Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(8)
“The fabric’s not frayed.” Agnes held the flashlight, curiosity making her forget the cold. She gestured for Carnet to sweep the remnants of ice away from the area.
“If you want to see underneath you’d better cut it away,” Blanchard said. “The whole bit’s frozen solid, moisture in and on the fabric, and you won’t get it off her any other way. I’m going to keep her cold until we can get her somewhere to do a proper autopsy. I don’t have many medical tools with me, mostly my … farm tools.”
Carnet cut a large piece of the dead woman’s jacket away, careful to keep his blade far from the incision they were studying. Agnes focused her attention. She wasn’t thinking clearly. She had allowed the place and the weather to numb her to the possibility that this was a crime. When Carnet tried to lift the material it wouldn’t move. Carefully he touched one edge of the fabric with his knife, lifting it slightly. It pulled away and they crouched nearer, trying to protect the area from the storm. Blanchard pulled the bottom of the fabric away, shining his light on it. There was a dark frozen mass concealed between the body and jacket.
“Not natural causes, I suspect,” he muttered, running his hand under the fabric and separating it from the frozen blood. When the material of the jacket lifted away, Blanchard removed the layer of red ice and slipped it into a plastic container taken from his satchel. Beneath lay white flesh marked by the slit of a blade.
Agnes knew before Blanchard spoke that this was the reason they were here. This woman had been stabbed. She felt a thrill. This was violent crimes.
Three
A half hour later Agnes and Carnet stood in the cavernous entrance hall of the chateau, feet wet and coats tossed to the side, having decided to begin interviewing the household while Petit and Blanchard attended to the body. They had quickly settled into their former way of working, and while their old habits reestablished themselves, she knew there was a difference. Carnet watched her carefully when he thought she wasn’t looking, and she could see the pity and curiosity in his eyes. It was maddening.
Despite the thickness of the chateau’s stone walls, she could hear the storm howling and was struck by a sense of foreboding. All around them the walls were fitted with a collection of medieval weapons. High overhead dozens of fat candles burned low in an iron chandelier and the light glinted off the weapons, casting shadows. Agnes’s confidence slipped another notch and she hoped the darkness concealed her concern. She wanted to take the lead in the investigation; she needed to in order to start a new life without George. She took a deep breath, wished for a cigarette, and tugged at her waistband. She had stopped smoking at home but kept a pack in her car for emergencies, and there were always emergencies.
Behind her, Estanguet emerged from the shadows. “The Vallottons will be up those stairs,” he said, pointing into the darkness. “Officer Petit said they’re gathering in the marquise’s sitting room. That’s the door on the left.”
“You’re familiar with the chateau? You know the family?” Agnes asked. Estanguet had guided them from the small side door to the front hall with a confidence that spoke of familiarity and she was again thankful he had helped Carnet and the doctor navigate the icy road down from the village. If he hadn’t, she would be totally reliant on Petit. Not an adequate substitute for Bardy.
“I use the library.” Estanguet mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. His coat was open and his shirt damp. “I know the place.”
Before Agnes could ask more questions Estanguet stumbled, catching himself on the corner of an iron-banded leather trunk. His color was poor yet he was sweating, and she wondered if he didn’t have hypothermia. The last thing they needed was for their Good Samaritan to take ill.
“You need to warm up by a fire. Have a hot tea or something stronger. Perhaps une eau-de-vie?”
“She was really dead, the lady outside?” he asked.
Agnes regretted allowing him to watch the police at their work. A situation Bardy would surely have handled differently. She exchanged a glance with Carnet and he took Estanguet’s elbow and guided him into the darkness. Agnes went in the other direction, up the broad stairs that were fitted inside the north tower off the entrance hall. She slowed after the first steps. The household was likely in a state of shock. It was a mistake to let Carnet leave. She was too close to her own grief to wade unaided through the sentiment in others. Moreover, Carnet knew what questions to ask. People found him sympathetic. In unguarded moments at the station some of the men snickered behind his back and said it was a trait—like dressing well—that came with his lifestyle. She knew it was simply because he chose to listen.
He had listened to her that terrible day George died. His hand gripping hers. Tears forming in his eyes. Her confidence ebbed. There wasn’t anything to lift her up. She needed her boys. To at least hear their voices. She gripped the carved balustrade, recalling the earlier phone conversation with her mother-in-law. Sybille, who had never liked her, who blamed her for the death of her only son. Every word, every greeting, laced with anger until the barest perfunctory exchange was charged with emotion. That was the atmosphere that would be waiting up these stairs. People angered, perhaps blaming one another. She took another step, wishing she had dry shoes and that her feet weren’t so cold. Then she remembered that among those waiting, someone was possibly experiencing a very different emotion. Someone happy. Satisfied. A murderer.