“I understood it was only art for sale?”
“Clothing can be art.” Before Agnes could respond the marquise continued, “No, it was not part of the auction but perhaps what she called staging. Unnecessary in my mind, although that is Julien’s concern and I told her as much. I only point out the gown as a matter of interest and to suggest that you will find her own clothing in the fur vault where she may have changed. Perhaps there you will also find … a clue. That is what you are looking for, isn’t it? The reason you and your colleagues must stay the night. The reason for these questions.”
“You could call it that, a clue.”
“There are others who stay as part of this interrogation. The man who found a way down from the village for your colleagues, Monsieur Estanguet? I met him in the corridor a moment ago. It is like living in a hotel, strangers walking into and out of bedrooms.” The marquise fingered her rubies. “He was distressed, nearly incoherent.”
Agnes wished she had asked the doctor to attend to Estanguet. “He saw the body. I’m sure he’ll feel better in the morning. It is the shock and the cold. We were outside too long.”
“Death is a shock, and the death of a young person is a double tragedy.” The marquise searched Agnes’s face. “Do you have children, Inspector Lüthi?”
“Three boys.”
“To have a child die would be a terrible thing. What parent would be satisfied with an explanation? What sibling would understand? My brother was a very old man when he left us, a century of living. But with a child there would be no talk of having lived a full life. You want a child to live forever, or at least to die after you, so the illusion of living forever is complete.”
Agnes understood. What if one of her sons had died instead of George? Could she have survived that horror? Even for the other boys? Or would she have been only two-thirds of a person forever? This was the first time she’d been away from home in the evening since George’s death and a thousand worries crowded her head. Were the boys safe? How could she know without seeing them herself? How could she have returned to work knowing there would be nights like this? Sybille was right: she should be with them.
“The bond between a parent and child,” the marquise continued. “Permanent, yet an intangible connection. I wonder, would you recognize your boys if you hadn’t seen them since they were young? Two or three years old maybe, not fully formed. Would you know them after years? Decades even? Is the bond that strong?”
Agnes forced her mind to send the message that her boys were safe and well and that she shouldn’t worry. Their grandparents loved them and would care for them. “Yes,” she managed, “because I would recognize myself or my husband in their faces.”
“I had not thought of that. Of course recognizing a family characteristic would make it simpler. A physical bond.” The marquise turned away from her. “Mademoiselle Cowell’s parents will be devastated. Their loss will be hard.”
The dismissal was firm and Agnes said good night and clicked her flashlight on again. The Great Dane appeared from the shadows, and she was pleased. Winston was a comfort, not merely his size but his calmness. This was his territory and he had no fear. She laughed out loud; fatigue was making her fanciful.
At the top of yet another long flight of winding stairs, she found Petit dozing in a hard-backed chair in the hallway. She swept her flashlight down the wall of the corridor and counted the doors, looking for the eighth. Knowing that the other rooms were quite possibly occupied, she counted the doors twice. Winston’s nails clicked as he turned to leave. Finally she looked at Petit, wishing he had disappeared while her back was turned.
“We’ve got her tucked away nice and tidy,” he said.
Agnes motioned for him to continue, too tired to ask questions, yet knowing she needed to let him report so they could both go to bed.
“In a kind of old ice house. Doctor Blanchard wants her kept cold and decided it would suit. And we’ve walked the perimeter and finished blocking off all the rooms the victim used. I think Monsieur Bardy would be pleased.”
“Felicity Cowell,” Agnes said automatically. “Not the victim. She had a name. She is a person.”
“Absolutely, Mademoiselle Cowell.” Petit took a step forward, wincing. He ducked to bring his face near hers. “I took pictures of everything. On my camera phone, but the resolution is good.”
“You’re in pain, what happened?”
“Slipped coming down the hill, from the bruise on my leg I guess that my radio fell off and I landed on it. Couldn’t see my own hand in front of my face and didn’t know it at the time. Radio’s gone for good, I think.” He edged closer to her. “You won’t mention this to Bardy?”