by Clara Benson
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘It’s Virginia.’
She ran downstairs and shortly afterwards returned in company with a slight and delicate-looking woman with dark hair and large, expressive eyes. Virginia Sheridan was some years younger than her husband, and Angela was struck by the contrast between the two, since Raymond Sheridan had reminded her of nothing so much as a bear, whereas his wife was more like a tiny fawn, wide-eyed and frightened. She was carrying a handkerchief and had evidently been weeping, but was now quite composed, although white and ill-looking.
‘Oh, Mary,’ she said. ‘How shall I bear it?’
‘I don’t know, dear,’ said Mary, taking Mrs. Sheridan’s hand in hers. ‘It’s horrid, I know, but you must do the best you can to remain strong. Jonathan and I will be here to help if there’s anything at all you want us to do. I know Jonathan is quite willing to take care of all the dull, difficult stuff if you don’t want to bother yourself with it—you know, death certificates and all the other formalities.’
‘Naturally,’ said Jonathan sincerely. ‘I shall be more than happy to do anything you require, Virginia. We are always here, as you know, day or night. There is no need to trouble yourself with anything you don’t want to.’
‘Oh, how kind you are,’ said Virginia Sheridan. ‘I’m afraid I still haven’t quite got over the shock of all this, and I simply don’t know how I can cope with anything.’
‘But you must look after yourself, dear,’ said Mary. ‘Why, you look positively ill—not well at all. There’s no use in your making yourself sick with worry and grief, you know.’
Mrs. Sheridan held her hands to her face.
‘Yes, I’m afraid I do feel rather sick,’ she said. ‘Travelling disturbs my health even at the best of times, but this whole thing has made me feel quite unwell.’
‘Perhaps you ought to have something to eat,’ suggested Mary. ‘Why don’t you stay to lunch, and then afterwards I shall come with you back to the house and help you unpack—or I can do it while you lie down.’
‘Is—is Raymond still there?’ asked Mrs. Sheridan fearfully.
‘Of course not,’ said Jonathan.
‘Shall I have to identify him? I don’t think I could bear to see him like that.’
‘No, I don’t suppose it will be at all necessary,’ said Mary. ‘I’m sure Jonathan can do it for you. You needn’t trouble yourself at all.’
‘You’re both so kind,’ said Mrs. Sheridan with a wan smile, then her face crumpled and she exclaimed, ‘Oh, how dreadful it all is! I feel as though I’m in the middle of the most awful dream, and I expect to wake up at any moment, but it’s not a dream at all, is it? And it’s all my fault!’
‘Of course it’s not,’ said Mary. ‘How can it be your fault? You weren’t even here.’
‘But that’s just it, isn’t it?’ said Mrs. Sheridan. ‘I never ought to have left him. I knew at the time it was a mistake, but we’d had a silly row—I can’t remember who started it—and I was furious with him. I know one oughtn’t to let the sun go down on one’s anger, but I did just that, and I’d been promising to visit my sister for ages, so I packed my bags and went back to England without speaking to him again. As soon as I got there I regretted it and wanted to make it up, but it’s difficult to do that from hundreds of miles away, and my sister wasn’t well, and so I comforted myself with the thought that he’d have forgotten it by the time I got back. But he didn’t, did he? He must have thought I’d left for good, and now I shall never be able to forgive myself.’
She put the handkerchief to her eyes and gave a sob.
‘Did he ever give you the impression he was planning something of the sort?’ said Angela gently.
‘No—yes—I don’t know,’ replied Mrs. Sheridan. ‘He was always a little prone to depression, but he always came out of it quickly and I swear I never dreamed he’d do something like this. Of course I should never have left him if I had. Poor, darling Raymond. He died alone and it was all my fault. Oh, it’s too much! Mary, I’m going to be sick!’
Mary gave an exclamation of concern and ran to fetch a cold cloth, and after a minute or two’s application of that to the face and wrists, followed by several sips of water and a dry biscuit, the sickness receded and Mrs. Sheridan declared she felt much better.
‘I was just being silly, I’m afraid,’ she said ruefully, ‘but it won’t do, will it? I must exert myself for Raymond’s sake.’
Angela had been observing the scene with interest in view of what she had already heard about Raymond Sheridan’s wife, and decided that she rather agreed with Edgar Valencourt’s assessment, having seen how neatly Mrs. Sheridan had convinced the Ainsleys, within five minutes of her arrival, to volunteer to take over all the unpleasant tasks associated with her husband’s death for her.
Mary brought some more biscuits for Mrs. Sheridan, and while she was doing so the bell rang and Jack Lomax arrived.
‘Hallo, Virginia,’ he said gruffly. ‘Just came to say how terribly sorry I am about all this. Dreadful business, I say. Can’t tell you how much I regret it.’
‘Oh, how kind of you, Jack,’ said Mrs. Sheridan. ‘It wasn’t you who found him, was it?’
‘No. It was Mrs. Marchmont, I believe,’ he said, nodding towards Angela.
‘You poor thing!’ exclaimed Mrs. Sheridan to Angela. ‘It must have been the most awful shock for you.’
‘Don’t mind me,’ said Angela. ‘I’m quite all right. It’s you I am more concerned about.’
‘Did—anybody see him before he died?’ said Mrs. Sheridan.
‘I saw him the night before he was found,’ said Lomax.
‘Oh!’ said Mrs. Sheridan, and looked at him as though wanting to know more.
‘He was rather down,’ said Lomax.
‘I see,’ said Mrs. Sheridan, still waiting.
‘I’m afraid he mentioned that you’d had a row,’ he said in a rush at last. ‘He thought you’d gone for good. He was unhappy, but I never really expected him to do what he did. I thought it was just words. People say that sort of thing every day.’
‘What sort of thing?’ said Mrs. Sheridan.
Lomax shifted uncomfortably.
‘He said something about life not being worth living any more,’ he said at last. ‘Never took him seriously, though. I ought to have stayed. All my fault.’
‘Oh, don’t say that, Jack!’ cried Mrs. Sheridan. ‘You couldn’t have known.’
Lomax shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, Virginia,’ he said.
While this exchange was going on, Angela had the oddest feeling that Jack Lomax disliked Virginia Sheridan. She did not have much to go on, but she noticed that Lomax avoided Mrs. Sheridan’s eyes when she was looking at him, and that when she turned away he regarded her with a mixture of fascination and fear, as a small animal might stare mesmerized at a large and hungry predator. Virginia now put her hand on his arm and Angela noticed that he looked deeply uncomfortable and shrank away. Lomax stood to take his leave and Mrs. Sheridan said:
‘I’ll come with you. I must get home now, as there’s such a lot to see to.’
He looked as though he would like to object but said nothing and merely waited politely.
‘Shall I come up to the house later?’ said Mary. ‘I can help with your things.’
‘Oh, yes please, Mary, that’s terribly kind of you,’ said Mrs. Sheridan, and she and Jack Lomax left together, followed shortly by Jonathan.
‘Doesn’t Mr. Lomax like Mrs. Sheridan?’ said Angela as soon as they had gone.
‘Why, it’s funny you should say that, because I’ve often thought it myself,’ said Mary. ‘I don’t think he does like her much, no.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not sure,’ replied Mary. ‘You know he doesn’t talk a lot, but I get the impression he thinks she was bad for Raymond. She does require a lot of attention, as you may have noticed.’
‘I had, rather,’ admitted Angela.
‘Well, som
e people are better at dealing with things than others,’ said Mary. ‘Virginia is one of those types who need a lot of help.’
‘And she seems to get it, too,’ said Angela.
‘She has just lost her husband, of course,’ said Mary. ‘It’s only right that one’s friends should rally round in circumstances such as these. I shall go along to the house in a little while and see what I can do. Oh dear—I do hope she’s going to be all right.’
Mary had things to do and so shortly afterwards Angela left and walked slowly back to the hotel, thinking about the events of that morning and in particular Jonathan’s theory that the Quinns had been responsible for driving Mr. Sheridan to suicide. It was an extraordinary theory, certainly, but Angela knew little about hypnotism and so had no idea whether or not it was feasible. From what she had heard of the art, she seemed to remember that a hypnotized subject might be induced to do things he would not normally be inclined to do in the wakened state—but whether that extended to killing himself she could not tell; it seemed unlikely to her that a subject could be persuaded to act against his own safety. Furthermore, in this particular case, the theory did not satisfactorily explain the matter of Raymond Sheridan’s shoe-laces. Why had he left the house without first fastening his shoes and his jacket? Had it been only one shoe-lace then that might be easily explained by its having come undone on the walk down to the summer-house. But for two to come loose in that short distance? From what Angela had observed of Mr. Sheridan, who had struck her as fastidious in all matters of dress, it seemed most unlike him.
She arrived back at the hotel and went in to lunch, idly wondering what was required to institute a post-mortem investigation on a dead body in Italy. Ought she to speak to Mr. D’Onofrio again? But he already knew as much as she did about the manner of Mr. Sheridan’s death, and he had made no mention of such an investigation, and of course it was none of her business anyway: she could not simply start making demands of the local police or instructing them as to how to conduct their inquiries. No—she would leave well alone and allow Mr. D’Onofrio to act as he saw fit, and in the meantime she would carry on with her holiday.
And yet the nagging doubt remained there in her mind.
FOURTEEN
Elsa had gone to Lugano for the day and so Angela lunched alone. Afterwards she fell into conversation with Mr. Morandi, who could always be relied upon to be fully apprised of all the latest gossip. As she had expected, he had heard the rumour about the Quinns’ supposed inheritance, but to her surprise he explained that he had heard it from the Quinns themselves, who had been most indignant about the stories that had been circulating about them and had gone straight to Mr. Morandi himself, rightly supposing him to be the quickest conduit through which to quash the rumours.
‘Mrs. Quinn was very upset when she heard it,’ he said. ‘She says it is a dreadful calumny and that if Mr. Sheridan did leave her some money then she knows nothing of it.’
‘Why is it a calumny?’ said Angela. ‘Does she mean that people are suggesting there may have been foul play in some sense?’
Mr. Morandi lowered his voice.
‘There have been suggestions that all is not—how do you say?—above the board,’ he said.
‘But what are they meant to have done?’
He shrugged.
‘If I told you half the things I have heard about Mrs. and Miss Quinn in the past two days you would be shocked. And then you would look at the Quinns and say to yourself, “No, this is absurd, and the people who spread rumours are very stupid. I shall listen no more.” That is what I have done.’
He then went off, and Angela was left with a burning curiosity to know exactly what stories had been going around. If even Mr. Morandi was refusing to pass on the rumours, then they must indeed be preposterous ones.
It was another fine, sunny day and as she had been sitting down all morning she decided to take a walk along the lake-front in the direction away from the town. The sun was sparkling off the surface of the water and the landing-stage was busy with day-trippers, tourists and boatmen getting into and out of the various pleasure-craft which plied their trade on the lake, and Angela stopped to watch for a moment, tempted to join them and spend the afternoon on the water. She decided against it, however, and continued her walk. A little farther along, away from the hotels, the front was quieter, and here Angela found Jack Lomax with his two pupils, who were taking advantage of the favourable light to paint the lake from an unaccustomed angle. Angela was a little surprised that Lomax felt capable of working so soon after the death of his friend—and indeed he had an air of preoccupation about him—but then she reflected that for such a dedicated artist perhaps painting was a means for him to forget his troubles for a little while.
‘I hope you’re feeling better now,’ said Angela to Christopher Tate, after she had duly examined and admired their work. ‘I understand you haven’t been well.’
‘Yes, thanks, I’m perfectly recovered,’ he said. ‘It was the weather, you know—that sort of heavy humidity has never agreed with me, and it always gives me the most ghastly headache, but it’s quite passed now, thank goodness!’
Angela looked at him and wondered whether Christopher could possibly be telling the truth, for to her he still looked very ill. His face was white and drawn, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He fidgeted continually as he talked and at one point nearly knocked over a water jar full of brushes. As he painted he darted frequent glances at Jack Lomax, who was abstracted and did not seem to have noticed. The hero-worship was still in evidence, but it seemed to have grown even more intense in the past few days. Angela watched as Lomax praised some aspect of Francis’s painting, and saw that Christopher’s face immediately fell and became disconsolate. Lomax seemed to have noticed it too, for soon afterwards he came over to look at Christopher’s painting and remarked upon its fine brush-work. Christopher seemed relieved, which struck Angela as an odd reaction. Perhaps he had blotted his copy-book in some way and was attempting to win back Lomax’s favour.
She saluted them and walked on, and soon came to the gates of the Villa Pozzi. There she stopped and glanced up the drive. A little way ahead was the summer-house, and she gazed at it thoughtfully, trying to bring to mind anything she might have forgotten about the events of Wednesday afternoon. After a few moments she shook her head impatiently and was preparing to pass on when she heard a voice calling her name and saw Mary Ainsley and Virginia Sheridan walking arm-in-arm down the drive towards her.
‘Mary has been helping me to unpack,’ explained Mrs. Sheridan, ‘but the house is so gloomy and stuffy that I simply couldn’t bear to spend another moment there and I had to get outside or I thought I should burst.’
Angela regarded Mrs. Sheridan sympathetically. She looked a little better than she had that morning, with slightly more colour in her cheeks, although she still clung to Mary like a child.
‘Virginia was just saying she thinks she might have to sell the place,’ said Mary. ‘I can’t say I blame her, after what’s happened.’
‘No,’ said Mrs. Sheridan. ‘It’s such an awfully big house for one person, and I can’t possibly manage the gardens by myself. Oh, dear, and they were Raymond’s pride and joy.’
Two large tears appeared in the corners of her eyes, and she fumbled for a handkerchief.
‘No, I promised I wouldn’t be like this,’ she said after a moment or two. ‘I must think about practical things, mustn’t I, Mary?’
‘That’s probably the best idea,’ replied Mrs. Ainsley. ‘It will help take your mind off what’s happened. Oh, by the way, Angela, I do wish we hadn’t mentioned anything to Jonathan this morning about the Quinns. I think he is going to be quite impossible on the subject.’
‘Really?’ said Angela. ‘In what way?’
‘Why, he’s fastened onto this silly hypnotism idea, of course. He was silent all through lunch, and then quite suddenly came out and asked me if I’d ever felt myself feeling sleepy while talking to Mr
s. Quinn, and had I ever thought they might be trying to persuade me to do something against my will? Naturally, I gave him my best snort and told him in no uncertain terms that he ought to forget about the Quinns and start concentrating on his worshippers, in case he lost them altogether, but I don’t think he was listening. He went out and said he was going to visit Mrs. Rowe.’
‘Is Mrs. Rowe the woman who was supposed to be planning to include the Quinns in her will?’ said Angela. ‘The one whose son wasn’t happy about it?’
‘Yes, that’s the one,’ said Mary. ‘I dare say Jonathan is haranguing her at this very moment, trying to get her to admit that she was hypnotized into it. Poor woman. And she walks with sticks so she can’t even run away.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Angela, trying not to laugh at Mary’s rueful face, since she saw that her friend was genuinely worried.
‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘I am rather worried that he’s going to cause trouble. I’ve told him that it’s unchristian to spread rumours, but he’s adamant that it doesn’t apply in the case of the Quinns, since they are as good as criminals and he is doing a good turn to society in warning people against them.’
‘I don’t think he’s the only one, though,’ said Angela. ‘I was speaking to Mr. Morandi earlier and he said he had heard a lot of silly rumours about them. He wouldn’t tell me what they were, but I gather there has been a lot of talk in the town over the past couple of days. It looks as though the Quinns are under rather a cloud of suspicion at present.’
‘Poor things,’ said Mary. ‘Even if they aren’t quite the thing I don’t suppose for a moment they had anything to do with what happened to Raymond, but once a rumour takes hold there is no quashing it.’
Virginia Sheridan had been listening to all this with astonishment.
‘Do you mean to say that people think the Quinns had something to do with Raymond’s death?’ she said. ‘How are they meant to have done it?’
Reluctantly, Mary told her about the hypnotism theory and she opened her eyes wide.