“Then you might guess that we were once a couple,” Marie-Chantal continued. “Call it what you will. In the end I wanted to paint him but not marry him. Perhaps on some level I wanted to be him. Daniel needs me. Julien doesn’t. He’s not selfish, it’s simply that he can stand alone.” She smiled sorrowfully at Agnes then, with a last look around the room, left.
Immediately Agnes felt the best piece of art had left the room. Then she wondered which part of the conversation was the most important. She had a suspicion that Marie-Chantal knew the impact she had on people; she would have to. Pulling her notebook from her handbag, Agnes checked her notes in the dim light. Marie-Chantal had left the marquise for some time during the afternoon of the murder to let Winston out into the courtyard. But he wasn’t a child. One couldn’t ask a Great Dane if she’d left him alone for a few minutes. Who would know? Was it possible Marie-Chantal was jealous of Felicity Cowell? Jealous of more than her professional life? Either a long-standing association or a spur-of-the-moment attraction between the dead woman and Daniel Vallotton that escalated into spousal rage? A flirtation gone too far? Marie-Chantal admitted to a strange kind of obsession with Julien, but possibly that was covering for her other obsession—an obsession with her husband.
Felicity Cowell had been attractive even in death. Beautiful in life. Just as Marie-Chantal was beautiful. Agnes tapped her pen on the desk’s edge. She took one last look around the workroom before blowing out the candle. She was left with a different sense of their victim and liked it. She hoped that put her in the right frame of mind to speak to Harry Thomason again. He might be suffering heartbreak, but her first concern had to be for the dead woman, no matter her real name.
Sixteen
Yet another beautiful room, was the first thought that occurred to Agnes when the housekeeper led her to Harry Thomason. In the past hour he had changed out of his heavy outdoor clothes into wool trousers, a linen shirt, and a cashmere sweater provided by the family. Incongruously, his feet were still in slippers, of the type Agnes associated with old men. Thomason looked tired and pale, but otherwise at ease in his surroundings. She knew from experience of death that words didn’t help so she skipped elaborate condolences.
Petit was already there, notebook in hand, waiting. Eager to avoid the appearance of a police inquisition she had asked Julien Vallotton to join her as well. At first he carried the conversation and Agnes was not surprised that his social skills were up to the awkwardness. He easily led the discussion toward the questions that had to be asked.
“You’ll meet my brother at dinner if you decide to join us. He’s walked that path you took by the lake, but I haven’t. Quite a distance, but nice enough in good weather; a feat after the storm.”
“I’m from a family of walkers,” Thomason replied. “We traipse around the moors near our home year-round; my mother is convinced a trek on rugged terrain is necessary before holiday dinners. From the hotel it was mostly flat. The ice was a challenge, but I was eager to see—” His eyes clouded and he struggled to maintain control of his emotions. “We hadn’t talked in a few days and I really wanted to see her.”
Vallotton rose and opened a cabinet then poured a beautiful golden brown liquid into two glasses. He inclined his head toward Agnes and she frowned a no, hoping Petit had the sense to decline. Her mind drifted to Marie-Chantal and the Vallotton brothers. How much jealousy lingered after she chose one over the other? Suspicions could easily turn into anger, then rage. On the other hand, they seemed to accept the strong undercurrents as part of life and relationships and she wondered: Had she missed the same between herself and George? Was there space in their lives for someone else?
After Thomason and Julien Vallotton had each taken a sip and commented favorably on the whiskey Vallotton continued, “You came down from the village? I’m curious to see how their recovery is proceeding. I can see some of the damage from our battlements.”
“I haven’t been to the village. I walked along the lake all the way from the hotel and then around the base of the cliff face.”
Petit stood in alarm. All remnants of color faded from Thomason’s face when the policeman explained that there was no path at the base of the cliff and Thomason must have walked on an ice shelf. Agnes shuddered and hoped that no one else had tried the same; the lake was deep and it would be a cold, watery grave. She caught Vallotton’s eye. This was a new problem: if Felicity Cowell’s killer left the property along the lake, he or she might already be dead. Petit would have to check the shoreline again. A fall through ice, a fall from a bridge. Both horrible ends.