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

by Clara Benson

  ‘No, but it’s highly suggestive,’ said Angela. ‘And then there’s Chris. I don’t believe for a moment that he stole the bottle of drops and used them to kill himself.’

  ‘No?’ said Virginia politely. ‘What do you think happened, then?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I’m fairly sure he saw the two of you together and came to the conclusion that he’d been duped into helping to disguise a murder as suicide. I saw him myself the other day in the hotel garden, looking terribly upset, shortly after I’d seen you and Jack walking together. I imagine Chris confronted Jack—or perhaps even both of you, and accused him of betrayal. But of course then he became a danger to you, and so he had to be put out of the way.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Virginia. ‘The bottle was found by his bedside. Of course Chris did it himself.’

  ‘Then why weren’t his finger-prints on the bottle?’ said Angela.

  Virginia opened her mouth, but said nothing, and Angela went on:

  ‘I was speaking to Mr. D’Onofrio this morning. He is highly suspicious of the whole thing. He doesn’t believe the accident story either, and he’s searching for evidence to prove it was murder.’

  Virginia Sheridan was looking a little rattled.

  ‘I can’t believe it of Jack,’ she said. ‘And in any case, even if what you say is true, I still don’t see why you are telling me. If by some remote chance Jack was in love with me and decided to put Raymond out of the way, then surely I am the victim. I’m certainly not guilty of murder. Why, I wasn’t even here at the time.’

  ‘No, but you’re rather clever like that, aren’t you?’ said Angela. Virginia was silent, and she continued, ‘Let me tell you what I think happened. I think that a few months ago you began an affair with Jack Lomax, perhaps because you were bored, or perhaps because you really did love him—I don’t know. At any rate, you found out that you were expecting a child and were thrown into a panic. You were terrified that Raymond would divorce you when he found out, and so rather than suffer the humiliation of a court case you determined to put him out of the way. I’m not sure why you didn’t simply plan to pass off the child as your husband’s—after all, it’s been done enough times before—but I can only imagine that in some way you were certain that he would know it wasn’t his and would be very angry.

  ‘The trouble is that when someone dies unexpectedly, the finger tends to point at the dead person’s wife or husband. Naturally you didn’t want that, and since you were certain that nobody knew about your affair with Jack you began to work on him. It has been pointed out to me by several people—and in fact I have observed it myself—that you are very good at getting people to do what you want. I don’t suppose for a second that Jack would have killed his oldest friend unless he had been persuaded or charmed or badgered into it in some way, but I imagine you worked on his sympathy, pretended to be terrified of your husband’s rage, and altogether made Jack feel as though he were doing it to protect you. Whatever the case, eventually he agreed to do it. The plan was that you would go to England so that no suspicion could possibly fall on you, and while you were away he would do the deed. Of course, since nobody knew about the two of you no-one would ever suspect him either, since he had no apparent motive.

  ‘You agreed that you would manufacture a row with Raymond and then leave. That way, once he was dead, you could put about the story that he believed you had gone forever and was depressed about it, then everyone would think he had killed himself. So that’s what you did: you deliberately fell out with Raymond then went away and left Jack to do as he had promised. At first, all went according to plan: on Tuesday evening Jack visited Raymond, slipped the chloral into his drink and left. The next morning he went back, intending to make sure that Raymond was dead and that nothing had been forgotten. Unfortunately for him, he was spotted by Chris, who followed him to the house and peered through the window. It was this room he died in, wasn’t it?’ said Angela, looking about her suddenly. ‘On that sofa there.’

  Virginia said nothing but regarded Angela unblinkingly. Angela was reminded of what Asphodel Quinn had said about a snake hypnotizing its prey, and resolved to maintain a wary distance from the other woman. She went on:

  ‘I don’t know what Chris saw, exactly, but he evidently realized that something was very wrong, and that Jack was the cause of it. Jack must have got a tremendous shock when he saw Chris at the window. He knew immediately that he had to come up with a convincing story then and there or he would be in trouble. Luckily for him, Chris was only too willing not to have his illusions shattered, and so he fell for Jack’s lie about having accidentally given Raymond an overdose, and agreed to help Jack disguise the death as a suicide by hanging. I suppose Jack thought that Chris was less likely to talk if he was involved in the thing himself—and of course, he must have known about Chris’s hero-worship of him, so I imagine he thought he was safe.

  ‘That evening Jack came to the hotel and told everybody—with apparent reluctance—that Raymond had mentioned ending his own life. Then on Friday you returned and hinted delicately at the same thing. You both played your parts very well, by the way. You took care not to hammer the point home too hard, presumably for fear of arousing suspicion if you did. I think the séance was a mistake on your part, though.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Virginia.

  ‘Why, because of Aunt Adelaide, of course,’ said Angela. ‘Assuming that Raymond wasn’t really in the room with us, who else would have known the answer to that question except you? It wasn’t the Quinns who were manipulating the talking board at all—it was you, wasn’t it? I don’t know exactly what you were trying to do. Presumably you wanted to direct suspicion towards the Quinns—either that or you thought I was credulous enough to fall for whatever nonsense might come out during the séance. Either way, the whole thing was just a little too much and you ought to have let well alone.’

  ‘I rather think it is you who ought to have let well alone,’ said Virginia. ‘As I said before, there’s no proof of anything.’

  ‘Not of your involvement, no,’ agreed Angela. ‘You can count yourself lucky at present, because Jack is sticking firmly to the accident story and has refused to give you away—naturally, since if he were to admit to your affair then that would immediately present a motive for murder, and then the whole thing would start to look deeply suspicious and he might be arrested. But I shouldn’t congratulate myself just yet if I were you. You see, if evidence does emerge that Raymond and Chris were deliberately killed, then Jack will have no further reason to keep quiet about you—rather the opposite, in fact, since he will be looking for someone to blame for having persuaded him to kill his friend.’

  For the first time, a look of fear crossed Virginia Sheridan’s face. It was gone almost immediately, however, and her expression once more became impassive. There was a pause, and Angela held her breath. She was still not certain that she had done the right thing in confronting Virginia, but since there was some doubt as to whether a prosecution would ever be brought, she wanted Mrs. Sheridan to know that someone, at least, knew what had really happened. If she and Jack Lomax were to get off scot-free, Angela was determined not to allow them to do it in peace. They would have to live in the knowledge that the truth was known to others, including the police. It was poor punishment, but it would have to do for the present.

  Virginia Sheridan opened her mouth to speak, and for a second Angela was convinced she was about to admit everything, but then she seemingly changed her mind. Instead, she stepped forward.

  ‘It was so kind of you to come, Angela,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry you have to hurry off, but thank you so much for the congratulations. Raymond would have been so happy.’

  She held out a hand. Angela hesitated, then shook it uncertainly. There seemed nothing else to do.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Mrs. Sheridan.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Mrs. Marchmont.

  They regarded each other for a moment, then Angela turned and left the Villa Poz
zi for the last time, wondering whether she had perhaps dreamed the last half an hour. She set off down the drive, forcing herself to walk at a gentle pace, since she was sure that Mrs. Sheridan was watching her from the window. It was not until she was certain she was quite out of sight that she began to hurry, and by the time she reached the gates she was almost running.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  That evening the Hotel del Lago was in festive and hilarious mood, for Mr. Morandi and Mrs. Peters had decided to announce their engagement and Mr. Morandi had ordered that all his guests be treated to free champagne. There was much merry-making and many speeches—mostly from Mr. Morandi himself, who could not praise his lady highly enough and would have held forth about her merits the whole evening had Elsa not called him an idiot and told him to shut up, at which everybody laughed.

  Angela was more pleased for her friend than she could say, and took the first opportunity of congratulating her heartily. Elsa was not the sort to blush, but she beamed.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You will come to the wedding, won’t you?’

  ‘I should love to, if I can,’ said Angela.

  I’m rather surprised at myself, to be perfectly honest,’ said Elsa. ‘Until Gabriele asked me I should have said I was far too old for this sort of thing, but now I feel as fluttered and silly as an eighteen-year-old—quite ridiculously happy, in fact.’

  ‘How delightful,’ said Angela, smiling, for Elsa’s happiness was infectious. ‘Then I suppose you will be staying in Stresa now.’

  ‘Oh, no, I have to go home and tell the children,’ said Elsa.

  ‘How will they take the news, do you think?’

  ‘I should think they’ll be all right,’ said Elsa. ‘They’re all grown up now, and have their own concerns. I dare say they’ll be pleased that there’s no danger any more of my coming to live with them when I get old and grumpy.’

  ‘I can’t imagine your ever being grumpy, Elsa,’ said Angela. ‘Why, you simply don’t have it in you.’

  ‘I’m sure I could if I tried,’ said Elsa. ‘Perhaps when I’ve had to deal with one too many rude guests I shall discover reserves of bad temper I never knew I had.’

  ‘So you are going to help run the hotel?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elsa. ‘I’m rather looking forward to it, as a matter of fact. I love having lots of people around me, and now I shall.’

  ‘I do believe you and Gabriele are very well suited,’ said Angela.

  ‘We are indeed,’ said Elsa, ‘and another advantage of marrying a hotelier is that there’s no danger of his crashing a plane into a field.’

  They laughed, and then paused as young Vittorio Morandi approached their table. He had ostensibly come to clear away their glasses, but instead he stopped, glanced about to make sure his father was not looking, then kissed Elsa quickly on the cheek. Elsa laughed again as he ran off with an air of repressed mischief.

  ‘I see you have won him over already,’ said Angela.

  ‘I hope so,’ Elsa replied. ‘I think there are the makings of a fine boy in him, but he needs a mother to put him right.’

  Angela was reminded of Francis Butler, and she looked about for him.

  ‘Where is Francis?’ she said.

  ‘He’s gone home, the poor darling,’ said Elsa. ‘I made him go, as I didn’t think this place was doing him any good. He needs to be back in England with his family. Gabriele can deal with all the formalities for him here. And what about you, Angela? You are off to England tomorrow too. You never did get to see Venice after all, did you?’

  ‘No,’ said Angela. ‘It will have to wait until another time, as I have promised to visit my brother and his family shortly.’

  ‘You don’t look particularly happy about it,’ observed Elsa.

  ‘I’m not, especially,’ said Angela. ‘I’m afraid he and his wife disapprove of me. He’s quite painfully respectable, and I understand he finds my occasional appearance in the newspapers embarrassing. Investigating murders is an unwomanly pursuit, you see. And to make things worse, there is the fact that I can’t produce a convenient husband when required, despite being a Mrs. and not a widow.’

  ‘Well, you must admit it is dreadfully modern and scandalous of you, darling,’ said Elsa. ‘However, I should have thought anyone in their right mind would be terribly excited to have a detective in the family. I know I should.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I am rather thinking of abandoning all pretensions to detective ability,’ said Angela glumly. ‘I seem to be far too easily swayed by what people tell me. I ought never to have let myself be persuaded into investigating the Quinns—and I especially ought not to have believed that they had anything to do with Mr. Sheridan’s death.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself for that,’ said Elsa. ‘Rumour is a very powerful thing, and if you truly believed there was something suspicious about his suicide then it was your duty to do something about it. And as we now know, there was something suspicious about it. At least the truth has finally come out.’

  Angela was silent, for of course the truth had not come out at all. She glanced about her and saw no sign of Jack Lomax or Virginia Sheridan, although that was hardly surprising in the circumstances. Angela wondered whether Virginia had been in communication with Jack to tell him that they were both under suspicion. Or would she continue to pretend that nothing had happened, as she had that morning? Angela felt very dissatisfied with herself about the whole thing, and was half-inclined to think that she might have made the situation worse by interfering.

  Mr. Morandi had now come to join them, and Angela excused herself tactfully and wandered out onto the terrace. There she spied the Quinns sitting at a table. They saw Angela, and Mrs. Quinn beckoned to her to join them.

  ‘Well, Mrs. Marchmont,’ she said. ‘It looks as though someone has been doing something she oughtn’t—and Saph seems to think she had a hand in her husband’s death, too.’

  ‘Yes, I rather think she did,’ said Angela, ‘although nobody knows that except ourselves so it’s probably better not to put it about for the present.’

  ‘I gather she’s in the family way,’ said Mrs. Quinn. ‘It’s all out in the open now, although Saph says she saw it some time ago.’

  ‘I knew she was in trouble,’ said Miss Quinn, nodding.

  ‘Ah, of course,’ said Angela, who suddenly understood something that had been nagging at her.

  ‘Do you suppose they’ll arrest her?’ said Mrs. Quinn.

  ‘I can’t say,’ said Angela. ‘It all depends on the results of the post-mortem examination and any other evidence they find. Mr. D’Onofrio is doing his best—at least, I think he is: he’s so laconic that it’s difficult to tell—and really, it’s all up to him now. However, I rather fear that justice may not be done in this case.’

  ‘I hope it will be,’ said Asphodel. ‘I’m a witness, you know. I saw Mr. Lomax and Mrs. Sheridan together, and I shall speak up if necessary.’

  ‘Then I suggest you talk to Mr. D’Onofrio,’ said Angela. ‘The more proof he can get the better.’

  ‘Poor Mr. Sheridan,’ said Mrs. Quinn. ‘Even if it was an accident, it’s not right to string a man up and deprive him of his dignity. Still, at least everyone knows now that it had nothing to do with us.’ She lowered her voice and went on with a touch of glee, ‘In fact, if you’ll believe it, Mrs. Marchmont, even Mr. Ainsley came and shook my hand this morning.’

  ‘No!’ said Angela in surprise.

  ‘Oh, but he did. He said he was sorry if he had inadvertently been responsible for spreading untrue stories about us. He said he knew it was an unchristian thing to do, but he had believed at the time he was only acting out of concern for his congregation. But now the truth had come out, he realized he’d acted wrongly and hoped we would pardon him.’

  ‘And did you?’ said Angela.

  ‘Of course I did,’ said Mrs. Quinn. ‘And if that makes me soft in the head then so be it. We’ll be leaving Stresa soon, you know, and I don’t like
to part with people on bad terms.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Angela. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I don’t know, exactly,’ said Mrs. Quinn. ‘I’ve a fancy to see Naples and Sicily, so I imagine we’ll head South at first. I suppose you’ll be going back to England soon.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Angela.

  ‘Well, I hope you have a good journey,’ said Mrs. Quinn. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you. I’m only sorry we never managed to speak to your husband. Still, perhaps it’s for the best.’

  Angela went a little pink at this, but Mrs. Quinn appeared not to notice, as she had just spotted someone she knew coming up the steps to the terrace. She stood up.

  ‘Excuse me a moment, won’t you?’ she said, and hurried off, leaving Angela with Asphodel Quinn. Miss Quinn turned her dark, intense gaze on Angela and seemed to be making her mind up to something.

  ‘I know I ought to keep my mouth shut after everything that’s happened,’ she said at last, ‘but you’ve been kind, so I won’t. Don’t be shocked, but I’m rather afraid I see danger ahead for you too, Mrs. Marchmont.’

  Angela was disconcerted in spite of herself.

  ‘Oh?’ she said. ‘Of what nature?’

  ‘I don’t know, exactly,’ said Miss Quinn. ‘I’m sorry, that’s not very helpful, I know. It’s not imminent, though. I mean, you’re not going to get run over by a train tomorrow, or anything.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Angela dryly.

  Miss Quinn was thinking hard.

  ‘That man,’ she said at last. She seemed to be staring at something over Angela’s shoulder. Angela glanced involuntarily behind her, but saw no-one.

  ‘Which man?’ she said.

  ‘The nice-looking one with the deep blue eyes,’ said Asphodel. ‘You know, the one who comes to the hotel sometimes.’

  She paused again.

  ‘Is the danger to do with him?’ said Angela.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ replied Miss Quinn. ‘I’m not certain what I can see, exactly, but I think perhaps he might save your life. Or is it the other way round? How odd—I can’t tell which it is.’