The Imbroglio at the Villa Pozzi (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 6) (7 page)

‘Hush, child, of course it’s not your fault,’ said Mrs. Quinn. ‘You can only help those who choose to listen. The rest is out of our hands.’

‘I must go,’ said Asphodel. ‘I can’t stay here a moment longer.’

‘Very well, dear,’ said Mrs. Quinn. She turned to Angela. ‘You won’t mind, will you?’ she said. ‘Saph is unwell and I’d better take her home now.’

‘Not at all,’ said Angela. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘That’s kind of you, dear, but no need,’ said Mrs. Quinn. I’ll put her to bed and she’ll be as right as rain by tea-time.’

Together she and Angela helped Asphodel to her feet while Elsa busied herself extinguishing candles and collecting Mrs. Quinn’s things together. Then the two of them left, the mother clucking anxiously around the daughter.

‘Well!’ exclaimed Angela when they had gone and the curtains had been opened again, allowing some light and air back into the room. ‘That was quite an experience. Will Miss Quinn be all right, do you think? Do you suppose she really did see something, or was it all part of the act?’

‘The latter, I expect,’ said Elsa doubtfully. ‘It was very convincing if it was, though. What did you think of them?’

‘Pretty much the same as I thought before,’ replied Angela. ‘They seem harmless enough. The card-reading might have applied to anybody, and the automatic writing—well, that’s easily done.’

‘True, although I almost believed in it for a moment when the planchette started moving the first time.’

‘So did I,’ agreed Angela. ‘Now, confess: was it you who wrote that message?’

‘Of course not! As a matter of fact I rather thought it was you.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t have that kind of facility with language,’ said Angela. ‘As a matter of fact, I rather wonder whether Mrs. Quinn suspected us of being not entirely sincere and decided to play a little joke on us.’

‘How very mischievous of her, if she did,’ said Elsa. ‘She’s not at all stupid, is she?’

‘No,’ said Angela. ‘I should say that she knows perfectly well what she is about. She is clever enough not to pretend to take it all
too
seriously, and she has admitted herself that much of her ability is down to common sense—and yet she and her daughter have enough of the other-worldly about them to leave open a tiny chink of uncertainty as to whether it might not all be true.’

‘Then you don’t think you can help Mr. Ainsley at all?’ said Elsa.

‘No, I don’t,’ said Angela. ‘He hates everything Mrs. Quinn stands for and I believe that is affecting his views of her. There is nothing he can do to stop her practising as a medium, and so I think he desperately wants her to be guilty of defrauding people out of their savings so he has an excuse to drum her out of town.’

‘And of that there is no evidence.’

‘Not as far as I can see. Of course, the logical thing to do would be to go and talk to everyone who has ever sat for the Quinns, but I can hardly ask a lot of complete strangers about their financial arrangements, can I? What could I say? “Tell me, has anybody persuaded you into changing your will in their favour lately?” Why, it’s unthinkable. No, I believe I shall have to retire from the investigation—such as it was, since I seem to have spent most of it in enjoying myself. If Jonathan wants to find some evidence of fraud then I don’t think I can help him.’

‘No,’ agreed Elsa. ‘If they really are guilty of something then it will be a job for the police.’

‘I suppose I had better break the news to Jonathan this afternoon,’ said Angela.

‘I hope Miss Quinn will be all right,’ said Elsa. ‘She did look remarkably unwell. I wonder what she saw, and who needed help.’

‘Well, whoever it was, it’s too late, apparently,’ said Angela.

The heavy grey clouds had been drifting slowly across from the other side of the lake all morning, and by early afternoon the sun had gone completely and the air was heavy and still, with the threat of rain. Raymond Sheridan had promised to send a message if he thought the weather was not good enough for the picnic, but they had heard nothing, and so Angela and Elsa duly presented themselves downstairs in good time to be conducted to the Villa Pozzi by Mr. Morandi in his motor-car, since it was far too hot to walk even the half a mile or so from the Hotel del Lago.

The villa stood on the outskirts of Stresa, and was set a little back from the lake, at the top of a long drive. Angela looked about her as they drove through the grounds, admiring the lush vegetation, tall trees and expansive grassy areas. The effect was formal without being too stiff, and it certainly looked as though plenty of hard work had gone into creating and maintaining it.

They passed a little octagonal summer-house, whose windows and doors were shut up tight as though for the depths of winter, and continued up the straight road, then drew up by a fountain which stood in front of the house. There they alighted and Angela now saw the Villa Pozzi properly for the first time.

‘As you can see,’ said Mr. Morandi, who could never resist an opportunity to show off his knowledge, ‘the building is in the early Palladian style, but to a smaller scale. It does not have the adornment or grandeur of the later Palladian architecture—it has none of the columns and pediments that so characterized Palladio’s later work, for example—and is in fact quite plain.’

Angela regarded the house with interest. It had a creamy yellow façade and a red roof, and was graceful in its symmetry. A long flight of steps at the front led up to the entrance, which was concealed under a loggia of three arches. It was larger and much more impressive than Angela had imagined, although she noticed that here and there the paint was peeling and some of the brick-work was crumbling. Perhaps Mr. Sheridan had invested most of his time and money in the garden rather than the building.

‘Shall we go in?’ said Mr. Morandi.

‘Yes please,’ said Elsa. ‘I should like to have a few minutes inside and escape this horrid heat.’

Indeed, even in the past hour the air seemed to have become hotter and more humid, and the sky darker and heavier. It hardly seemed the right sort of weather for a picnic.

‘Surely it must rain soon,’ said Angela.

‘Not before we have eaten,’ said Mr. Morandi gaily. ‘I shall not allow it.’

They climbed the steps and passed through the loggia into the villa’s gloomy entrance-hall, where they found the Ainsleys waiting for them. It was just as hot in here as it was outside, and there seemed no escape from the oppressive heat. They all exchanged greetings.

‘Where is Mr. Sheridan?’ said Mr. Morandi.

‘We don’t know,’ said Mary. ‘Nobody has seen him today, although the women were given instructions yesterday to prepare the picnic, so we’ve got that at least.’ She indicated two baskets that stood at her feet. ‘We were just waiting for you and wondering what to do.’

‘Perhaps he got called away on business,’ said Elsa. ‘Do you think we ought to wait? Or shall we start before the rain does?’

‘I vote for the latter,’ said Jonathan Ainsley. ‘I oughtn’t really to be deserting my duties, and the sooner we start the better, I think, so I can get back.’

‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Mary. ‘You work hard enough. Even the bishop isn’t going to begrudge you a little fun now and again.’

‘Then that is settled,’ said Mr. Morandi. ‘Let us start immediately. Mr. Sheridan can join us when he will.’

They carried the baskets out through the loggia and down the steps. After a minute or two it was decided between them that they would lay out the picnic under the branches of a nearby chestnut tree which had particularly thick and luxuriant foliage, in case it began to rain while they were eating. The blanket was spread out and the food unwrapped and they set to as well as they could in the sweltering heat. Mr. Morandi, indeed, seemed to have suffered no diminution in appetite at all—but as he said, he had been born and brought up in the area and was perfectly accustomed to this type of weather, which did not bother him in the least. Angela ate very little and Elsa barely anything at all, much to her regret.

‘It all looks so delicious that I feel terribly guilty,’ she said, ‘but this heat is so overwhelming that I fear I shall explode if I allow one of those enormous rolls to pass my lips.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Mary. As everybody seemed to have finished she began wrapping the leftover food up and putting it back into the baskets. ‘Perhaps Raymond can have what we’ve left for supper, since it doesn’t look as though he’s going to turn up today.’

‘I wonder where he’s got to,’ said Jonathan. ‘It’s not like him to miss a picnic.’

‘It’s not, is it?’ said Mary. ‘Still, at least he was thoughtful enough to leave some food for us. It’s just a shame we couldn’t finish it.’

‘At any rate, I’m glad they put in sandwiches instead of risotto and cold vegetables,’ said her husband. ‘The Italians may pride themselves on their food but they have no idea how to do a picnic, generally speaking.’

Mr. Morandi and Elsa were talking together, so Mary took the opportunity to say to Angela in an undertone, ‘How did you get on with Mrs. Quinn this morning?’

Angela hesitated. Jonathan was listening, and she had no desire to upset him, so she merely said cautiously, ‘It was very interesting.’

‘But what did you think of her? Did you find anything out?’

Angela was about to reply when Elsa said, ‘If we stay sitting here much longer in the heat I shall go mad. I must walk, and find a breath of air
somewhere
.’

Angela shook her head at Mary and indicated that she would speak to her later, and the party began to disperse. Jonathan was anxious to get back to his duties, and so he and Mary agreed that they would return the picnic-baskets to the house and see if Mr. Sheridan had come back. If he had not, then they would return to town. Meanwhile, the others would take a little walk in the gardens which, after all, were what they had come to see.

Accordingly, Angela, Elsa and Mr. Morandi set off at a leisurely pace in the opposite direction from the villa, for Mr. Morandi assured them that there was a fine view of the house to be had from the top of a little rise a short distance away, where there were no trees to block the view.

‘How steep is this rise, exactly?’ said Elsa. ‘I think I shall melt if I have to climb a proper hill.’

‘It is very gentle,’ Morandi assured her. ‘You will have no trouble at all—and if you do, then I will carry you. You also, Mrs. Marchmont,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘Well, with that kind of threat hanging over us I suppose we’ll have to climb it ourselves, Angela,’ said Elsa, and they all laughed.

They were a little distance from the house when Elsa suddenly said, ‘Why, Angela, where is your jacket?’

‘Dear me,’ said Angela, ‘I must have left it in the car. It was so hot I simply couldn’t bear to wear it, but if it rains I’ll get drenched, won’t I?’

‘You certainly will, in that thin frock of yours,’ said Elsa.

‘I will fetch it for you,’ said Mr. Morandi.

‘No, no,’ said Angela. ‘Thank you, but I can get it myself. I’ll catch you up in a few minutes.’

She set off briskly back the way they had come, but had not gone fifty yards before she felt a
spat
on her arm, and then another on her cheek. A second later there was a blinding flash of lightning, quickly followed by a thunderclap such as she had never heard before, and then the heavens opened and the downpour which had been threatening all afternoon was unleashed with all the force that gravity could provide and more.

Angela had only read of the Indian monsoon, but it seemed to her that she had now found herself in the middle of it. Within seconds she was soaked to the skin, and she began to run as fast as she could towards the nearest shelter, which happened to be the little summer-house they had seen on the way up to the villa. As she arrived she barely noticed that the door, which had been firmly shut before, was now open, and she ran inside thankfully, intending to wait until the worst of the rain had passed. The window shutters were all closed and it was dim, almost dark inside, and it took a second or two for Angela’s eyes to get used to the light. As soon as they did she realized that someone had arrived before her, and she started as she recognized Edgar Valencourt, who was standing in the centre of the room looking up at something. When she entered he glanced towards her, but barely seemed to register her presence and immediately turned his eyes back up towards the thing he had been staring at before. Angela followed his gaze and immediately clapped a hand across her mouth for there, hanging from an overhead beam and quite beyond help, was Raymond Sheridan.

The heat inside the summer-house was suffocating, almost overwhelming, and for a moment or two Angela was sensible of nothing but the sound of the rain drumming incessantly upon the roof and the beating of her own heart. Gradually, however, her senses returned and she noticed that the body was swaying gently, causing the rope to creak against the beam to which it was attached. She turned a questioning gaze to Valencourt.

‘I knocked against him when I came in,’ he said, as though reading her mind.

The air was dead and flat. Angela glanced up at the mortal remains of Mr. Sheridan, who had been talking to her so cheerfully about his garden only two days ago, and then back at Edgar Valencourt, who had now turned his attention away from the thing in the middle of the room and towards her. They stared at each other. Angela’s mind was a rush of jumbled thoughts but for the moment she was unable to give voice to any of them. The sound of the rain seemed to be getting louder and louder in her ears, and she felt the pressure in her head growing.

‘What happened?’ she managed at last.

‘I don’t know,’ said Valencourt, without taking his eyes off her. ‘I’d only just got here when you arrived. I know as much as you do.’

‘Is it suicide?’

‘It looks like it, don’t you think?’

‘But why?’

He said nothing, but continued to stare at her. She turned away and back towards Mr. Sheridan. She could not bear to look at the contorted face of the hanging figure but her eyes took in his clothes, his hands, his feet. One of his shoes had come off and was balanced precariously on the leg of the overturned chair below him, and his jacket hung open, unbuttoned. Angela glanced back at Valencourt, who was still regarding her intently.

‘What is it?’ she said.

‘You’re wet through,’ he said, and began to move towards her. She backed away slightly and looked down at her thin summer dress, which was quite ruined.

‘Yes,’ she said. The pressure in her head was mounting and her breath was starting to come rapidly. He continued to advance slowly, his eyes on her all the while, and she kept on backing away until she reached the door.

‘I have to get out,’ she whispered at last, as panic started to overcome her.

She turned and would have run blindly into the rain, but he said:

‘You can’t go out like that. You’re soaking wet and shivering.’ And indeed it was true: she was trembling, although it was not from cold. ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘you’d better take my jacket.’ Before she could protest he took it off and threw it around her shoulders. ‘Now,’ he went on, ‘we’ll have to run if we don’t want to drown. Ready?’

Angela nodded, and he took her hand and together they ducked out into the rain and ran as fast as they could up the drive and back to the house. The other two had evidently made it back before them, for as they ran up the steps Angela saw Elsa looking out from under the loggia.

‘Well, I believe you’re even wetter than we are, if that’s possible,’ said Elsa as they arrived, drenched and breathless. ‘Hallo, Mr. Smart, where did you spring from? Why, Angela, what’s the matter?’ she said as she saw Angela’s face. ‘You look as though you’d seen a ghost.’

‘You’re not far wrong,’ said Valencourt grimly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’ve just found Mr. Sheridan,’ said Angela. ‘He’s in the summer-house. I’m afraid it looks very much as though he has killed himself.’

‘Oh,
no
!’ said Elsa, putting her hand to her mouth in dismay.

‘
Dio mio
!’ said Mr. Morandi at the same time, and crossed himself.

Now that Angela had escaped from the oppressive atmosphere of the summer-house she was starting to feel much more like herself. She explained briefly what had happened, and then said, ‘Is there a telephone here? We must call a doctor, and the police too.’

She saw, or rather felt, Valencourt start a little at this, but she set her jaw and ignored it.

‘Yes, yes, indeed,’ said Mr. Morandi. ‘There is a telephone. I will call the doctor and tell him to come as a matter of urgency.’

‘Don’t you think you ought to sit down?’ said Valencourt to Angela, indicating a chair. ‘You did get a bit of a shock.’

‘I’m quite all right now, thank you,’ she said. Nevertheless, she did as he suggested and sat.

They waited for the doctor to arrive, Morandi and Elsa talking and exclaiming over the dreadful event, and Angela and Valencourt in silence. By the time the doctor came the rain had stopped, the clouds were beginning to disperse and it looked as though it would be a fine evening.

Mr. Morandi had insisted on taking charge, and so he entrusted his friend Mr. Smart with the task of conducting the ladies back to the Hotel del Lago with many instructions on the proper management of his motor-car, while he remained behind to escort the doctor to the summer-house and direct operations. Despite Morandi’s fears, Valencourt successfully managed to convey them the half-mile to their destination without accidentally driving the car into the lake, and they all alighted and went up the steps onto the terrace. Elsa disappeared to change and Angela was about to do the same but Valencourt said, ‘Wait.’

He pointed to a seat and ran off. Angela sat down and waited, surprised, but all was explained when he returned shortly with two glasses of brandy.

‘You’d better have this,’ he said. ‘You look pretty done in. In fact you can have both of them if you think you need it.’

‘One will be quite enough, thank you,’ said Angela.

She took a sip and immediately felt the warmth flowing into her.

He swallowed his own drink in one mouthful and then said, regarding her closely, ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘Quite all right,’ replied Angela, ‘except that I feel rather an idiot for panicking like that. I don’t know what got into me.’

‘Don’t feel like that,’ he said. ‘I felt a bit like panicking myself. One doesn’t expect to bump into a dead body when one takes shelter from the rain.’

‘Is that what you were doing?’

‘Of course. It was coming down in buckets and I didn’t especially want to take a bath. Why, what did you think I was doing? Skulking about, waiting to entrap my next victim, having dispatched Sheridan by hanging him from the ceiling? What do you take me for? He’d be far too heavy for me to lift, for a start.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Angela, who was not entirely certain what she
had
meant by her question. ‘I was just surprised to see you, that’s all. I thought you’d gone.’

‘I am going. But I was meant to be meeting Sheridan on Friday and I was going up to the house to tell him I shouldn’t be able to come.’

‘Were you friends?’ said Angela. She had not supposed a man such as Edgar Valencourt would have friends.

He shrugged.

‘Not close friends, but in the sense that all the English people here are friends with one another, yes, we were.’ He saw her look and smiled wryly. ‘I live a perfectly respectable life much of the time, you know. One can’t always be running.’

‘I suppose not,’ she said, eyeing him over the rim of her glass. She wanted to know more but would not ask.

‘And you’d better stop looking at me like that,’ he said, ‘or before I know it I shall find myself giving away all my secrets, and that would never do.’

She shook her head and looked away.

‘I wonder why he did it,’ she said after a pause. ‘Killed himself, I mean. He seemed so cheerful and content when I was talking to him the other night.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘I don’t know. He talked about the gardens at the house, I do remember that. He was very enthusiastic and mentioned a delivery of rare plants that he was expecting soon, although I couldn’t tell you what they were. And then we talked about Mrs. Quinn and he was telling me all about how she had saved him twice from financial ruin, and then—oh!’ She paused.

‘What is it?’ asked Valencourt.

‘I’ve just remembered something else he said,’ said Angela. ‘He told me that Miss Quinn had warned him several times that he was in danger.’ She paused again as her mind darted back to the events of that morning. ‘How very odd. I wonder if that’s what she saw today.’

‘What do you mean? What
who
saw today?’

‘Miss Quinn,’ said Angela. ‘Elsa and I sat for them both this morning. We did automatic writing and Mrs. Quinn read my cards.’

‘And did you manage to speak to your—er—husband?’

‘Don’t be silly, of course I didn’t,’ she replied. ‘But something rather strange happened while we were there. Miss Quinn had a funny turn which Mrs. Quinn claimed was a vision, and when she came to she seemed to think something dreadful had happened. She kept saying, “Too late! Too late!” and asking why she hadn’t been able to help him. I wonder whether she mightn’t have meant Mr. Sheridan.’

He looked sceptical.

‘You don’t really believe in all that stuff, do you?’ he said.

‘Not really,’ said Angela. ‘But you must admit it’s rather odd.’

‘I expect she put it on just to impress you,’ said Valencourt.

‘Perhaps she did,’ said Angela. ‘The automatic writing didn’t go terribly well, and perhaps they wanted to convince us they really are in communication with the spirit world.’

‘Then I should advise them to try harder,’ said Valencourt.

‘What would it take to convince you?’ said Angela curiously.

‘Why, I don’t think anything could,’ he said. ‘Unless—’ he stopped, and did not finish the sentence. ‘No,’ he went on, ‘I think it’s fair to say that I am unassailable in my disbelief.’

Something had just occurred to Angela.

‘Who is going to tell Mr. Sheridan’s wife?’ she said. ‘I understand she is in England at present. Someone will have to let her know what has happened to her husband. I should hate to be the one to have to tell her, poor thing. I imagine it will come as an awful shock.’

‘I dare say it will,’ said Valencourt.

‘Do you know her?’ said Angela. ‘What is she like?’

‘She’s a pleasant enough woman,’ he replied. Something about the way he said it caught her attention, and she glanced up.

‘You don’t like her, do you?’ she said.

‘I have nothing against her at all,’ he said. ‘But no, Mrs. Marchmont, in answer to your impertinently direct question, I don’t think much of her.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she won’t do a thing for herself,’ he said. ‘She’s one of these wide-eyed, clingy types who can’t seem to set foot out of doors without someone to help her—usually a man. And now you’ve got that much out of me, I shall say no more. I’m supposed to be behaving myself, and talking ill of dead men’s wives is hardly charitable.’

‘You’re right,’ said Angela, ‘but I promise I won’t hold you to account for it, since I’m the one who forced it out of you.’ She looked down at her glass. ‘Do you think the police will have to be told?’ she said.

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘I think perhaps I ought to speak to Mr. D’Onofrio about it,’ she said tentatively.

‘Do whatever you think best,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure you’ll excuse me if I keep well out of it.’

‘I thought you said you had an arrangement with him.’

‘I do,’ he replied, ‘but it requires me to keep away from him as much as possible and not cause him any more trouble than I can help. I’m not sure where mysterious suicides come into it, but I don’t particularly want to spoil things by finding out.’

‘No,’ said Angela. ‘Still, it oughtn’t to be too much of a problem for you, since you were leaving anyway.’

‘Yes,’ he said, throwing her an odd look. ‘Are you feeling better now? Then I should advise you to go and change out of that frock before you catch your death of cold.’

The evening sun was so warm that her dress was now quite dry, but she was hardly looking her best and so she went off to do as he suggested. Back in her room, as she combed her hair, she thought back to their encounter in the summer-house, and about the feeling of menace that had almost overwhelmed her, and shivered involuntarily. Where had the sensation come from? Had it simply been caused by the grisly discovery she had made, or was there something more to it than that? She tried to put out of her mind the thought that had shot immediately into her head when she first ran into the summer-house and discovered Valencourt there with Mr. Sheridan’s body, but it was no good: there was no getting away from it. He had even joked about it afterwards. Angela stopped what she was doing and stared at herself in the glass, her thoughts anything but reassuring.