“Murder?” Vladimir Arsov’s butler released his grip on her coat and Agnes neatly caught the wool garment by the collar, thinking she should have phrased the situation more delicately. Clearly, the dark trek from the chateau to the neighboring mansion had chilled the part of her brain that dealt with social niceties.
A credit to his profession, the man recovered quickly, plucking her coat away and indicating that she should remain in the reception hall while he spoke with his master. He disappeared into the dark shadows of the mansion and Agnes regretted having slipped her flashlight into her coat pocket. There were a few lit candles on a far table, but the oval hall was large and therefore mostly bathed in shadow. She waited, glad to have a moment before she questioned the household. The storm had abated and she had made the walk alone despite Carnet’s admonition that she could fall and Petit’s fear that she would run into the murderer. In her absence they would finish cordoning off the rooms used by Felicity Cowell and question the remainder of the household.
The palest flicker of light shone through a wide doorway across the hall and she listened carefully but couldn’t make out any sounds. She was quite alone. Quickly, she slipped her shoes off, hoping the Oriental rug would be a relief from the saturated leather. It was. Her toes warmed until they had feeling. She flexed them, glancing around, pleased that the Arsov mansion lived up to expectation. The exterior of the nineteenth-century stone residence was constructed along clean, elegant lines with long rows of doors and windows uncluttered by towers or crenellations. To her delight the interior was a combination of perfect proportion and decorative splendor. Baseboards, window and door frames—essentially every piece of wood used in construction—were gilded, and all glowed in the candlelight. Along the perimeter of the oval room a series of six hand-painted porcelain urns towered over her. She was peering closely at the design of the nearest one when the butler returned.
Slipping on her shoes, she followed his long, thin shadow into an enormous salon, halting when she saw the uniformed staff arrayed in a line. A very old man in a wheelchair was addressing them. Vladimir Arsov, she presumed, feeling she’d stepped into the second act of a not-very-modern play.
Her overall impression of the household didn’t change over the next two hours. She sat as close as possible to the lit fireplace in the small sitting room assigned to her, carefully working her way through interviews with Arsov’s staff. First was the somber butler, followed by three young female maids, who in turn were followed by a slew of male servants and, finally, of all things, a laundress. By that time she needed to stand and stretch her legs. The butler, now wearing gloves and a scarf over his black tailcoat, appeared from the dark hall with a tray bearing steaming coffee in a delicate porcelain cup. He stood over her while she drank, conveying that the gardening staff did not live on the premises. In a slightly stiff tone he shared that the chauffeur was also absent. When Agnes finished her coffee and retook her seat, the butler ushered in the last of the resident staff: a chef trailing his assistants, each wearing tall pleated hats and pristine white aprons.
When finished with them, Agnes reread her notes and wondered if it occurred to anyone in the household that they were essentially locked in under surveillance all day. The outer doors were bolted and alarmed at all times, and the butler monitored comings and goings like a hawk studying his prey. And while at work, they worked. Cleaning, polishing, cooking, serving. Never alone. Never unsupervised. During the critical hours when Felicity Cowell was killed there were so many corroborating alibis it sounded straight from a television script. Now, glancing at her watch, she saw that it was after midnight. Thankful that the Vallottons had graciously invited everyone who was trapped by the ice to stay the night at the chateau, she wanted nothing more than to return there and collapse exhausted into bed even if it was likely the killer was lurking within the walls. Surely her bedroom door would have a lock.