He called up to her, holding one hand to his ear with a questioning look. She shook her head: no cell service. For a few minutes she watched him slip and stumble as he went about his work. Just seeing the others had changed the morning. Normal human activity continued. She had had to remind herself of that every day for three months, and she wondered if it would ever end, this need to be prompted to engage with the world. Behind her, Vallotton cursed under his breath and she turned to see him slide against the wall. He was walking the length of the east wing and she followed, thankful for her new boots and hat.
Near the south turret they had a clear view of the entire lake. Remembering the predictions on the radio the evening before, she understood that this astonishing sight was what the meteorologists had expected. The wind had blown spray off the water and it had frozen along the shore in dramatic horizontal patterns, ice clinging to every surface: trees, handrails, benches. The fa?ade of the chateau was coated in three inches of ice dappled by the force of the wind. Near the water’s edge, the summer pavilion was encased in ice so thick it looked like a solid form.
She lit another cigarette, this one to enjoy. Across the lake, the French Alps gleamed white. Agnes could practically hear tourists cooing excitedly with their noses pressed to the windows of cozy hotel breakfast rooms, trusting to their hosts to find a way to heat and light the chambers while they took vacation photographs to post later on social media. From this vantage point the aftermath of the storm looked both awe-inspiring and chaotic. In every direction, fallen trees covered the normally ordered landscape and the road leading up to the village was a tangle of overlapping branches that created a barrier five meters high. She was fortunate Estanguet had helped the others down when he did. A few more hours and it would have been impassible. Now the ice would have to thaw before anyone could manage the steep slope, and even then a sharp ax would be needed to hack a way through. In the other direction, beyond the ice-encrusted shoreline, the activity on Lac Léman was altered with the ferries stopped, leaving the cold water empty. It would take days, if not weeks, to restore even basic services.
She leaned against the ice-covered stone of the parapet and closed her eyes. Mentally she reviewed the names of the chateau’s inhabitants, wondering who was a killer. It was a shocking idea despite seeing the body: someone among them a killer. Suddenly she was exhausted in a way that not even a cigarette helped dispel.
“If I’m not going to prison, who is?” Vallotton was standing beside her, cool blue gaze studying her thoughtfully. He looked prepared to steady her with his hand.
“Slept badly,” she mumbled.
“I should think so. Forced to stay in the house where the crime happened. Probably not the usual routine.”
He was frowning at her cigarette and she didn’t want to tell him that she had never been part of this routine and didn’t know what was usual. “How well do you know the American staying here?” she asked. “Nick Graves.”
“The fellowship student? Not at all. I think he was cordoned off in the library last evening. I steered clear of all but my family.” He paused. “He’s the, what do you call it, prime suspect? My aunt will be thrilled. She’s convinced I did it. Coming from London, proximity to the dead woman. Probably she thinks I am most likely to slither out of an arrest—she can’t imagine you would imprison my father’s son.” He raised his binoculars again. “She’s a bit old-fashioned. I’m certain you would love nothing more than to put me in cuffs and have done with it.”
“Fortunately your plane arrived after Felicity Cowell died.”
They stood side by side for a moment watching the activity of her colleagues below, Agnes aware of Vallotton’s height and elegance compared with her own disheveled appearance.
“I merely wondered if you knew him.” Last night she was prepared to take Marie-José’s story at face value. In the strong light of day she would question all motives.
“Bardy and my father were lifelong friends. Fellow stamp collectors.” Vallotton turned to face her. “I’m glad he sent you. We must seem callous; certainly there were no tears last night. I’ve often wondered what an outsider would think of my family and never had the chance to ask.”
“I’m hardly the usual outsider.”
“What does usual mean? We never meet anyone new—truly new. My aunt has possibly not met anyone new since the last world war.”
“Impossible.” Agnes crushed the remains of her cigarette under her heel then self-consciously picked it up and tucked it in her pocket. She couldn’t tell if Vallotton was amused or contemptuous. Either way, much as she wanted not to like him, she did. “You were introduced to Ralph Mulholland last night.”
“I’ve met him before, years ago. Anyway, he is my aunt’s godson, not really someone new, is he? She’s known him his whole life, he is like family to her. I mean someone new. Someone not tied to us in a way that we can pigeonhole immediately. We know exactly how far to trust someone, what to say and not say. Even the maids are the daughters of old maids. Plus we probably own the houses they grew up in.”