“My father’s dog,” Julien Vallotton said from the doorway, “has probably heard more confessions than some priests.”
Winston shifted away from Agnes and looked from one human to the other. This section of the chateau was so isolated she hadn’t expected anyone to join her. Perhaps that was because she had taken care to follow the route Felicity Cowell favored. That meant exiting through a heavy paneled door directly to the outside. From there, under the covered passageway between the menacing iron portcullis and the courtyard, she had taken a narrow door leading to an equally narrow stairway. It led up to Felicity Cowell’s workroom. Winston had followed her. At first his size was intimidating, but he looked well fed and she decided it wasn’t on guests. After that she appreciated his presence.
Similarly, Vallotton’s appearance wasn’t exactly unwelcome but he had startled her. In fact, more than startled her. She was starting to see menace around every corner. There were too many dark and unexplored places.
“What is it you do exactly?” she asked to cover her discomfiture.
“I’m a collector.”
“Art? Antiques?”
“Buildings. Houses mainly. They’re an art form of sorts.”
She sighed. Most people she knew collected hotel soaps or postcards.
The workroom was nearly dark and Vallotton stepped into the hall and returned with a bundle of candles. He stuck them in a brass candelabra and lit them. Shadows sprang onto the walls, illuminating corners not visible with Agnes’s flashlight beam. She was reminded of her initial impression: this room was not large or attractive when compared to the others in the chateau. In the center was a plain wooden desk and on it were stacks of unbound pages from the working auction catalogue. A digital camera, notebook, row of neatly aligned pencils, and a teacup—used and not empty—were arranged beside a small stack of books. The ceiling was high enough to give a sense of scale not seen in modern life, and normally the room would be illuminated from a bank of clerestory windows. Today ice blocked most of the light, and the sun was already low. The only heat source was a small fireplace. It was unlit and the room was bitterly cold.
“What were these rooms originally? They’re isolated,” said Agnes.
“Originally? Sleeping quarters for the guards,” said Vallotton. “Easy access to the main gate and to a stair leading to the battlements.”
“How did Felicity end up here?” Agnes asked.
“My story won’t change, you know. That’s the best part about telling the truth, it’s consistent.” When she didn’t respond he continued, “I probably see or speak with Evelyn Leigh every month or so. He calls about something coming up for auction that we might want, or sometimes I ask him to keep an eye out for a particular item, a gift for my aunt, or my brother. I mentioned that we would have a formal sale to honor Father’s wishes.” He paused. “You might argue that Evelyn was able to use his very substantial powers of persuasion to convince me to stage a more public sale of many items. I think this was good business sense for him, and not part of a murder plot, but I will leave that to you. Evelyn suggested Mademoiselle Cowell should handle the preliminary onsite details. I looked at their website while we were on the telephone and glanced at her photograph—more out of idle curiosity than anything—but that was all I knew of her. I didn’t have a reason to care, it was the firm we were hiring, not this one employee.”
“Was she what you expected?”
Vallotton walked around the workroom. There were a dozen or so paintings leaning up against the walls and he surveyed them casually before turning to face Agnes. She felt it again, the subtle power he had over the space around him despite his reserve. By either his glance or his presence he defined the room as his, all of the possessions as his, and she nearly apologized for the question.
“I expected someone professional who would guide us to a successful conclusion. The rough catalogue you see here appears satisfactory. We had two phone conversations and she was articulate and knowledgeable. I did not expect her to end up dead on my lawn, so in that way she has defied expectations.”
“What if I told you that she might not be as she appeared? What if I suspect she didn’t have a university degree or a well-connected family or anything really?”
A flash of surprise crossed Vallotton’s face and in that instant she was convinced he didn’t know anything about Felicity Cowell’s hidden life. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “You must more than suspect this or you wouldn’t mention it.”
She relayed what Nick Graves had told her.
“And you believe him? Of course you do,” Vallotton said slowly. “Why would he invent this? He knows you will be able to check the details in a few hours or days at the most. It’s surprising, but not impossible. Evelyn told me he first hired Mademoiselle Cowell—”