“You’ve disturbed our evidence, the body—”
“You think I was there on purpose? Oh my god, I think I’ve got frostbite. I can’t feel my fingers. My nose.”
His hands were scraped and shredded from pounding on the doorway. Beneath the flour sacks and Mylar blanket he was wearing a suit and tie. Dressed for dinner? His voice was hoarse, his eyes were hollow, and he looked exhausted.
“How did you get locked in there?” she asked.
Mulholland tightened the Mylar blanket around his chest, eyes closed and mouth open, taking long deep breaths. “Kitchen pantry. Door shut behind me and I knew no one would hear me shout. I had to keep going. Finally there was a slope up and I came out into this room. Pitch-dark. There wasn’t anywhere else to go. This was the end. Knew I’d walked a long way but I’d lost track of direction and I could have been anywhere. Under the chateau, in the chateau. At Arsov’s. Then I felt her. It was cold. I kept screaming but no one came. I knew you’d check on her eventually and had to stay if I wanted to be found.”
“What door shut behind you?”
“Under the kitchen. The pantry.”
“Inspector Lüthi!” Marie-Chantal Vallotton walked briskly across the lawn, dressed as if for a Vogue photo shoot: thigh-high outdoor boots, blond knee-length coat of curly lamb with matching hat. Enormous sunglasses. Agnes glanced down to her own rumpled clothes, wondering if she should remind everyone she’d been wearing the same skirt, blouse, and jacket for three days.
“Have you seen Mimi?” Marie-Chantal asked.
“Not this morning,” Agnes said, eyeing the cuts on Mulholland’s hands. They would need to be treated.
“She’s missing.”
Agnes turned toward Marie-Chantal. She felt sick. She’d told Petit they were in danger without really believing it.
“Hiding, at Arsov’s most likely.” Marie-Chantal looked at Mulholland. “Ralph, what are you wearing? You look ill. Is that why we didn’t see you after dinner?”
“You’ve been here since last night?” Agnes asked.
He nodded, shivering, teeth chattering.
“André, get him inside,” she said, motioning toward Petit. “He needs medical attention.”
Petit gave her a deliberate look, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. “Maybe we should stick together. You could come back with me.”
She tried to hide her exasperation. “Go. Madame Vallotton will walk with me to Monsieur Arsov’s. And ask Doctor Blanchard to come out here and make sure everything is … in order. Return the key to him.”
Petit glanced up and down Marie-Chantal and apparently decided she wasn’t a murderess. He took Mulholland’s arm and steered him to the chateau.
Marie-Chantal removed her sunglasses and peered through the doorway into the ice house. “Ralph spent the night out here? He always seemed reckless, but he must be mad.”
Agnes crossed to the inner room. There was a wide walkway leading around a pit and she peered down. She shone her light in, estimating it was five meters deep. At the bottom was a rotting wooden ladder lying on traces of straw. Clearly this was where the blocks of ice were stored before modern refrigeration. A quarter way around the pit a door led off the walkway. Carefully, she eased her way toward it, questioning the wisdom of allowing Petit to leave. She heard the click of heels behind her and drew a sharp breath. Then she exhaled calmly.
There wasn’t any danger here.
“Mulholland came up through this tunnel,” she said over her shoulder, glad her voice didn’t shake. “One we didn’t know about.” She allowed a little anger to creep in.
The door was sturdy. She opened it and peered inside. A long hallway sloped downward, disappearing into inky darkness. She thought through the trajectory. A straight line would lead to the chateau. A point in Mulholland’s favor. Still, someone would have to go down and inspect the length of it. But not now. And not alone.
The implications were serious. Was the ice house locked before they used it to store Felicity Cowell’s body? If not, then it was a perfect point of access and escape for their killer. She stood back from the door, studying it. It was built of rough timber, as were the walls of the room. She swung the door closed. There was no visible handle or hinges and it bolted from the tunnel side, which made sense to keep intruders out. Surveying the wall she admitted that the door was only evident when open. Blanchard and Petit wouldn’t have seen it when they checked the room before leaving the body.
“The tunnel runs to the kitchen,” Marie-Chantal said, her voice echoing in the enclosed space.