“Why is this room called the fur vault?”
“There are likely furs somewhere. It’s just as likely that they stored fur pelts here a thousand years ago and the name never changed. Names tend to stick. Daniel and I share a suite of rooms called the nursery although no children have slept there since the French Revolution.”
Agnes snorted a half laugh. Since George’s death she and the boys had spent most nights at her parents-in-law’s. She slept in their guest room, which they assured her was a leftover title and not a reflection on her status in the house. She wasn’t convinced and thought Marie-Chantal might consider the suggestive notion of being made to sleep in the nursery. The marquise wasn’t a young woman and likely wanted to meet the next generation.
Marie-Chantal trailed her fingers across the boxes. “Fabulous, aren’t they? Better than most museum collections. I’ve been told there are even more in an attic somewhere. Probably two hundred years of the best clothing in the world packed away.”
“Who uses this room?” Agnes asked.
“No one, not now. Years ago, Antoinette’s couturier would come from Paris with the gowns basted together and finish them according to her specifications. Friends of my mother’s say she was exacting, the kind of client a couturier adores and hates. Balenciaga dressed her until he retired.” Marie-Chantal smiled and Agnes felt the room light up. “Have you seen the portrait of her in the blue salon? Painted just before her marriage. It was a different time and she was only fifteen, but the portrait is magnificent. She looks young and old. Fresh and lovely, yet already strong and determined. I’ll show you sometime.”
While listening, Agnes walked through the small side door to the adjoining room, following the trajectory of damage left by whatever had happened the day before. There were three tall mirrors on wheeled stands, a wire dressmaker’s form, and a row of hooks on the wall. With only a few straight-backed chairs, and no rugs, the room looked and felt empty. Nothing appeared disturbed. There was an even smaller door in the corner; it opened to a twisting spiral staircase. She led the way and Marie-Chantal followed, carrying a yellow hat laden with feathers that she had removed from a box.
Agnes negotiated the stairs, bracing herself against the walls to prevent a nasty tumble. She asked a question over her shoulder. “Everyone has an opinion, but I would like to hear your thoughts: why was Felicity Cowell wearing that dress?”
“This is the psychological part of the mystery, isn’t it?” Marie-Chantal turned the hat in her hand as she descended, accustomed to the tortuous stairs. “Vanity, a desire to connect with that particular dress—after all, it does have a special history—curiosity. Who knows? I’ve always wanted to try on one of the early Balenciagas. Legendary designs, but I didn’t want to ask. Actually I’m afraid that they’ll be too small, and I don’t think I can face a corset.” They reached the bottom of the flight.
“But why that dress?” Agnes looked up and down the corridor, sighting the spot where they had discovered the vomit and wondering if Felicity felt ill and came down the stairs for help. Was it as simple as that? Perhaps she wasn’t running from someone, but was seeking help. That still didn’t explain her going outdoors. It was as if there were two parts to her trajectory and this moment in the hall was the break between them.
“I don’t know if it matters what she was wearing. Of course she might have been trying to impress someone. Maybe she was going to steal it.” Marie-Chantal shook her head. “No, I don’t mean that, although it might have been clear to her that we wouldn’t have known.” She rested the tiny hat on her head and studied her reflection in a nearby mirror. “Maybe she was just having fun and saw something by chance. Or someone. And had to go down. Or maybe she was running away from something.”
“You mean someone,” said Agnes. She raised her hand to smell the lotion. It reminded her of something. Not George, but something. Or someone.
Marie-Chantal removed the hat and shrugged. “It’s all just guesswork. It really doesn’t matter. She’s dead.”
Ten
Agnes asked a final time if there was anything else the little girl remembered or wanted to tell her. Mimi shook her head, and Agnes smoothed the girl’s hair and scooted her off the sofa. Then she thanked the nurse for her time.
She took a moment to decide what to do next. She was tired and cold. It was only noon and already the day felt long. At the other end of the room Arsov’s nurse settled a blanket around his shoulders and across his legs, speaking close to his ear. To delay the return trip to the chateau, Agnes joined them.