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

by Clara Benson

  ‘The doctor will be here very soon,’ said Mr. Morandi as young Vittorio returned with the brandy. ‘Here, drink this and we will go as soon as he arrives. But you cannot go anywhere like this. Now, tell us what happened. What was it? Some sort of fit, perhaps?’

  ‘No,’ said Francis. ‘At least, I don’t think so.’

  Little by little, as the brandy calmed him down, they drew the story out of him. After he had spent the afternoon hunting high and low for his friend without success, it had eventually occurred to him that Christopher might have returned to their little hotel to rest himself. As soon as he had entered the room he had known something was wrong, for Christopher was lying on the bed, quite still and unresponsive. Francis had done all he could to try and revive him, but to no avail, and it was only then that he had noticed the glass by the bedside, the bottle of grappa, which they had bought only the day before, and the little bottle bearing the label ‘Chloral Hydrate.’

  ‘Was it an accident, do you think?’ said Elsa. ‘Does he take sleeping draughts?’

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ said Francis. ‘I didn’t even know he had any of the stuff with him. I can only assume he brought it with him without telling me. Perhaps he meant to—to—’ he broke off.

  Angela exchanged glances with Elsa. Her mind was working furiously. Two suicides in one week? It seemed rather unlikely.

  ‘Why didn’t he tell me?’ said Francis. ‘He hadn’t been himself for a few days—he was very nervy and upset about something, but I never thought he was planning to do anything desperate.’

  ‘Did he say what was upsetting him?’ said Angela.

  ‘No,’ said Francis. ‘That is—perhaps. When he’s having one of his spells he gets worked up about all kinds of things, and even the tiniest little difficulty can set him off. I’m used to it, and normally I don’t listen much as it’s mostly nonsense, and the best thing to do generally is just wait for him to calm down. I do remember that last night he was talking about someone or other and saying that he’d been betrayed, but I just thought it was the usual wild stuff and didn’t really pay much attention.’

  ‘Betrayed?’ said Angela, and again glanced at Elsa. ‘Who betrayed him? Who was he talking about?’

  Francis paused for a second in thought.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I think he was talking about a woman at one point, but I’ve no idea if she was the person who was meant to have betrayed him.’

  ‘Did he have a girl?’ said Elsa. ‘Perhaps he had had a row with her.’

  ‘No,’ said Francis. ‘There was no girl. He’s never been especially interested in that sort of thing as far as I know.’

  ‘Then who was he talking about?’ said Angela.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Francis. He looked about him. ‘Is the doctor here yet? I want to get back to Chris. I shall have to send a telegram to his parents, but what on earth am I to say?’ He stood up. ‘I must go back; there is so much to do.’

  ‘Don’t worry about all that now,’ said Elsa kindly, taking his arm. ‘Gabriele will take care of everything for you. Why don’t you move here for the next few days? You won’t want to stay in the pensione after what’s happened, and I’m sure he can find you a room.’

  It took Angela a second to realize that by ‘Gabriele’ Elsa meant Mr. Morandi, and she had barely any time to digest this new information and raise her eyebrows before the doctor arrived. Mr. Morandi explained the situation briefly and he, the doctor and Francis Butler, who insisted on going, went off to examine the body and begin the formalities, leaving the others to remain and wonder at this latest dreadful event.

  TWENTY

  Elsa was now talking with great animation to Mr. D’Onofrio, who had observed the whole scene with his usual expression of non-committal wariness, and so Angela found herself drifting to the front entrance and gazing after the departing figures of Francis Butler, Mr. Morandi and the doctor, who were now walking briskly out of the front gate. A hundred ideas were revolving through her mind, and she was trying to put them in some kind of order, although they seemed determined to resist.

  Of all the questions that had sprung into her head at once, however, one in particular shouted for attention more loudly than the others, namely: was there any connection between Christopher Tate’s death and that of Raymond Sheridan only a few days earlier? And if so, what was it? Was it too much of a coincidence to suppose it possible that two men had both, within days of each other, decided to commit suicide? It certainly seemed very odd indeed. Taken by itself, of course, Christopher’s death was unlikely to arouse suspicion, for he was known to have suffered nervous problems for years, and while his suicide was a shock, it might not be entirely a surprise to those who knew him well. But coming so hard on the heels of a suicide that had been unexpected—well, that seemed to throw rather a different light on things.

  Angela wandered around the side of the building and into the garden. The ideas continued to whirl through her head and as they did so she thought she began to see a pattern, a possible link between the two events, which would go some way to explaining Christopher’s behaviour over the past few days, although several questions still remained unanswered—and she was still not entirely sure where the Quinns fitted into it all. Dusk had fallen, although it was still very warm, and she stopped to gaze for a few minutes at the brightly-lit terrace, which still rang with chatter and laughter and the clatter of plates. It seemed strange to listen to the sound of people enjoying themselves after what had just happened, although of course they did not know about Christopher—and nor could they be reasonably expected to care about the death of a young man of whom they knew nothing. She turned away, and was absently regarding a statue of a woman, indifferently executed in the Roman style, when she was joined by Edgar Valencourt, who had just arrived.

  ‘You were standing so still I could hardly tell which one of you was the statue,’ he said by way of a greeting, but she did not smile.

  ‘Christopher Tate is dead,’ she said.

  ‘Good God,’ he said, startled. ‘I’m sorry. What happened?’

  ‘It looks like an overdose of chloral hydrate in his drink. Francis found him at his pensione.’

  ‘Was it an accident?’

  ‘Nobody knows yet. The doctor and Mr. Morandi are there now.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Trust Morandi to be in the middle of things as usual, making himself look important.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s quite fair,’ said Angela. ‘He couldn’t have been kinder to Francis, who is quite distraught.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Valencourt with a shrug. His insouciance did nothing to improve Angela’s mood, and in fact only added irritation to the upset she was already feeling at Christopher’s death and her vague sense that she ought to have prevented it somehow. She had no desire to be goaded into a display of temper, however, and so decided to do what she believed she ought to have done from the first, which was to remain politely cool and distant. He evidently wanted to walk with her, and so she clasped her hands together behind her back to discourage him from offering his arm. If he noticed it, he did not mention it.

  ‘Have you had another look at those scraps of paper?’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t seem to have anything in Sheridan’s writing. I was almost certain I’d kept a note or two from him, but I suppose I must have thrown them away, as I couldn’t find them anywhere.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but I dare say it doesn’t matter much any more, since the police are certain to get involved now—and besides, Virginia Sheridan is bound to have something if it turns out to be necessary for the purposes of comparison.’

  ‘Why are the police certain to get involved?’ he said.

  ‘Because I shall see to it that they do,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh, shall you, indeed?’ he said, raising his eyebrows at her tone. ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Why, because the whole thing looks distinctly suspicious now that there’s been another death, of cour
se.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Suppose you explain,’ he said. If he had not noticed the change in her manner before, it was evident enough now, and he glanced at her curiously.

  ‘I’m talking about murder, of course,’ she said. ‘I’d been wondering how it was done, since there were obvious difficulties.’

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Couldn’t whoever it was just have put the stuff in the fellow’s drink when he wasn’t looking?’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about Chris,’ said Angela. ‘I meant Mr. Sheridan. Don’t you see that Chris’s death makes it much more likely that it was murder?’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ he said. ‘Did Chris kill himself or not? Or are you saying that was murder too?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Angela. ‘Given his personality it might have been either.’

  ‘You’re talking in riddles,’ said Valencourt.

  ‘Am I?’ said Angela carelessly. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

  He looked at her curiously again.

  ‘Is something the matter, Angela?’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said, although she knew perfectly well what he meant.

  ‘You seem a little out of sorts,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ she said. ‘At least, no more than one would expect after what has happened this evening.’

  They had now come to a little clearing in among the bushes, at the centre of which an ornamental fountain played merrily, its waters glinting in the light borrowed from a well-illuminated path somewhere nearby. The noise from the terrace was muffled here but still audible, and every so often the sound of passing voices could be heard conversing in many languages.

  Angela paused here as though in thought, and Valencourt tried again.

  ‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘Sheridan was murdered, you say. Do you know who did it?’

  Angela glanced at him sideways, and was suddenly seized by an inexplicable and overwhelming urge to provoke him.

  ‘I do have an idea,’ she replied, ‘but I’m not certain I ought to tell you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I might be wrong, and I don’t want it getting about if I am,’ she said. ‘This is a small place and I don’t want to cause any more trouble than I can help. Rumours of that sort can be very damaging.’

  ‘You don’t think I’d tell anyone, do you?’ he said, then looked at her more closely. ‘You don’t trust me, is that it?’

  The little devil that lurked in Angela’s breast at that moment prodded her onwards.

  ‘Of course I don’t trust you,’ she said coolly. ‘Whatever made you think I did?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said in sudden realization. ‘So now we have it. This is what you really think of me.’

  ‘I thought I’d made it quite clear some time ago what I really think of you,’ she said, and had the perverse satisfaction of seeing his expression change from surprise to momentary anger. He was not the sort, however, to indulge in outbursts of rage, and he merely smiled ironically.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ he said. ‘I forgot. I’m no good—that’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? I’m a wanted criminal who has no right even to show his face in the same town as you. And yet, oddly enough, you’re quite prepared to use me whenever it suits you, and whenever you need any dirty work doing. You’re far too delicate and well-bred to soil your hands yourself, but you’re happy enough to let someone you despise do it for you. Well, at least I’m not a hypocrite. And it all comes out the same in the end, you know. If I’d been caught at the Quinns’ you’d have been just as much to blame as I, as far as the police were concerned. Don’t think you have any right to feel superior.’

  Angela was stung but refused to rise.

  ‘I had a very good reason for asking you to do it, as you know perfectly well,’ she said.

  ‘No you didn’t,’ he retorted. ‘You just took it upon yourself to interfere. You set yourself above everyone, but nobody asked you to be judge and jury, did they? Has it occurred to you that by sticking your nose into the whole business you might have made things worse?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said, taken aback.

  ‘Why, that you’ve created mistrust and suspicion where none existed before,’ he said. ‘A suffering man decides quietly to take his own life—it happens every day and no doubt it’s a tragedy for all his family and friends, but then you come along and start stirring things up with your inquisitiveness, and your questions, and your “are we sure it was suicides?” and your conceited assumptions that you know better than the police. But you’re not as clever as you think you are. You’d never have looked twice at the Quinns had you not been listening to that stupid Ainsley fellow with his ridiculous obsessions. Now the whole town is pointing the finger at them and saying that they’re somehow responsible for Sheridan’s death. Don’t you think you might have had something to do with that? And what about this boy? How do we know that people hadn’t run away with the idea of murder and started accusing him too? Perhaps that’s why he killed himself. Had that occurred to you at all? Can you honestly say that you might not have been partly to blame?’

  Angela heard all this without remark, then raised her head and stared at him haughtily down her nose.

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Valencourt, and goodnight,’ she said with apparent calmness, although she was inwardly furious. She turned to walk away, but Valencourt seized her by the arm and pulled her back around to face him. Now he was angry.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ he said. ‘I’m not letting you run away like a coward. You’ll stay here and fight it out like a man.’

  ‘Fight what out, exactly?’ she said. ‘I am not fighting, whatever you may care to do. However, since we appear to be exchanging uncomfortable truths, I might tell you one or two in return. You seem to be under the impression that there is something praiseworthy about the way you conduct yourself—that there is some sort of honour in your dishonesty. You think that just because you admit to it, you are somehow absolved from responsibility for your actions. You’re not a hypocrite, you say—as though hypocrisy were the worst of crimes, while theft is merely a scrape you occasionally get into without quite meaning to—amusing and waggish and quite forgivable. Well, that’s nonsense, and you know it, so please don’t throw accusations at me when your own conduct bears so little examination. At least I can hold my head up and claim to be a good person, such as I am, but you will always be—what you are.’

  Her tone was deliberately superior and intended to irritate, and although her tongue faltered on the last word she could see that the shot had hit home.

  ‘Damn you, Angela,’ he said furiously. ‘For two straws I’d give you a good shake this minute.’

  He gripped her arm more firmly and seemed inclined to put his words into action, and for a split second she felt a little thrill of fear. She was not yet lost, however. She lifted her chin.

  ‘And how exactly would that make you a better man?’ she said with superb disdain.

  He drew in his breath sharply, then released her arm and stood back.

  ‘You infuriating woman!’ he exclaimed as she turned to leave. ‘You’re as cold as ice. Does nothing ever rattle that maddening self-possession of yours?’

  Perhaps it was something in his tone that spoke directly to her own frustration—she could not tell, but at that moment the last vestiges of all her pretence at calmness disappeared, and before she could stop herself she turned back around to face him.

  ‘You do!’ she cried. He looked startled but was silent, and she went on in desperation, since there was no sense in stopping now, ‘Why can’t you leave me alone, as you promised? You said you’d go away. Why are you still here?’

  Now there was nothing to do. She had given herself away completely and he had won. And yet there was no sign of triumph in his eye.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ he said angrily. ‘I know I ought to have left days ago—in fact if I’d had any
sense at all I’d have decamped the second I set eyes on you, but for some reason all my good sense seems to vanish where you’re concerned, and I don’t mind telling you I don’t like it. I need to keep a clear head, but somehow you’ve got under my skin and I can’t seem to think about anything else or tear myself away, however hard I try. If you must know, I’ve been waiting all week for you to lose patience and turn me in, but you haven’t. Why not?’

  While he spoke he had moved close to her almost unthinkingly and was gazing into her face, demanding an answer.

  ‘Why not?’ he repeated when she did not reply.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered at last, unable to turn her eyes away from his. Her heart was pounding so violently that she was sure he must be able to hear it.

  ‘I think you know very well,’ he said.

  They stared at each other in silence, then with great deliberation he drew her to him, and she did not resist but gave herself up entirely to the moment.

  ‘Look here, this won’t do,’ she said breathlessly after a short interval.

  ‘Then why does it feel so awfully nice?’ he murmured into her hair.

  Angela felt vaguely as though she ought to disentangle herself, but for some reason her arms were refusing to do as her brain instructed.

  ‘You’ve spoilt a perfectly good row,’ she said instead. ‘I’d just thought of a brilliantly devastating retort.’

  ‘We can start it again from the beginning, if you like,’ he said. ‘Who knows how it might end this time?’

  ‘Well, it ought to end with my storming off in a tremendous huff—which, incidentally, is what I still intend to do once you’ve let go of me.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m going to let go of you?’ he said, and gripped her even more tightly to him.

  Another minute passed, after which Angela decided that she really ought to make an effort. One did not trade mortal insults with an enemy only to throw oneself immediately afterwards into his embrace. It made one look embarrassingly weak of purpose, to say the very least. She extricated herself with some difficulty, although he would not let go of her hand and kept it firmly imprisoned in his.