Wind whipped across her face and stinging tears formed at the corners of her eyes. She closed them. Melancholy was an emotion she had grown familiar with; it was a comfort. The cold burned her cheeks and she pictured George, only this time he wasn’t alone, he was standing next to Carnet at the shooting match, laughing and gesticulating widely as he explained something, a broad smile on his animated face. She tried to wallow in her darkening emotions, but a nudge of a smile tilted the corner of her mouth. How had she not seen it? She was a police inspector, for god’s sake. Were her eyes clouded because it was another man? Or because it was too close to her? Pressing a gloved hand to her heart, she took a deep breath. Every day had been a struggle, every day she had examined herself and her failings and never had she blamed that terrible day on George. She took another deep breath, feeling that she was on a precipice. She looked out over the water. There was no blame; life would move on. At the edge of her mind there was another voice: Sybille’s. Morning had redoubled her conviction that his parents could not know. Let someone else lead the way for equality and acceptance; her boys had been through enough to not suffer renewed pity from the villagers. She frowned, realizing it was unfair to George to hide his true self from his sons. She was wondering about telling them when they were older and able to understand and be accepting of the powerful struggle he had faced, when a shouted “good morning” made her turn.
Julien Vallotton appeared from behind a tangle of limbs, dressed for outdoor work and carrying a bundle of orange strips. Taking a deep breath to clear her mind, Agnes met him halfway across the lawn, but not before wondering again exactly where the shore began. Harry Thomason’s story about walking around the point of the cliff was more believable now that she had seen the edge for herself. She sighed. She needed someone to be guilty. A day and a half had passed and they were no closer to a solution than when she arrived. For a moment she was glad Bardy was trapped at home without a telephone. He couldn’t know of her failure.
“Marking trees,” Vallotton said, when he was near enough to be heard. “More will have to come down than fell, too many limbs have been stripped away. Carnet came by earlier offering to help.” He looked at Agnes closely. “He seemed distressed. Have you discovered something?”
“He’s probably tired. Monsieur Arsov has had a stroke—or something like a stroke.” Transient ischemic attack didn’t roll off the tongue easily. “Nurse Brighton insists he will recover, and that he doesn’t want to go to the hospital.”
Vallotton looked toward the mansion, then studied his own residence. “Stubborn. Like my father. In his last months he knew it was the end and had his bed moved to the tower there.”
Agnes followed his eye to the original tower nearest the lake. The top floor was marked by a series of tall narrow slits with slightly shorter openings running horizontally through them, creating stunted crosses. Openings for bows and arrows now in-filled with glass.
“He wanted to die in command of the surroundings, just as he’d lived.” Vallotton turned to Agnes. “He’d lived through a century of change and probably thought willpower would get him through another one. He and Arsov are like-minded.”
Ice crunched and they both turned. Petit arrived at a near run, slipping with every other step but managing to keep his balance. “Carnet sent me to find you, Inspector. I got the radio working regular and he talked to my chief. I wrote it out for you.” He thrust a piece of paper into Agnes’s hand. “And the doctor gave me this for you.” He extracted an envelope from his pocket.
Agnes pulled the doctor’s note from the envelope first. Skimming it, she wasn’t surprised. She handed it to Vallotton.
“The family has to know,” he said after reading. “Sad, really, better if they didn’t.”
Petit looked from one to the other. Agnes took the note and handed it to him. She watched the expression on his face when he read the words. Joy, surprise, then comprehension.
“This affects Thomason and his story,” she said to Vallotton. “He certainly didn’t mention it and I think he would have.” She slipped her hand inside her coat and ran her thumb along the inside of her waistband, biting her lip. “Maybe she told him and he was angry and killed her.”
“Because she was pregnant?” Vallotton asked.
Petit sucked in a shock of air.
Agnes gave Vallotton an exasperated look, turning to Petit. “Take Doctor Blanchard’s note to Carnet if he hasn’t seen it. He needs to know.”
Petit walked off silently, reading the note again.
Vallotton waited until the other man was out of earshot. “You think Thomason might not be the father?”
They studied each other then turned to view the landscape.
“We shouldn’t think the worst, not yet,” Agnes said, scanning Carnet’s note. “This will probably be terrible news for him.”
“Either way,” Vallotton added, which earned him another sharp look.
Winston ambled up, crossing the ice with an expression of fixed dignity, as if he was entirely comfortable with his paws slithering out from under him every fifth step. Agnes smiled. He had a long bone in his mouth, which reminded her that he usually managed to convey an attitude more human than canine. He drew near and Vallotton started to take and throw it when she gave a startled shout. She grabbed Winston’s collar and wrenched the bone from between his teeth.
Vallotton arched an eyebrow. “Is that what I think—”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “This is a human femur.”
Twenty-three
It wasn’t difficult to retrace Winston’s path across the crust of new snow. It was perfect for retaining paw prints.
“Maybe he picked the bone up in the village,” Agnes said.
“A human bone? What, from the butcher?” Julien Vallotton asked, dubiously.
“The local cemetery.”
Passing a member of the household staff who was vigorously attacking a fallen tree with an ax, Agnes and Vallotton exchanged a look. “Maybe it’s the result of an early morning accident,” she said.