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

by Clara Benson

  ‘Perhaps it’s both,’ said Angela politely.

  Miss Quinn was now staring into space and seemed not to have heard; indeed, it looked as though she had entirely forgotten Angela was there. Angela waited a moment, then departed quietly and went back inside. There was certainly something odd about Asphodel Quinn, but whether her prophecies were accurate or not was impossible to say, since they were invariably so vague that they might mean anything or nothing. Angela returned to her table and received an enthusiastic greeting from Elsa and Mr. Morandi, who pressed another glass of champagne into her hand, and within a very few minutes Miss Quinn’s words had disappeared completely out of her head.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Angela Marchmont took a final look around her hotel room to make sure she had not forgotten anything, and then stepped out onto the balcony one last time to admire the view over the lake. Despite the dreadful events of the past week she was sorry to be leaving Italy. How dull it would be to go back to chilly England after all the recent excitement! Angela had been rendered especially peevish by a letter which had arrived from her brother that morning. It had evidently followed her from Florence, and in it Humphrey spent the best part of a page and a half enjoining various impossible standards of behaviour upon her during her forthcoming visit, which promised to be painfully tedious. Perhaps it was a penance imposed upon her for having enjoyed herself too much lately. For a second she smiled at the thought of what Humphrey would say if she were to tell him that she had very nearly been enticed into embarking upon a love-affair with a wanted criminal, but then caught herself. No: she would not think of that. For the past three days she had forced herself through sheer effort of will not to think of Edgar Valencourt, and this was no time to begin. She would go home and have no regrets, and soon she should forget him entirely, she was quite certain of it.

  Having fortified herself thus, Angela turned and left the room, as she wanted to say goodbye to her friends before she left. She had already taken leave of Mary Ainsley, who had come to breakfast at the hotel that morning to say farewell. Jonathan was feeling a little chastened, Mary told her, for since Jack Lomax’s confession he had begun to feel that he had spent too much time worrying about the Quinns, and had neglected his flock.

  ‘He believes he ought to have seen that Jack was unhappy about something,’ she said. ‘I think he feels guilty that he was unable to provide comfort when it was most required.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s much he could have done,’ said Angela.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Mary. ‘Still, I must say the change is proving to be quite refreshing. He has even taken it upon himself to be polite to Mrs. Quinn.’

  ‘Yes, so I had heard,’ said Angela. ‘Perhaps he has finally begun to listen to you, Mary.’

  ‘Let us hope so,’ said Mary. ‘I’m very fond of him, you know, even though he can be rather exasperating, and I do want him to be happy—not least because it makes my life so much easier.’

  They both laughed, and Mary rose, for she had to go back.

  ‘I want to thank you for everything you’ve done, Angela,’ she said. ‘It was so very kind of you to interrupt your holiday like that—even if it did turn out to be more or less a wild-goose chase.’

  ‘It was my pleasure,’ said Angela. They bade each other farewell and Mary went off, promising to write soon.

  Now, as she waited for the lift, Angela thought about that earlier conversation with Mary. The Ainsleys more than anyone had gone out of their way to be kind to Virginia Sheridan following her husband’s death. What would they say when—or if—they found out the truth? Would they support Jack if he went to prison? And what if Virginia were arrested? Would they support her too? Thinking on these lines, Angela remembered that she had not yet told Mr. D’Onofrio about her conversation with Virginia Sheridan. Now was about his usual time for visiting the hotel, however, so perhaps she would be able to speak to him before she left. As luck would have it, he was just on his way out as Angela emerged from the lift, and she ran after him and caught him up. He greeted her politely and observed that she was dressed for a journey.

  ‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘I’m going home today. I’m glad you’re here, though, as I wanted to talk to you. I went to see Mrs. Sheridan yesterday.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And did she tell you anything useful?’

  ‘No,’ said Angela. ‘To be perfectly honest, I should have been surprised if she had, but I’m afraid she denied everything.’

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘No matter. I have decided that perhaps it is time to pay her a little visit myself. But first I will visit Mr. Lomax and tell him of the evidence of the bottle. Since his are the only finger-prints on it, then he must have been the one to administer the drug to Christopher Tate. Perhaps we can surprise him into a confession.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Angela, ‘since I fear that may be the only solution in the end.’

  ‘You may be right,’ he said.

  ‘I shan’t be here to find out what happens,’ said Angela, ‘but I have friends here who will write to me, I’m sure, if any developments occur.’

  ‘Then I hope they will soon have news for you,’ he said.

  ‘I’m only sorry I couldn’t be more helpful,’ said Angela.

  ‘You have done what you could,’ he said. ‘And in any case, you are not a policeman, and so nothing is expected of you.’

  ‘True,’ she said.

  His face broke into a rare smile, then he gave a little bow and went off, leaving Angela standing alone in the hall, deep in thought.

  An hour later, having finally taken her departure from the Hotel del Lago with many salutations and kisses and promises to write, Angela arrived at the station in Stresa. For the whole of the short journey, the taxi driver had kept up a bewildering stream of conversation in broken English, and it had taken all her concentration to follow what he was saying. Once they arrived, however, all his friendliness disappeared, and he took down her small bag containing her things for the journey (the rest of her luggage having been sent on earlier), dropped it at her feet, and abandoned her abruptly at the entrance. Angela looked around for a porter, but there seemed to be nobody about, so she picked up her bag with a sigh and set off for her platform. She was a little later than she had planned, and the train had already come in and was puffing gently in preparation for its departure for Milan, where she was to change. She walked along the platform until she found a likely-looking carriage, then glanced at her watch. There were still five minutes before the train was due to leave, and she wanted to buy a newspaper, for she had nothing to read. She put down her little case and began rummaging about in her handbag for her purse. Then she glanced up and started violently as she saw Edgar Valencourt standing before her.

  ‘Hallo, Angela,’ he said.

  Angela tried and failed entirely to look cross.

  ‘Tell me, Mr. Valencourt,’ she said when she had found her voice, ‘does your word mean anything at all? Or is it just something that comes out of your mouth quite accidentally while you’re thinking of other things?’

  He tried and failed entirely to look ashamed of himself.

  ‘It’s not fair to extort a promise from a man when he’s sick and not in his right mind,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t possibly be expected to keep it.’

  There were a number of suitable replies to that, but instead Angela said:

  ‘Oughtn’t you to be resting? You certainly can’t be in any fit state to drive.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘And anyway, I wanted to see you.’

  ‘Well, now you have,’ she said, somewhat ungraciously.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I have.’

  He was gazing at her earnestly, and once again she was reluctant to look into his eyes, for fear of what they might induce her to do. She ought to have known that he would not let her escape so easily. She had congratulated herself on her strength of purpose in not thinking about him and in refusing to admit regret, yet now she was discovering t
hat it was one thing to be firm in his absence, but quite another to manage it when he was standing in front of her, looking pale and drawn and lost. She gripped her handbag tightly for support and glanced about her, but nobody came to rescue her from herself. No matter—there was a way out just behind her, for the train was due to leave at any moment. She could bid him goodbye with every appearance of equanimity and then flee to safety inside her iron refuge.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to come and see me off,’ she said, in an attempt at formality.

  ‘Kindness has nothing to do with it,’ he said.

  A guard walked past as they stood in uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Salgano i signori passeggeri,’ he said. ‘Signora, the train is about to leave.’

  ‘Well, then, goodbye,’ said Angela.

  ‘Please don’t go,’ said Valencourt.

  ‘But I must,’ she said in surprise. ‘I can’t stay here. I have things to do at home.’

  ‘Listen, Angela,’ he said, and at the appeal in his voice she looked up and could not look away. ‘I couldn’t let you go without at least trying to see you one last time. Perhaps you think this is all a joke, that I’m not sincere—God knows I’ve hardly the best reputation for truthfulness—but I swear to you I’m perfectly serious. Can’t you stay another day or two?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I can’t, and you really oughtn’t to be here, Edgar. What’s the use in prolonging this when nothing can ever come of it? You must see it’s impossible. Why, the very notion is quite absurd. You’ve chosen your way of doing things and I’ve chosen mine, and the two are hardly congenial, to say the least.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m sorry for it,’ he said. ‘I never knew how much until now.’

  It was the first intimation he had ever given that he might be less than perfectly satisfied with the path he had taken in life, and she was briefly surprised. But it was not enough. She would not be swayed.

  ‘I’m sorry, too,’ she said, then looked towards the guard, who was gesticulating energetically at the train. ‘I must go.’ She picked up her little case and turned to get on board.

  ‘Come to Venice with me,’ said Valencourt suddenly.

  ‘What?’ she said, turning back.

  ‘You wanted to go to Venice,’ he said. ‘Then let’s go together.’

  She stared at him, half-doubting.

  ‘Oh, but—’ she said.

  He pressed on while he had her attention, sensing an opening.

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ he said. ‘I have chosen my way of doing things, and now I have to live with it—in fact I might have died because of it, had it not been for you, and I’m more grateful to you than I can possibly say. I’d forgotten such kindness existed. But Angela, can’t you be kind to me one more time?’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Mine’s rather a solitary life, you know, and I should be very glad of the company—your company, at least—for a little while. Come with me to Venice. We’ll be as proper as you like, I promise. It’s not as though I’m well enough to try anything funny even if I wanted to. We’ll go and sit in a gondola and wander by the canals and get lost in the alleyways, and you’ll be kind to me again and forget everything you hate about me, just for a few days. Please, Angela, say you will. Please don’t leave without even a backward glance as though I didn’t matter to you at all, when you matter so very much to me.’

  While he was speaking she had made the fatal mistake of meeting his eyes, and now she was transfixed. All her common sense told her that she ought to get on the train immediately; that he was deliberately appealing to her sympathy and exercising the same charm he used when talking his unsuspecting victims out of their valuables. She knew her weakness—as did he—and she was quite certain that he was taking advantage of it, and that she ought not to listen to him. For some reason, however, all she could think about was that night in the hotel garden when he had taken her in his arms; she recalled the jolt of feeling when his lips met hers, and the desolation she had known when he had been shot and for a few moments she had thought he was dead.

  Would it be so very bad if she went with him to Venice? After all, she had been especially keen to see the place, but had given it up to help someone else. Now here was her opportunity to go at last. He was hardly the wisest choice of companion, but he was injured and had promised that she should be safe from him. Of course they could not be lovers—that was quite impossible—but surely she could enjoy his company as a friend. There was no need at all to be drawn into anything further.

  The practical problem, of course, was that her brother and his family were expecting her in a day or two. She thought of the disapproving letter she had received that morning. Humphrey would be so cross with her if she put him off—but then he was always cross with her, so did it really matter all that much? Surely the visit could wait a few days. She could say that there had been a mistake with the tickets, or that she had been ill and could not travel. There were plenty of possible excuses. Could she go to Venice? Would she regret it forever if she did?

  It took only an instant for these thoughts to flash through her mind, but in that instant she was lost. The guard, who could see well enough what was being negotiated between the lady and the gentleman but had no time to wait and find out the result, shook his head and blew his whistle. The train hissed loudly and pulled slowly out of the station. Angela watched as it disappeared into the distance, and as she did so, Jonathan Ainsley’s words about people who came to Italy and lost their heads suddenly came back to her. She could not be one of those people, could she?

  She turned back to Valencourt. There was a long silence.

  ‘You needn’t look so pleased with yourself,’ she said at last.

  ‘I can’t help it,’ he said, and held out a hand to her.

  ***

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  Also by Clara Benson

  THE MURDER AT SISSINGHAM HALL

  On his return from South Africa, Charles Knox is invited to spend the weekend at the country home of Sir Neville Strickland, whose beautiful wife Rosamund was once Knox's fiancée. But in the dead of night Sir Neville is murdered. Who did it? As suspicion falls on each of the house guests in turn, Knox finds himself faced with deception and betrayal on all sides, and only the enigmatic Angela Marchmont seems to offer a solution to the mystery.

  This 1920s whodunit will delight all fans of traditional country house murder stories.

  THE MYSTERY AT UNDERWOOD HOUSE

  Old Philip Haynes was never happier than when his family were at each other's throats. Even after his death the terms of his will ensured they would keep on feuding. But now three people are dead and the accusations are flying. Can there really be a murderer in the family? Torn between friendship and duty, Angela Marchmont must find out the truth before the killer can strike again.

  The Mystery at Underwood House is the latest exciting 1920s whodunit featuring reluctant ‘lady detective’ Angela Marchmont.

  THE TREASURE AT POLDARROW POINT

  When Angela Marchmont goes to Cornwall on doctor's orders she is looking forward to a nice rest and nothing more exciting than a little sea-bathing. But her plans for a quiet holiday are dashed when she is caught up in the hunt for a diamond necklace which, according to legend, has been hidden in the old smugglers' house at Poldarrow Point for over a century.

  Aided by the house's elderly owner, an irrepressible twelve-year-old, and a handsome Scotland Yard detective, Angela soon finds herself embroiled in the most perplexing of mysteries. Who is the author of the anonymous letters? Why is someone breaking into the house at night? And is it really true that a notorious jewel-thief is after the treasure too? Angela must use all her powers of deduction to solve the case
and find the necklace—before someone else does.

  THE RIDDLE AT GIPSY’S MILE

  Lost in the mists of the Romney Marsh, Angela Marchmont stumbles upon the body of a woman whose face has been disfigured--presumably to prevent recognition. Who is she, and what was she doing out there in the middle of nowhere? The search for answers will take Angela from a grand stately home to London’s most fashionable--and disreputable--night-club, and into a murky world of illegal drinking, jazz music and lost souls.

  THE INCIDENT AT FIVES CASTLE

  It is Hogmanay, and Angela Marchmont is at Fives Castle, the Scottish seat of the Earl of Strathmerrick, to see in the start of 1928. But when she finds out that the Foreign Secretary, the American Ambassador and the Head of British Intelligence are also among the guests, Angela begins to suspect that something momentous is afoot. Before long, they are all snowed in and a body is discovered, and Angela soon finds suspicion directed against herself...

  About the Author

  Clara Benson was born in 1890 and as a young woman wrote several novels featuring Angela Marchmont. She was unpublished in her lifetime, preferring to describe her writing as a hobby, and it was not until many years after her death in 1965 that her family rediscovered her work and decided to introduce it to a wider audience.