Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(84)

“She was in love with Monsieur Arsov.” Agnes remembered the young girl writing about Marcel. Writing about Arsov. A young girl who was given a ring before traveling.

“Until yesterday I did not know where she rested. Unbelievable, really, after all these years to find her here.” The marquise shook herself slightly as if waking. “Anne-Marie lived with me during the war. But you clearly know this. And yes, she was ill. Her health failed quickly and we decided to risk the journey to Switzerland. There was some access to medicines even with the borders closed and the population living on subsistence. At a minimum she would be spared the constant fear that we lived with.”

“Someone abandoned her here?”

“Marcel, Monsieur Arsov, was in Italy and it would have taken two more weeks for him to come for her. I was afraid to wait that long; that is how weak Anne-Marie had become.” The marquise glanced to the book in Agnes’s hand. “You have read her diary. You have heard her spirit in the words she wrote. She would not believe she was ill, just tired, yet she was frail and already slipping from us. Marcel—that is who he shall always be for me in those days—arranged for a colleague to take her. They were to cross into Switzerland together and arrive here, on the shore beside my family home. We had loyal servants who would have taken care of her.” The marquise studied her hand as if searching for something. “That is why I gave Anne-Marie my husband’s ring. I needed something to give her as proof of our connection. We did not dare write anything.”

“I don’t understand. You must have known who she was when we uncovered the skeleton?”

The marquise lifted a hand to stop Agnes speaking. “You will not believe that I was stunned. Old habits die hard. I believe you know who my husband was. What we did during the war.” Agnes nodded hesitantly, remembering the story from the diary. The story of how the marquise’s husband died. What had the marquise said to her that night in the workroom? That she should be thankful that her memories could fade, that all she remembered of her husband was his face the last time she saw him: the night she destroyed his face so the Germans couldn’t identify him. It was the marquise who taught Arsov how to survive.

“These things have been secret for so long I could not speak of them immediately.” The marquise pulled her fox stole closer. “You cannot imagine what Europe was like after the war. You think that peace means a return to normalcy, when in fact it is another stage of desolation. My brother had seen more of the war than me, and we were united in our desire to live in the present. I did not seek out answers. I lost my husband, many other family members. Friends. I did not try to find Marcel. Or Anne-Marie. If you had asked me then if I thought they survived the war I don’t know what I would have answered. I was beyond thinking anyone would survive. Life and death were capricious. It was not something to examine.”

Agnes felt she was watching the woman age before her eyes. She adjusted the wick in an oil lamp to have something to do. The pain in the marquise’s voice was difficult to bear.

“Anne-Marie left with her guide and two others,” the marquise continued. “Important men with scientific secrets who needed to reach Zürich. I knew nothing of the details of their journey. We were very careful to compartmentalize information. I did learn later that they went by boat across the lake. Risky, but I did not question why.”

“She made it,” Agnes said.

“Based on what was found in that grave, yes and no.”

“I thought they had years together. That they married and had a whole life of happiness. To hear Monsieur Arsov speak of her, it was like she’d been dead only a few years. Not over fifty. And why didn’t he marry someone else? He must have met someone.” Her voice faltered. Was it a guarantee to meet someone else?

The marquise reached out to hold Agnes’s arm. “I do not know what happened on that trip.”

“You must have spoken of it later, now. Monsieur Arsov is your neighbor.”

“What is there to speak of? Two years ago he contacted me and asked if he could visit. After so many years I was delighted when he mentioned a desire to live here. He did not mention her directly and I did not ask. I did glimpse her diary in his hand once. I recognized it. Now I suppose the men she traveled with gave it to him. They were not cruel men. I understood without a direct reference that Marcel wanted to be here, on the shore of this lake, in old age. This was where they were to embark upon a new, freer life together. Seeing her bones I understand that this is where his heart broke. Do you understand? That the heart can literally break?” The marquise relaxed her grip and dropped her hand away.

“Yes, I understand the heart breaking.” Arsov and Anne-Marie, herself and George. She added George and Carnet. Julien Vallotton’s spouse who had died tragically, as had the marquise’s. And there was Thomason. Heartbroken and deceived. She wondered if Marie-Chantal and Daniel, with their difficult beginning, would end up the happiest of all.

“I do not think Marcel, Monsieur Arsov, knows she died here,” said the marquise suddenly. “He would not have left her unattended. Even if he had to leave her during the war—to save someone else’s life, to do his duty to others—he would have returned and given her a proper burial. And later, he and I knew each other well enough that he could have made this request of me.”

“Then how did she end up here, abandoned? Why?”