The Imbroglio at the Villa Pozzi (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 6) (11 page)

When she returned, Angela sought out a quiet, shady spot in the hotel garden and sat down in a deck-chair by a beautiful flowering camellia to read her book. After a few minutes spent staring at the page without taking in anything much, however, she tossed it aside and lost herself in thought. Truth to tell she was feeling rather dissatisfied with herself. Mary had summoned her to Stresa to investigate the Quinns, but what had she done in reality? Very little, it seemed. She had been out on the lake, visited Milan and had a picnic. All very enjoyable, of course (apart from the picnic), but hardly what she was supposed to be doing. As to
that
, she had achieved practically nothing—had merely sat for the Quinns once, immediately taken them at face value and dismissed them as being of no importance. But now a man was dead and she had nothing to show for her visit: no evidence, or hunch, or anything at all that might allow her to step forward and say, ‘I suspect the Quinns are guilty,’ or even, ‘I know the Quinns to be innocent.’ True, she had not particularly wanted to come to Stresa, and was still mourning the loss of Venice, but she had made Mary a promise and surely she owed it to her to follow it through to the end.

Very well, then: tomorrow she was going with Virginia Sheridan to sit for Mrs. and Miss Quinn, and this time she would approach things more seriously and make more of an effort to find something out. There were several questions that demanded answers, but the most pressing one now, of course, was: did the Quinns have anything to do with Raymond Sheridan’s death? If so,
how
did they do it and
why
did they do it?

As to the
how
, they had already debated it that morning at Mary’s house: either he must have been drugged in order to prevent him from struggling, and then strung up afterwards, or he must have been somehow induced to do it himself. If he had been drugged then only a post-mortem examination would confirm it, and she had no idea what Mr. D’Onofrio was planning in that regard. If Sheridan had been induced to do it, though—Angela paused uncertainly here. Leaving aside the matter of whether or not it was
possible
to hypnotize someone into killing himself, there remained the question of whether it was actually
illegal
to do it. Even supposing it could be proved, was there a law against influencing others, by whatever means, to take their own lives? Angela knew of no such law in England, and had even less knowledge of the position in Italy.

She abandoned that line of thought and moved onto the second question of
why
, which immediately gave rise to two further questions: had Mr. Sheridan left the Quinns anything in his will and, more importantly, had they known of it? If they had no knowledge of it then they had no motive that Angela could see, but how could one
prove
that they knew nothing? It seemed an almost impossible task.

She now thought back to the conversation she had had with the Quinns on the day Raymond Sheridan had been found. She had never told the Ainsleys about Miss Quinn’s warning to Mr. Sheridan and now she was glad of it, for it would surely give more grist to Jonathan’s mill in his attempts to prove that the Quinns were responsible for what had happened. But what was it Asphodel had said about a letter? Yes, that was it: Mrs. Quinn had upbraided her daughter for writing to Mr. Sheridan to warn him of her vision that he was in danger, and Asphodel had mentioned something about an angry note he had sent in return. Either of those letters might be a useful piece of evidence: the first might show whether or not the Quinns had been trying to influence Mr. Sheridan in any way, while the second might help shed some light on his state of mind in the period leading up to his death.

Yes, thought Angela, she would be very interested to see those letters. But how could she get hold of them, if indeed they still existed and had not been destroyed? The first was easy enough, she supposed. At some point Virginia Sheridan would have to look through her husband’s things, and it would inevitably be found. But getting hold of Raymond Sheridan’s reply was a more difficult matter, since the Quinns presumably had it and it would not be found without a search of their apartment. But how to do that? Angela vaguely remembered Mrs. Quinn’s telling her that they had a special room for sittings and she racked her brains for a while, wondering if she could somehow trick them into allowing her to leave the room while Mrs. Sheridan sat for them. Perhaps she could pretend to be taken ill and ask to lie down, and then search the place quickly while they were otherwise occupied. It was not an ideal solution, of course—especially since she was meant to be there to look after Mrs. Sheridan—but for the moment she could think of no other answer to the problem.

She was still musing fruitlessly on this topic when she heard footsteps approaching behind her, and knew immediately who it was without needing to turn around.

‘I hope I didn’t disturb your nap,’ said Edgar Valencourt as he stood before her.

‘I wasn’t asleep,’ she said with dignity. ‘I was thinking. I do indulge in the pursuit occasionally.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘What were you thinking about?’

‘Oh, lots of things,’ she said. ‘You’re still here, by the way.’

‘So I am.’

She regarded him thoughtfully.

‘Have you
any
intention of leaving, or am I wasting my breath?’ she said.

‘Well, I—’

‘Oh, never mind,’ she said, for an extraordinary idea had that very second darted into her head and she wondered if she dared do it. She glanced at Valencourt sideways.

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ he said suspiciously.

‘Like what? I’m not looking at you like anything.’

‘Yes you are. You’re examining me as though I’m some sort of exotic species of insect you’re about to dissect for the purposes of science.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Angela.

‘I’m not being ridiculous. You’re up to mischief, I can tell, and I want to know what it is.’

‘We-ell,’ said Angela, reaching a decision, ‘do you remember when you were so horrid to me the other day?’

‘I thought we’d agreed to forget that.’

‘And so we have,’ she assured him. ‘Consider it forgotten. However, I
do
seem to recall your promising to make it up to me.’ She stopped and eyed him speculatively.

‘Ah, now we come to it,’ he said, amused. ‘I ought to have known you wanted something. Come on then, what is it?’

‘How should you feel about a spot of burglary?’

She said it all at once, then paused half-fearfully and glanced at him to gauge the effect of her words. For a moment he looked astonished, then he burst out laughing.

‘Just when I thought nobody could ever surprise me again,’ he said, ‘here you are, cool as a cucumber, proposing breaking and entering and I don’t know what else besides.’

‘Is that a yes or a no?’ she said, somewhat relieved that he had not immediately run in the opposite direction.

‘I’d like an explanation first,’ he said, and threw himself down on the grass beside her. ‘Tell me more.’

It was only fair, of course, and so Angela explained as briefly as possible why she had come to Stresa and what she wanted to find out.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘So instead of going to Venice you ended up here, investigating fake clairvoyants.’

‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘Or, rather, no. I seem to have done very little investigating up to now, despite my promise to Mary. I feel quite guilty about it, and after all that’s happened I think I shall have to stay in Stresa until I’ve found out some answers. I don’t suppose I’ll have time to see Venice at all now, which is a great pity.’

She looked a little wistful.

‘Yes, it is a shame to miss Venice,’ said Valencourt. ‘You’d like it, Angela.’

‘Well, never mind about that now,’ she said. ‘At present I am more concerned about finding that letter. Mrs. Sheridan and I are going to sit for the Quinns tomorrow at their home. All I need is for someone else to get in and search the flat while they are nicely distracted.’

‘Oh, so that’s all you need,’ he said. ‘Not much, is it?’

‘But will you do it?’

‘I’ll have to go and take a look at the place first, and find out whether it’s possible,’ he said, thinking.

‘You must have seen the building,’ said Angela. ‘It’s the red one on the corner of that little street just past the English church, and the Quinns live on the first floor. All the apartments have balconies, and they’re bound to have their windows open in this weather, so it ought to be easy enough to get in. As a matter of fact, I
believe
there is a rather handy tree nearby that might be useful for climbing. Mrs. Sheridan and I are going along there at about five o’clock, so it’s probably best if you wait until a little after that, when we’re all settled, and then you can get on with it.’

‘You’ve thought it all out, haven’t you?’ he said.

‘It was hardly difficult,’ she said. ‘But I can’t do it myself, which is why I asked you.’

‘Are you
using
me, Angela?’ he said suddenly, and there was a wicked glint in his eye.

She turned a wide smile on him.

‘Why, yes, Mr. Valencourt, I believe I am,’ she said. ‘Have you any objection?’

‘I can think of several,’ he replied, ‘but when you smile at me like that I forget them all.’

‘Splendid,’ she said. ‘Then we’re agreed.’

He laughed.

‘You knew I’d say yes,’ he said. ‘And by the way, Mrs. Marchmont, I hope you know I am most offended that you seem to consider me to be some kind of cat-burglar, when I’m nothing of the sort.’

‘I know you’re not,’ she replied. ‘And I know what you are, too.’

‘What am I, then?’

‘Why, you’re a confidence-man. You talk people into things—or out of things, rather, and I’ve no doubt you’re very good at it.’

‘You seem to be pretty good at it yourself,’ he said, ‘to judge from what you’ve just persuaded me to do. So I’m a confidence-man, am I? I suppose that sounds better than “common thief,” which is what you called me last time we met.’

‘Did I?’ said Angela vaguely. ‘How very rude of me.’

‘Well, quite,’ he said. ‘I’m not in the least bit common. I can trace my family line back to all sorts of important people.’

‘I see,’ she said, amused. ‘And every one of them as honest as the day is long, no doubt.’

‘Yes, and as dull as ditch-water to boot,’ he agreed.

‘Well, now I’ve given you the chance to have a bit of excitement,’ she said. ‘It must be awfully dreary for you here, hiding away with nothing to do.’

‘Oh, I shouldn’t say that,’ he said. ‘I’m finding the company very pleasant, at any rate. You do know, don’t you, that I’m putting myself in some danger by doing what you ask? At the very least you must promise to dance with me again in return the next time they have an orchestra on.’

‘I should be delighted,’ said Angela, who was certain that either he or she would be gone by that time. ‘I shall make a note on my dance-card.’

They fell silent and watched as people began to pass to and fro through the garden. Jack Lomax went past in company with Mrs. Sheridan, and Angela waved. Lomax looked rather reluctant, she thought. Two military policemen strolled by in the other direction. Angela was about to remark on them to Valencourt when she noticed to her surprise that he had disappeared, and that her lap was full of pink camellias which had certainly not been there before. She picked one up and twirled it idly for a moment or two, then stuck it in her hat.

‘Idiot,’ she said to herself, more for the sake of relieving her own feelings than for any good it might do. Then she realized she was smiling and hurriedly straightened her face.

It was getting towards dinner-time, so she collected her things together and stood up, scattering flowers, intending to go and change. As she headed up the path she encountered Christopher Tate, who was walking alone, without his friend. He barely heard her when she greeted him, and seemed most upset about something. Angela glanced after him in concern, and wondered whether she ought not to have a word with Francis, who was meant to be keeping an eye on him.

‘Angela!’ said a voice, and she looked up and saw Elsa Peters, who had evidently just returned.

‘Hallo, Elsa,’ said Angela. ‘How was Lugano?’

‘Oh, absolutely filthy,’ said Elsa. ‘Full of other people. The heat and the noise were quite ghastly. I was hoping to have the place to myself, but no such luck. Do you suppose it’s too late for an
aperitivo
? Purely for the sake of my nerves, you understand. Do let’s. We can have dinner later.’

They sat down on the terrace. Mr. Morandi soon joined them, and as Elsa talked to him Angela was left to reflect on what had just passed between her and Edgar Valencourt, and to wonder whether the heat was starting to affect her brain. Had she really asked him to break into the Quinns’ apartment for her? And had he really agreed to do it? It was quite extraordinary, and she could only hope that the search would prove fruitful, or who knew what might happen next? She had no desire to get drawn into an ongoing exchange of obligations with Edgar Valencourt—not least because his manner was so engaging that it was all too easy when in company with him to forget just what and who he was. But of course that was exactly how he operated, as she had seen for herself in Cornwall. He had fooled her then, but she was not about to let him fool her a second time. No: she might have charmed Valencourt into helping her today, but flirting with jewel-thieves was a risky business and she was determined that that should be the last of it.