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

by Clara Benson

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Angela. ‘There’s not a lot can be done until the results of the post-mortem examination come back, and even then there may be no evidence to connect Mr. Lomax with the deaths.’

  ‘I almost hope there isn’t,’ said Asphodel.

  ‘But then the rumours will continue to circulate and you will probably have to leave,’ said Angela. She looked at Miss Quinn’s stricken face. ‘None of this was your fault, you know,’ she said gently. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself.’

  ‘I only wish I could see things as you do,’ said Miss Quinn sadly.

  Angela had no further reassurance to give. She took her leave and wandered slowly along the lake-front. What a mess the whole thing was turning out to be, she thought, and wondered whether the situation would ever be resolved. She was very much afraid that Miss Quinn was right in thinking that only half the story—at most—would ever come out.

  The sky was still overcast but it did not look like rain, and since Angela did not feel like mingling with the crowds but rather preferred to wander alone, she passed the Hotel del Lago and continued along as far as the Villa Pozzi. Without thinking much she drifted through the gates and wandered up the drive as far as the summer-house, where she stopped. The door was unlocked and she opened it, although she did not go inside but merely stood in the doorway and glanced around the dim room. Everything had been put back in order and the place was perfectly tidy. There was no sign of the dreadful events that had taken place only a few days ago: no overturned chair, no rope hanging from a beam—nothing to say that anything out of the ordinary had occurred.

  Angela gazed about her, trying to picture what must have happened on Wednesday morning before the picnickers had arrived. Or had it perhaps all taken place on Tuesday night? No, it must have been Wednesday morning—yes, of course it was, thought Angela, suddenly recalling something Francis Butler had said on the evening after Mr. Sheridan had been discovered. According to Francis, Chris had gone out on Wednesday morning and come back upset about something, and then shortly after that had been struck down with one of his nervous attacks. That must be when it had all happened, then. On Wednesday morning Jack Lomax and Christopher Tate had carried the body of Raymond Sheridan down to the summer-house, lifted him up and suspended him by the neck from the ceiling. Even with two of them it must have been immensely hard work, but she supposed that urgency must have given them strength. But how had Lomax persuaded Chris to help him? Or was Chris himself somehow mixed up in Mr. Sheridan’s death? There was no connection between the two and it did not seem likely. But Chris was dead now, and could not answer the question, and the only person who could answer it was unlikely to speak.

  After some minutes spent in meditation, Angela roused herself and found that it was later than she had thought. Then she remembered that Jonathan and Mary would be expecting her at church for the evening service, since she had missed the morning one, and if she did not hurry she would be late. After the events of the past few days perhaps a little spiritual edification would do her some good, she reflected, as she shut the door of the summer-house and set off briskly back down the drive.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Despite her best efforts, Angela arrived late for church. She slipped through the door during the first hymn, found a spot at the end of a pew and glanced about her. The place was fuller than she had expected, and for a second she wondered why Jonathan had been making such a fuss, since it seemed a perfectly respectable turnout to her; then it occurred to her that perhaps people had heard about the deaths of Raymond Sheridan and Christopher Tate, and had come to church in the hope of getting some thrilling gossip. Jonathan Ainsley was in his element, and looked particularly pleased at the size of his congregation. Angela watched as he exchanged smiles with his wife, who was sitting near the front.

  The hymn ended and the service began, and if those present were hoping for some interesting news they were disappointed, for apart from a single brief mention of the two tragic losses suffered in Stresa that week, followed by a short prayer to help the dead men on their way, Jonathan made no mention of Mr. Sheridan or Christopher Tate, but instead launched into his rewritten sermon, of which the original had been ruined during Wednesday’s storm. In spite of her reservations about Jonathan, Angela could not help but be impressed with his abilities, for he spoke well and sincerely and with a strong sense of purpose, and for perhaps the first time she felt she was seeing him at his best.

  The service came to an end and the congregation filed out. Angela stood out of the way to let people past, since she intended to wait for Mary, who had just gone into the little vestry. As she did so, she noticed to her surprise a lone figure still sitting on the end of a pew at the back of the church, his head in his hands. It was Jack Lomax. Without stopping to think, she approached him. He glanced up as he heard her coming, and she was shocked at the change in him, for his once-handsome face was sunken and drawn and his eyes were hollow. He looked as though he had not slept in days.

  Angela stopped in front of him, and they regarded each other for a moment. He looked as though he were waiting for something.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ said Angela.

  He showed no surprise at her question, but turned his eyes away and looked straight ahead.

  ‘Which one?’ he said. ‘Raymond, you mean? It was an accident. Never meant to kill him.’

  ‘Did you drug him with something?’ said Angela.

  ‘He said he was having trouble sleeping since she’d left him,’ he said. ‘I told him I’d the very thing. Put some drops in his whisky. Must have given him too many by mistake. Went back the next morning and he was dead.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you confess it at the time?’

  ‘I should have done, but then Chris saw me and I panicked,’ he said.

  ‘Chris saw you?’ said Angela.

  ‘Yes. He must have followed me. Saw him looking through the window. He was horrified. I let him in and explained what had happened, then I realized how unconvincing it sounded and thought people might think it was deliberate. Rather lost my head and begged him to help me disguise it as suicide. We got rid of the empty glass, put Raymond’s jacket and shoes back on him, then carried him down to the summer-house and strung him up.’

  His face contorted at the stark horror of his own words.

  ‘I wish I hadn’t done it,’ he said. ‘Too late now, of course.’

  Just then Angela glanced up and saw Jonathan. He had come in from saying goodbye to his congregation, and to judge by the expression on his face had heard everything Lomax had said. Angela shook her head in warning, but it was too late, for Lomax had already seen him.

  ‘Hallo,’ he said in resignation. ‘You might as well stay and hear the confession. You’re the right fellow for it after all.’

  ‘Hallo, Jack,’ said Jonathan. ‘I’ll listen to anything you want to say, never fear.’

  ‘What about Chris?’ said Angela. ‘Was that an accident too?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Lomax. ‘I missed the drops and thought I must have left them somewhere. Was rather worried about it, to be perfectly frank. If anyone found them I might be in trouble. But he must have taken them. Perhaps it was an accident, perhaps it was deliberate. We’ll never know. My fault, though. I oughtn’t to have dragged him into it. Ought to have known he was delicate. Nervous. Must have disturbed him. Not much fun trying to hang a dead man, you see.’

  ‘No,’ said Angela.

  ‘Raymond was my friend,’ he said, ‘and I killed him. I don’t know what to do now. I suppose you’ll have to call the police.’

  ‘I’m afraid we will, Jack,’ said Jonathan. ‘But if, as you say, it was an accident, then I don’t imagine you’ll have anything to fear—although they may not be too happy about your attempts to disguise what happened.’

  ‘Probably not,’ agreed Lomax.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Jonathan. ‘I shall go and fetch Mary. Someone will have to tell Virginia.’

  ‘Please
,’ said Lomax. ‘I don’t think I can bear to face her myself. Cowardly, I know.’

  Jonathan laid a sympathetic hand on Jack Lomax’s shoulder and then went into the vestry to fetch his wife. Angela remained behind and regarded Lomax thoughtfully.

  ‘Are you quite sure you’ve told us everything, Mr. Lomax?’ she said.

  He turned pink.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said.

  ‘I think you know what I mean,’ she said.

  He was silent for a second, then said:

  ‘I don’t suppose you can imagine what it’s like to make a mistake and be trapped by it forever, can you? Well, that’s what I’ve done. I made one false step. One false step that led to another, and then another, and now my oldest friend is dead because of me, and whether I go to prison or not my life will forever be a living hell. Raymond was worth ten of me and I killed him, and now I have to live with the fact until the day I die.’

  He was so patently distraught that there was no doubt he regretted what he had done. No, no doubt at all, and had Raymond Sheridan’s death been the start and end of it Angela might have let it lie there—might have believed the accident story and inquired no further. But other people had suffered too. What of Christopher Tate? Tall, energetic Christopher Tate, with his infectious love of art, and his enthusiasms, and his hero-worship of his art tutor. And his loyal friend Francis Butler, who now had to deal with the death of his childhood companion and confess to Chris’s parents that he had been unable to look after him as he had promised. What of them? How were they meant to get justice? For justice was what was missing here, Angela was certain of it. Lomax’s story was convincing enough; it wrapped everything up neatly with no loose ends and would certainly be enough to satisfy the people of Stresa, at any rate, but Angela was not satisfied, and only wished she knew what she ought to do.

  Jonathan and Mary came hurrying out just then and all was confusion and dismay. They took charge of Jack Lomax and led him away, and Angela was left alone in the church to struggle with a tumult of conflicting emotions.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The news of what had happened soon leaked out, and by Monday morning the tragic events were the talk of the place. As Angela had predicted, everybody seemed perfectly satisfied with the story that was put about. There was much sympathy for Jack Lomax and his plight, and the question on everyone’s lips was: how would Virginia Sheridan take the news that Lomax had been accidentally responsible for her husband’s death? By Monday evening the story was circulating (courtesy of Mr. Morandi) that the two had met, and that through her tears she had assured him that she bore him no ill-will and forgave him from the bottom of her heart. At this news there was an almost palpable sigh of relief from all the guests of the Hotel del Lago—all except Mrs. Marchmont, who was still dissatisfied with the whole thing. She kept her thoughts to herself, however—at least until Tuesday morning, when she happened to spy Mr. D’Onofrio as he took his coffee at his usual table on the terrace.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs. Marchmont,’ he said, with his usual expressionless look. ‘So you see, everybody is happy again.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she replied.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I did not think you would be.’

  ‘I don’t like having the wool pulled over my eyes,’ she said.

  ‘Come? I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I mean I don’t like being deceived.’

  ‘You think someone is deceiving us, then?’

  ‘I’m almost certain of it,’ she said.

  ‘But it is such a beautiful and tragic story,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ she said dryly. ‘But it’s far too neat for my liking. Two inconvenient people are put out of the way and nobody gets into trouble? Yes—far too neat.’

  ‘Then what do you propose?’ said D’Onofrio.

  ‘I don’t know. I only wish there were more evidence,’ said Angela.

  ‘I think some might be found,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you think the police do nothing here in Italy—and it is true that we are very different from your Scotland Yard—but even here we know all about finger-prints on a bottle, and what it means when some prints are missing which ought to be there.’

  Here he paused significantly, and Angela raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I see,’ she said.

  ‘And who knows?’ he went on. ‘We may find something else that will come in useful—especially if we can find a motive.’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy enough,’ said Angela. ‘Motive without evidence won’t make a case, though.’

  ‘You are right,’ he said, ‘but it will help us in our investigation. But tell me, Mrs. Marchmont: are you quite sure you want to spoil such a beautiful story for an ugly reality? Sometimes it can be better to leave things alone for the peace of all.’

  Angela was looking at Francis Butler, who was sitting alone at a nearby table, looking glum. She turned back to Mr. D’Onofrio.

  ‘I’m quite sure,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, and rose to leave. ‘I will see what I can do. In the meantime, I rely on you to ask more questions of your friends.’

  He gave a little bow and went off, leaving Angela wondering what to do next. Tomorrow she was returning to England, but the case was still unresolved—to her mind, at least—and she did not wish to go home without receiving some confirmation at least of what she believed to be the real truth. But Italian justice appeared to move extremely slowly from what she had seen so far, and it seemed as though she might wait for months before hearing anything. This was unsatisfactory, and she debated whether or not she ought to take action herself.

  She wandered out through the front door of the hotel and onto the lake-front. The weather was fine once again, and everybody was going about their usual business. Angela watched the scene for a few minutes, then made up her mind and decided to pay a call. She set off briskly and was very soon walking up the long drive of the Villa Pozzi. When she reached the house she rang and was taken through a number of grand salons and into a smaller drawing-room which was elegantly and comfortably furnished in the Italian style. There she found Virginia Sheridan, who was standing by the window, staring out thoughtfully across the garden.

  ‘Hallo, Angela,’ said Mrs. Sheridan. She still looked very pale. ‘Do sit down. I suppose you’ve heard all about what happened.’

  ‘I have,’ said Angela. ‘I think the whole town has heard about it.’

  ‘Everyone has been tremendously kind,’ said Virginia. ‘I’m very lucky to have such good friends. Oh, but poor Jack! Think of what he must have been going through. It must have been hell for him, coming back here the next morning and realizing what he had done. I can hardly blame him for wanting to pretend it had never happened. I’ve told him so, but I’m afraid he will never be able to forgive himself. Still, I’m determined that nothing shall change between us. It wasn’t his fault and I won’t let him think I blame him.’

  With her wide, sad eyes and gentle manner she was the very picture of womanly forgiveness, and for a moment Angela almost forgot her purpose in visiting, but then she remembered Francis Butler’s face that morning and set her jaw.

  ‘Are you still intending to leave the Villa Pozzi?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ said Virginia. ‘It costs such a lot to run, you know, but I have been told it will fetch quite a large sum if I sell it, and—well, it rather looks as though I’m going to need the money soon.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Angela. ‘As a matter of fact that’s why I’m here. I wanted to congratulate you. I ought to have noticed before but I’m afraid I must have had other things on my mind. It was only yesterday that I realized why you’ve been feeling so ill. It is that, isn’t it?’

  Virginia blushed delicately.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ she said. ‘And thank you. I’m just so terribly sorry that Raymond died before I could tell him. Now he will never know his child.’

  Angela took a deep breath.

  ‘Perhaps that’s a
good thing, don’t you think?’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Virginia.

  ‘Why, because the child is not his, of course.’

  Angela had been wondering whether she was about to make the most awful fool of herself, but when she saw Mrs. Sheridan’s instantaneous reaction to her words she knew immediately that she had been right. Instead of looking shocked and puzzled, Virginia narrowed her eyes for a split second, and a calculating look came across her face.

  ‘That’s rather ill-mannered of you, Angela, to suggest such a thing,’ she said.

  ‘But it’s true, isn’t it?’ said Angela. ‘You were having an affair with Jack Lomax and the child is his.’

  Virginia eyed Angela. She still showed no shock at the suggestion, but instead seemed to be considering.

  ‘The child is Raymond’s,’ she said eventually. ‘But even if it weren’t, it would be stupid of me to admit it, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t expect you to admit it,’ said Angela. ‘I just wanted you to know that you haven’t got away with it. The police suspect it wasn’t an accident and they’re collecting evidence, but at the moment they don’t have a motive. This is a big enough motive, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Virginia. ‘Are you suggesting that Jack killed Raymond on purpose?’

  ‘I’m almost sure of it,’ said Angela, ‘and the post-mortem examination ought to confirm it.’

  ‘How?’ said Virginia, looking interested despite herself.

  ‘Well, if I were going to murder a man by drugging him with a sleeping draught, I should take good care to put enough of the stuff in his glass to make absolutely sure of killing him—far more than could be explained by an accidental overdose,’ said Angela. ‘I’ll bet that’s what Jack did. I shouldn’t be surprised if they find enough of the stuff in your husband’s system to have killed him several times over.’

  ‘That still doesn’t prove anything, though,’ said Virginia.