by Clara Benson
He seemed inclined to sink back into his own thoughts, but Mr. Morandi said:
‘But what of his mental state? Did he give you any idea that he was planning something of this kind?’
‘No, none at all,’ said Lomax, then swallowed and reddened. Angela had never seen such a poor attempt at a lie. Lomax evidently realized it himself, for he went on, ‘Well, not suicide at any rate.’
‘Do you mean he was depressed about something?’ said Elsa.
Lomax hesitated.
‘Don’t like to talk about a man when he’s not here to talk for himself,’ he said.
‘But you are the only person who can help him talk for himself,’ said Angela, ‘since you may have been the last person to see him alive.’
‘Hadn’t thought of it like that,’ said Lomax. He looked remarkably uncomfortable. ‘He was depressed,’ he said at last after a pause. ‘He and Virginia had a row—I don’t know what about—and that’s why she went home to England.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Elsa. ‘Do you mean she’d left him?’
‘Don’t know, exactly,’ said Lomax. ‘Perhaps. I thought she’d probably come back once things had cooled down, but he seemed to think she’d gone for good. We had a drink or two and he said life wasn’t worth living without her, but I thought it was just one of those things one says on the spur of the moment.’
Everyone was silent. It seemed clear enough what had happened: Raymond Sheridan, having taken a few drinks and become maudlin over the departure—possibly permanent—of his wife, had decided to act on his mood and had taken himself off to the summer-house and hanged himself. Had it been true depression or merely a moment of temporary insanity? Perhaps they should never know.
That night, Angela lay awake for some time, unable to get the events of the day out of her head. Now that she was alone in the peace and quiet of her room, her thoughts had become clearer, and she considered the matter as dispassionately as she could, although she could not escape a feeling of sadness at what had happened. Poor Mr. Sheridan—he had seemed so cheerful when he had spoken to her, but now it appeared he had been nursing a secret sorrow that had driven him to take his own life. How long had he been there in the summer-house, she wondered? And, furthermore, how often was the summer-house used? Had he expected that he would be discovered so soon, or had he chosen that spot as a refuge, assuming that he would not be found for days?
One thing was certain: he had not been planning to kill himself two days earlier, or he would not have invited several people to join him on a picnic. No—the urge to do it must have come afterwards. Perhaps his mind had been disturbed by a sudden, overwhelming impulse that he had not been able to resist. Why, it looked as though he had been so caught up in his intention that he had not even thought to leave a note.
But there were one or two other things that Angela could not explain to herself. They seemed odd, but who could explain the workings of a suicide’s mind? At any rate, she thought, she would speak to Mr. D’Onofrio the next day and tell him of her doubts, and then at least her conscience would be clear. One person, she knew, would not be especially happy if she approached the police, but she refused to let it bother her. She put all disturbing thoughts firmly out of her mind and went to sleep.
TWELVE
Angela knew that Mr. D’Onofrio often stopped at the Hotel del Lago for his morning coffee and so she looked out for him carefully at his usual time the next day, intending to speak to him before she could change her mind. Sure enough, there he was, sipping his tiny cup of strong coffee and glancing around with his customary wary expression. She approached his table just as he was rising, and he greeted her politely.
‘Good morning, Mr. D’Onofrio,’ she said. ‘May I speak to you?’
‘Of course,’ he said. He saw that she did not wish to do it in public, and went on, ‘Perhaps the garden?’
‘Yes, that’s probably better,’ said Angela, and he motioned to her to lead the way.
‘You want to speak to me about the death of Mr. Sheridan, yes?’ he said once they were safely out of range of all listening ears.
‘I thought you might have guessed,’ said Angela. ‘Yes, I do.’
She could not find the words to continue, so he said helpfully,
‘Do you have some evidence to explain why he did it? A note, perhaps?’
‘Oh, no, nothing like that,’ Angela said. ‘And to be perfectly honest I’ve been in two minds as to whether or not to bother you with it, but there was something I noticed yesterday which didn’t quite seem to fit in with what happened.’
‘And what was that?’ said Mr. D’Onofrio.
‘His shoe-laces were undone,’ she said. It sounded very little when spoken out loud. He continued to look at her politely, and she went on, ‘One shoe was so loose it had actually fallen off. And his jacket was unbuttoned too.’
He was gazing at her so thoughtfully that for a second she wondered whether he thought her mad, but then he nodded.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘A man does not walk out of his house and hang himself in the garden without first fastening his jacket and tying his shoe-laces.’
‘Yes, that’s it exactly,’ said Angela in some relief. ‘I just thought it rather odd, that’s all, and decided I’d better tell someone about it.’
‘And now you have told me. What do you want me to do?’
‘Why, I—’ Angela began. Of course, she wanted him to investigate it, but did not feel able to demand it of him, since he appeared to be something of a law unto himself in the matter of policing.
‘Were you alone, by the way, when you found Mr. Sheridan?’ he asked suddenly. ‘I thought I heard that someone was with you.’
Angela hesitated. They were now getting onto delicate ground.
‘No, I wasn’t alone,’ she said after a moment. ‘Mr. Smart was there too.’
‘Did you arrive at the summer-house together?’
‘No,’ said Angela. ‘He wasn’t at the picnic with us, and I didn’t know he was at the villa at all until I met him.’
‘Then did you arrive at the scene first, or did he?’
‘I don’t remember,’ said Angela, and immediately kicked herself for an idiot.
‘You do not remember?’ he said. His face was as impassive as ever but Angela knew he did not believe her.
‘Well, I think he might have arrived a second or two before I did,’ she said reluctantly.
‘A second or two? Then you must have seen him go in,’ said Mr. D’Onofrio.
She was fairly caught.
‘No, I didn’t,’ she admitted.
‘Ecco,’ he said, almost to himself. He regarded her reflectively and then said, in the manner of one giving advice, ‘Some people are not to be trusted, signora.’
‘Oh?’ said Angela politely.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Be very careful.’
‘I thank you for your concern,’ she said, ‘but I assure you it’s quite unnecessary.’
Their eyes met and he nodded.
‘Do not worry about Mr. Sheridan,’ he said. ‘At present there is every reason to believe he killed himself, but if any evidence to the contrary reveals itself then you can be sure I will act on it. You have my word.’
‘Thank you,’ said Angela.
‘Morandi tells me you are a detective in England,’ he said.
‘Not a paid one,’ she replied, ‘but it’s true that I have done a little investigating in the past.’
‘Then I will rely on you to tell me if you discover anything else,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry, I shall,’ she said.
He took leave of her and went off, and Angela breathed a sigh of relief that the interview was over. It had been an uncomfortable few minutes, and she was annoyed at herself for feeling guilty about having brought Edgar Valencourt into it. Still, she reflected, at least she had done her duty. The police might do as they saw fit now, and Valencourt would have to take care of himself. After all, no-one could say she had
not given him plenty of opportunity to leave the place.
She walked slowly up the terrace steps, deep in thought. Her mind had wandered back to the Quinns, and in particular Miss Quinn’s insistence that she had foreseen trouble for Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan. Trouble had come for them both, right enough, but Angela could not help feeling that there was something she had not understood; something she had missed. Perhaps she would speak to Miss Quinn about it again when she next saw her.
She was brought out of her reverie by Elsa Peters, who wanted to know what she had been talking to Mr. D’Onofrio about. Angela was unwilling to share her suspicions, based as they were on such slight evidence, so she merely said vaguely that they had been discussing Raymond Sheridan’s suicide.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Elsa. ‘I hear that Virginia Sheridan is arriving tomorrow. I wonder how she will cope, the poor thing. She’s rather delicate, you know—not the capable sort at all. I hope she won’t find it too hard, although I imagine there will be plenty of people who are only too willing to help her. She’s one of those women who tend to inspire protectiveness in others.’
Angela’s thoughts were immediately driven back to what Valencourt had said. Clearly he did not admire the type himself, but presumably many people did. Angela found herself growing very curious to meet Mrs. Sheridan.
‘Now, then,’ went on Elsa. ‘Have you decided whether or not to come today? I only ask because there’s a train in three-quarters of an hour and we can be in Milan by lunch-time if we set off soon.’
‘Oh, I’d quite forgotten about it,’ said Angela. ‘It’s not very far, is it?’
‘Only about an hour,’ said Mrs. Peters. ‘Now, do say you’ll come. I’ll be dreadfully bored without someone to help me poke fun at people.’
‘Well, if you put it like that, how can I say no?’ said Angela. ‘I suppose a day away from all the unpleasantness here in Stresa won’t do us any harm, will it?’
‘No indeed,’ said Elsa. ‘I should say quite the opposite, in fact. Now, go and get ready and we’ll be off in no time.’
Angela did as was suggested, and shortly afterwards she and Elsa were sitting in a railway carriage with their heads bent over the trusty Baedeker’s, trying to decide what to see first. The afternoon was spent ostensibly in admiring the stately buildings of Milan, and in gazing at the Last Supper and politely pretending it was not a disappointment, but the city was hot, dusty and uncomfortable and Angela found it a struggle to maintain the appearance of interest, being unable to tear her thoughts away from what had happened the day before at the Villa Pozzi. She felt some relief, therefore, when they arrived back at the Hotel del Lago in the late afternoon and she could seek the solitude of her own room. An hour or two’s rest would be just the thing, she thought, to refresh her and restore her to her customary good humour. Before she could go up, however, she was informed that someone had left a message for her. Angela took the note. It was from Mary Ainsley, who wanted her to come and visit the next morning. The message hinted at some mysterious purpose, and Angela bit back an exclamation of impatience then put it out of her mind. No doubt all would be revealed tomorrow, she thought as she headed upstairs.
THIRTEEN
‘But it’s true,’ said Mary as they sat in the little sitting-room of the Ainsleys’ apartment. ‘We had it from Mrs. Bernini, who had it from Miss Frome, who heard it from the Quinns themselves. I believe they come into quite a large sum of money from Raymond Sheridan.’
‘Are you quite certain?’ said Angela. ‘Do you mean the solicitor has already spoken to them? I’ve never seen the law act so quickly, if so. Why, it’s been less than two days!’
‘Well, Mrs. Bernini swore that’s what Miss Frome told her,’ said Mary.
Angela looked sceptical. It seemed highly unlikely to her that so soon after Mr. Sheridan’s death his solicitors would rush forth into action and begin telling all his beneficiaries of their good fortune before the body was even cold. Why, the deceased’s wife—presumably the main beneficiary—had not even returned from abroad yet to identify him. No, it was unthinkable, and Angela told Mary so.
‘I see what you mean,’ said Mary, considering, then blushed a little. ‘Oh dear, I seem to have got rather carried away with the gossip, don’t I? How dreadful of me, after all the efforts I make every day to prevent that kind of thing in our little community here. Of course, you’re right. Nothing is likely to happen with the will for ages, I suppose.’
‘And whatever one thinks of the Quinns, I can’t quite picture them going around boasting about an inheritance gained under such tragic circumstances,’ said Angela.
‘True,’ conceded Mary. ‘I don’t think even they would be so crass as that. Very well, I shall make every attempt to discourage all gossip about the will. But it won’t be possible to put a stop to all of it, unfortunately,’ she went on. ‘Poor Raymond. I’m afraid this is the most exciting thing to have happened in Stresa in years. It will be the talk of the place for months at least.’
‘I imagine it will,’ said Angela.
Just then, Jonathan Ainsley came in.
‘Hallo, Angela,’ he said. ‘I trust you’re feeling better now after what happened on Wednesday. No ill-effects, I hope?’
‘None at all, thank you,’ said Angela.
‘Angela has just been saying that we ought to put a stop to all this gossip about the Quinns,’ said Mary.
‘Gossip?’ said Jonathan, pricking up his ears. ‘What gossip?’
‘About the Quinns having inherited some money from Raymond Sheridan, of course,’ said Mary.
‘I didn’t know they had,’ said Jonathan. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I thought I had, dear,’ said Mary. ‘I must have forgotten. But that’s exactly the point—we’re not supposed to talk about it, since it may not be true.’
But Jonathan’s mind had immediately latched on to the idea of the inheritance and he was not interested in the rest.
‘How much did he leave them? Was it a large sum?’
‘We don’t know that he left them anything,’ explained Mary patiently. ‘I was just saying that people have been talking and spreading rumours about it when they really oughtn’t. News travels so fast here in Stresa, and people can’t resist passing on a really good story.’
‘But that’s rather serious, if it’s true,’ said Jonathan.
‘Is it?’ said Mary. ‘Why?’
‘Why, because it gives the Quinns a strong motive for desiring his death, of course,’ he said.
‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Mary. ‘Surely you can’t be suggesting that they killed him? Why, Jonathan, what on earth has got into you? I’m beginning to think that your dislike of the Quinns amounts to an obsession.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Jonathan. ‘Of course it isn’t an obsession. I don’t deny I dislike them, but I should never dream of making unfounded accusations against innocent people.’
‘Well, that’s what it sounds like to me,’ said Mary.
‘But if what you say is true about the inheritance then I’m not so sure they are innocent,’ went on Jonathan obstinately.
‘How on earth could they have killed him?’ said Mary in exasperation. ‘Raymond was a big man. They’d never have been able to lift him up—and even if they could, how does one murder a man by hanging him? Why, he’d never stay still! It’s simply nonsense. Angela, tell him he’s being absurd.’
‘It might be possible to kill someone that way,’ said Angela, who was unwilling to take Jonathan’s side in this argument but was forced to admit that he might have a point.
‘What?’ said Mary in surprise.
‘Well, they might have drugged him first,’ said Angela. ‘I’m talking in general terms, of course, but if one wanted to kill a man and make it look like suicide, it would in theory be possible to give him something to knock him out and then hang him when he was unconscious. I don’t say that’s what happened here—as you say, Mr. Sheridan was a well-built man and even two w
omen would have found it very difficult to lift him—but it certainly might be done.’
‘You see?’ said Jonathan to his wife. ‘But as a matter of fact, I wasn’t talking about anything so obvious. Even I don’t believe the Quinns would stoop to violence of that sort. No—I have something much more subtle in mind. We all know how charming Mrs. Quinn is, and how she and her daughter have managed to insinuate themselves into the lives of many of our residents. That must take no little ability on their part, and I have on occasion wondered whether they might not have some kind of hypnotic powers which enable them to influence others and bend them to their will.’
‘That seems a little far-fetched,’ said Mary.
‘Oh, believe me, my dear, I have heard of such things being quite normal in spiritualist circles,’ her husband assured her. ‘Many so-called mediums have been caught attempting to hypnotize their subjects in order to convince them that what they see during a séance is real, rather than a tawdry trick on the part of the practitioner. It’s quite common among that type of people, as I understand it.’
‘Then you think they may have hypnotized him and convinced him to commit suicide?’ said Angela, pondering this new idea.
‘It would be easy enough for them, don’t you think?’ said Jonathan. ‘They had his full confidence, and he was always more than happy to listen to what they had to say. What could be easier than for Mrs. Quinn to exercise her powers of suggestion upon him and convince him that his wife was not going to return and that, as a consequence, there was no reason for him to go on living? Why, they wouldn’t need to touch him at all, or even go near him. All they would have to do would be to goad him enough to make him take his own life.’
‘That’s always assuming, of course, that they knew he was leaving them some money—if indeed he did,’ said Angela. ‘Otherwise I can’t see what possible motive they could have.’
Jonathan was about to develop his theory further when the door-bell rang. Mary peeped out over the balcony.
