“Few died instantly. I could feel them move and whimper. Blood from my mother and sister drained onto my face and into my mouth and eyes but I couldn’t wipe it away; I was pinned by their bodies. I held my baby sister’s hand as she died and felt her struggle to breathe with a bullet in her lung. I lay there from the time the sun hit the tops of the trees until it had disappeared and the sky was filled with stars.”
Agnes remembered the blood on the ground beside George, how they had tried to cover it, but she saw. And the edge of his hand when it slipped off the gurney. Later she wished she’d been allowed to touch it, to touch him while he still had the vestiges of human warmth.
Arsov motioned toward Mimi. “She is Anya’s age, almost. They can’t last long in the cold at that age, they are so frail. Anya’s fingers were those of a musician, long and thin and frostbite would have taken them even if she lived. I held her hand and felt it grow cold. All around me the cries turned to rasping gurgles and low moans, then they stopped. First Anya, then my mother. My older sister and her baby. All around me was death and still the Germans toyed with us. Then night fell, the wind rose, and the temperature dropped. Like tonight.
“When the Germans left, I couldn’t believe it. They had their beautiful coats and gloves and boots, but they were too cold to stand over us and watch us die. They were too cold to finish the job. I waited until the moon was halfway across the sky, but not one of the bastards returned and so I pulled myself out from under my dead family and childhood friends and crawled out of the pit and started walking away from my village into the night. I had survived and swore I would cut down these weak men who hid behind bullets but ran from the cold.”
Agnes pictured the dead woman outside, and the ice and wind, and felt despair.
Five
It was the middle of the night and Agnes thanked the Vallotton housekeeper once again for offering the hospitality of the chateau in such strange circumstances, telling Madame Puguet she could find her own way to her bedroom. Over the past hours they had done all they could, although it hadn’t felt like enough. Theft of money was a terrible crime, but this, stealing a life, weighed more. Now, walking the corridor to the bedroom wing she followed the directions she’d been given, clutching a small leather bag under her arm. Pleased that she had remembered the emergency “stop-over” kit George had put together years ago. She had laughed at his Swiss-ness when he showed it to her. Nothing left to chance. Always prepared. Just a few toothbrushes and other toiletries, he had said, before putting it in the car and most likely forgetting about it. Now it was a talisman of his thoughtfulness. How he’d taken care of her … of all of them, really. She wondered if she had appreciated him enough. She was certain she had. He must have known how she felt. But then, why? Why had he taken his life? No note, no explanation, but a dozen witnesses who saw him carefully climb the railing and step off the Pont Bessières. A deliberate choice.
She turned a corner and found the marquise staring down a flight of stairs. Backlit by flickering torches set in the walls, her profile was strong and beautiful despite her age. Her candelabra dripped white wax on the floor and Agnes liked the imagery and suspected the other woman knew the effect she had. According to Petit, the marquise had been widowed young. That meant that the vast majority of her years had been spent in this place where centuries of her ancestors had lived before, walking these same steps illuminated only by candlelight. Agnes clicked off her flashlight.
The marquise acknowledged Agnes with a nod, before glancing down the staircase to the door leading to the lawn. Agnes knew it was likely the victim walked—or ran?—through that door to her death.
“She has nothing to do with us,” the marquise said. “Or perhaps it is that we had nothing to do with her. Not in a way that would lead to her death.”
“She died here; there will be a connection. We’ll find it.”
“She seemed a smart sort of person, but not altogether truthful.” The marquise glanced at Agnes. “Don’t mind me, I am judging too harshly. She was young and the young always have their secrets. I have been reading Diogenes and have become too immersed in his theories.” She turned as if she could see all the way down the stairs and across the lawn to the bench. “To fall and die like that; it is a feeble generation.”
“I suspect feebleness had little to do with her death.” Agnes stifled a yawn. They stood shoulder to shoulder in silence.
“My nephew tells me Mademoiselle Cowell was wearing the coronation gown.”
“Her gown was white, with stones on the bodice, if that’s the one he means.”
“It is distinctive, white pleated silk with a spray of diamonds. It was worn by one of my ancestresses to Napoleon’s coronation. Julien is quite sure that is what Mademoiselle Cowell was wearing.”
“Stolen?” Agnes willed the word back as soon as she’d said it.
“How could it be stolen when it was on our property?” The marquise smiled coolly. “Mademoiselle Cowell had leave to look at our possessions as part of her work on the auction.”