The Imbroglio at the Villa Pozzi (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 6) (14 page)

‘You’d better go,’ said Valencourt. ‘I’ll see you later.’

He went off before she could say anything and she was left standing there, alone and not a little disconcerted. It was unlike him not to walk her back to the hotel. Perhaps she really had offended him. True, it was hardly fair of her to have drawn attention to his shortcomings when he had just done her a good turn—however illegal—but she had done it without thinking and had certainly not intended to lecture. She set off back towards the hotel in a state of mixed emotions. On the one hand she felt guilty at having annoyed him, but on the other she was cross that he had
made
her feel guilty by taking amiss a passing remark that happened to be perfectly true. She thought about it all the way back and by the time she arrived at the hotel had worked herself up into a fine state of grumpiness, so much so that she was forced to pause and collect herself before going inside.

‘Why, I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ she said to herself. ‘It must be the heat.’

Once back in her room, she changed quickly and was preparing to go back downstairs when she remembered that she had left the scraps of charred paper in the pocket of her other dress. Better put them in a drawer for safe-keeping, perhaps. She took them out and glanced at them before putting them away, then stopped and looked at them more carefully. What was it that had just struck her? When she had picked them up it was as though a light had flashed briefly at the back of her consciousness. What was it? She gazed at the pieces, but it was no good: whatever it was had faded rapidly back into dimness and she knew that it would not come back while she tried to grasp it. It was probably best to let it return of its own accord, she thought. She put the scraps of paper in the drawer and ran downstairs to meet Elsa.

The air was close and sticky and no-one wanted to dine inside, so the hotel terrace was unusually busy that evening. Waiters bustled to and fro—even young Vittorio Morandi could be seen clearing away plates and glasses as though his life depended upon it—and the place was gay with chatter and laughter. Elsa seemed in particularly good humour, and kept Angela entertained with her amusing observations on the guests and the staff. Angela was glad of it, for she was still feeling somewhat out of sorts. She was thinking about Edgar Valencourt and his failure to leave Stresa despite his promise to go—a fact which had, in the space of the last hour or two, become inordinately annoying to her. A day or two’s delay she might have accepted—had tacitly accepted, in fact—but it had now been almost a week and he was still here, strolling coolly about the place as though he owned it, and as though the police of several countries were not at present doing their utmost to find him. Furthermore, in Angela’s mind his offence in remaining in the area was, somewhat irrationally, compounded by the fact that he had just done her a favour, which made it difficult for her now to report him to the police without looking ungracious to say the least.

Why had he stayed? That was an easy enough question to answer, anyhow. It was perfectly obvious that he believed her to have such a weakness for him that she would never turn him in—hence his complacency in coming here day after day and acting as though no-one could touch him. It was an uncomfortable truth but Angela forced herself to face it, and at that moment she disliked herself intensely for her want of resolution in not having reported him immediately. How must it have looked to him? Naturally he had hastened to take advantage of it, as anyone with half a brain would. It evidently suited him to lie low here, and why should he go when the only woman in the place who knew his real identity was so easily persuaded to keep quiet? He must have been laughing to himself all the while at her stupidity in falling for his nonsense. For a second she wondered what would happen if she
did
speak to Mr. D’Onofrio. The two men might have an unspoken agreement, but she was fairly certain that it held only so long as there were no complaints. She did not think D’Onofrio would arrest Valencourt, but perhaps he might have a quiet word with him, enough to frighten him off. Yes, that might work: that way she could get rid of him without looking too ungrateful for his help that afternoon at the Quinns’. Perhaps she might even persuade D’Onofrio not to bring her into it at all, so Valencourt would never know it had been her doing.

‘Are you quite all right, Angela?’ said Elsa at last. ‘You seem a little subdued this evening—not your usual sunny self at all.’

‘Do I?’ replied Angela, rousing herself to smile. ‘I don’t mean to.’

‘Are you still brooding about the séance?’ said Elsa.

‘No,’ said Angela truthfully.

‘I’d like to have seen Mrs. Quinn in her trance,’ said Elsa. ‘It sounds like all kinds of fun. We never got anything of the sort out of her, did we? I half-wish now that I’d asked her to read my cards. Perhaps I’ll go back to her before I leave and get her to tell me my fortune—although, of course, it’s all so vague that the message might mean anything. I couldn’t help noticing the other day that each card seemed to have any meaning that Mrs. Quinn cared to put on it. It must be nice to be able to bend things like that to one’s own purpose. And I suppose they do the same with the talking board. Just a little push and the planchette goes in whichever direction you want it to.’

‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’ said Angela thoughtfully.

The dinner rush had gradually died down, and they were now joined by Mr. D’Onofrio, who had come, he said, to warn the esteemed guests of the Hotel del Lago to watch out for a pickpocket who had been causing no little inconvenience to him over the past two days or so. They need not worry, he said, for he, D’Onofrio, knew exactly who the man was and would soon catch him, but in the meantime, since the malefactor had proved stubbornly elusive so far, he advised them to keep a close eye on their handbags.

He tossed back his grappa and subsided into a complacent silence.

‘I don’t suppose we need worry at all, with you sitting at our table,’ said Elsa, catching Angela’s eye. ‘Nobody would dare try and steal anything from us.’

‘You are right,’ said Mr. D’Onofrio, looking even more pleased with himself if that were possible.

He summoned the waiter and ordered another grappa for himself and cocktails for the ladies, and they all sat together sociably for a while. Then Elsa spotted Mr. Morandi, who was at his best on a busy night, complimenting the ladies, saluting the gentlemen affably and ruling his underlings with a rod of iron, and ran off to persuade him to come and join them. Now was the perfect moment for Angela to speak to Mr. D’Onofrio about Edgar Valencourt if she wished, but while she hesitated, wondering whether to do it and, if so, how to begin, he forestalled her by introducing a quite different subject.

‘So, then,’ he said, ‘you have nothing more to tell me about the death of Mr. Sheridan?’

‘Not much,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there have been rumours that he left a sum of money to Mrs. and Miss Quinn.’

He bowed his head.

‘I had heard something of the kind,’ he said. ‘Is it true?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Angela. ‘I don’t think anyone’s seen his will yet. That hasn’t stopped people talking, though. They’re saying that the money—if there is any—gives the Quinns a motive for murder.’

‘If there is any,’ he repeated.

‘Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Nobody knows whether there is or not.’

‘That is easily discovered,’ he said, ‘but in the meantime the Quinns could escape. Do you want me to arrest them?’

‘Goodness me, no!’ said Angela in alarm.

‘Ah. Then you yourself do not believe them to be guilty. I see.’ He nodded with satisfaction.

Angela thought for a second. By offering to arrest them he had surprised her real view out of her—a view she had not been aware she held until that moment.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think they’re guilty—not of murder, at any rate. They might be guilty of charlatanism, I suppose, but that’s nothing like as serious.’

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘And as I believe I told you before, provided they cause no trouble then I have nothing to say to them. It is only if I receive a complaint that I must act.’

‘And what about Mr. Sheridan?’ said Angela.

He glanced about him and leaned closer.

‘Everyone is happy to believe it was suicide,’ he said. ‘The doctor is happy, Mr. Sheridan’s wife is happy, his friends are happy—most of them, at least. No-one wants to know anything different. And why should I argue, if everyone is so very happy?’

‘Then that’s it, is it?’ said Angela. ‘We must forget any suspicious circumstances and pretend everything is all right?’

‘There were not
many
suspicious circumstances,’ said D’Onofrio. ‘Only—what? A shoe and a jacket. That is not the kind of evidence that will put a man in prison.’

‘No,’ said Angela uncomfortably. ‘Then I suppose you want me to forget the whole thing?’

He clicked his tongue and shook his head.

‘But no,’ he said. ‘On the contrary, Mrs. Marchmont. I did not say
I
was happy. But I can do very little. You have seen the men in uniforms, I have no doubt. They have been sent here to force happiness upon us all. They make a
brutta figura
—how do you say it?—they cut a bad figure if our English visitors all start killing each other, and so they will pretend for as long as they can that nothing of the sort has happened. And I will probably lose my job if I make a fuss,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘Then what can be done?’

‘Perhaps nothing,’ he said with a shrug. ‘But if a lady from England should perhaps want to ask some questions, then there is nothing I can do to stop her. And if she should find some answers, then all the better. The men in uniform will ignore an ugly policeman, or perhaps burn down his house, but they will not deny a pretty woman.’

‘Good gracious,’ said Angela in dismay. ‘I don’t want to be responsible for your having your house burned down.’

‘Perhaps I exaggerate a little,’ said Mr. D’Onofrio. ‘Besides, I have a long ladder.’

Angela was by no means reassured by this, and was about to say so when she noticed that there seemed to be some sort of commotion going on inside. Mr. D’Onofrio had seen it too, and stood up to see what was happening. The noise seemed to be coming from the entrance-hall, and D’Onofrio strode off to do his duty. After a second, Angela followed him, for she had seen that Mr. Morandi and Elsa appeared to be at the centre of the disturbance. When she arrived she saw Francis Butler looking distraught and wild-eyed and talking loudly and rapidly, which was most unlike him, while Mr. Morandi and Elsa tried to calm him or at least persuade him to sit down.

‘Never mind that,’ he was saying. ‘I won’t sit down. You must fetch a doctor immediately.’

‘Do not worry,’ said Mr. Morandi soothingly. ‘You see Mino is telephoning the doctor now. He will come as soon as he can, but now I insist you sit down. Vittorio!’ he snapped to his son, who was passing and had paused to watch the fun, ‘
Un brandy per il signore. Su, veloce!
’

The young man ran off to fetch the brandy and Francis was at length persuaded to take a seat, where he slumped looking utterly miserable while Mr. Morandi fussed about him.

‘What is it?’ said Angela to Elsa.

‘Chris has been taken ill,’ said Elsa. ‘They’re calling the doctor now.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Angela in concern. ‘I hope it’s nothing too serious.’

Francis looked up, and the expression on his face was one of utter despair.

‘He’s not ill,’ he said. ‘He’s dead.’

There was a horrified silence, then Angela spoke.

‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘Where is he?’

‘At the
pensione
,’ said Francis. ‘I found him in his room. I’d been looking for him all afternoon but he must have been there all the time.’

‘But are you quite certain he’s dead?’ said Elsa. ‘Perhaps he’s just been taken ill. Perhaps the doctor can do something for him.’

But Francis shook his head.

‘No, there’s no doubt,’ he said. ‘I know a dead man when I see one.’ A sob escaped him. ‘How am I going to tell his parents?’ he said. ‘I was supposed to be looking after him. I wasn’t supposed to leave him alone. I knew he wasn’t well, and now he’s dead and it’s my fault. I ought to have watched him more closely. But please, we must get back and see to him. I can’t leave him alone any longer.’

‘The doctor will be here very soon,’ said Mr. Morandi as young Vittorio returned with the brandy. ‘Here, drink this and we will go as soon as he arrives. But you cannot go anywhere like this. Now, tell us what happened. What was it? Some sort of fit, perhaps?’

‘No,’ said Francis. ‘At least, I don’t think so.’

Little by little, as the brandy calmed him down, they drew the story out of him. After he had spent the afternoon hunting high and low for his friend without success, it had eventually occurred to him that Christopher might have returned to their little hotel to rest himself. As soon as he had entered the room he had known something was wrong, for Christopher was lying on the bed, quite still and unresponsive. Francis had done all he could to try and revive him, but to no avail, and it was only then that he had noticed the glass by the bedside, the bottle of grappa, which they had bought only the day before, and the little bottle bearing the label ‘Chloral Hydrate.’

‘Was it an accident, do you think?’ said Elsa. ‘Does he take sleeping draughts?’

‘Not as far as I know,’ said Francis. ‘I didn’t even know he had any of the stuff with him. I can only assume he brought it with him without telling me. Perhaps he meant to—to—’ he broke off.

Angela exchanged glances with Elsa. Her mind was working furiously. Two suicides in one week? It seemed rather unlikely.

‘Why didn’t he tell me?’ said Francis. ‘He hadn’t been himself for a few days—he was very nervy and upset about something, but I never thought he was planning to do anything desperate.’

‘Did he say what was upsetting him?’ said Angela.

‘No,’ said Francis. ‘That is—perhaps. When he’s having one of his spells he gets worked up about all kinds of things, and even the tiniest little difficulty can set him off. I’m used to it, and normally I don’t listen much as it’s mostly nonsense, and the best thing to do generally is just wait for him to calm down. I do remember that last night he was talking about someone or other and saying that he’d been betrayed, but I just thought it was the usual wild stuff and didn’t really pay much attention.’

‘Betrayed?’ said Angela, and again glanced at Elsa. ‘Who betrayed him? Who was he talking about?’

Francis paused for a second in thought.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I think he was talking about a woman at one point, but I’ve no idea if she was the person who was meant to have betrayed him.’

‘Did he have a girl?’ said Elsa. ‘Perhaps he had had a row with her.’

‘No,’ said Francis. ‘There was no girl. He’s never been especially interested in that sort of thing as far as I know.’