the gaping hole, stomping his feet to warm them. Agnes thought he was lucky he’d been in his outdoor farm clothes when he arrived at the chateau. Personally, she didn’t think she’d ever be warm again, but perhaps that was only the feeling in her heart. At the last minute she saw Carnet standing waist deep in the hole. She stopped, unable to speak, barely able to see through a mist of emotion.
Through the haze she heard Blanchard chatter, clearly delighted that the marquise was interested in the skeleton. He launched into an explanation of his process. After photographing the area, he and Carnet had used a small broom to expose the parts of the skeleton that were on the surface. Tattered fragments of fabric covered a small portion of the remains. He had brushed the dirt from the hips, part of one arm, and the skull as well as a leg. The femur Winston had removed lay in place again. The rest of the bones were trapped in the frozen earth.
“This was not a proper grave,” the marquise said when the doctor paused.
He agreed. “It’s hard to know how deep the body was when buried. A grave may have been dug. I know the village well, but not this landscape. Does anyone remember details of the terrain before the tree fell and dislodged the ground?”
“Flat, or nearly, out from the bench to the tree,” said Vallotton.
“There is a continuous low slope up to the chateau,” Agnes said, rousing herself. Vallotton and the marquise studied the area as if it was new to them, and Agnes added, “The bones might have started out nearer the surface. A small mound might have blended with the slope, then add irregularities expected at the base of the tree and you might overlook it, thinking it was roots near the surface. Leaves pile up in a grove and the ground thickens over time.” She felt Carnet studying her and avoided his eyes. Was it possible that two days ago she was so ashamed about her imagined role in George’s death that she didn’t want to see him? Where was his shame?