by Clara Benson
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Morandi, acknowledging the gesture. ‘He and his wife live at the Villa Pozzi, not far from here. Perhaps you have seen it? It is the yellow house with the very beautiful gardens, set a little back from the lake.’
‘No, I haven’t seen it,’ said Angela.
‘I dare say you will,’ said Elsa. ‘Mr. Sheridan is very sociable and likes nothing better than to invite everyone he meets to come and see his exotic plants. I met him and his wife when I came here last year and we had a very pleasant picnic at the villa one afternoon.’
‘I am afraid you will not see Mrs. Sheridan this time,’ said Mr. Morandi. ‘She is in England, visiting her family.’ He glanced up and started, for another man had just then appeared silently at his shoulder. ‘Ah! It is D’Onofrio. I did not see you there. Mrs. Peters, Mrs. Marchmont, this is Mr. D’Onofrio, our capo di polizia. It is his job to protect us all from thieves and assassins.’
‘Goodness,’ said Elsa. ‘Do you have a lot of that sort of thing here?’
‘Very little,’ said Mr. Morandi slyly, ‘thanks to D’Onofrio.’
Mr. D’Onofrio nodded impassively. He had the wary, observant expression of many policemen and an air about him which suggested that nothing could ever surprise him. He was duly invited to sit down and did so.
‘Morandi is right,’ he said. ‘It is very quiet here. There is not the violence and the criminality of Milano, for example.’ An expression of disgust passed briefly across his face at the mention of the undisciplined city. ‘In Stresa there are one or two people who like to steal things from the foreigners, but we know who they are and we catch them quickly. And sometimes a man shoots his wife when she looks at another man,’ he went on almost as an afterthought. ‘But that is a problem only for her. The tourists know nothing of it.’
He fell silent as two men in military uniform passed by and nodded politely at him. He returned the nod and watched them with narrowed eyes as they continued on their way. Once they were out of earshot Mr. Morandi said something in a low voice in Italian and D’Onofrio replied shortly in the same language. The ladies knew better than to ask questions, and in any case Angela had just spotted something else that interested her, for two women had come out onto the terrace and were making their way to Mr. Sheridan’s table. The older woman was short, middle-aged and plump, with a cheerful expression and an evident addiction to quantities of rouge, while the younger one, a girl of eighteen or so, was taller and strongly-built, with a dark and unsmiling aspect. Both of them were dressed in far too many layers of clothing for the warm weather. Angela watched as the older one approached Mr. Sheridan and engaged him in conversation, while the girl hung back. They were too far away to be audible, but Sheridan appeared delighted to see them both and indicated the empty chairs next to him. The older woman shook her head and by her gestures seemed to say that they were in a hurry. Mr. Sheridan said something to the young girl and she replied but did not smile, although the other woman gave a cheery laugh. After a minute or two they saluted each other and the women moved away. They were about to descend the terrace steps into the garden when the older one spotted the little group at Angela and Elsa’s table, and made towards it, the girl tagging behind.
‘Hallo, hallo!’ the woman said brightly. ‘Isn’t it a fine day?’
‘Indeed it is, Mrs. Quinn,’ said Mr. Morandi. ‘And good afternoon to you, Miss Quinn. I hope you are both well.’
‘Oh, pretty fair, thank you,’ said Mrs. Quinn. ‘Just a touch of the arthritis in my left knee as usual, but the weather’s warming up now and that usually helps. I always say there’s nothing better than the Italian climate to do wonders for one’s health.’
‘I quite agree,’ said Elsa Peters with a smile. ‘Hallo, Mrs. Quinn. We met yesterday, didn’t we?’
‘Indeed we did. Hallo, Mrs. Peters,’ said Mrs. Quinn. She glanced at Angela and held out her hand. ‘Adela Quinn,’ she said.
‘Angela Marchmont,’ said Angela, shaking the proffered hand.
‘Mrs. Quinn is a medium and clairvoyant,’ said Elsa. ‘I understand she is recommended by many people here.’
‘That’s kind of you to say so,’ said Mrs. Quinn. ‘One doesn’t like to boast, but I will say that my clients do tend to return more than once.’
‘Indeed?’ said Angela. ‘I’ve never consulted a spiritualist before. It sounds most interesting. What services do you offer?’
‘Oh, the usual,’ said Mrs. Quinn. ‘Table-turning, automatic writing, full séances, card-reading—anything you like. I’d love to tell you all about it now, but I’m afraid I’m already rather late for an appointment. However, I do have something—’
She patted her many pockets and eventually unearthed a slightly battered card, which she handed to Angela.
‘We’re here most days, so I dare say I’ll see you again,’ she said. ‘I do a special rate for new clients, in case that sways it for you.’
‘I shall give it some thought,’ promised Angela.
Mrs. Quinn smiled pleasantly, satisfied at the thought of a new customer, then she and her companion went off.
‘Is Miss Quinn her daughter?’ said Angela, when they had gone.
‘Yes,’ replied Elsa. ‘Her name is Asphodel, I believe. Rather a mouthful, don’t you think?’
‘It is certainly unusual,’ said Angela. ‘They don’t look a bit alike, do they?’
Mr. Morandi was shaking his head.
‘Don’t you like spiritualists?’ said Angela with a smile. ‘They are not to everybody’s taste, I understand.’
Mr. Morandi was too polite to give his true feelings on the matter, but his expression said much.
‘What about you, Mr. D’Onofrio?’ said Elsa. ‘I don’t suppose they’re doing anything illegal, are they?’
The policeman shrugged.
‘As long as they do not cause trouble then there is no problem,’ he said.
He stood up and took his leave. Angela watched him go and wondered whether Jonathan Ainsley had ever tried to report the Quinns to the police. D’Onofrio was clearly not a man who liked to make work for himself, and was perhaps unlikely to be receptive to a complaint unaccompanied by supporting evidence. On first acquaintance, Mrs. Quinn seemed genuine enough—as far as that went, of course. Angela did not believe herself, but she supposed that spiritualism must bring comfort to some people. At any rate, her task was proving very easy so far, since she had already met Mrs. Quinn. The next thing would be to make an appointment to sit for her.
Mr. Morandi excused himself a few minutes later, and Elsa said:
‘I didn’t think you were the type to fall for all that spiritualist nonsense, Angela.’
‘I’m not,’ said Angela, and debated whether to tell her friend her real purpose in coming to Stresa. Elsa might be persuaded to sit for Mrs. Quinn too. Mrs. Peters was a sensible woman and unlikely to be fooled by an act, and her opinion would be valuable. Angela reached a decision.
‘How would you like to help me in a little detective-work?’ she said.
Elsa was surprised, but all ears, and Angela explained the situation.
‘Well!’ exclaimed Elsa. ‘That certainly sounds intriguing, and I should love to help if I can. What do we do? Make an appointment to see her, I suppose?’
‘That will be the first thing, certainly,’ agreed Angela. ‘After that, I’m not quite sure. I don’t see how we can discover whether or not she is defrauding people of their money without speaking to the people in question, and they’re not likely to admit anything.’
‘You mentioned Mr. Sheridan as being one of her regular clients. We can certainly speak to him about it, at any rate. A séance, though: now, that is exciting. I’ve never done anything of the kind before.’
‘Nor have I,’ said Angela. ‘I think I shall have to invent a dead husband or two.’
‘You can have mine if you like,’ said Elsa. ‘If he turns up then I’ll know it’s all rot, as Tom had no patience at all with that kind of thing and
would never have dreamed of returning to haunt his poor family.’
‘He died a few years ago, I think you said,’ said Angela.
‘Yes,’ said Elsa. ‘The silly ass crashed his aeroplane when he was messing about and showing off. He always was a reckless idiot, and he paid for it in the end.’ Despite the epithet, she spoke fondly. ‘And now the children are all grown up and I can please myself, so I spend my time travelling the world and meeting new people.’
‘That sounds delightful,’ said Angela.
‘It is,’ said Elsa, ‘although I do miss him terribly. We were both very sociable types, you know, and it’s difficult when there’s just the one of you. I confess I do get lonely at times. Still,’ she said, brightening up, ‘we have the trip on the lake to look forward to tomorrow.’
‘So we do,’ said Angela. ‘And after that you can help me find out about this Mrs. Quinn.’
‘I shall look forward to it,’ said Elsa.
FOUR
The next day was fine and sunny, and by ten o’clock Mrs. Marchmont and Mrs. Peters were down by the landing-stage where Elsa, whose Italian was better than Angela’s, was briskly negotiating terms with a boatman for a visit to the islands. As Angela stood by feeling rather useless, she heard a voice calling her name and turned to see the two young students they had met in Florence approaching.
‘I say, how splendid to see you here,’ said Christopher Tate. ‘I didn’t realize you were coming too.’
‘I wasn’t originally, but I changed my plans,’ said Angela. ‘I take it you’re going to paint, today,’ she went on, for the young men were again weighed down with various items of artistic paraphernalia.
‘Yes,’ said Christopher. ‘We’re just waiting for Lomax and then we’ll begin. I simply can’t tell you how pleased I am that we came here, Mrs. Marchmont. Why, under Lomax’s tutelage we’ve both come along more in two days than we should have in a month in Florence—I’m quite convinced of it. Don’t you agree, Francis?’
The more taciturn Francis Butler nodded, and Christopher went on:
‘You absolutely must meet him, Mrs. Marchmont. His brush-work is quite the best I’ve ever seen—and his sense of perspective and colour! Why, the man’s a genius. Those blues! I’ve never seen such blues!’
‘Well, I suppose if one’s fond of blue then a lake in sunny weather is an excellent place to indulge one’s taste,’ said Angela, amused at the young man’s raptures. Since his arrival in Stresa he seemed to have rapidly developed a severe case of hero-worship. Francis let out a short laugh; he had evidently noticed it too.
They were then joined by Elsa, who had concluded arrangements to her own satisfaction, and after a few more minutes spent exchanging pleasantries the two young men went off and the ladies allowed themselves to be handed into the boat. As it drew away from the quay, Angela saw a figure approaching the two students, who waved a greeting to him. She pointed the newcomer out to Elsa.
‘That must be Jack Lomax, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Have you met him?’
‘I believe so, briefly,’ said Elsa. ‘Rather a strong, silent type. He’s a great friend of Mr. Sheridan’s, I gather. I dare say he’ll turn up at the hotel sooner or later. Everybody does.’
They now turned their attention to the scenery, and Elsa pointed out the nearest of the islands, Isola Bella, which was to be their main port of call. The next few hours were spent very pleasantly indeed, exploring the delightful palazzo and its gardens. As she ascended slowly from terrace to terrace and admired the splendid cedars, magnolias and orange-trees, Angela conceded that her friend had not exaggerated in her description of the place, and was forced to admit that she was very glad she had come.
At about five o’clock they arrived back at the hotel where they parted, since Elsa wanted to go to the post-office. Angela pondered the possibility of a glass of iced lemonade on the terrace, but before she could act on her idea she was spotted and joined by Mr. Morandi, who wanted to hear all about her day and insisted on strolling through the garden with her until he was quite satisfied that she had enjoyed herself as much as was required. He then began to instruct her in the history of the islands, and was in the middle of a lengthy discourse on the various exploits of the noble Borromeo family when he happened to catch his son idling under a tree smoking, and stopped to upbraid him in vehement Italian. Angela walked on tactfully, but her attention was still on the little family scene behind her and she was not looking where she was going, so she did not see the man who just then emerged from another path at a brisk pace and they cannoned full into each other with some force. They both exclaimed in surprise and began to apologize, then stopped.
‘Oh!’ they said together.
Mr. Morandi came hurrying up.
‘Accidenti!’ he said gaily. ‘I hope nobody was hurt in the collision. Ah, I see it is you, Mr. Smart. So you are back again from your travels. This is Mrs. Marchmont, one of our English guests. Mrs. Marchmont, Mr. Smart.’
Angela had quickly recovered her self-possession, and held out a hand.
‘How do you do, Mr. Smart,’ she said. ‘I am Angela Marchmont.’
He took her hand and muttered something that might have meant anything, and then passed on hurriedly without another word.
‘Mr. Smart is one of our occasional English residents,’ said Mr. Morandi as they walked in the direction of the terrace. ‘I believe he has a house outside Stresa. He was not very friendly today, which is quite unusual—but perhaps he is tired from his journey.’
Angela was only half-listening, for her mind was busy. As they ascended the steps she glanced back and saw that Mr. Smart had stopped and was gazing intently after her, eyes narrowed. When she looked again he was gone.
‘Will you take a drink?’ said Mr. Morandi.
Angela brought her thoughts back to the present with some difficulty.
‘As a matter of fact, I think I should like to lie down for a little while,’ she said. ‘The fresh air has quite tired me out, I believe.’
‘A very good idea,’ said Morandi. ‘Tonight we have a most excellent orchestra, and you must be refreshed for that.’
He beamed a goodbye then went off to the kitchen to make sure his son had returned to his duties, and Angela went up to her room to reflect on the events of the day.
As Mr. Morandi had promised, there was music after dinner, and the hotel bustled with more than the usual activity that evening. Angela and Elsa sat together and were soon joined by Mr. Morandi and Mr. D’Onofrio, who felt it incumbent upon himself to join in the revels for the sake of the protection of the public, as he assured them. After one or two drinks he unbent slightly and decided that it was time to teach Angela some Italian. They were laughing together at her attempts to pronounce quarantaquattro when Angela suddenly had the strangest feeling that someone was watching her. She glanced up and around and saw the man called Smart leaning against the hotel bar, smoking. He was not looking in her direction but she had no doubt that his were the eyes she had felt upon her. She in turn watched surreptitiously from under her lashes as he stubbed out his cigarette and came over to her table, where he entered into conversation with Mr. Morandi, although the music was very loud and she could not hear what they were saying.
The number came to an end and the introduction to a gentler one was struck up, and as soon as he could make himself heard Mr. Smart asked Angela to dance. She was momentarily surprised but agreed, and joined him on the floor in a state of some apprehension. Once the music had fairly begun he glanced to his left and right as though to be sure they could not be overheard, then said:
‘Hallo, Angela.’
‘Hallo, Mr. Valencourt,’ she returned with the utmost politeness.
‘Rather a surprise to see you here,’ he said.
‘I might say the same,’ she replied, and indeed the sudden appearance on the scene of a notorious jewel-thief and former adversary was a factor with which she had not reckoned. She went on, ‘I suppose you’ve come to Italy to enjoy
the health-giving benefits of the fresh mountain air.’
His mouth curled up in amusement.
‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘I sit in my easy chair all day long with the windows open and a blanket tucked about my knees, sipping weak tea. I find it does me no end of good. You look quite stunning, by the way.’
‘Thank you,’ she said warily.
‘Why are you here, as a matter of interest?’
‘For a holiday, of course,’ she said. ‘In actual fact, I was supposed to go to Venice, but I changed my plans at the last minute.’
‘And I can tell you’re regretting it now,’ he said. She did not reply, and he laughed. ‘You ought to be more careful of that face of yours, Angela,’ he said. ‘It gives away more than you know—to me, at any rate. I can read it as easily as a book.’
‘Can you, indeed?’ she said coolly. ‘How very dull for you.’
‘On the contrary, I find it fascinating,’ he said.
‘Very well, then, Mr. Valencourt,’ said Angela with a sigh. ‘Let us agree that my face is the equivalent of the Bible and the entire oeuvre of Dickens combined and have done with it. But that’s quite beside the point. What exactly do you want?’
‘Well, to start with I’d like you to stop calling me Mr. Valencourt. Can’t you call me Edgar? Everyone else does.’
‘Oh, I see. You’re afraid I’ll give away your real name in front of everyone,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry—I won’t.’
He was about to speak but then stopped and looked at her searchingly.
‘You’re still angry with me about what happened in Cornwall, aren’t you?’ he said in surprise.
‘Not in the least,’ said Angela.
‘Oh, but you are, I can tell. Look how rigidly you’re holding yourself, and the distance you’re keeping. Why, there must be six inches between us, at least. We must do something about that.’
Before she could reply he whirled her round suddenly and at the same time pulled her tightly against him. Angela’s eyes flashed.
‘I should rather like to breathe, if it’s all the same to you,’ she said.
