Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(71)

“For most of my life this grove was a dense wood,” said the marquise. “It was planted when the mansion was built in the 1840s. That particular Madame Vallotton thought herself a very modern woman and she hated the sight of the chateau and intended for the wood to block the view. It did, growing up over time and thickening into a dense miniature forest. My brother was of the opposite mind-set. He liked the view between the two residences and thinned the trees about fifteen years ago. Before that it would have been possible for a shallow grave to go undetected.”

“The grove would also have concealed someone digging a deeper one,” added Agnes, imagining the hate or fear that would fuel the digging of a secret grave. For a second she allowed herself to bury Carnet. To cut him from their lives. To backtrack and stop the forward motion leading to disaster.

“When I was a boy, Daniel and I would pretend to hunt wild boar here,” said Vallotton. “It was a dense wood then.”

“With the damage to the area around the bones I can’t fully evaluate the grave site,” said the doctor, “but she appears to have been deliberately wrapped in a covering. I hesitate to qualify it as anything more than material or fabric and can’t tell yet if it was a simple cloth or formed into a shroud or clothing or designed for some other use. I’ll collect everything, taking photographs as I do, and we’ll see if there are other clues as it is uncovered. The ground is frozen solid and I risk damaging anything we find if we dig more. Best to do some preliminary investigations—what’s available at the surface—and preserve the rest of her until the temperature rises.”

“Her?” asked the marquise.

The doctor said a few words about the condition of the bones and the evidence from the pelvis that they were those of a relatively young woman. The group stood in silence for a moment.

“Is it possible she fell asleep by the tree and died of cold or an injury or illness?” asked Vallotton.

Agnes shot him a look. Why did they always retreat to intellectual discussions and peaceful solutions? This woman had been buried in a lonely grave. Not even a grave. A hole in the ground. She didn’t drift off into a peaceful sleep. When was it enough: murder, theft, a skeleton? When would one of the Vallottons show a crack in the fa?ade of acceptance? She caught a glimpse of Carnet’s expression and knew that he was thinking the same thing.

Doctor Blanchard was speaking. “Doubtful,” he said. “Look at these fragments of fabric under her skull and how they appear to come up and over the face; and here in the arm area you have the same thing. She may have been wrapped head to foot in the material in a way that means she didn’t do it herself. I postulate it must have been different from normal cloth and for that reason fragments still remain whereas the other clothing, if there was any, has long disintegrated. Possibly it was oilcloth. That might explain the resistance.”

“How did she die?” the marquise asked, drawing closer. “You say that she was young.”

“Age based on her teeth and her pelvic bones.” Blanchard stepped into the hole and used the broom to clear a bit more earth from the skull. “Other evidence suggests that she is beyond adolescence, but the teeth look young. As we age, the teeth grind down. Hers are still rounded.” He brushed the forehead of the skull gently, then cleared away some more loose dirt down her shoulder and arm.

“Of course, I’ve not done a complete study,” he continued, “but there is no suggestion yet of the cause of death, although a bullet or knife could pierce an organ with no damage to the bone.” He cleared more earth from the woman’s other hand and looked closer. “There’s a piece of jewelry.” He loosened a finger bone and slid a ring off, rubbing it on his pant leg. “A signet ring.”

The marquise stepped to the edge of the hole and took it from him. After a cursory glance, she handed it to back to the doctor. “It is not one of ours.”

Blanchard turned it over for inspection. “Large enough to be a man’s. Clearly not ancient. No date or engraving. I’ll keep it with the bones. Turn them all in together.”

The marquise sat down suddenly on the bench. She clutched her fur to her throat, and a flicker of concern crossed Vallotton’s face. Agnes hoped the older woman wasn’t having an attack of some sort. The memory of Arsov’s weak body still bothered her and they were nearly the same age. She glanced toward Arsov’s and the marquise followed her gaze.

“How is he?”

“Nurse Brighton is confident he’ll recover.”

“He shouldn’t be told about this,” the marquise said. “Very unsettling to hear of another corpse, no matter its age, when one is ill.” She clutched her fur closer to her throat and slipped her hand through the crook of Vallotton’s arm, standing. “Although it is fascinating what one can learn from bones. I suppose this is even more intriguing than the death of poor Mademoiselle Cowell.”

Agnes felt the accusation.

They were only a few steps away when the marquise stopped. “Doctor Blanchard, when you are finished, please have the bones reinterred in the cemetery at Ville-sur-Lac. Once we are able to communicate, I will give instruction that the remains be buried in the Vallotton plot. She has been one of us for this long and we take care of our own.”

Agnes started to follow the Vallottons indoors when movement caught her eye. She peered toward Arsov’s, studying the nearest window. The old man’s bedroom, she now knew. There was a figure behind the glass. The figure moved and she recognized the broad flaps of Nurse Brighton’s cap. Hesitating, Agnes turned toward the mansion. It would be better to tell the nurse what they had discovered. She could keep the story from the sick man. Otherwise the servants were likely to gossip and who knows what tales would emerge.