Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(88)

Agnes moved her light back and forth and cried out when she saw Mimi’s slight form lying on the bare rock. The little girl looked up, her face swollen with tears. Winston reached her first, leaping down the stairs in his excitement. Mimi clutched his furry sides and Agnes ran her light up and down them both, hoping the girl wasn’t injured.

“Where’s Elie?” were Mimi’s first coherent words and Agnes wanted to cry with relief.

Marie-Chantal and Doctor Blanchard arrived at a run and Julien held Winston back; the animal clearly felt that a thorough licking was all that Mimi needed. Agnes trusted the dog’s instincts and felt a great lightness. The girl would recover.

They draped a blanket over Mimi and Julien gathered her in his arms and carefully climbed the steep stone stairs.

“He shouldn’t have put me there. I was hungry and cold.”

Agnes backed away. The girl was safe but the man was still out there. Angry. Desperate. And if she was right about this, she was right about everything.





Thirty-three

Agnes didn’t pause to ring the doorbell. She shoved the heavy double doors of the mansion open, surprised they were unlocked. The household was strangely silent. She wondered if Petit had them corralled together in the salon, his idea of a subtle guard. Pausing in the marble entry hall, she reminded herself not to frighten a sick old man with her concern. Mimi was safe and there was no reason to think anything had happened at the Arsov mansion.

A glance down the long corridor confirmed she was wrong. Arsov’s butler lay partially concealed behind one of the tall porcelain urns, legs askew, head tilted unnaturally against the marble baseboard, a smear of blood on the cream-colored surface. His chest rose and fell evenly and Agnes ran past him, afraid for Petit, now certain that she was right and that there was no more time. Veering toward Arsov’s bedroom she broke into a sprint, scanning each room as she passed, hoping to find an ally. But dawn was just breaking and the household was asleep.

She reached the open door to the bedroom and stopped to listen. Silence. She crept forward, hidden by the large tri-fold screen, not wanting to lose the advantage of surprise. Across the room, in her line of sight, André Petit lay on his back, skin scraped off the side of his head. She nearly cried out. A small marble bust lay nearby on the floor. She narrowed her eyes and studied his chest. He was breathing. She thought of his two-day-old son and hoped beyond all hope that he was not critically injured.

Beyond her line of sight, she heard a man’s voice followed by a faint cry.

“Murderer,” Estanguet said.

Agnes darted around the tapestry screen. At the far end of the room, Frédéric Estanguet pinned Arsov against the deep bed. The old man’s face was pale gray and his eyes were closed. Agnes saw the glint of a long knife in Estanguet’s hand and she leapt forward. He saw her and flicked the blade toward Arsov’s throat. She halted, the element of surprise lost.

“He killed my sister,” Estanguet said. “Took the last family I had.”

The tiniest thread of blood appeared on the pale blue silk of Arsov’s pajamas. Agnes watched in horror as it blossomed across his chest. Agnes knew there was no time to reason with Estanguet. Arsov was too weak. She grabbed an antique bronze inkwell, took aim, and threw it. The metal struck Estanguet’s head, knocking him to the floor. The dagger flew from his hand. Seizing the opportunity, she lunged, but Estanguet scrambled to find his weapon and Agnes felt his hand come in contact with her ankle. Pain seared her leg and she was thrown off balance. Blood sprayed the floor and she realized he had sliced her calf. With her other foot, she stepped on his wrist, but he was strong despite his age and pulled free, throwing her against a table. Glass shattered.

Lying on her back, scrambling to avoid Estanguet, she searched for a weapon. Anything heavy or sharp. Estanguet laughed, a sickening sound of hysteria, and slashed at her chest with the dagger. She kicked him away and pain shot up her injured leg like fire. She clambered to her feet, her head reeling. “Your sister wouldn’t want you to do this. This doesn’t honor Anne-Marie’s memory.”

“You don’t know what he did to me. Sent me to live with those terrible people. I heard my sister cry, she didn’t want to send me away and he took me. Then he made me an orphan.”

“War is terrible. Many children lost their parents. No one wanted this to happen to you. Anne-Marie cried because she knew she would miss you, but she knew it was for the best. A new family. A safe family. You were safer away from Resistance operations.”

She sensed that Estanguet was torn between targets. His eyes darted between her and Arsov. She gripped the side of a table for balance.

“He sent me away to be a slave. Those people. The Estanguets,” he spat, “they made me work for every scrap of food. I slept in an attic, did the hardest farm chores. The other kids beat me up. He did this to me.”

The red stain on Arsov’s chest expanded, no longer a blossoming flower but a river. “Your sister loved Monsieur Arsov,” Agnes said. “They tried to do what was right for you. It was wartime, there were no perfect solutions, particularly for innocent children. They thought the family would take care of you. Treat you like the son they had lost.”

Estanguet lunged for her. She moved quickly, dodging his blade and sidestepping the table, practically falling onto Arsov’s bed. The old man’s eyes fluttered.