Turning to leave the last of the rooms, she caught sight of herself in the glass of a cabinet and started. Even in a poor reflection her eyes looked irritated and swollen. A memory of George slipped through her mind. A Saturday early in their marriage when they had taken the train to Zürich and wandered the Bahnhofstrasse, window-shopping at the finest stores in the world. Stores that sold jewelry and the sort of objets d’art that the Vallottons would own. She remembered how George insisted they go inside and look at a miniature globe. How carefully he had handled the carved wood and how reverently he had set it down after learning the price—several years of his salary. She smiled. They had been honored to even hold the piece and see it in person. Now she wondered if he had walked that same street with someone else. Not Carnet, she was sure they hadn’t gone out in public together. But were there others? Other lovers. The idea chilled her. Then she remembered where she was. The Vallottons had likely been robbed, and rich or not, they wouldn’t be happy about it. She had a job to do.
Agnes found the housekeeper hovering outside the dining room, monitoring dinner service for the family and their guests. Madame Puguet sniffed delicately and Agnes hoped she didn’t smell like vomit. She resisted covering her mouth. Quickly she conveyed her concerns about the missing objects.
“Dust?” Madame Puguet said, as if Agnes had said there were rats chewing the upholstery.
“Only the very faintest trace. Mere particles, but using a strong light it was possible to see that several objects had been removed.”
Madame Puguet took a step back as if she’d been struck. Then, shoulders stiff, she led the way to investigate herself.
One glance at the first tabletop and her eyes widened. She covered her mouth briefly, then seemed to gather her wits. “This should not have been taken away,” she said, moving her hand toward an empty area between a series of gem-encrusted silver cups.
“Maybe a family member picked it up—” Agnes was silenced with a cold glance.
“The family doesn’t pick objects up and carry them around.” Madame Puguet walked through the room, studying each table and cabinet as she passed. “I will make a list of the items for Monsieur Vallotton. He must be informed at once.”
Eighteen
Agnes paced the length of the sitting room, blowing into her hands and sniffing. She had gargled soap in a powder room, an action that had nearly made her sick again, but at least her breath was freshened. Insult to injury.
Julien Vallotton arrived from the dinner table. Agnes glanced down at her wrinkled skirt and compared her disheveled appearance to his immaculate garb.
“You should have joined us, or at least eaten,” he said, gesturing to the platter of salmon, tomato, and shrimp canapés thoughtfully provided by the kitchen. “The others enjoyed themselves. Officer Petit is awash with enthusiasm about his new son.”
“You’ve been burglarized,” she said.
Vallotton waited for her to continue and for a moment she wanted someone different opposite her, someone who would jump up and start waving his hands in anger. Or show any emotion. She needed a distraction. Any reminder of George and her stomach threatened to heave.
“It’s a lot of things,” she added.
Madame Puguet entered the room, clearing her throat delicately. “The list is hasty, but I think it conveys the scope.” She handed a piece of paper covered in her precise handwriting to Vallotton. The housekeeper looked pale and grim and Agnes realized she was taking the discovery hard. Madame Puguet started to speak, hesitated, and silently left the room.
Vallotton glanced at the paper. “You discovered this now?”
“I’m here to work. I spent dinner checking the rooms again. I was curious.”
“You were curious the first time you walked through the property.”
“I was looking for something different then.” No need to tell him she was looking for evidence of violence the first time and for a distraction the second.
He read the list again.
“Nothing looks disturbed. I had to look carefully.” She leaned forward. “There was dust under the cloths. Just a trace, but that’s how I noticed the items were missing.”
Vallotton tapped his leg absently.
“We will find out who did this,” Agnes said.
“You think the theft is linked to Felicity Cowell’s death?”
“I don’t know. Madame Puguet said the items might have disappeared long ago.”
“An inventory was made when my father died. Everything. That was two years ago. But since then, she’s correct. There are rooms we never venture into and the furnishings remain covered to protect them.”
“I don’t think it’s been two years. Weeks or months I’d believe, but not years. Someone in the lab could tell us how long it takes dust to settle through fabric, or drift up along the edges, but I’m sure it happens.” Agnes looked around the luxurious furnishings of the room they were seated in. “The protection is mainly from light, isn’t it? You know some dust will gather. The furniture isn’t sealed, it’s simply hidden.”
Vallotton set the list on the table between them. “Before this, were you still hoping I would turn up guilty?”
She ignored him. “Tonight changes things, or at least it might.” She scanned the list of stolen objects. “They’re all portable.”
“Not just portable, small,” Vallotton added. “Nothing larger than fifty centimeters in length. Easy to quickly put everything into a few duffel bags and off you go.”
“You think this was the work of one night … or day?”
“You think differently?”