“You saw her only a few times?”
“My housekeeper had prepared a room, however Mademoiselle Cowell declined to stay here. The pretty little yellow room next to the west tower. It is not in the family wing, and she would have had her privacy and the adjacent room to do her business. One would hope she might have been more considerate.”
Agnes was surprised anyone would turn down an invitation to stay at the chateau. Her colleagues had accepted the housekeeper’s invitation to stay the night quickly enough. Of course that was also because it was impossible to make the climb up to the village. Carnet had shared details of their descent and even with Estanguet’s expert guidance, wearing crampons borrowed from villagers, and clinging to a rope Estanguet strung for them, he and the doctor were fortunate they hadn’t broken their necks.
“Mademoiselle Cowell was wearing an evening dress when she died,” Agnes said. “With a man’s overcoat and heavy boots. They were too large. Not hers.”
The marquise’s clear gaze didn’t waver. “Fascinating, and definitely inappropriate, but I have no idea why. She was a very pretty girl, but insecure. I am not certain she was entirely as she appeared to be.”
Agnes wondered if this was a subtle way of shifting focus from the household onto the victim. Or was the marquise trying to be helpful? She was surprised by the lack of a pretense of sorrow or anger or any emotion. “What do you mean? Not as she appeared to be?”
“Nothing particular. Simply an observation.”
“When did Mademoiselle Cowell arrive? Officer Petit lives in the village and remembers seeing her last week.”
The marquise rose and crossed to stand nearer the fireplace, warming her hands in front of the blaze. Before Agnes could repeat her question the door opened and a man entered. At a glance Agnes knew who he was: Julien Vallotton, the chateau’s owner, and the marquise’s nephew. Petit had described him as good-looking, early forties, tall. Good-looking was an understatement. He had a masculine version of his aunt’s fine bone structure with a thick head of nearly black hair slightly brushed with gray at the temples. But it was his eyes—a cold piercing blue—that arrested her attention. He kissed his aunt on both cheeks then held out his hand to Agnes in greeting.
“Julien, dear, could you see if the others are coming?” the marquise said. “We don’t want to keep the inspector waiting. I’m sure the police have other duties tonight with the storm.”
Agnes hoped the nephew was more forthcoming. “Madame la marquise was confirming the date Felicity Cowell arrived.”
“A fortnight ago, it must have been,” Vallotton said. “We spoke the day before she traveled.”
“It was her first trip here?”
“To our home, yes, but Switzerland? I don’t know. Our conversation was brief, centered wholly on the auction.” He paused. “She was British. Or I assumed she was. We were both in London when I called, and her schoolgirl French was competent but the accent—” He stopped in mid-sentence. “I did ask where she was from, but she didn’t say, and I didn’t care to inquire again.”
Agnes turned a page in her notebook. “What was your general impression of her?”
Before he could answer, the door to the corridor opened and a young man entered. He had clearly come straight from out-of-doors, his face was red with cold despite his healthy tan, and he had bits of snow and ice in his hair. He moved quickly, straight to the fireplace, shedding layers as he went, a few scarves, gloves, coat. His hawkish features were tempered by a thick swath of dark blond hair that fell over one eye, and her first impression was of energy. At a second glance, he seemed brittle. Using the shadows, Agnes moved unobtrusively away, mentally running through the list of names the marquise had mentioned, assigning a label. The woman’s godson, she guessed.
“I can’t believe someone would be murdered here,” the man exclaimed. “Christ, you would think we were safe enough. Someone needs to think about security—”
The marquise interrupted him, quickly introducing her nephew to Ralph Mulholland, using the old pronunciation, Rafe, adding that Vallotton surely remembered her godson. For her part, Agnes was pleased to have guessed correctly. She was also surprised by his accent. The young man was British. Another geographic connection to the victim.
Mulholland headed to a cabinet where he poured light brown liquid into a delicate glass. He gulped it down with a flick of his wrist and poured another, pressing his other hand to his chest as if to still his heart.
“I saw the cops, the lights. They were huddled over someone.” He shivered, then walked to the marquise and bussed her cheeks with a kiss. “Don’t you worry, no one would lift a hand to hurt you.” Finally he noticed Agnes in the shadows. He lifted an eyebrow and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Didn’t realize we have guests.”