Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(9)
In the distance a door opened and shut. Startled out of her reverie, Agnes trod the final stairs. The light at the top was stronger. The wide corridor was illuminated by candles fitted into wall sconces and candelabras. Glimpsing the paintings and tapestries lining the walls, she pursed her lips. A fortune in things; a museum where people lived. She felt the thickness of the carpet beneath her feet, quite a difference from the hard stone of the entrance hall.
Pausing at the door where the family was waiting, she took stock of her appearance. Her short hair was practically standing on end. Her suit was a damp mess and her stockings had runs in both knees from kneeling beside the body. She took a deep breath and swept into the room. Once across the threshold she stopped abruptly, realizing she was at a disadvantage. She should have arranged for a place less them and more her.
The room was large, divided into three seating areas. Near one stone hearth, cards were laid atop a marquetry table as if a game had been interrupted. Throughout the room a collection of antique clocks was scattered on various surfaces. Fabricated from bronze, gold, and porcelain, each ticked away the minutes creating a nearly musical sound together. Collected on a table was an arrangement of pocket watches with cases ranging from ornate to the simplest elegance, and throughout the room there was a carelessness in the placement of all the objects, as if they were of great value but also touched and admired. A Great Dane lay in front of the far fireplace. He raised his head briefly then laid it back on his paws.
An elderly woman was seated in front of the nearer fireplace on a low, broad chair upholstered in pale green fabric. All around her flickering candlelight was exaggerated by large mirrors on the walls and over the mantels. She was dressed in a slim wool dress so deeply red it went black in the questionable light, handmade leather pumps on her feet. Despite the roaring fires the room was chilly and across her shoulders she wore a silver fox stole that almost, but not quite, hid the strands of Indian rubies, some large as quail’s eggs, that dangled from her neck. Her white hair was neatly rolled low on the back of her head.
Agnes swallowed. If she wasn’t the marquise, she should be. A matching chair was opposite, separated by a small table. The arms and legs of the chairs glistened, and Agnes stifled a gasp.
“We are fortunate these were not melted for coin,” the marquise said, introducing herself as Antoinette Vallotton de Tornay. “I brought the pair to Switzerland after the death of my husband. We hid them throughout the war, not their first. I think it remarkable that such things were made; on the other hand, what better use for wealth before banking: to form the metal into something usable.”
Silver, Agnes thought, wanting to ask if the chairs’ frames were solid and somehow knowing they must be.
“You are here to speak to us about the deceased,” the marquise continued, motioning for Agnes to be seated. “I’m afraid we know very little about her.”
Agnes pulled out her notebook, pleased not to face the entire family at once. The matriarch was intimidating enough. “Could you tell me who is at the chateau tonight?”
“I have no idea.” The older woman’s voice was calm and polite. A void stretched between them and Agnes realized that the marquise was a rare person who welcomed silence.
“Officer Petit said I should speak with you first. You must know who else lives here?” The old woman didn’t look senile although it was possible.
“That’s not what you asked. You asked who is here tonight. Certainly I know who lives here. We are a small household.” She listed names, speaking rapidly. Agnes took notes.
“And who is here now?” she asked, when the marquise finished.
“I’ve said: I have no idea. According to Officer Petit, my nephew discovered Mademoiselle Cowell. That means he has arrived from London. Personally, I’ve been in my suite of rooms since luncheon and have only seen my maid, Marie-José. She brought tea.”
Agnes changed tacks. “Could you clarify Felicity Cowell’s role in the household? She’s not local, I take it.”
The marquise fingered her chains of rubies. “My brother’s testament outlined the sale of certain pieces of art, the proceeds to be given to organizations he was fond of. My nephew is organizing details of the sale and Mademoiselle Cowell works for the auction house he has a relationship with in London. That is why he is here this weekend, to observe her progress. You will have to ask him about the specifics.”
“Monsieur Julien Vallotton arranged for her to organize the auction?” Agnes recalled what Petit had said about the man who discovered the body. Vallotton lived in London. That was a rule of violent crime she did know: the one closest to the victim was often the culprit. Convenient that Vallotton arranged for her to be here, arrived the day she was killed, and was the one to discover her.
“You phrase that interestingly,” the marquise said. “I doubt he arranged for her, certainly he engaged the firm, but my brother purchased many items through them over the years.”
“Do you know why Mademoiselle Cowell was outside this afternoon?”
“We have lovely grounds. People often go outdoors to walk along the lake.”
“In a winter storm?”
The marquise didn’t respond.
“She was wearing clothing unsuited to the outdoors,” Agnes added. “It leads to questions.”
“Unsuited?” the marquise said. “There are many ways one can dress unsuitably. I’m afraid you will have to be more specific, although the few times I saw Mademoiselle Cowell she appeared well-groomed enough.”