Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(79)

“He’ll sweat regardless. He’s lucky to be alive; although they probably thought he was likely to find a way to pay, and they want their money.”

“You’ll give it to them?”

“It’s theirs. He wasn’t being blackmailed. They made a loan and gave him terms. He owed them.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“What’s a human life worth?”

Agnes drew in a breath.

“He’s a boy—” Vallotton started.

“He’s nearly thirty.”

“Age doesn’t make a man. It doesn’t matter. He’s my aunt’s godson, I have to keep him safe, for her.”

“From thugs.”

Vallotton grinned. “I’ll talk to Daniel and see what he can come up with. He’ll probably think of a way to pay back the money and give the impression that they’ve been serviced by the devil. Be good for him. Give him something to think about and speed up his recovery.”

“It must be nice to have enough money to buy your way out of trouble.”

Vallotton looked at her. There was a strange calm in his eyes and she regretted her words. “I mean most people wouldn’t be able to extricate themselves from the mess Mulholland has created.”

“I would think you of all people would understand that money can’t solve all problems.”

A tsunami of thought swept through her and she wondered how he knew about George, her boys, and her mother-in-law. These were her troubles, and all the money in the world wouldn’t have made it right. A strange expression flitted across his face, she thought it was comprehension, then sorrow. Swiftly it was gone and she doubted herself.

Men’s voices reverberated against the halls, breaking the solitude. Shouts. Bodies hitting furniture.

“Your lies. You fu—”

“Uh-oh,” Agnes said, moving swiftly toward the voices. Vallotton followed close on her heels. They recognized the voices. Thomason and Graves. Fiancé and former lover.

Thomason had Graves in a headlock, momentarily startling Agnes, who assumed the stocky American would be a match for the slimmer Brit. She wedged herself between them but they either didn’t notice her or didn’t care.

“Bastard. Lying…” Thomason’s words ended in a grunt as Graves slammed him into Agnes and both of them into the wall.

She tried to make herself heard above their shouts, elbowing Thomason to move aside. The men were too locked in combat to hear, speak, or see.

“This will stop.” Julien Vallotton’s words were low and cut like a knife through the air. Thomason and Graves froze, released their holds, and stepped away from each other. No longer trapped, Agnes sagged against the wall, breathing heavily. Vallotton stood a few feet away, his posture, tone, and gaze conveying the kind of disdain that made regiments cower. Agnes struggled to catch her breath, wondering if there was a training course for this kind of command. When she regained her composure, she looked at Vallotton again and decided it took about a thousand years of absolute certitude.

Vallotton took Thomason by the elbow and guided him down the hall. Agnes held out a hand to stop Graves from walking away.

“Time to tell the truth,” she said. “What happened the day Felicity Cowell died?”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“No, but you haven’t told us everything. Now is the time.”

Graves massaged his knuckles as if he’d hurt them in his brawl with Thomason.

“You confronted her, didn’t you?” Agnes said.

“No.” He plunged his hands in his pockets. “Yes. But she was alive when I left her.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

“And admit that I was the last person to see her alive?”

“The last person before her killer.”

“That’s too close for comfort.”

Agnes took a step back, stifling a sigh. He was just a big kid. Tall and muscular, but still a kid at heart. “Marie-José was in the library cleaning and you left.” She held out a hand to stop him from speaking. “She doesn’t know where you went but when you returned she met you in the blue sitting room. The two of you spoke, and you walked away. Toward the library. She was upset and went in the other direction. Toward the fur vault where she heard movement. Mademoiselle Cowell was alive when you returned to the library. Marie-José is your alibi for the time of Felicity Cowell’s death.”

Graves relaxed perceptibly.

“I want to hear your version of what happened when you saw her last.”

Graves removed his hands from his pockets like a schoolboy preparing to recite a lesson. “I’d had enough of her ignoring me. Like I wasn’t good enough for her. Me, not good enough. I was telling the truth about the ice hitting the library windows and driving me nuts. I had to get out of there, but it was storming and I didn’t want to go outside. I didn’t go after her on purpose but I wandered around a little, into rooms I normally don’t go into. Closed-up rooms, just curious. There she was, trying on dresses. Wearing a fancy old-fashioned gown. Acting like she was the lady of the manor.”

“You spoke?”

“Hell, yes. I told her she was a deceitful tramp and would never fit in here. I could tell that’s what she was thinking.” His lips tightened into a grim line. “I said things that weren’t true. She would have fit in. She was like water on fire, a smooth perfect surface that made everything else fade by comparison. But I was angry. The way she treated me. Ignoring me. I told her I was going to tell them all. I was going to tell her nasty secret.”