Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(83)

Keeping the darkest of her thoughts to herself, Agnes had assured the distraught housekeeper that they would search the lake’s edge at first light. Carnet and Petit had seen no child-sized footprints during their searches; however, they couldn’t guarantee she hadn’t ventured outside. Some patches of ice had little or no snow. Agnes didn’t know what she would do if they found the girl frozen in the lake.

For now, for another hour, she had to content herself with waiting. Returning her attention to Blanchard, she looked around the room with renewed interest. The four walls contained a kind of mad scientist’s chamber, with weights, scales, glass beakers, and, in pride of place, a double row of sleek microscopes with gleaming brass and nickel fittings arrayed across two tables. Agnes lifted her light to the walls. Glass-fronted boxes displayed pinned butterflies in perpetual flight. She scanned past an arachnid display, hoping the eight-legged creatures were well and truly dead, before landing on a fully articulated skeleton hanging on a wire.

“Daniel Vallotton told me his uncle was a scientist,” said the doctor. “Died young. An experiment gone awry. He left behind quite a collection of instruments and specimens.” Blanchard shifted a box of bones onto the table. “Officer Petit took me out again late last night to see our body. Mademoiselle Cowell, I mean. Nothing to be done right now, but I wanted to check on her.”

Agnes could imagine the doctor tucking the corpse in for the night, telling her to be patient, they would get her to a morgue soon enough. Mulholland’s time in the ice house had offended the doctor’s sensibilities. A corpse should at least have privacy.

“These bones I could do something with,” Blanchard said, tapping the box. “The microscopes are high quality even if they are antiques.”

Agnes waited patiently through the technical jargon about the difference between the capability of the antique lenses and those in a modern lab. Surreptitiously she checked her watch. The hour they had agreed upon to start the search was approaching. If only dawn would break.

She moved to study the scrap of rotted fabric that the doctor had placed under a different microscope. Her middle son had the makings of scientist. He would be impressed by this home laboratory. Near the microscope the doctor had placed the clear plastic bag containing the ring found with the skeleton. Agnes knew fingerprints weren’t a concern and removed it, curious about the design. The metal was dull gold, and it was heavier than she expected. But then, it was a man’s. The signet portion of the ring was deep green. Bloodstone, she recalled. The crest was elaborate and difficult to make out. She tilted it toward a candle then picked up a small lens brush and used it to dislodge some dirt. When fully revealed, it was a pretty design, a coronet of alternating leaves and pearls in trefoil surmounting a shield surrounded by draping plumes. Her heart beat faster; she rubbed her eyes to clear them.

“I had a suspicion and was able to take a look at our bones,” the doctor finally concluded.

Agnes ignored him, holding the ring almost in the flame of a candle. The carving on even a large signet ring was tiny. She was tired—perhaps imaging things, and needed to be sure. She looked again. She knew this crest. It was at the top right-hand corner of the painting of the marquise that Marie-Chantal had shown her. The painting done on the occasion of the marriage of Antoinette Vallotton to the Marquise de Tornay. The painting decorated by the artist with the crests of both families.

“—had TB,” the doctor said.

Agnes jerked her head up. “Tuberculosis? These bones? The bones of the young woman we found today … I mean yesterday? With this ring?”

“Yes, as I was saying, once I cleaned the bones up a bit I could tell that the surface was pitted. I think it is consistent with what we would find with an advanced case of tuberculosis. Very advanced.”

She slipped the ring back in the plastic bag and fished the diary from her pocket. It was all in here. The young woman ill, tuberculosis. The ring she took as laissez-passer. The ring that would identify her as friend of Madame’s upon arrival in Switzerland. The ring given to her by Madame. Madame la marquise Antoinette Vallotton de Tornay. Citoyen’s wife and Arsov’s friend during the war. A chill swept through Agnes. Why had the marquise said nothing? And why was the love of Arsov’s life buried in unconsecrated ground?

With a hasty word to the doctor she went in search of the person who could answer her questions.

The marquise was seated on her silver chair just as she had been when Agnes first met her. There was a tray of tea and toast on a nearby table. Clearly no one in the household was able to sleep.

“You know whose skeleton we found under that tree.” It wasn’t a question and Agnes didn’t pause for social niceties.

“I wondered how long it would take for you to understand. Only a few hours apparently.” The marquise waved her hand toward the opposite chair but Agnes remained standing. She had little time. She had allowed herself to be distracted by the thefts and wouldn’t be again. Light was breaking and they needed to find Mimi. And she needed to find Felicity Cowell’s murderer. The woman buried under the tree, no matter who she was, could wait. The marquise appeared to read her mood.

“Yes, I believe I know who lays under that tree.”

“She was wearing your ring. She had tuberculosis.”

“The disease was more common in those days.” The marquise smiled softly. “And it was not my ring. It was my late husband’s.”