The Imbroglio at the Villa Pozzi (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 6)

by Clara Benson

  Angela smiled and admitted as much.

  ‘He has a bee in his bonnet,’ said Mary. ‘I know what you’re going to say: he always has a bee in his bonnet—and it’s true, he does. But this one is bothering him much more than usual.’

  Since Jonathan Ainsley’s bees tended to take the form of edicts from the Bishop of Gibraltar, against whom he had a whole list of grievances, Angela wondered what she was expected to do. Perhaps the bishop was about to visit and she had been summoned to swell Jonathan’s congregation, which could only be a small one.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re having a problem with spiritualists,’ went on Mary unexpectedly.

  ‘Spiritualists?’ said Angela in surprise. ‘Do you mean fortune-tellers?’

  ‘That’s what Jonathan calls them,’ said Mary, ‘but there’s more to it than that, of course. Mrs. Quinn is a medium—or so she says.’

  ‘Oh, a medium. I see. Yes, I know the sort of thing you mean. They claim to speak to the dead for five shillings. I’ve seen their advertisements in the paper.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Mary. ‘Mrs. Quinn and her daughter conduct séances—you know, with automatic writing and suchlike. They also claim to be clairvoyant. They came to Stresa a few months ago and they have been living here ever since. It’s all nonsense, of course, but Mrs. Quinn is very plausible and seems to have won over some of Jonathan’s congregation, since he has noticed lately that some of his—shall we say less fervent—worshippers have stopped attending church quite so frequently.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Angela.

  ‘Quite,’ said Mary. ‘Of course, he’s terrified that we’ll end up with no congregation at all and the church will have to close, and he’ll be reduced to conducting services at the big hotels in the summer months.’

  ‘Do you think it will come to that?’

  ‘Well, we don’t have a terribly large number of worshippers to start with,’ said Mary, ‘although we do get more at this time of year, naturally, when all the tourists arrive. Unfortunately, Mrs. Quinn has begun placing advertisements in the English newspaper and leaving bills in all the hotels, and Jonathan is convinced that she is winning his flock away from him. She’s a rather charming woman—very pleasant, as a matter of fact—and to tell the truth I think that is partly what annoys Jonathan so much.’

  ‘I can imagine it would,’ said Angela, who could easily see why Jonathan’s somewhat dour, intense manner might put off potential worshippers. ‘Is there nothing he can do to win them back?’

  ‘Naturally he’s doing everything he can,’ said Mary, ‘but the fact is that people come abroad to have fun and forget about being virtuous for a while, and here in the sunshine plain old religion simply can’t compete with the latest thing. Spiritualism is all the rage, and Mrs. Quinn offers it at a very reasonable price. The tourists can get their fill of the immaterial and then go away and enjoy the rest of their holiday without being reminded of their sins.’

  ‘I expect you’re right,’ said Angela. ‘But Mary, why do you need my help?’

  Mary was about to reply when the front door to the apartment opened and in came her husband. Jonathan Ainsley was a slightly-built man with a permanently troubled air about him. His sparse hair and beard were limp and untidy, and he had a nervous habit of rubbing his head frequently. A few years ago he had been a pleasant-looking man, but time and constant worry had not been kind to him, and his face was now lined and sunken. He greeted Angela cheerfully enough, and remarked on how well she looked, but immediately afterwards his frown reappeared and he turned to his wife.

  ‘That woman is doing it again, my dear,’ he said. ‘I’ve been talking to Mrs. Smithson. They are going home next week, you remember, and I just said in passing—pleasantly, of course—that I hoped we should see them in church tomorrow. Well, you simply can’t imagine how she prevaricated. She hummed and hawed and simpered, and said she wasn’t quite sure, but she believed they were booked onto a trip to Milan. Naturally, I didn’t believe a word of it, but didn’t say anything, but then just at that moment Mrs. Quinn walked past and quite brazenly—really, that is the only word for it, brazen—waved and called to Mrs. Smithson that she would see her for their appointment tomorrow morning as agreed.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mary. ‘What did you say to Mrs. Smithson?’

  ‘I confess I was caught so much by surprise that I didn’t say anything at all,’ replied Jonathan. ‘However, I did manage to muster a very disappointed look, and at least she had the grace to look embarrassed. Then she hurried off before I could collect my thoughts enough to give her a kindly lecture.’

  ‘I don’t suppose we’ll see them again, then,’ said Mary regretfully. ‘They go on Wednesday.’

  Jonathan now turned to Angela.

  ‘I dare say Mary has been telling you all about our woes,’ he said, then as Angela assented, went on, ‘This Mrs. Quinn is shameless, absolutely shameless. She is peddling the most egregious and dangerous nonsense to people who really ought to know better than to listen to it—although, of course, many visitors do find the attractions of Italy so seductive that they lose their heads for the duration of their trip, and so they are particularly susceptible to this kind of foolishness.’

  ‘I suppose that’s true,’ said Angela, who was still no clearer in her mind as to what the Ainsleys expected her to do about the problem.

  ‘It most certainly is true,’ said Jonathan. ‘I have been here for several years now, and am ashamed to say that in that time I have seen normally decent English people behaving in the most disgraceful manner, and getting up to things they would not dream of doing at home.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Angela, intrigued. She waited with interest for further details, but Jonathan pursed his lips and went on:

  ‘And now Mrs. Quinn is taking advantage of this temporary loss of sense to induce people to embrace the dark arts—yes, for that is what I will call them, dear,’ he said to his wife, who had been about to speak. ‘They are neither more nor less than dark arts. And of course, as I said, it is all nonsense—why it’s simply absurd to think that one can really summon the spirits of the dead by rapping on a table. The Quinns are committing fraud, and that is the truth of it.’

  ‘I don’t believe in spiritualism myself,’ said Angela, ‘but if they are doing it fraudulently, as you say, then “dark arts” hardly seems to be the most appropriate description for it, since they are not actually calling upon any supernatural forces.’

  ‘They are meddling with things that ought not to be meddled with,’ said Jonathan, who was becoming rather agitated. Mary hastened to intervene.

  ‘Well, dear, Angela is here now, and she’s promised to help,’ she said.

  Angela had done no such thing, but saw that she was about to be driven into a corner and prepared to resign herself to the inevitable.

  ‘What exactly do you want me to do?’ she said.

  ‘Why, expose her, of course,’ said Mary, as though it were obvious.

  ‘But, pardon me, is she actually doing anything illegal?’ said Angela. ‘I am not clear on the law as it relates to mediums and spiritualists—especially here in Italy—but I can only imagine that many of Mrs. Quinn’s clients part willingly with their money in return for the chance to participate in a séance. I don’t suppose half of them really believe that they are about to speak to their dead Uncle Henry or whomever it may be. I have always assumed that most people who pay for the services of a medium treat it as one might a fortune-teller in a fairground—a harmless diversion for an hour or so, but nothing to be taken too seriously.’

  ‘I cannot take the thing as lightly as you do, Angela,’ said Jonathan, ‘but if it were only that I should be less disturbed. However, I firmly believe that Mrs. Quinn is actively defrauding some of her more gullible clients out of their money.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Angela.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jonathan. ‘I have heard indirectly of several instances recently in which people have handed over large amounts of mone
y to the Quinns, or have promised to remember them in a will. I believe Miss Frome, for example, pays Mrs. Quinn regular sums in the form of a retainer for her services, which is simply absurd in my view—but then of course she is terribly rich and has always been rather eccentric in her views on established religion. Then there is Mrs. Rowe, who is quite bedridden. Mrs. Quinn visited her frequently all last winter and, I am sure, made every effort to insinuate herself into the old woman’s confidence. I know of this because Mrs. Rowe’s son came out to visit her a month or so ago, and was most dismayed to find out what had been happening. He came to see me about it and said that his mother was planning to leave Mrs. Quinn a significant amount of money in her will and was there anything he could do about it?’

  ‘If he had cared enough about her to visit her more often himself, then perhaps she wouldn’t have done it in the first place,’ said Mary reasonably.

  ‘True enough,’ said Jonathan, ‘but he is her only son, and surely deserves to have some say in the matter. And then of course there is Raymond Sheridan, who really ought to know better, given that he is not a weak-minded old woman but rather a perfectly sensible man in all other respects.’

  ‘Who is Raymond Sheridan?’ said Angela.

  ‘He lives here in Stresa with his wife,’ said Jonathan. ‘They are a very pleasant couple—he in particular is very friendly and a valuable part of the little English community we have here. They frequently hold large parties and gatherings at their home, and we have benefited from their hospitality many times.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Mary.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ went on Jonathan, ‘he, too, appears to have fallen for the wiles of Mrs. Quinn recently. She has saved him from financial ruin more than once—or that is what he believes, at any rate. On two occasions he happened to mention in passing an investment he was considering, and she warned him against it. Apparently each time she was right, and the company in question went to the bad. He therefore considers himself in her debt.’

  ‘Now that is a useful talent to have, if she really does have it,’ said Angela, ‘although I shouldn’t say it necessarily required any clairvoyant ability. One can often predict these things merely by reading the newspapers with a close eye.’

  ‘A man might, but I doubt a woman could understand complicated financial matters of that sort,’ said Jonathan dismissively.

  As it happened, Mrs. Marchmont lived a very comfortable life thanks to her understanding of complicated financial matters of that sort, but she merely raised her eyebrows a little and did not reply. Instead, she said:

  ‘Then you think all these people have been induced by dishonest means to give Mrs. Quinn money?’

  ‘I’ve no doubt of it,’ said Jonathan. ‘She is a cunning and insinuating woman who has succeeded in charming her way into the confidences of some of the weaker members of our community, and I want her stopped.’

  Angela was becoming a little impatient at Jonathan’s intransigent attitude to what seemed to her a fairly harmless activity. She shook her head and was about to speak but before she could do so she was forestalled by Mary, who saw that her friend was not entirely sympathetic to Jonathan’s cause, and was determined to rescue the situation.

  ‘I know it sounds a little absurd,’ she said in her most persuasive voice, taking Angela’s hand, ‘but we’d—I’d be most grateful if you’d agree to help, Angela. You won’t have to do very much, you know—just make an appointment to sit for Mrs. Quinn and then tell us your impressions afterwards. I’d do it myself, but of course it’s impossible in my position, and you were always so clever at seeing through people. If she’s up to no good then I just know you’ll be able to tell straightaway.’

  ‘But what if there’s nothing to discover?’ said Angela. ‘I dare say she employs various tricks and artifices to create effects during her séances, but that’s hardly proof that she is committing the more serious crimes of which you suspect her, is it? To discover evidence of outright fraud would take more than a half-an-hour appointment, surely? Why, it would require a proper police investigation, and I can’t help you with that.’

  ‘If you don’t discover anything then we’ll consider the matter settled and say no more about it,’ said Mary.

  It was an empty promise, as Angela knew full well, since Jonathan was not one to abandon a perfectly good idée fixe once it had taken hold. She was about to demur again but the sight of Mrs. Ainsley’s careworn face and hopeful expression caused her to hesitate. Mary’s life could not be an easy one, and they had been good friends at one time. And a day or two would not make much difference to her holiday, she supposed. Venice could wait. There was one thing on which she was determined to stand firm, however.

  ‘I had better not stay here with you,’ she said, ‘or everyone will surely suspect what I am about. Is there a decent hotel in Stresa?’

  Mary saw that the game was won.

  ‘I was just thinking the very same thing,’ she replied. ‘Of course you must go to the Hotel del Lago. It’s quite the best one in the place, and all the English people go there, including the Quinns. Mr. Morandi is the owner and he’s the most incorrigible gossip. You’ll easily be able to learn all kinds of things you couldn’t possibly find out if you stayed with us. It’s still early in the season so there are bound to be rooms available.’

  ‘I had better go there, then,’ said Angela. ‘It sounds the very place.’

  ‘Then you’ll do it,’ said Mary, clapping her hands together with pleasure. ‘Thank you, Angela, I’m so glad. You can go to the hotel tomorrow, but you must stay with us tonight. It’s the least we can do after spoiling your holiday.’

  ‘You haven’t spoilt it at all,’ said Angela, and it was not entirely a lie, for although she did not see eye to eye with Jonathan in the case, she had never sat for a medium before, and was in truth rather intrigued by the idea. Besides, she liked the look of Stresa and was keen to see more of it. A day or two of fresh air would be delightful; a much-needed pause for rest and refreshment before she ventured into the close and heady atmosphere of the city once again.

  And so Angela resigned herself to her fate.

  THREE

  As its name suggested, the Hotel del Lago was situated down by the water, and commanded spectacular views of Lake Maggiore itself, as well as of the mountains and villages on the opposite shore at the point where the lake forked, its right-hand branch stretching miles into the distance up to and beyond the Swiss border. The hotel itself was a stately edifice, although not more than about fifty years old, and flaunted its gay grandeur shamelessly, its white-painted façade and flower-bedecked balconies seeming to betoken a state of permanent spring-time. It was pleasant to sit on the hotel terrace in the shade of a striped canopy, idly watching the little boats and the steamers cross to and fro as they ferried their passengers to their various destinations. Thus was Angela occupied, in company with her friend Elsa Peters, the very afternoon after her arrival in Stresa. She had left the Ainsleys’ cramped apartment without much regret that morning, and had secured herself a large, well-appointed room at the hotel. It had a four-posted bed, a lake view and a balcony, all of which pleased her very much, and caused her to reflect that in such comfortable surroundings perhaps a little light detective-work would not be so unpleasant after all. Moreover, she had soon discovered that Mrs. Peters was staying at the same hotel, and the two ladies were now sipping cool drinks and making plans to visit various places in the vicinity, while Angela studiously forgot the fact that she was only meant to be staying for a day or two.

  ‘You can’t go without first seeing the Borromean Islands,’ Elsa was saying. ‘The Isola Bella has the most magnificent terraced gardens. I never come to Stresa without taking a trip out on the lake. Let’s go together, shall we? What about tomorrow? I always love to see people’s faces when they see it for the first time.’

  Angela laughed at Elsa’s enthusiasm and agreed to the proposal.

  ‘Ah, Mrs. Peters, I see you are instru
cting your friend in the beauties of our lago,’ said a voice just then, and the ladies looked up to see a jovial-looking man of middle age and luxuriant moustache standing by their table. He beamed at Elsa and gave a little bow to Angela. ‘Buongiorno signora, I am Morandi, the owner of this hotel, and you are Mrs. Marchmont, yes?’ Angela assented, and he went on, ‘You see, it is my business to know the names of all of my guests—especially the beautiful ladies. The English women are all elegantissime.’

  He said it so sentimentally and was so patently sincere that Angela had to suppress a smile.

  ‘Mr. Morandi knows absolutely everything, and is extremely helpful to us poor, ignorant English tourists,’ said Elsa. ‘He has been most kind to me, too—especially when I came here shortly after my husband died a few years ago. I believe you gave me the best room, although I hadn’t paid for it, didn’t you? Come now, admit it.’

  Mr. Morandi looked about him in exaggerated fashion and put his finger over his lips.

  ‘Quiet!’ he said, ‘Or everyone will think I am not a hard business-man and you will ruin me.’ He beamed again and invited himself to sit down. He and Elsa were evidently old friends, and Angela listened in silence as they gossiped about mutual acquaintances and exchanged news of their families. Mr. Morandi was a widower too, with a son who worked in the hotel restaurant and gave him nothing but worry, being a lazy fannullone. The ladies duly expressed their sympathy and their hopes that young Vittorio would shortly come to his senses and become a useful member of society. Mr. Morandi shrugged expressively and glanced up at the heavens as though to say that the matter was out of his hands.

  ‘Isn’t that Mr. Sheridan?’ said Elsa, who had just spotted someone. Angela looked and saw a well-built, smartly-dressed man of forty-five or so emerging from the hotel onto the terrace. He sat down at a table in the corner and summoned a waiter, then caught sight of Mr. Morandi and held up his hand in salutation.

  ‘I think I’ve heard his name,’ said Angela. ‘Doesn’t he live here?’