“He didn’t spend the night outdoors,” Vallotton said. “It was bitter and he’d be near dead dressed like he was. That was cold weather gear, but not suited for sustained low temperatures.”
“Not outside but somewhere close. The garage? Pick a big old sedan and you’d be quite comfortable, he might even turn on a car for extra warmth. Or the Orangerie? Warm enough to save the plants. More ice falls and the next day he pretends he’s just arrived.”
“Another suspect, and this time you have a motive.”
“Yes, and it isn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be.”
Nineteen
It took the butler three minutes to open the door but it felt like three hours.
“Could have waited until morning,” Petit said, teeth still chattering as they followed the man deeper into the mansion. Agnes wasn’t about to tell him that the theft was only an excuse to escape the chateau. It was claustrophobic with Carnet somewhere within the walls. He couldn’t leave, though she was certain he wanted to, and she was worried that he would seek her out; try to talk about George and what had happened. Try to explain. She shuddered at the thought.
“You think he’ll let us look around?” Petit whispered. Agnes wished she’d told him to find a bottle of champagne and take it to bed to celebrate fatherhood alone. She hadn’t been thinking clearly when he offered to accompany her.
Vladimir Arsov received them like a potentate welcoming foreign ambassadors, dismissing any notion of theft with a negligent wave of one hand and offering wine and food with a second wave toward the butler. When they refused refreshments, he suggested a tour of the formal rooms of the mansion. Petit took the handles of the wheelchair from Nurse Brighton and Agnes lit the way with her flashlight, deciding that this qualified as a distraction.
The doors of the lakeside ground-floor rooms were aligned along a single axis, an enfilade that ran the length of the mansion providing a vista through each room. As they walked, Petit asked a hundred questions while Arsov pointed out details of interest, waving a bony finger in vague directions. Agnes wished the light was stronger. Much of the detail was obscured by the darkness: an amber screen belonging to the Romanovs, Marie Antoinette’s writing desk, Ming vases. Occasionally a servant crossed their path, a pale face illuminated by a flashlight or candle, but mostly they walked alone through the vast gilded rooms.
“The marquise,” Arsov said, motioning to the large portrait of a young woman next to an even larger portrait of a man draped in a lion skin.
“Beautiful,” Agnes murmured, aiming her flashlight in the direction indicated. The painting was a duplicate of the one Marie-Chantal had shown her in the chateau. Here the frame was as impressive as the art. She estimated the weight of the frame and canvas and wondered how they held it to the wall. She could barely keep a lightweight photo from falling to the floor in her house.
They returned to the main salon to find several hundred candles had been lit and placed on every available surface. “I was tired of the dark,” Arsov remarked. When they were seated near the fireplace he looked from Agnes to Petit. “You didn’t come here on a cold night to tell me I may have been robbed.”
“Yes, we did,” Petit said.
“Young man, I have never said such stupid things. Oh, maybe when I was very young. And you”—Arsov waved toward Agnes—“if he is too eager, you are too worried. Maybe you will make a good team. It is possible.” He shrugged and adjusted the tube leading to his oxygen tank, snorting in air.
“We’re not a te—” Agnes stopped Petit with a glance.
“I know what you came here to say, Inspector,” Arsov said, fingers gripping the armrests of his wheelchair like talons. “If there was a burglary at the chateau and also here, maybe you change your focus of investigation. Trust me. I have not been robbed since I was eighteen. You know that I have security that the Vallottons don’t. We lock our doors.”
A bottle of wine had been decanted. Arsov took a drink, sucking the ruby liquid in between his teeth and rolling it in his mouth.
“The Rothschilds know how to make wine,” he said after swallowing. “I used to visit their vineyard every year and buy cases and cases. Oh, the pleasure of talking wine with Philippe de Rothschild. It was the culmination of a dream I didn’t even know I had.”
Agnes took a small sip. “This is good.”
“Good? It is the nectar of the gods.”
Flames in the fireplace crackled and Agnes let her mind drift across the frozen lawn. She was tired to the point that each individual muscle ached. The wine and Arsov’s confidence relaxed her. First her muscles, then her mind. The strands of her thoughts untangled, making them easier to compartmentalize. Arsov was right, she hadn’t needed to come tonight to tell him about the theft, but she was glad she had. The old man reached for his silver box of cigarettes, seeming content, for he smiled at some private thought. The room was silent for some time. Petit shifted uncomfortably.