The Imbroglio at the Villa Pozzi (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 6) (20 page)

‘I rather think it is
you
who ought to have let well alone,’ said Virginia. ‘As I said before, there’s no proof of anything.’

‘Not of your involvement, no,’ agreed Angela. ‘You can count yourself lucky at present, because Jack is sticking firmly to the accident story and has refused to give you away—naturally, since if he were to admit to your affair then that would immediately present a motive for murder, and then the whole thing would start to look deeply suspicious and he might be arrested. But I shouldn’t congratulate myself just yet if I were you. You see, if evidence
does
emerge that Raymond and Chris were deliberately killed, then Jack will have no further reason to keep quiet about you—rather the opposite, in fact, since he will be looking for someone to blame for having persuaded him to kill his friend.’

For the first time, a look of fear crossed Virginia Sheridan’s face. It was gone almost immediately, however, and her expression once more became impassive. There was a pause, and Angela held her breath. She was still not certain that she had done the right thing in confronting Virginia, but since there was some doubt as to whether a prosecution would ever be brought, she wanted Mrs. Sheridan to know that someone, at least, knew what had really happened. If she and Jack Lomax
were
to get off scot-free, Angela was determined not to allow them to do it in peace. They would have to live in the knowledge that the truth was known to others, including the police. It was poor punishment, but it would have to do for the present.

Virginia Sheridan opened her mouth to speak, and for a second Angela was convinced she was about to admit everything, but then she seemingly changed her mind. Instead, she stepped forward.

‘It was so kind of you to come, Angela,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry you have to hurry off, but thank you so much for the congratulations. Raymond would have been
so
happy.’

She held out a hand. Angela hesitated, then shook it uncertainly. There seemed nothing else to do.

‘Goodbye,’ said Mrs. Sheridan.

‘Goodbye,’ said Mrs. Marchmont.

They regarded each other for a moment, then Angela turned and left the Villa Pozzi for the last time, wondering whether she had perhaps dreamed the last half an hour. She set off down the drive, forcing herself to walk at a gentle pace, since she was sure that Mrs. Sheridan was watching her from the window. It was not until she was certain she was quite out of sight that she began to hurry, and by the time she reached the gates she was almost running.

That evening the Hotel del Lago was in festive and hilarious mood, for Mr. Morandi and Mrs. Peters had decided to announce their engagement and Mr. Morandi had ordered that all his guests be treated to free champagne. There was much merry-making and many speeches—mostly from Mr. Morandi himself, who could not praise his lady highly enough and would have held forth about her merits the whole evening had Elsa not called him an idiot and told him to shut up, at which everybody laughed.

Angela was more pleased for her friend than she could say, and took the first opportunity of congratulating her heartily. Elsa was not the sort to blush, but she beamed.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You will come to the wedding, won’t you?’

‘I should love to, if I can,’ said Angela.

I’m rather surprised at myself, to be perfectly honest,’ said Elsa. ‘Until Gabriele asked me I should have said I was far too old for this sort of thing, but now I feel as fluttered and silly as an eighteen-year-old—quite ridiculously happy, in fact.’

‘How delightful,’ said Angela, smiling, for Elsa’s happiness was infectious. ‘Then I suppose you will be staying in Stresa now.’

‘Oh, no, I have to go home and tell the children,’ said Elsa.

‘How will they take the news, do you think?’

‘I should think they’ll be all right,’ said Elsa. ‘They’re all grown up now, and have their own concerns. I dare say they’ll be pleased that there’s no danger any more of my coming to live with them when I get old and grumpy.’

‘I can’t imagine your ever being grumpy, Elsa,’ said Angela. ‘Why, you simply don’t have it in you.’

‘I’m sure I could if I tried,’ said Elsa. ‘Perhaps when I’ve had to deal with one too many rude guests I shall discover reserves of bad temper I never knew I had.’

‘So you are going to help run the hotel?’

‘Yes,’ said Elsa. ‘I’m rather looking forward to it, as a matter of fact. I love having lots of people around me, and now I shall.’

‘I do believe you and Gabriele are very well suited,’ said Angela.

‘We are indeed,’ said Elsa, ‘and another advantage of marrying a hotelier is that there’s no danger of his crashing a plane into a field.’

They laughed, and then paused as young Vittorio Morandi approached their table. He had ostensibly come to clear away their glasses, but instead he stopped, glanced about to make sure his father was not looking, then kissed Elsa quickly on the cheek. Elsa laughed again as he ran off with an air of repressed mischief.

‘I see you have won him over already,’ said Angela.

‘I hope so,’ Elsa replied. ‘I think there are the makings of a fine boy in him, but he needs a mother to put him right.’

Angela was reminded of Francis Butler, and she looked about for him.

‘Where is Francis?’ she said.

‘He’s gone home, the poor darling,’ said Elsa. ‘I made him go, as I didn’t think this place was doing him any good. He needs to be back in England with his family. Gabriele can deal with all the formalities for him here. And what about you, Angela? You are off to England tomorrow too. You never did get to see Venice after all, did you?’

‘No,’ said Angela. ‘It will have to wait until another time, as I have promised to visit my brother and his family shortly.’

‘You don’t look particularly happy about it,’ observed Elsa.

‘I’m not, especially,’ said Angela. ‘I’m afraid he and his wife disapprove of me. He’s quite painfully respectable, and I understand he finds my occasional appearance in the newspapers embarrassing. Investigating murders is an unwomanly pursuit, you see. And to make things worse, there is the fact that I can’t produce a convenient husband when required, despite being a Mrs. and not a widow.’

‘Well, you must admit it is dreadfully modern and scandalous of you, darling,’ said Elsa. ‘However, I should have thought anyone in their right mind would be terribly excited to have a detective in the family. I know I should.’

‘As a matter of fact, I am rather thinking of abandoning all pretensions to detective ability,’ said Angela glumly. ‘I seem to be far too easily swayed by what people tell me. I ought never to have let myself be persuaded into investigating the Quinns—and I especially ought not to have believed that they had anything to do with Mr. Sheridan’s death.’

‘Don’t blame yourself for that,’ said Elsa. ‘Rumour is a very powerful thing, and if you truly believed there was something suspicious about his suicide then it was your duty to do something about it. And as we now know, there
was
something suspicious about it. At least the truth has finally come out.’

Angela was silent, for of course the truth had not come out at all. She glanced about her and saw no sign of Jack Lomax or Virginia Sheridan, although that was hardly surprising in the circumstances. Angela wondered whether Virginia had been in communication with Jack to tell him that they were both under suspicion. Or would she continue to pretend that nothing had happened, as she had that morning? Angela felt very dissatisfied with herself about the whole thing, and was half-inclined to think that she might have made the situation worse by interfering.

Mr. Morandi had now come to join them, and Angela excused herself tactfully and wandered out onto the terrace. There she spied the Quinns sitting at a table. They saw Angela, and Mrs. Quinn beckoned to her to join them.

‘Well, Mrs. Marchmont,’ she said. ‘It looks as though someone has been doing something she oughtn’t—and Saph seems to think she had a hand in her husband’s death, too.’

‘Yes, I rather think she did,’ said Angela, ‘although nobody knows that except ourselves so it’s probably better not to put it about for the present.’

‘I gather she’s in the family way,’ said Mrs. Quinn. ‘It’s all out in the open now, although Saph says she saw it some time ago.’

‘I knew she was in trouble,’ said Miss Quinn, nodding.

‘Ah, of course,’ said Angela, who suddenly understood something that had been nagging at her.

‘Do you suppose they’ll arrest her?’ said Mrs. Quinn.

‘I can’t say,’ said Angela. ‘It all depends on the results of the post-mortem examination and any other evidence they find. Mr. D’Onofrio is doing his best—at least, I think he is: he’s so laconic that it’s difficult to tell—and really, it’s all up to him now. However, I rather fear that justice may not be done in this case.’

‘I hope it will be,’ said Asphodel. ‘I’m a witness, you know. I saw Mr. Lomax and Mrs. Sheridan together, and I shall speak up if necessary.’

‘Then I suggest you talk to Mr. D’Onofrio,’ said Angela. ‘The more proof he can get the better.’

‘Poor Mr. Sheridan,’ said Mrs. Quinn. ‘Even if it was an accident, it’s not right to string a man up and deprive him of his dignity. Still, at least everyone knows now that it had nothing to do with us.’ She lowered her voice and went on with a touch of glee, ‘In fact, if you’ll believe it, Mrs. Marchmont, even Mr. Ainsley came and shook my hand this morning.’

‘No!’ said Angela in surprise.

‘Oh, but he did. He said he was sorry if he had inadvertently been responsible for spreading untrue stories about us. He said he knew it was an unchristian thing to do, but he had believed at the time he was only acting out of concern for his congregation. But now the truth had come out, he realized he’d acted wrongly and hoped we would pardon him.’

‘And did you?’ said Angela.

‘Of course I did,’ said Mrs. Quinn. ‘And if that makes me soft in the head then so be it. We’ll be leaving Stresa soon, you know, and I don’t like to part with people on bad terms.’

‘Oh?’ said Angela. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I don’t know, exactly,’ said Mrs. Quinn. ‘I’ve a fancy to see Naples and Sicily, so I imagine we’ll head South at first. I suppose you’ll be going back to England soon.’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Angela.

‘Well, I hope you have a good journey,’ said Mrs. Quinn. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you. I’m only sorry we never managed to speak to your husband. Still, perhaps it’s for the best.’

Angela went a little pink at this, but Mrs. Quinn appeared not to notice, as she had just spotted someone she knew coming up the steps to the terrace. She stood up.

‘Excuse me a moment, won’t you?’ she said, and hurried off, leaving Angela with Asphodel Quinn. Miss Quinn turned her dark, intense gaze on Angela and seemed to be making her mind up to something.

‘I know I ought to keep my mouth shut after everything that’s happened,’ she said at last, ‘but you’ve been kind, so I won’t. Don’t be shocked, but I’m rather afraid I see danger ahead for you too, Mrs. Marchmont.’

Angela was disconcerted in spite of herself.

‘Oh?’ she said. ‘Of what nature?’

‘I don’t know, exactly,’ said Miss Quinn. ‘I’m sorry, that’s not very helpful, I know. It’s not imminent, though. I mean, you’re not going to get run over by a train tomorrow, or anything.’

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Angela dryly.

Miss Quinn was thinking hard.

‘That man,’ she said at last. She seemed to be staring at something over Angela’s shoulder. Angela glanced involuntarily behind her, but saw no-one.

‘Which man?’ she said.

‘The nice-looking one with the deep blue eyes,’ said Asphodel. ‘You know, the one who comes to the hotel sometimes.’

She paused again.

‘Is the danger to do with him?’ said Angela.

‘I’m not sure,’ replied Miss Quinn. ‘I’m not certain what I can see, exactly, but I think perhaps he might save your life. Or is it the other way round? How odd—I can’t tell which it is.’

‘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.

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 that 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.

***