Ralph Mulholland walked through the room pulling on an outdoor coat.
“You recovered quickly,” Agnes said. He was startled to see her and she took advantage of his hesitation and asked him to be seated, pointing out the fire in the hearth and saying that it was small but put out a surprising amount of heat.
“I’m surprised you are going back outside after your overnight ordeal. I thought you’d be sleeping.”
“Madame Puguet gave me a concoction to drink, set me right up again.”
“You should have seen the doctor. Let him look at your hands.”
He scowled. “She knows what to do.”
Agnes wondered at the household’s distrust of outsiders. Surely an unknown doctor was better than a housekeeper if you have suffered a shock.
“But outside so soon?” she said. “Is that a good idea?”
“Probably have nightmares if I sleep. Besides, I’m not a child. I can do on a few hours’ nap. I’m going to talk to Monsieur Arsov. A neighborly chat. That’s allowed.”
He was so defiant it gave her a second of pleasure to tell him that Arsov was not receiving callers, and for what reason. Her pleasure was short-lived as Mulholland’s haughty expression swiftly altered to despair. He pulled a cigarette from a heavy gold case and lit it with shaking fingers. “It’s not possible. The old man is a horse.”
“His nurse says he’ll recover; it’s only been a few hours and he’s resting comfortably.” She took pity on him. “You should visit; they’ll want him to know his friends came by.”
“Friends?” Mulholland stood abruptly. “He wouldn’t even—” He stopped midsentence. “You make me nervous.”
“You mentioned that before and I asked your godmother.” Agnes smiled briefly. “Petit was in uniform the night we arrived and I thought that was what bothered you.” She held his gaze, something she had learned to do with her oldest son. “But your parents died in Africa, didn’t they? And, according to the marquise, you were told by the headmaster while at school, so you have no painful association with the police. Maybe your nerves are caused by another incident, another reason?”
Silence stretched for a long minute.
“Hard for either of you to know what associations the mind makes, isn’t it?” Mulholland said. “War refugees can’t stand the slamming of a door, but the sound of a gun doesn’t bother them. Maybe I do fear the sight of you. Maybe there is an unconscious association.” He nibbled the edge of a fingernail. Agnes winced at the sight of his damaged hands. They were a reminder of his terror in the ice house. Before she could question him further, there were footsteps and the marquise entered the room followed by Julien Vallotton. Mulholland took advantage of the distraction and fled, leaving Agnes determined to talk to him again very soon.
The marquise was dressed in wool trousers and a jacket with a fox stole around her shoulders for added warmth. Despite the simplicity of the clothing, Agnes knew these were expensive garments. She also thought Vallotton looked slightly amused at his aunt’s sudden interest in what was happening outside her suite of rooms. Agnes stood and greeted them both.
“Inspector Lüthi, we must apologize for embroiling you in another little mystery,” the marquise said.
“All of the valuables should be traceable eventually,” Agnes replied. “Once the power is on we will contact major auction houses.”
The marquise stopped her. “You may keep my nephew informed; it is of no interest to me if these trifles are found. I was speaking of the discovery of bones in our garden. Have you learned anything about them? Julien had very little to say other than that you brought an expert”—she made it sound like a very bad word—“to inspect them.”
“I don’t know about an expert, however, Doctor Blanchard is knowledgeable and thinks they are a few decades old. He took photographs and—” Agnes stopped, realizing that the details might be disconcerting.
“I would like to meet this doctor—I believe I remember him as a small boy, his mother used to have a shop in the village—and see where the discovery was made.” The marquise led the way down the long hall to the door. A maid trailed them, dispensing coats and scarves.
“I am familiar with the boundaries of the old cemetery,” the marquise said. “We played there as children, imagining the forgotten dead would rise up and claim us.” She allowed herself to be draped in a fur while Agnes shrugged on her coat.