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

by Clara Benson

  ‘Don’t feel like that,’ he said. ‘I felt a bit like panicking myself. One doesn’t expect to bump into a dead body when one takes shelter from the rain.’

  ‘Is that what you were doing?’

  ‘Of course. It was coming down in buckets and I didn’t especially want to take a bath. Why, what did you think I was doing? Skulking about, waiting to entrap my next victim, having dispatched Sheridan by hanging him from the ceiling? What do you take me for? He’d be far too heavy for me to lift, for a start.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Angela, who was not entirely certain what she had meant by her question. ‘I was just surprised to see you, that’s all. I thought you’d gone.’

  ‘I am going. But I was meant to be meeting Sheridan on Friday and I was going up to the house to tell him I shouldn’t be able to come.’

  ‘Were you friends?’ said Angela. She had not supposed a man such as Edgar Valencourt would have friends.

  He shrugged.

  ‘Not close friends, but in the sense that all the English people here are friends with one another, yes, we were.’ He saw her look and smiled wryly. ‘I live a perfectly respectable life much of the time, you know. One can’t always be running.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ she said, eyeing him over the rim of her glass. She wanted to know more but would not ask.

  ‘And you’d better stop looking at me like that,’ he said, ‘or before I know it I shall find myself giving away all my secrets, and that would never do.’

  She shook her head and looked away.

  ‘I wonder why he did it,’ she said after a pause. ‘Killed himself, I mean. He seemed so cheerful and content when I was talking to him the other night.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘I don’t know. He talked about the gardens at the house, I do remember that. He was very enthusiastic and mentioned a delivery of rare plants that he was expecting soon, although I couldn’t tell you what they were. And then we talked about Mrs. Quinn and he was telling me all about how she had saved him twice from financial ruin, and then—oh!’ She paused.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Valencourt.

  ‘I’ve just remembered something else he said,’ said Angela. ‘He told me that Miss Quinn had warned him several times that he was in danger.’ She paused again as her mind darted back to the events of that morning. ‘How very odd. I wonder if that’s what she saw today.’

  ‘What do you mean? What who saw today?’

  ‘Miss Quinn,’ said Angela. ‘Elsa and I sat for them both this morning. We did automatic writing and Mrs. Quinn read my cards.’

  ‘And did you manage to speak to your—er—husband?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, of course I didn’t,’ she replied. ‘But something rather strange happened while we were there. Miss Quinn had a funny turn which Mrs. Quinn claimed was a vision, and when she came to she seemed to think something dreadful had happened. She kept saying, “Too late! Too late!” and asking why she hadn’t been able to help him. I wonder whether she mightn’t have meant Mr. Sheridan.’

  He looked sceptical.

  ‘You don’t really believe in all that stuff, do you?’ he said.

  ‘Not really,’ said Angela. ‘But you must admit it’s rather odd.’

  ‘I expect she put it on just to impress you,’ said Valencourt.

  ‘Perhaps she did,’ said Angela. ‘The automatic writing didn’t go terribly well, and perhaps they wanted to convince us they really are in communication with the spirit world.’

  ‘Then I should advise them to try harder,’ said Valencourt.

  ‘What would it take to convince you?’ said Angela curiously.

  ‘Why, I don’t think anything could,’ he said. ‘Unless—’ he stopped, and did not finish the sentence. ‘No,’ he went on, ‘I think it’s fair to say that I am unassailable in my disbelief.’

  Something had just occurred to Angela.

  ‘Who is going to tell Mr. Sheridan’s wife?’ she said. ‘I understand she is in England at present. Someone will have to let her know what has happened to her husband. I should hate to be the one to have to tell her, poor thing. I imagine it will come as an awful shock.’

  ‘I dare say it will,’ said Valencourt.

  ‘Do you know her?’ said Angela. ‘What is she like?’

  ‘She’s a pleasant enough woman,’ he replied. Something about the way he said it caught her attention, and she glanced up.

  ‘You don’t like her, do you?’ she said.

  ‘I have nothing against her at all,’ he said. ‘But no, Mrs. Marchmont, in answer to your impertinently direct question, I don’t think much of her.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because she won’t do a thing for herself,’ he said. ‘She’s one of these wide-eyed, clingy types who can’t seem to set foot out of doors without someone to help her—usually a man. And now you’ve got that much out of me, I shall say no more. I’m supposed to be behaving myself, and talking ill of dead men’s wives is hardly charitable.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Angela, ‘but I promise I won’t hold you to account for it, since I’m the one who forced it out of you.’ She looked down at her glass. ‘Do you think the police will have to be told?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘I think perhaps I ought to speak to Mr. D’Onofrio about it,’ she said tentatively.

  ‘Do whatever you think best,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure you’ll excuse me if I keep well out of it.’

  ‘I thought you said you had an arrangement with him.’

  ‘I do,’ he replied, ‘but it requires me to keep away from him as much as possible and not cause him any more trouble than I can help. I’m not sure where mysterious suicides come into it, but I don’t particularly want to spoil things by finding out.’

  ‘No,’ said Angela. ‘Still, it oughtn’t to be too much of a problem for you, since you were leaving anyway.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, throwing her an odd look. ‘Are you feeling better now? Then I should advise you to go and change out of that frock before you catch your death of cold.’

  The evening sun was so warm that her dress was now quite dry, but she was hardly looking her best and so she went off to do as he suggested. Back in her room, as she combed her hair, she thought back to their encounter in the summer-house, and about the feeling of menace that had almost overwhelmed her, and shivered involuntarily. Where had the sensation come from? Had it simply been caused by the grisly discovery she had made, or was there something more to it than that? She tried to put out of her mind the thought that had shot immediately into her head when she first ran into the summer-house and discovered Valencourt there with Mr. Sheridan’s body, but it was no good: there was no getting away from it. He had even joked about it afterwards. Angela stopped what she was doing and stared at herself in the glass, her thoughts anything but reassuring.

  ELEVEN

  Naturally, the news of Raymond Sheridan’s sudden and tragic death spread around the Hotel del Lago like wildfire, and by dinner-time it seemed that there was not a person in the place who had not heard about it. Everyone knew, too, that Mrs. Marchmont had been the one to find him, and Angela was forced to fend off any number of attempts—both veiled and open—to get the story out of her. To all inquirers she merely said yes, she had been the one to find the body, but she preferred not to speak of it as it had been rather upsetting. Nobody seemed to be aware that someone else had got there before her, and Angela to her annoyance once more found herself in the position of having to keep silent on behalf of Valencourt, who unlike herself could presumably go about his business in peace without having to answer ghoulish questions about what a dead body looked like.

  Fortunately for her, Mr. Morandi returned shortly after dinner and came to join her and Elsa at their table, and he was able to take over the disagreeable business of answering inquiries. Of course, Angela and Elsa were full of their own questions, and Mr. Morandi was more than happy to answ
er them. He said that between them, he and the doctor had managed to get Mr. Sheridan down, and that the doctor had now taken the body away for examination.

  ‘What did the doctor say about it?’ said Elsa. ‘Presumably it was suicide?’

  ‘Yes, I think there is no doubt that he died by his own hand,’ said Mr. Morandi. ‘There seems to be no other explanation.’

  ‘But why?’ said Angela. ‘Was there a note?’

  ‘Not one that we could find,’ said Morandi. ‘You did not find one yourself in the summer-house, I suppose?’

  Angela shook her head.

  ‘We looked in the principal rooms of the house,’ he went on. ‘His bedroom, for example, and the salone, and all the other places where one might expect to find one, but we found nothing.’

  ‘Not all suicides leave a note,’ observed Elsa. ‘It might have been quite a spur of the moment thing.’

  ‘When did he do it?’ said Angela. ‘Those women we saw at the house—when did they last see him?’

  ‘He spoke to them yesterday afternoon, to give them instructions about the picnic,’ said Mr. Morandi. ‘They expected him to speak to them again today, but he did not, and so they merely carried on with what they had been told to do. Of course, I asked them whether they had noticed anything unusual about Mr. Sheridan’s manner—was he angry or depressed, for example?—but they are not the most observant of women and they could tell me nothing.’

  ‘And what about the other servants?’ said Angela. ‘Have you spoken to them?’

  ‘The Sheridans do not keep a large number of servants at the house,’ said Mr. Morandi. ‘Most of the people they employ live out and we have not seen them yet.’

  ‘I see,’ said Angela. ‘Then we have no way of knowing anything about Mr. Sheridan’s state of mind in the hours leading up to the event. That’s a pity.’

  ‘Has Mrs. Sheridan been informed?’ asked Elsa.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr. Morandi soberly. ‘I telegraphed her myself and she will be here as soon as she can.’

  ‘Poor woman,’ said Elsa. ‘What a thing to return to.’

  Just then the Ainsleys turned up. The rumour had evidently arrived in town and they had hurried back to the hotel to ascertain its veracity or otherwise. When assured of the truth of the matter, they sat down, looking appalled.

  ‘And to think that while we were waiting for him the poor thing was there all the time in the summer-house!’ said Mary. ‘If only we’d gone there sooner—he might have been still alive then and perhaps we could have prevented it in some way.’

  ‘Do not distress yourself,’ said Mr. Morandi. ‘I think there is nothing any of us could have done. Once someone has resolved to do a dreadful thing such as this then they will always find a way of doing it.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Mary. ‘But to die like that! Angela, you poor darling, it must have been such a shock. Are you quite all right?’ Angela assured her that she was, and Mary went on, ‘But someone said Mr. Smart was there too. What was he doing?’

  ‘Taking shelter from the rain, apparently,’ said Elsa. ‘It was rather a deluge.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jonathan. ‘Unfortunately it got in through the window of my office and ruined the notes for this week’s sermon. I shall have to begin again—or perhaps I shall rewrite it and take the opportunity to tell the story of the Flood instead.’

  ‘I think something about turning to God in times of despair might be more appropriate, in view of what’s happened,’ said Mary soberly.

  They left shortly afterwards, and Elsa and Angela decided to remove outside to the terrace since it had turned out to be a beautiful evening, while Mr. Morandi bustled off to see to business.

  ‘Look, it’s the Quinns,’ said Elsa suddenly, as she caught sight of Mrs. and Miss Quinn sitting at a little table apart, conversing earnestly in low voices. ‘Why, it was only this morning that we were holding that silly séance, but what a lot has happened since then! Do you think we ought to give it another try? We still haven’t talked to the dead, and we invented such a beautiful husband for you it seems a shame to waste him.’

  Angela looked across at the Quinns. Mrs. Quinn had a serious expression on her face which was quite unlike her, while Asphodel was looking as pale and gloomy as ever. As she watched, they stood up and walked down the terrace steps and into the garden, presumably on their way home.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Angela to Elsa, then jumped up and ran after them. She had remembered Miss Quinn’s supposed vision of that morning and was curious to know more about it.

  ‘Oh, Mrs. Marchmont,’ said Mrs. Quinn in her usual manner as she saw Angela. ‘Isn’t it a pleasant evening after all that horrid rain?’

  Angela did not reply, but said to Asphodel, ‘Miss Quinn, what exactly did you see this morning in my room?’

  Miss Quinn and her mother glanced at each other and hesitated, and Angela went on, ‘I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to be quite so blunt, but you’ve no doubt heard about what happened this afternoon at the Villa Pozzi, and I just wondered whether there was any connection between your vision and—what I found.’

  It sounded ridiculous even to her own ears, but the Quinns did not seem at all surprised at her question.

  ‘I knew something had happened,’ said Miss Quinn, ignoring her mother’s warning glance. ‘I knew he was—’ she stopped, unable to go on.

  ‘You knew he was dead?’ said Angela gently.

  Asphodel looked down at the ground and gave the tiniest of nods.

  ‘I couldn’t see where, or how, but I knew it,’ she said. ‘And it was all my fault, too. I ought to have done more to try and save him. He might still be alive now had I known what to do.’

  ‘You couldn’t have done anything,’ said Mrs. Quinn.

  ‘It’s all because of Mrs. Sheridan,’ said Miss Quinn suddenly. ‘I told you I foresaw trouble, didn’t I? And I was right. I only wish I’d known how to put a stop to it before it happened.’

  ‘Now, there’s nothing you can do for those who are bent on self-destruction,’ said Mrs. Quinn. ‘I’ve told you before you can only show the way. If people choose to ignore you then that’s their own affair.’

  ‘But it is my fault,’ said Miss Quinn miserably. ‘I sent that letter, and you were right—it only irritated him. I ought to have spoken to him in person instead. Perhaps I might have shown him the danger that lay ahead.’

  ‘Hush,’ said Mrs. Quinn. ‘It’s too late now, and least said’s soonest mended. You must try and forget that it ever happened. You can’t live other people’s lives for them. I’m only sorry it’s come to this, but it’s best you learn it sooner rather than later or you’ll go through life in agony. Now, let’s go home.’

  They went off and Angela returned to her seat to muse on this most interesting and cryptic conversation. Elsa was as mystified as she was, and they spent a few minutes speculating discreetly as to what Mrs. Sheridan might have done to cause her husband to take his own life, but soon gave it up, feeling a little guilty.

  Shortly afterwards they were joined by Francis Butler who was alone for once, since his friend was not well and had gone back to their little pensione with the intention of having an early night.

  ‘Nothing too serious, I hope?’ said Angela.

  ‘Oh, no, nothing that a little bed-rest won’t cure,’ he replied. ‘I don’t suppose Chris told you, but he came abroad to recover from what I suppose one might call a nervous illness.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Elsa in concern. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Francis. ‘We’ve been friends since childhood, you know, and he was always pretty highly strung even as a boy, but he had a complete nervous collapse a few months ago, poor fellow, and his parents sent him out here for some sunshine and warm weather, with me to look after him. He’d been doing very well, but he went out this morning and came back upset about something or other, and then the thunderstorm this afternoon set off one of his headaches, and after that we heard the news about
Mr. Sheridan, which I don’t suppose helped either. I dare say he’ll be as right as rain tomorrow, though.’

  ‘How did Mr. Lomax take the news?’ said Angela. ‘I understand he was a close friend of Mr. Sheridan’s.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Francis. ‘Truth to tell I don’t even know whether he’s heard, as when the rain started we had to stop work, of course. He went off somewhere and I haven’t seen him since. I expect he’ll be pretty cut up about it when he finds out.’

  ‘I should imagine that he more than anyone will know about Mr. Sheridan’s state of mind before he died,’ said Elsa. ‘It doesn’t look as though there was a note, you see.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Francis. ‘Well, then, I think you’re probably right. As a matter of fact, I do seem to remember his saying something about dropping in on Sheridan on his way home last night, after our attempts to paint the sunset were so rudely interrupted by the rain. Perhaps he noticed something then.’

  Angela nodded but was only half-listening, for she had just spotted Edgar Valencourt standing in the garden in close conference with the woman who called herself La Duchessa. Out of the corner of her eye Angela watched as La Duchessa appeared to discourse at length, with many gesticulations. Valencourt glanced around and then replied. As far as Angela could tell, he seemed to be suggesting that he and the woman go somewhere less public to continue their conversation. La Duchessa smiled the smile of a woman who was very pleased with herself indeed, then took his arm and they walked away until they were quite out of sight.

  After that little scene she might have wasted the rest of the evening in useless speculation, but fortunately for her Jack Lomax just then turned up. His jaw was set even more firmly than usual and he seemed even less likely than usual to talk unless forced to, but it was evident from the haunted look in his eye and the sympathetic clucks of Mr. Morandi, who was with him, that he had heard the news.

  ‘I saw him yesterday evening,’ he said at length, after some gentle pressing, ‘and he was perfectly well then—physically, at least.’