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

Clara Benson

© 2014 Clara Benson

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The right of Clara Benson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author

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ISBN: 978-1-326-01533-6

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Cover design by Yang Liu
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While holidaying in Italy, Angela Marchmont is persuaded to postpone her trip to Venice and go to Stresa instead, to investigate a pair of spiritualists who are suspected of defrauding some of the town’s English residents out of their money. But what starts out as a minor matter swiftly becomes more serious when one of the residents in question is found dead in the beautiful gardens of his home, having apparently committed suicide.

Seduced by the heady sights and scents of the Italian Lakes, and distracted by an unexpected encounter with an old adversary who seems bent on provoking her, Angela sets out to find out the truth of the affair and resume her journey to Venice before she forgets herself and loses her head—and her heart.

It was unseasonably hot for early May and the sun had been beating down uncomfortably all week on the tour party as they tramped up and down the cobbled streets of Florence, dutifully admiring every bronze bas-relief and cunning
trompe l’oeil
that was pointed out to them by their zealous and energetic guide. They had started on Monday, when their enthusiasm had been at its height, with the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, the bell-tower and the baptistery,
and all had agreed they had never seen anything so awe-inspiring. Tuesday saw them gazing, tired but still impressed, at the Palazzo Vecchio and the imposing mass of the Church of Santa Croce, while Wednesday was dedicated to a lengthy tour of the Uffizi Gallery, in which they were treated to a detailed history of every Titian, Mantegna, Bellini, Botticelli and da Vinci contained therein, and given very little time for lunch. By Wednesday dinner-time, back at the hotel, some members of the group had begun to mutter together in corners, in that half-humorous English way which indicates a polite inclination not to give offence combined with a secret determination to follow one’s own path. The results of these mutterings were soon seen: on Thursday, it was a much-depleted party (consisting of those who had paid their money and were bent on wringing every last included item out of it) that set off to visit the Palazzo Pitti and the Boboli Garden, while those less hardened to the demands of the organized tour disappeared in twos and threes on business of their own.

Angela Marchmont was one of this second group. She had initially been as impressed as anyone by the beauties of the city, and just as keen to learn about its art, architecture, religion and notable past residents, but after three days her very bones were aching and she was suffering from a surfeit of narrow, crowded streets, looming edifices and stifling heat, and she wanted nothing more than to find a café with outdoor tables and parasols and sit there all day, sipping cool drinks and thinking about nothing at all. She swiftly discovered that another member of the group, with whom she had become friendly, shared her feelings, and accordingly on Thursday she and Mrs. Peters slipped out of the hotel and escaped before they could be subjected to the occasionally misplaced enthusiasm of the tour guide, who could not understand why anyone might not want to sacrifice themselves on the altar of his beautiful home city, and who was likely to force them to come with him if he saw them.

Once out in the street and free they giggled together like schoolgirls at their own daring until they were well out of sight of the hotel, then stopped to consult, with the help of a rather dog-eared Baedeker’s. It was soon agreed between them that they should escape the city altogether and make for higher ground, and an hour or so later Angela’s wish was granted as she found herself sitting at a café table in Piazzale Michelangelo, admiring the panoramic views of Florence that it afforded and enjoying a refreshing breeze.

‘Where do you go next?’ said her companion Elsa Peters, a good-humoured widow in her forties.

‘Venice,’ said Angela.

‘Oh, I do hope you like it,’ said Elsa. ‘I have been several times. Venice is even more beautiful than Florence, if possible.’

‘So I understand,’ said Angela. ‘I confess I am rather looking forward to it. I’ve always wanted to see the place, ever since I read of it as quite a young girl, but somehow I’ve never had the opportunity.’

‘Well, you must send me a postcard when you get there,’ said Elsa. ‘I want to know whether it lives up to your expectations. I shall be going to Stresa, on Lake Maggiore. Do you know it? It will be nice to have some peace and rest after the bustle of Florence.’

‘I’ve never been, but I’ve heard a lot about it,’ said Angela. ‘An old friend of mine is married to the chaplain of the English church there. She invited me to visit her while I was in Italy, but I put her off until another time, as I didn’t want to miss Venice.’

‘I can’t say I blame you,’ said Elsa.

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, watching as the steam tram arrived and disgorged its passengers into the
piazza
. Among them were two figures they recognized, who were carrying knapsacks and portable easels.

‘Look,’ said Mrs. Peters. ‘Isn’t that those two students from our group?’

The two young men had evidently spotted Angela and Elsa too, for they waved and approached the women.

‘Hallo there,’ said the taller of the two, a light-haired youth who fairly brimmed with nervous energy. ‘I see you had the same idea as us.’

‘We thought we’d get away today,’ said the other, who was shorter with dark hair. ‘We’ve enjoyed the tour but we haven’t had much of a chance to do any painting.’

‘That’s hardly surprising, is it?’ said Mrs. Peters. ‘They like to keep one busy on these tours—that’s what we’ve paid for, after all.’

‘Well, we’ve decided to have a day off,’ said the first student.

‘So have we,’ said Angela, and they all laughed.

The young men sat down and introduced themselves as Christopher Tate and Francis Butler. They had come to Italy, they said, with the intention of staying a while and perhaps enrolling in one of the art schools in Florence.

‘But I had some rather good news this morning from my parents,’ said Christopher, the tall one, who also tended to do most of the talking. ‘A neighbour of ours in England is a good friend of Jack Lomax, the painter—perhaps you’ve heard of him? He’s rather well thought-of back at home, and people were going wild for his lake scenes a few years ago. He does oils and water-colours.’

‘I think I know the name,’ said Angela.

‘Oh, you’d certainly recognize his work if you saw it,’ Christopher assured her. ‘Anyway, our neighbour wrote to Lomax and he has agreed to take us on as paying pupils, just for a couple of weeks. Isn’t it tremendous?’

Mrs. Marchmont and Mrs. Peters duly offered their congratulations.

‘He lives far to the North, by the lakes, so we’re leaving Florence tomorrow and going to join him there,’ went on Christopher. ‘It’s quite the most marvellous opportunity for us.’

Francis Butler merely nodded in agreement, being less inclined than his friend as a rule to transform his every thought into words.

‘Where on the lakes?’ said Elsa. ‘I am going up to that region myself on Saturday.’

‘Oh, it’s on Lake—what’s it called, Francis?’

‘Lake Maggiore,’ said Francis. ‘The town is called Stresa.’

‘What a coincidence,’ said Elsa pleasantly. ‘That is where I am going too. I look forward to seeing the results of your studies.’

‘Oh, you shall,’ said Christopher. The young men saluted the two women and went off to set up their easels by the stone balustrade.

‘I must say, much as I love Florence, I am very much looking forward to seeing Stresa again,’ said Elsa Peters. ‘The views there are quite spectacular, and it is such a pleasure to take a trip out on the lake. Some of the islands are really worth visiting.’

‘I am almost sorry not to be going, since you praise it so much,’ said Angela. ‘However, one thing I have learned this week is that one could quite easily spend years in Italy without seeing even half of what there is to see.’

‘That’s true enough,’ agreed Elsa with a laugh. ‘However, as you are to miss it this time, at least you will have a good excuse to return one day.’

They remained in Piazzale Michelangelo for some while, and then walked at a leisurely pace back down the hill, stopping now and again to admire a view or purchase a souvenir, then returned to Florence for an early dinner in a little
osteria
by the river which, they were pleased to find, was not quite as extortionate as they had feared. When Angela returned to the hotel, feeling quite refreshed after the little intermission, she found that a telegram had arrived for her in her absence. As she read it, her face assumed a slightly vexed expression.

‘Not bad news, I hope,’ said Elsa.

‘Not exactly,’ said Angela. ‘It’s from Mrs. Ainsley, my friend in Stresa. She is most insistent that I come and visit her as soon as possible.’

‘But surely she knows you are going to Venice?’

‘Yes, but apparently she needs my help,’ said Angela.

‘Oh? With what?’

‘I can’t imagine, but she says “they” are desperate. I assume she means herself and her husband.’

‘Goodness!’ said Mrs. Peters.

‘Quite,’ said Angela.

‘Shall you go, then?’

Angela thought for a moment. Mary Ainsley had always been one for having her own way immediately without worrying too much about whether she was inconveniencing others. Mary’s husband, too, was a little over-anxious and tiresome at times. However, they had not seen each other for several years and Angela had to admit that she
was
rather tempted by the thought of Stresa.

‘Perhaps I could,’ she replied. ‘After all, it will only be for a day or two, and I can always go on to Venice afterwards.’

‘Oh good,’ said Elsa, pleased. ‘Then we shall see each other again.’

‘I suppose that’s settled, then,’ said Angela. ‘I had better let Mary know I am coming.’

‘Splendid. I promise you you’ll like the place,’ said Elsa.

Angela went off to send her telegram. She was a little disappointed not to be seeing Venice immediately, but consoled herself that there would be plenty of time afterwards. She was expected back in England in two weeks or so, for she had promised to visit her brother and his family—a thought she did not especially relish—but in the meantime she was determined to enjoy her Italian holiday as much as possible.

Mrs. Marchmont stood in the little square before the station and gazed out over the red rooftops of Stresa, which were bleached pink by the glare of the midday sunlight. The mountains loomed behind and around her, and through the trees ahead she could just catch a glimpse of Lake Maggiore in the distance. As Mrs. Peters had promised, the place did indeed look very attractive. The air was much fresher than in Florence and the vegetation more luxuriant, and people strolled by unhurriedly in twos and threes as though they had never heard of haste. A young man cast an admiring glance at Angela as he passed by, which lifted her spirits more than she cared to admit, and she began to think that perhaps there was something in the place after all.

By means of a slow exchange in halting Italian on her side, and equally halting English on the other, accompanied by many gestures, Angela had managed to procure a taxi, and she was now waiting for the driver to finish an animated conversation he had struck up with the porter, against whom he seemed to have a mortal grudge. The two men bellowed at each other in a heated manner for several minutes, and Angela was almost afraid that violence would ensue. Almost as soon as she had had this thought, however, the men’s faces broke into beams and they clapped each other on the shoulder and saluted each other with the greatest good humour. The porter then disappeared back into the station and the driver opened the door for Angela then got in himself.

‘
Andiamo
,’ he said, and they set off.

The Ainsleys lived in an apartment in the centre of the town, and Mrs. Marchmont was very shortly set down with her luggage in front of it. The street was narrow and cobbled, and Angela was disappointed to see that there did not seem to be a view of the lake from here. The entrance to the apartment was through an arch that led into a little courtyard, in the centre of which was a fountain that hardly deserved the name, consisting as it did of a mere trickle of water.

‘Angela, darling!’ came a voice from above, and she looked up to see a woman’s head looking over a balcony at her. ‘Come in! The door is open.’

The head disappeared and Angela went to investigate. Just through the arch was the open door to the apartment building, and there she met her friend, who had run down to greet her. Mary embraced her with great affection.

‘We’ll have to carry your luggage upstairs ourselves, I’m afraid,’ said Mary. ‘Jonathan is at the church and won’t be back until later.’

She picked up a bag and headed back up the stairs. Angela followed suit, and soon found herself in a dark, stuffy hall with a red-tiled floor. Mary led her into a little sitting-room, which was much brighter, having French windows that opened out onto the very balcony from which she had called just now. Angela was irresistibly drawn to it, but was again disappointed to find that there was no view.

‘I don’t suppose it’s what you’re used to,’ said Mary, ‘but it’s comfortable enough.’ She now took a proper look at her friend. ‘Goodness, Angela, you
are
looking well,’ she said. ‘You hardly look a day older than when I last saw you.’

Angela returned the compliment, although privately she thought that Mary was looking rather worn and tired. Mary Ainsley had been brought up to wealth, but had disappointed her family by marrying a lowly clergyman, and it did not suit her. Jonathan Ainsley was devoted to his calling—to an excessive degree, Angela had often thought—and he was much given to seeing mountains where only molehills existed. Following her marriage, Mrs. Ainsley had discovered that her main task in life from now on would be to smooth the way forward for her husband, easing his worries and ensuring that any little obstacles that did arise were swiftly swept out of his way before they had the chance to distress him. Angela wondered what minor annoyance had thrown him into consternation this time—since she was sure it was a concern of Jonathan’s that had caused Mary to summon her friend from Florence.

‘How are you enjoying Italy?’ said Angela, as Mary made some tea.

‘It’s nice enough, I suppose,’ replied Mrs. Ainsley. ‘Beautiful, of course—it would be absurd of me to suggest otherwise—but the Italians can be
so
trying at times, and not at all sensible. That’s not to say they haven’t welcomed us, and I will admit they are very friendly, but I confess I do miss England sometimes, and I don’t get to return as often as I’d like, since of course we don’t have a great deal of money. That’s why we live in this apartment. I should have preferred a little villa in the hills with a view of the lake, but we simply couldn’t afford it.’

She glanced at Angela’s smart frock and then down at her own shabbier one, and a little sigh escaped her. Angela felt a pang of sympathy mixed with guilt, but suppressed it firmly, for she knew that Mary was inclined to take advantage of any such weakness in order to get what she wanted.

‘Tell me about Stresa,’ she said.

‘I think you will like it,’ said Mary. ‘It’s very pretty and the pace of life is much slower than it is elsewhere. We spent a few months in Milan when we first came to Italy, you know, but I didn’t like it at all—far too dirty and busy. Stresa is very relaxing and the perfect place for a nice, restful holiday. Now, come and see your room. It’s the smallest one in the house but I thought you’d like it as it has a partial view of the lake.’

The room was tiny and, as Mary had promised, did afford just a glimpse of the lake—if one stood on tiptoe, craned one’s neck uncomfortably and ignored the lines full of washing that blocked most of the view. Angela sighed inwardly as she thought of the large, well-appointed hotel room overlooking the Grand Canal in which she had expected to stay that night. Had she kept to her original plan she would just be arriving in Venice now. Still, she was determined not to delay her trip by any more than was strictly necessary and decided to bring Mary to the point as soon as possible so as to waste no time.

‘I read your telegram,’ she said once Mrs. Ainsley had served the tea, ‘and it sounded awfully mysterious. What is it you need my help with?’

Mary put down her cup with a clatter and regarded her friend ruefully.

‘It’s Jonathan,’ she said. ‘But of course you’d guessed that already.’

Angela smiled and admitted as much.

‘He has a bee in his bonnet,’ said Mary. ‘I know what you’re going to say: he always has a bee in his bonnet—and it’s true, he does. But this one is bothering him much more than usual.’

Since Jonathan Ainsley’s bees tended to take the form of edicts from the Bishop of Gibraltar, against whom he had a whole list of grievances, Angela wondered what she was expected to do. Perhaps the bishop was about to visit and she had been summoned to swell Jonathan’s congregation, which could only be a small one.

‘I’m afraid we’re having a problem with spiritualists,’ went on Mary unexpectedly.

‘Spiritualists?’ said Angela in surprise. ‘Do you mean fortune-tellers?’

‘That’s what Jonathan calls them,’ said Mary, ‘but there’s more to it than that, of course. Mrs. Quinn is a medium—or so she says.’

‘Oh, a medium. I see. Yes, I know the sort of thing you mean. They claim to speak to the dead for five shillings. I’ve seen their advertisements in the paper.’

‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Mary. ‘Mrs. Quinn and her daughter conduct séances—you know, with automatic writing and suchlike. They also claim to be clairvoyant. They came to Stresa a few months ago and they have been living here ever since. It’s all nonsense, of course, but Mrs. Quinn is very plausible and seems to have won over some of Jonathan’s congregation, since he has noticed lately that some of his—shall we say less fervent—worshippers have stopped attending church quite so frequently.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Angela.

‘Quite,’ said Mary. ‘Of course, he’s terrified that we’ll end up with no congregation at all and the church will have to close, and he’ll be reduced to conducting services at the big hotels in the summer months.’

‘Do you think it will come to that?’

‘Well, we don’t have a terribly large number of worshippers to start with,’ said Mary, ‘although we do get more at this time of year, naturally, when all the tourists arrive. Unfortunately, Mrs. Quinn has begun placing advertisements in the English newspaper and leaving bills in all the hotels, and Jonathan is convinced that she is winning his flock away from him. She’s a rather charming woman—very pleasant, as a matter of fact—and to tell the truth I think that is partly what annoys Jonathan so much.’

‘I can imagine it would,’ said Angela, who could easily see why Jonathan’s somewhat dour, intense manner might put off potential worshippers. ‘Is there nothing he can do to win them back?’

‘Naturally he’s doing everything he can,’ said Mary, ‘but the fact is that people come abroad to have fun and forget about being virtuous for a while, and here in the sunshine plain old religion simply can’t compete with the latest thing. Spiritualism is all the rage, and Mrs. Quinn offers it at a very reasonable price. The tourists can get their fill of the immaterial and then go away and enjoy the rest of their holiday without being reminded of their sins.’

‘I expect you’re right,’ said Angela. ‘But Mary, why do you need
my
help?’

Mary was about to reply when the front door to the apartment opened and in came her husband. Jonathan Ainsley was a slightly-built man with a permanently troubled air about him. His sparse hair and beard were limp and untidy, and he had a nervous habit of rubbing his head frequently. A few years ago he had been a pleasant-looking man, but time and constant worry had not been kind to him, and his face was now lined and sunken. He greeted Angela cheerfully enough, and remarked on how well she looked, but immediately afterwards his frown reappeared and he turned to his wife.

‘That woman is doing it again, my dear,’ he said. ‘I’ve been talking to Mrs. Smithson. They are going home next week, you remember, and I just said in passing—pleasantly, of course—that I hoped we should see them in church tomorrow. Well, you simply can’t imagine how she prevaricated. She hummed and hawed and simpered, and said she wasn’t quite sure, but she
believed
they were booked onto a trip to Milan. Naturally, I didn’t believe a word of it, but didn’t say anything, but then just at that moment Mrs. Quinn walked past and quite brazenly—really, that is the only word for it, brazen—waved and called to Mrs. Smithson that she would see her for their appointment tomorrow morning as agreed.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Mary. ‘What did you say to Mrs. Smithson?’

‘I confess I was caught so much by surprise that I didn’t say anything at all,’ replied Jonathan. ‘However, I did manage to muster a
very
disappointed look, and at least she had the grace to look embarrassed. Then she hurried off before I could collect my thoughts enough to give her a kindly lecture.’

‘I don’t suppose we’ll see them again, then,’ said Mary regretfully. ‘They go on Wednesday.’

Jonathan now turned to Angela.

‘I dare say Mary has been telling you all about our woes,’ he said, then as Angela assented, went on, ‘This Mrs. Quinn is shameless, absolutely shameless. She is peddling the most egregious and dangerous nonsense to people who really ought to know better than to listen to it—although, of course, many visitors do find the attractions of Italy so seductive that they lose their heads for the duration of their trip, and so they are particularly susceptible to this kind of foolishness.’

‘I suppose that’s true,’ said Angela, who was still no clearer in her mind as to what the Ainsleys expected her to do about the problem.

‘It most certainly is true,’ said Jonathan. ‘I have been here for several years now, and am ashamed to say that in that time I have seen normally decent English people behaving in the most disgraceful manner, and getting up to things they would not dream of doing at home.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Angela, intrigued. She waited with interest for further details, but Jonathan pursed his lips and went on:

‘And now Mrs. Quinn is taking advantage of this temporary loss of sense to induce people to embrace the dark arts—yes, for that is what I
will
call them, dear,’ he said to his wife, who had been about to speak. ‘They are neither more nor less than dark arts. And of course, as I said, it is all nonsense—why it’s simply absurd to think that one can really summon the spirits of the dead by rapping on a table. The Quinns are committing fraud, and that is the truth of it.’

‘I don’t believe in spiritualism myself,’ said Angela, ‘but if they are doing it fraudulently, as you say, then “dark arts” hardly seems to be the most appropriate description for it, since they are not actually calling upon any supernatural forces.’

‘They are meddling with things that ought not to be meddled with,’ said Jonathan, who was becoming rather agitated. Mary hastened to intervene.

‘Well, dear, Angela is here now, and she’s promised to help,’ she said.

Angela had done no such thing, but saw that she was about to be driven into a corner and prepared to resign herself to the inevitable.

‘What exactly do you want me to do?’ she said.

‘Why, expose her, of course,’ said Mary, as though it were obvious.

‘But, pardon me, is she actually doing anything illegal?’ said Angela. ‘I am not clear on the law as it relates to mediums and spiritualists—especially here in Italy—but I can only imagine that many of Mrs. Quinn’s clients part willingly with their money in return for the chance to participate in a séance. I don’t suppose half of them really believe that they are about to speak to their dead Uncle Henry or whomever it may be. I have always assumed that most people who pay for the services of a medium treat it as one might a fortune-teller in a fairground—a harmless diversion for an hour or so, but nothing to be taken too seriously.’