“Dashed stupid, all week a disaster and then this end.” Thomason took another deep drink and steadied himself. “Maybe best if I had plunged through.”
Agnes knew that they would have to check Thomason’s story. They would also have to determine if the lake had frozen over early enough for someone to leave the property the day before. Petit and Blanchard could put their heads together over weather patterns and travel. For the moment, though, Thomason’s grief seemed real, but a killer could also feel or simulate emotion.
“This is painful, I know,” she said. “You knew her better than anyone and we need your assistance. Did she mention knowing anyone here? Had she been here before?”
“She hadn’t been to this part of Switzerland, and I told her to stay at the Beau-Rivage—that’s where the firm puts me up when I travel to the region—but she wanted to stay nearer her work. Couldn’t really blame her, what with the drive, and of course she would be just as comfortable onsite. For auctions of collections of this scale we often stay on the property, so it wasn’t out of the ordinary.”
Agnes felt sorry for the young man. He seemed to forget his fiancée’s death at the start of each sentence and remember it a second later. She wanted to tell him the feeling wouldn’t go away soon. Perhaps never. She lifted her hand to sniff George’s lotion. There it was again. A memory, stronger than anything a photograph or words could call to mind.
“I wonder if I could see her room, just to see where she was last,” Thomason said.
Focusing on Thomason required an effort. There was something important at the edge of her mind. “That’s another point we would like to ask you about. She decided to stay at a small hotel in the village. It’s not a bad place, but we were surprised by her decision. Any idea why she made this choice?”
For the first time Thomason seemed unsettled. He shrugged and swallowed a few times.
“Perhaps you have a sense of what she liked in a hotel,” Agnes said. “Maybe she thought the village inn was quaint or she liked her privacy.” Ridiculous, but she couldn’t stop talking. She wanted to comfort this young man and at the same time something didn’t seem right, she just couldn’t put her finger on the reason for her concern. He swallowed again and rubbed his palms on his pants’ legs.
“How did you two meet?” Agnes asked when he didn’t reply.
Thomason brightened. “At work. I’ve been with the firm for eight years, straight out of university, and we met the first week she joined, two years ago. I’m in philately. I do other things, but that’s my specialty, so we were fortunate to meet straight off.” He launched into a lengthy explanation of his work and the internal organization of the firm, how their offices were on different floors, and Agnes let him talk. Now she could identify her concern. There was authenticity in his answer, which meant that what he said previously wasn’t exactly the truth. She leaned forward and caught Vallotton’s glance. She needed a cigarette and he knew it. She met his raised eyebrow with a fixed smile and sat back on the sofa, fingers stilled under the edge of her skirt.
“When did you speak with her last?”
Thomason looked around the room. “Can I see her body? I want it to be buried at my family’s place. I think that’s what she’d want.”
“We can arrange for you to see her later. Right now I need to know more about the days before she died. We should be able to retrieve a record of her mobile phone calls tomorrow or the day after, but you may be able to help us now. Had her mood changed while she was here, or was she upset or worried about anything?”
“Why would she be upset? This job was an honor for her.” He nodded to Vallotton. “You’re important clients and for her to come here was exciting. Felicity worked hard. Harder than any of us and she was brilliant. You can’t imagine her memory. She never forgot a painting or face or name. I’m good at what I do, I’m industrious and enjoy it, but she was different. She was special.”
Agnes resisted the temptation to probe him about Felicity’s earlier life and other name. He might know, or Graves could have lied. Although she doubted it. As Vallotton said, Graves would know that they could verify his story soon. If she asked Thomason she couldn’t take the words back and he was so fragile. She remembered her own struggle with the details of George’s death. Questions about Felicity’s character could wait. Or could they? She glanced at Petit, sucking on the end of his pen, diligently taking notes. She wished Bardy was here.
Thomason smiled wanly. “We were both London outsiders. It’s a hard world to break into and that was part of what bound us together. London was our adopted home and we loved it and swore we would never leave.”
Carnet entered the room, stretching his hand out to greet Thomason. Agnes tried to stand, but her knees buckled. George, was all she could think.