The Imbroglio at the Villa Pozzi (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 6) (18 page)

‘I’ll try,’ she replied. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Talk to people,’ he said. ‘You are not in any way official, and perhaps people will speak to you more easily than they would speak to me.’

‘Yes,’ said Angela, thinking. ‘I can do that. I don’t know exactly what happened—or at least, I’m not entirely sure why—but I think there’s one person in particular who might be able to tell me. Very well, then, I will do what I can. I only hope that some conclusive evidence can be found, though. If there’s no proof, then this whole thing will remain forever unresolved and the rumours will never be quashed.’

Mr. D’Onofrio sighed.

‘It is a great pity that these things must happen,’ he said. It was the nearest thing to a moral pronouncement Angela had ever heard him make. He gave her a little bow and departed, and she went on her way.

When Angela arrived at the Ainsleys’ apartment she found that Virginia Sheridan had already arrived and was sitting with Mary in their little sitting-room, looking even more unwell than before, if possible. Angela once again wondered whether Mrs. Sheridan was eating properly and could not help inquiring after her health.

‘Yes, I confess I am a little under the weather,’ she replied, ‘but I assure you it’s nothing serious. I shall be quite all right.’

‘Oh, but you must look after yourself
now
,’ said Mary who, it appeared, had also been upbraiding Virginia before Angela’s arrival. ‘Think of what Raymond would say if he knew, and what he would tell you to do.’

‘Of course I’m thinking of Raymond,’ said Virginia sharply. She caught herself and lowered her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to snap. I promise I shall do my best.’

‘I know you will, dear,’ said Mary, and busied herself with serving tea, an activity which occupied the conversation for the next few minutes.

Naturally, the first topic to be introduced once they had all been served was the death of Christopher Tate. Mary and Virginia were full of wonder and consternation at this latest tragedy and wanted to know everything Angela could tell them, since she had been there when Francis had come to the hotel to report it. Angela told them what she could and said that it looked as though Christopher had killed himself. At this, Virginia Sheridan gave a little exclamation of distress.

‘I hope he didn’t get the idea from Raymond,’ she said. ‘I should hate to think it influenced him in any way.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Mary. ‘Why, it’s not as though they died the same way, is it? I shouldn’t give it a second’s thought if I were you. You have enough to worry about as it is without getting worked up by that sort of idea.’

Angela, who was by now fairly certain that Mr. Sheridan’s death had led almost directly to Christopher’s, said nothing, but sipped her tea.

‘Poor Francis,’ said Mary, after a pause. ‘I suppose he will have to go home now. What will happen to Chris’s paintings, do you think?’

‘I dare say his parents will take them,’ said Angela.

‘And once Francis goes home Jack Lomax will have lost both his pupils at once,’ said Mary. She sighed. ‘It’s quite astonishing how many people are affected by one person’s death, isn’t it?’

‘I wonder what drove him to it,’ said Virginia.

‘I gather he hadn’t been well,’ said Mary. ‘He had a nervous complaint, I understand—but as to what was bothering him in particular I have no idea. Do you know, Angela? You’ve spoken to Francis, haven’t you?’

‘Francis says he doesn’t know either,’ said Angela.

‘I wonder,’ said Mrs. Sheridan, considering. ‘Perhaps Jack will know. Didn’t Chris rather hero-worship him? I’m sure someone told me he did.’

‘He did, rather, from what I saw,’ said Angela.

‘Then I do hope it wasn’t something Jack said,’ said Virginia. ‘He can be a little brusque at times, and if this boy really was the nervous type then it might only take the slightest remark to upset him enough to—’ she faltered, unwilling to voice the thought.

Angela glanced up but said nothing.

‘Well, no doubt it will all come out sooner or later,’ said Mary. She poured out more tea. ‘Now, then, Angela,’ she said, ‘we have been waiting to hear your opinion of this séance. Virginia was just telling me what happened when you arrived. It’s all most mysterious, don’t you think? But can you be quite sure they didn’t hypnotize either of you in any way?’

‘Quite sure,’ said Angela, who had now completely abandoned the idea of the Quinns’ being guilty of murder and was almost inclined to think that if anyone had hypnotized her it was Jonathan, for she could think of no other reason—apart from possibly her own natural gullibility—why she should have believed such a ridiculous theory in the first place.

‘It was rather impressive, though, wasn’t it?’ said Virginia hesitantly.

‘I suppose it was,’ said Angela, ‘but I dare say a real expert in these matters could explain immediately how they did it. I couldn’t tell you myself, but I expect there’s a simple enough explanation.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Mary. ‘Then I shall have to find a way to tell Jonathan. I don’t suppose he’ll be pleased.’

‘I imagine not,’ said Angela, ‘but I’m afraid he will just have to accept the fact that there is nothing he can do about the Quinns, however much they annoy him.’

Mary was about to answer when Virginia Sheridan interrupted gently and asked if she might have a glass of water.

‘Of course, dear,’ said Mary. She got up and fetched the drink, then fluttered about Virginia in concern. It appeared that the Ainsleys had offered to help Mrs. Sheridan make a list of the effects at the Villa Pozzi with a view to holding a sale.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know where to begin,’ said Virginia. ‘There is such a lot of stuff, you see, and some of it is rather valuable.’

‘Well, Jonathan and I can help you clear out any unwanted things that won’t fetch anything,’ said Mary. ‘You won’t want to be bothered with all that, will you?’

‘Are you selling the house?’ said Angela.

Virginia nodded.

‘Yes, I think so,’ she said. ‘It’s far too much for me to manage alone. Mary and Jonathan are very kindly going to help me arrange everything.’

As Virginia and Mary began to discuss what was to be done, Angela was once again struck by the apparent ease with which Mrs. Sheridan induced other people to do things for her, just as Edgar Valencourt had said. At the thought of Valencourt, she felt a little stab as she remembered that only last night he had accused her of doing almost exactly the same thing when she had persuaded him to search the Quinns’ apartment for her. She would not soil her own hands, he had said, and she was stung anew at the memory. True, he had been angry, and she had returned fire with interest, but was he right? After a moment’s reflection, however, she concluded that the accusation had been unjust, since she would have been perfectly willing to do it herself had she been able to. She wished she had had the presence of mind to make the point at the time, and for half a second was resolved to tell him of it the next time she saw him. Then she remembered that it would not be possible, that he had promised to keep away from her, and that they were not to see each other again. Still, there was some satisfaction in the thought that he had been wrong, and that she was nothing like Virginia Sheridan, since she was entirely able to do things for herself.

Her thoughts running along these lines, Angela watched absently as Mary flapped about Virginia. Then she sat up straight and almost laughed at her own obtuseness as a thought darted into her head and she suddenly understood something that she had completely missed before. How could she have been so blind when it was so perfectly obvious? Why, even a child might have noticed it. Angela shook her head in wonder at her own lack of perspicacity, and could only assume that her mind had been so occupied with other things that she had not been paying full attention to the matter at hand.

It was all very well seeing the thing, however, but the real question was: what did it mean? Was it a coincidence, or was there something more to it than that? Did it, in fact, hold the key to the mystery? For a few moments Angela debated with herself as to whether to speak directly to Virginia Sheridan about it, but after a moment concluded that it might be unwise, and so decided to say nothing for the present. At that moment she wanted nothing more than to go somewhere quiet and think about things by herself, and so after a few minutes she took her leave and set off through the town, intending to find a seat overlooking the lake and attempt to put the pieces of the puzzle together. But when she reached the lake-front she changed her mind, for there, sitting on a bench and gazing out across the water was the familiar figure of Asphodel Quinn, who for once seemed to be without her mother. Angela hesitated for a second and then made up her mind. She went across to the bench and stood before Miss Quinn.

‘May I sit down?’ she said.

The girl glanced up. From the state of her eyes it looked as though she had been crying. She indicated that she had no objection and Angela sat down next to her.

‘I wondered if I might ask you something,’ she said.

‘Yes?’ said Miss Quinn.

‘I seem to remember your mentioning a letter you sent to someone once, warning him that he was in danger.’

‘Yes, and what of it?’ said Miss Quinn rudely. ‘You might also remember that it didn’t work, so why remind me of it?’

‘You know very well why,’ said Angela. ‘Two people are dead in mysterious circumstances and there’s a very real possibility that it was foul play.’

Miss Quinn looked up, surprised.

‘Do you mean this boy?’ she said. ‘Why, what are people saying about him?’

‘Nothing, yet,’ said Angela, ‘but I should imagine they will start sooner or later, and quite frankly I can’t understand why you’re not more interested yourself in solving the mystery, since you and your mother are the ones who are suffering the most from all the rumours that have been flying around about Mr. Sheridan.’

Miss Quinn shrugged.

‘Oh, well,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing we’re not used to. We’ve survived this kind of thing before and we can do it again. People don’t like our sort, you know. They’re only too happy to speak our praises as long as we’re telling them what they want to hear, but as soon as the skeletons start to come out of the closet we get the blame. No matter, though—it’s easy enough for us to move on.’

‘But aren’t you interested in justice?’ said Angela.

‘How can justice be served in this case?’ said Miss Quinn. ‘There’s no proof of anything, only rumours and stories.’

‘I think evidence may be found shortly,’ said Angela. ‘I believe the police are planning to conduct a post-mortem examination on Raymond Sheridan.’

Asphodel Quinn glanced up sharply.

‘Is that true?’ she said. She seemed to consider this idea, then shook her head. ‘But in any case, don’t you see?’ she said. ‘Even if they do find proof that he was killed, then the wrong person is going to suffer for it.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Angela. ‘Who is going to suffer?’

Miss Quinn bit her lip. She seemed to regret her remark.

‘I didn’t mean anything,’ she said. ‘Please forget I said it.’

Angela decided the time had come to confront her. She turned and looked directly at Asphodel Quinn.

‘Are you talking about Jack Lomax?’ she said.

Asphodel Quinn gave a little gasp and stared at Angela, who went on:

‘It was to him you sent the letter, wasn’t it? I misunderstood you at first and thought you’d sent it to Raymond Sheridan. You
did
tell Mr. Sheridan you believed his life was in danger, but you told him in person, not in writing. But you wanted to warn Jack Lomax too, and so you wrote to him since he wasn’t a client of yours.’

Miss Quinn hesitated a second, then nodded slowly.

‘But the warning to Jack Lomax was of quite a different sort,’ said Angela. ‘You were worried he was about to do something dreadful—something he would regret.’

‘He didn’t believe me,’ said Miss Quinn, almost in a whisper. ‘He wrote back and said it was all nonsense. But it wasn’t. Of course, he couldn’t have known what would happen, and how things were going to change.’

‘How did you know?’ said Angela. ‘It wasn’t just one of your visions, I suppose. I believe you witnessed something.’

Miss Quinn turned her head away and looked out at the lake.

‘Yes, I did,’ she said at length. ‘It wasn’t much—just a look—but it was clear enough what was going on.’ She paused. ‘Have you ever seen a mouse hypnotized by a snake, Mrs. Marchmont?’ she said. ‘The snake fixes its gaze on the mouse and the mouse crouches there, frozen, half in fear and half in fascination. It’s almost as though it sees its fate and welcomes it. Well, that’s what I saw—or something very like it.’

‘I think I understand,’ said Angela.

‘Do you?’ said Miss Quinn, turning back to her almost eagerly. ‘Perhaps you do. Then you’ll see why I simply knew something dreadful was going to happen. It was as though a black cloud had come down over him—over both of them, in fact. I couldn’t see clearly, but I knew they were about to do something terrible. Then I just had to write and warn him. Mother said I oughtn’t to have, and now I realize she was right. I oughtn’t to have said anything at all. But what else was I to do? I couldn’t just let it happen. And yet it did.’ She looked down at her feet. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether I mightn’t have put the idea into his head myself,’ she said.

‘I doubt that very much,’ said Angela.

‘Oh, but what if I did?’ said Miss Quinn. ‘Then I’ve got him into dreadful trouble—and after all, he’s not the one who is really guilty.’

Angela shook her head.

‘I’m afraid that won’t wash,’ she said. ‘You do know another person has died, don’t you? Once might be understandable, but to kill twice—well, one can’t just go on making excuses for him. He’s a grown man and is responsible for his own actions.’

‘Perhaps the second death had nothing to do with it,’ said Asphodel feebly.

‘It had everything to do with it,’ said Angela.

‘Then I’m very sorry,’ said Miss Quinn after a pause. ‘Of course you’re right. I oughtn’t really to defend him, although I’m afraid I burnt his reply to me so it couldn’t be used as evidence. I just felt as though somehow it wasn’t his fault.’

‘If he did it then he is very much to blame,’ said Angela.

‘How did you know?’ said Miss Quinn suddenly. ‘I mean, about Mr. Lomax?’

Of course, Angela could not explain that she had seen the burnt letter, or that she had recognized the same handwriting in the signature on Lomax’s portrait of herself, so she merely said:

‘He was the last person known to have seen Mr. Sheridan alive, and so was bound to come under suspicion if it
was
murder. But he couldn’t possibly have disposed of the body alone, since Mr. Sheridan was far too heavy to lift, and so he must have had someone to help him. Now that Christopher Tate is dead it’s rather obvious who that someone was.’

‘Then you believe Mr. Lomax killed him to keep him quiet?’ said Miss Quinn, aghast.

Angela nodded.

‘I’m afraid so,’ she said.

‘What do you propose to do now?’ said Miss Quinn.

‘I don’t know,’ said Angela. ‘There’s not a lot can be done until the results of the post-mortem examination come back, and even then there may be no evidence to connect Mr. Lomax with the deaths.’

‘I almost hope there isn’t,’ said Asphodel.

‘But then the rumours will continue to circulate and you will probably have to leave,’ said Angela. She looked at Miss Quinn’s stricken face. ‘None of this was your fault, you know,’ she said gently. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself.’

‘I only wish I could see things as you do,’ said Miss Quinn sadly.

Angela had no further reassurance to give. She took her leave and wandered slowly along the lake-front. What a mess the whole thing was turning out to be, she thought, and wondered whether the situation would ever be resolved. She was very much afraid that Miss Quinn was right in thinking that only half the story—at most—would ever come out.

The sky was still overcast but it did not look like rain, and since Angela did not feel like mingling with the crowds but rather preferred to wander alone, she passed the Hotel del Lago and continued along as far as the Villa Pozzi. Without thinking much she drifted through the gates and wandered up the drive as far as the summer-house, where she stopped. The door was unlocked and she opened it, although she did not go inside but merely stood in the doorway and glanced around the dim room. Everything had been put back in order and the place was perfectly tidy. There was no sign of the dreadful events that had taken place only a few days ago: no overturned chair, no rope hanging from a beam—nothing to say that anything out of the ordinary had occurred.

Angela gazed about her, trying to picture what must have happened on Wednesday morning before the picnickers had arrived. Or had it perhaps all taken place on Tuesday night? No, it must have been Wednesday morning—yes, of course it was, thought Angela, suddenly recalling something Francis Butler had said on the evening after Mr. Sheridan had been discovered. According to Francis, Chris had gone out on Wednesday morning and come back upset about something, and then shortly after that had been struck down with one of his nervous attacks. That must be when it had all happened, then. On Wednesday morning Jack Lomax and Christopher Tate had carried the body of Raymond Sheridan down to the summer-house, lifted him up and suspended him by the neck from the ceiling. Even with two of them it must have been immensely hard work, but she supposed that urgency must have given them strength. But how had Lomax persuaded Chris to help him? Or was Chris himself somehow mixed up in Mr. Sheridan’s death? There was no connection between the two and it did not seem likely. But Chris was dead now, and could not answer the question, and the only person who
could
answer it was unlikely to speak.

After some minutes spent in meditation, Angela roused herself and found that it was later than she had thought. Then she remembered that Jonathan and Mary would be expecting her at church for the evening service, since she had missed the morning one, and if she did not hurry she would be late. After the events of the past few days perhaps a little spiritual edification would do her some good, she reflected, as she shut the door of the summer-house and set off briskly back down the drive.