Agnes waited patiently through the technical jargon about the difference between the capability of the antique lenses and those in a modern lab. Surreptitiously she checked her watch. The hour they had agreed upon to start the search was approaching. If only dawn would break.
She moved to study the scrap of rotted fabric that the doctor had placed under a different microscope. Her middle son had the makings of scientist. He would be impressed by this home laboratory. Near the microscope the doctor had placed the clear plastic bag containing the ring found with the skeleton. Agnes knew fingerprints weren’t a concern and removed it, curious about the design. The metal was dull gold, and it was heavier than she expected. But then, it was a man’s. The signet portion of the ring was deep green. Bloodstone, she recalled. The crest was elaborate and difficult to make out. She tilted it toward a candle then picked up a small lens brush and used it to dislodge some dirt. When fully revealed, it was a pretty design, a coronet of alternating leaves and pearls in trefoil surmounting a shield surrounded by draping plumes. Her heart beat faster; she rubbed her eyes to clear them.
“I had a suspicion and was able to take a look at our bones,” the doctor finally concluded.
Agnes ignored him, holding the ring almost in the flame of a candle. The carving on even a large signet ring was tiny. She was tired—perhaps imaging things, and needed to be sure. She looked again. She knew this crest. It was at the top right-hand corner of the painting of the marquise that Marie-Chantal had shown her. The painting done on the occasion of the marriage of Antoinette Vallotton to the Marquise de Tornay. The painting decorated by the artist with the crests of both families.
“—had TB,” the doctor said.
Agnes jerked her head up. “Tuberculosis? These bones? The bones of the young woman we found today … I mean yesterday? With this ring?”
“Yes, as I was saying, once I cleaned the bones up a bit I could tell that the surface was pitted. I think it is consistent with what we would find with an advanced case of tuberculosis. Very advanced.”
She slipped the ring back in the plastic bag and fished the diary from her pocket. It was all in here. The young woman ill, tuberculosis. The ring she took as laissez-passer. The ring that would identify her as friend of Madame’s upon arrival in Switzerland. The ring given to her by Madame. Madame la marquise Antoinette Vallotton de Tornay. Citoyen’s wife and Arsov’s friend during the war. A chill swept through Agnes. Why had the marquise said nothing? And why was the love of Arsov’s life buried in unconsecrated ground?
With a hasty word to the doctor she went in search of the person who could answer her questions.
The marquise was seated on her silver chair just as she had been when Agnes first met her. There was a tray of tea and toast on a nearby table. Clearly no one in the household was able to sleep.
“You know whose skeleton we found under that tree.” It wasn’t a question and Agnes didn’t pause for social niceties.
“I wondered how long it would take for you to understand. Only a few hours apparently.” The marquise waved her hand toward the opposite chair but Agnes remained standing. She had little time. She had allowed herself to be distracted by the thefts and wouldn’t be again. Light was breaking and they needed to find Mimi. And she needed to find Felicity Cowell’s murderer. The woman buried under the tree, no matter who she was, could wait. The marquise appeared to read her mood.
“Yes, I believe I know who lays under that tree.”
“She was wearing your ring. She had tuberculosis.”
“The disease was more common in those days.” The marquise smiled softly. “And it was not my ring. It was my late husband’s.”
“She was in love with Monsieur Arsov.” Agnes remembered the young girl writing about Marcel. Writing about Arsov. A young girl who was given a ring before traveling.
“Until yesterday I did not know where she rested. Unbelievable, really, after all these years to find her here.” The marquise shook herself slightly as if waking. “Anne-Marie lived with me during the war. But you clearly know this. And yes, she was ill. Her health failed quickly and we decided to risk the journey to Switzerland. There was some access to medicines even with the borders closed and the population living on subsistence. At a minimum she would be spared the constant fear that we lived with.”