The Imbroglio at the Villa Pozzi (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 6) (13 page)

‘There is,’ said Mrs. Quinn, pleased. ‘Can you tell me his or her name?’

This time there was no hesitation, and the letters ‘R-A-Y’ were spelt out. Virginia gave a little shriek. Angela was wide awake now and watching carefully.

‘Please ask him if he would like to speak to us,’ said Mrs. Quinn.

The board indicated that the second spirit was indeed prepared to speak.

‘Now you must ask the questions,’ whispered Mrs. Quinn to Mrs. Sheridan.

‘What shall I say?’ said Virginia in a quavering voice.

‘Just speak to him as though he were here in the room with you,’ said Mrs. Quinn.

‘Very well, I’ll try,’ said Mrs. Sheridan, although she looked by no means happy at the idea. She took a deep breath. ‘Raymond, it’s me, Virginia. Is it really you?’

‘D-A-R-L-I-N-G,’ said the board.

‘How shall I know if it really is him?’ said Mrs. Sheridan suddenly.

‘Ask him a question that only he will know the answer to,’ said Mrs. Quinn.

‘Oh,’ said Mrs. Sheridan. ‘Very well, then. Raymond, if it’s really you, tell me—tell me—’ She stopped to think for a second. ‘Oh, I know! Tell me the Christian name of my father’s eldest sister.’

There was a pause, then ‘A-D-E-L-A-I-D-E’ was spelt out. Virginia gave another little shriek and a sob.

‘That’s right!’ she said. ‘Then it really must be him! Oh, Raymond, can it really be you? I’m so sorry about what has happened. But why? Why did you do it? Surely you didn’t really believe I wasn’t going to come back? Why didn’t you send me a letter or a telegram—anything, to tell me how miserable you were? Of course I’d have come straight back if I’d known.’

‘S-O-R-R-Y,’ said the board.
‘I-D-I-O-T T-E-R-R-I-B-L-Y U-N-H-A-P-P-Y.’

‘You weren’t an idiot at all,’ said Mrs. Sheridan. ‘I was the stupid one, leaving you alone like that. Please, darling, say you’ll forgive me. I shall have to live with the guilt forever but I simply couldn’t bear it if I thought you blamed me too.’

They waited, but all was still. Angela glanced up and saw that everyone’s eyes were fixed on the board.

‘Raymond?’ said Mrs. Sheridan, almost in a whisper. ‘Are you still there?’

Nothing happened for an agonizing minute, then the planchette began to move slowly.

‘M-Y F-A-U-L-T,’ it said. ‘S-O S-O-R-R-Y D-A-R-L-I-N-G.’

Then it stopped and would move no more. They waited for several minutes, but the spirit or whatever it was showed no desire to return.

‘Well,’ said Mrs. Quinn at last. ‘That was very interesting, I must say. Are you all right, my dear?’

‘Quite all right, thank you,’ said Mrs. Sheridan quietly. ‘If you don’t mind, I think I should like to leave now. I want to go home and think about things by myself for a little while.’

‘You do that,’ said Mrs. Quinn, nodding in approval. ‘If you think of any more questions let me know, and we’ll see if we can’t get him to speak to us again.’

‘I shall, thank you,’ said Mrs. Sheridan. She seemed slightly dazed. ‘Shall we go, Angela?’

They took their leave of the Quinns with thanks and emerged into the street. It was still very warm but at least there was air here, and Angela felt the fug begin to dissipate from her brain.

‘Wasn’t it hot in there?’ said Mrs. Sheridan, breathing in deeply. ‘I thought I should die of suffocation.’

‘It was, rather,’ said Angela. ‘It’s nice to be back in the fresh air again. Where are you going now?’

‘I suppose I had better go back home and get on with looking through Raymond’s things,’ said Virginia. ‘There’s such a lot to do.’

Angela looked at her companion in concern, noticing how pale and drawn she was, and wondered whether Virginia had eaten at all since she had found out about her husband’s death.

‘I hope you are looking after yourself,’ she said. ‘Suppose you come and have dinner with me at the hotel this evening. I don’t wish to be rude, but you look as though you could do with a good square meal.’

Virginia laughed ruefully.

‘You’re right, I haven’t eaten much lately,’ she said, ‘but I simply don’t feel as though I can face food at the moment.’

‘The heat doesn’t help, I suppose,’ said Angela. ‘I don’t tend to feel very hungry myself in this sort of weather, but I’d hate to think you weren’t eating at all.’

‘It’s kind of you,’ said Virginia, ‘but you don’t need to worry about me. I shall be quite all right.’

Angela saw that her mind was made up and said no more, but she insisted on walking with Mrs. Sheridan back to the Villa Pozzi, ostensibly in order to discuss what had happened at the Quinns’ but also partly out of concern that Virginia might faint on the way. It appeared that both women remembered the same things about the séance, which was something of a relief to Angela, since it seemed to indicate that neither of them had been hypnotized—either that, or both of them had, which seemed highly unlikely. That was one concern out of the way, at least. However, both women were hesitant when it came to the actual events of the séance.

‘What did you think?’ said Angela at last.

‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs. Sheridan. ‘It
seemed
very convincing, but it couldn’t have been, could it? They must have been doing it themselves.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Angela. ‘The voice of the spirit was rather strange, but I imagine it’s not beyond the capabilities of a good actress. I’d like to know how the automatic writing was done, though.’

‘That’s easy enough, isn’t it? You just push the planchette but pretend not to.’

‘Well, yes, of course, but how did they know the name of your aunt?’

‘I can only assume Raymond must have told them,’ said Virginia.

‘But why should he do that?’

‘I don’t know. It does seem a bit odd,’ said Virginia, ‘but people do pass on odd bits of information sometimes.’

‘But don’t you think it’s rather a coincidence that you should decide to ask a question to which they just happened to know the answer?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Virginia, then stopped and turned a troubled face to Angela. ‘Are you saying you believe that really was Raymond in there?’

‘No—no, of course not,’ said Angela. ‘That would be quite absurd.’

‘Yes,’ said Virginia. She looked at the ground. ‘All the same,’ she went on quietly, ‘it would be nice to think I really
had
spoken to him, wouldn’t it? Just one last time.’

She glanced up, but Angela had no words of comfort to give.

The two women parted at the villa, having promised to meet the next day and apprise Mary Ainsley of developments, and Angela returned to the hotel along the lake-front, deep in thought. She was no nearer to knowing whether or not the Quinns had had a hand in Mr. Sheridan’s death, and truth to tell, the séance had disturbed her more than she liked. It was not hard to see why people were so easily taken in by spiritualism: if she, a rational, intelligent woman (or so she liked to think of herself) could be swayed by a few candles and a little facile mumbo-jumbo, then it was no wonder that some of the more credulous members of the populace were only too keen to believe. Angela now began to see the truth of at least part of what Jonathan Ainsley had said only a few days ago: there was evidently something about being abroad that tended to cause people to shake off the constraints of home and lose their heads. Angela was certain that she would not have given the Quinns even the slightest benefit of the doubt in a damp, chilly London, but here in the warm sunshine, surrounded by lush greenery and rolling mountains, it was a different matter.

Very well, then: if she could not rely on her own observations to find out answers, then she should have to rely on solid evidence—if indeed any had come to light. Angela had seen no sign of Edgar Valencourt near the Quinns’ apartment that afternoon, although she had been looking out for him, and she began to think that he must have decided not to do it after all. She was walking towards the hotel through the garden and wondering whether to be relieved or disappointed when he emerged suddenly from another path and made her jump.

‘Well?’ she said. ‘Did you do it?’

‘What do you think?’ he said.

‘From the look on your face I should say almost certainly yes,’ she said, ‘but otherwise I have no idea. I didn’t hear or see a thing.’

‘Of course you didn’t,’ he said. ‘What do you take me for—an amateur?’

‘You’re not a burglar, though; you told me so yourself.’

‘No, but I was a champion tree-climber in my youth. No-one could touch me,’ he said. ‘And today I discovered that I appear to have lost none of my talent despite my rapidly advancing age.’

‘I was rather good at climbing trees myself as a girl,’ said Angela regretfully.

‘I promise I’ll let you do the next break-in, then,’ he said.

‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. Now, are you going to tell me about it or not?’

‘Let’s go somewhere we won’t be overheard,’ he said. ‘The hotel is a bit too crowded for this sort of thing.’

They eventually found a seat on a stretch of the lake-front that was not too busy and sat down.

‘How was the séance?’ he said. ‘Did Sheridan turn up?’

‘Didn’t you hear it?’

‘I heard a few strange noises coming from the room, but I was in rather a hurry and didn’t have time to stop and listen,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

She told him what had occurred, and he listened attentively.

‘Just the usual nonsense, then,’ he said. ‘No special hypnotic powers needed, by the sound of it—just a lot of distraction and portentous mumbling.’

‘More or less,’ she agreed, ‘although it was quite impressive, and I can’t help wondering how they knew about Mrs. Sheridan’s aunt. Why on earth would Mr. Sheridan have mentioned her name to the Quinns?’

‘People often talk about family,’ he said.

‘Their own families, yes,’ said Angela, ‘but not about their wives’ aunts, surely? Oh, I don’t know—perhaps I am thinking about it too much, but I do like to have things tied up neatly in my head, and the matter of Aunt Adelaide is rather a loose end.’

‘I dare say you’ll find there’s a simple enough explanation for it,’ he said.

‘I dare say you’re right,’ she agreed. ‘Now, then, tell me about your search.’

‘There’s not much to tell,’ he said. ‘I got in easily enough, as you said, and had a good look around. They don’t seem to have much in the way of possessions—not surprising for people who move around a lot, I suppose, but I did find a few papers in their writing-desk and had a look through them.’

‘Oh?’ said Angela hopefully, but he shook his head.

‘Nothing useful, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘The Quinns appear to be exactly what they claim to be. They run their business on honest lines—if we leave aside the nature of the business itself—and I found no evidence that they have ever been in trouble for anything: no convenient clippings of newspaper stories about their latest appearance in the dock, or summonses, or letters from irate clients threatening to sue, or anything of that sort. As a matter of fact, most of their correspondence appeared to consist of letters from delighted old ladies, thanking them for their help. Oh—and there was one rather pompous letter from Jonathan Ainsley, of which you can probably imagine the content.’

‘So that was all you found in the writing-desk?’ said Angela. ‘Did you have a look in the other rooms?’

‘Yes, but there was nothing,’ he said.

‘That’s a pity,’ said Angela. ‘I was rather hoping you might find some trace of this mysterious angry letter that Mr. Sheridan was supposed to have sent.’

‘Oh, but I did,’ he said. She looked up at him quickly, and he went on, ‘It was a lucky chance, though. I was just about to leave when it occurred to me that the sitting-room was awfully hot considering they’d left the French windows open. Then I saw the stove in the corner and realized they’d had it lit, as it was still warm. Of course it’s no sort of weather to be keeping the stove alight if one can avoid it, so I took a look inside and found these.’

He put his hand into his pocket and brought out several scraps of burnt paper, which he held out to Angela. She glanced at him in surprise, then smiled and took them gingerly.

‘You’d better be careful,’ he said. ‘They’re pretty fragile.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said.

They put their heads together and examined the charred fragments, which were evidently the remains of a letter, although the signature was lost so it was impossible to tell who had sent it. After a moment’s thought, Angela started to lay them out on her lap with the idea of trying to put them in some kind of order.

‘You’ve already ruined one frock this week,’ said Valencourt. ‘Here, take this.’

He produced an impeccably-folded handkerchief and draped it over her knees, and they bent over the scraps again.

‘What have we got, then?’ said Angela. ‘I assume this “
Thank you
—” goes first, then “—
matters that do not concern
—.” Now, what’s next?’

‘This one, I think,’ said Valencourt.

‘“—
outrageous to suggest
—,”’ read Angela, ‘then “—
lady in question
—,” whoever she might be.’

‘Then this bit must be last,’ said Valencourt.

‘“—
assure you I have no intention of putting myself in
—,”’ read Angela.

They sat back and regarded the results.

‘It still doesn’t make a
great
deal of sense,’ said Angela. ‘It’s a pity so much of it is missing. Still, I suppose we were lucky to get anything at all. I don’t suppose you can tell me whether it’s Mr. Sheridan’s handwriting, can you?’

‘Not offhand,’ he replied, ‘but it ought to be easy enough to find out. Someone is bound to have something with his writing on it—as a matter of fact I might have a note or two of his myself at home. I shall have a look later and see if I can’t find them for you.’

Angela was looking at the burnt pieces of paper again.

‘I wonder what it all means,’ she said.

‘Well, it looks as though the Quinns have been making outrageous suggestions about a lady,’ he said. ‘Dear me.’

‘Disgraceful,’ said Angela solemnly.

‘Quite. And the writer is evidently not very happy about it. Still, whoever he is, he’s quite emphatic that he has no intention of putting himself in—what? Danger? Purgatory?’

‘The lake?’ suggested Angela.

‘Who knows? Although he can’t have written it too recently in that case, or he’d have been dying to take a dip to cool down.’

‘That’s true enough,’ said Angela. She looked back at the letter, and a thought struck her. ‘Can this really be the letter we’re looking for?’ she said. ‘If it is, then why does Mr. Sheridan use the phrase “the lady in question,” do you suppose? It seems an awfully formal way of referring to Mrs. Sheridan. Why didn’t he just say “my wife?”’

‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ said Valencourt. ‘Perhaps he wasn’t talking about his wife at all, then. Perhaps he was referring to someone else altogether.’

Angela raised her eyebrows.

‘But who? And why? You don’t think Miss Quinn suspected untoward goings-on between Mr. Sheridan and this mysterious woman, do you? Why, I shouldn’t have thought he was the type.’

‘I shouldn’t have thought he was either,’ he said. ‘But you never know—people do the most surprising things when you least expect it of them.’

Angela paused, considering this new idea.

‘Then who is she?’ she said.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Probably not an Englishwoman, though, since there aren’t many of those who are younger than about seventy here in Stresa. More likely an Italian.’

‘I wonder whether the Quinns were blackmailing him,’ said Angela, ‘and that’s why he killed himself. Perhaps they’d threatened to tell his wife about the other woman and he hanged himself in despair.’

He rubbed his chin.

‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ he said doubtfully.

‘Or perhaps they weren’t blackmailing him at all,’ she went on, warming to her theme. ‘Perhaps Miss Quinn was genuinely trying to be helpful in warning him that she knew about the affair, but he took it the wrong way and killed himself because he was terrified of being exposed.’

‘In that case, her attempts to help appear to have backfired rather spectacularly, don’t you think?’

‘Oh dear, yes,’ said Angela, trying not to laugh. ‘Let’s hope that’s not what happened, then.’

‘If there
was
another woman, I should think it’s far more likely that Mrs. Sheridan knew about it,’ said Valencourt. ‘She admitted they’d had a row and that’s partly why she went back to England. Perhaps she was threatening to divorce him and that’s why he committed suicide.’

‘Well, she’s keeping very quiet about it if that’s the case,’ said Angela. She sighed impatiently. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m starting to think that perhaps this isn’t the letter I was looking for after all.’

‘Oh, I think there’s a good chance it is,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, why decide to burn it
now
? Why light the stove in hot weather just to get rid of a letter if it wasn’t something that needed to be destroyed immediately?’

‘I see what you mean,’ said Angela. ‘It seems rather too much of a coincidence that they decide to destroy it just at the time when all this is going on.’ She collected the scraps of paper together carefully and put them in her pocket, then gave him back his handkerchief and rose from the seat. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

‘You’re most welcome,’ he said, standing up likewise. ‘If you’re looking for a man for hire again I shall be more than happy to oblige—although perhaps not in the matter of burglary. I’m getting a bit too old for that sort of thing and prefer a quieter life.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Angela. ‘You look so pleased with yourself that it’s perfectly obvious you enjoyed it. There is certainly something of the hedonist about you.’

‘And what’s wrong with that?’ he said. ‘We only have one life, so why not enjoy it?’

‘Because so often your pleasure comes at somebody else’s expense,’ said Angela.

‘There is that,’ he said. ‘I thank you for the lecture, and I’ll remember it next time you ask me to break into someone’s house.’

He sounded a little testy and Angela was about to reply when she heard a voice calling her name. She turned and saw Francis Butler approaching them.

‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen Chris anywhere, have you? I seem to have lost him.’ They both replied in the negative and Francis went on, ‘As a matter of fact, I haven’t seen him since lunch-time and I’m starting to get a bit worried.’

‘Perhaps he’s gone off somewhere to paint by himself,’ suggested Angela.

‘Oh, he probably has,’ agreed Francis. ‘It’s just that he hasn’t been himself for the past couple of days and I promised his parents I’d keep a close eye on him, so I don’t like not knowing where he is.’

‘Is he still unwell?’ said Angela. ‘I thought he looked a little under the weather yesterday.’

‘I think he’s been having another one of his nervous attacks,’ said Francis. ‘He’s been fidgeting and talking wildly. He does that when he’s not well.’

‘Poor Chris,’ said Angela. ‘Well, I shall keep an eye out for him and let you know if I see him.’

‘Oh, I dare say he’ll be back soon enough with five or ten new paintings to add to the clutter,’ said Francis. He said it cheerfully but he looked worried.

He departed with a wave, and Angela looked at her watch. It was getting late and there was little time to change before she was supposed to be meeting Elsa.