The Imbroglio at the Villa Pozzi (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 6) by Clara Benson Page B

Elsa. ‘I think I shall melt if I have to climb a proper hill.’
    ‘It is very gentle,’ Morandi assured her. ‘You will have no trouble at all—and if you do, then I will carry you. You also, Mrs. Marchmont,’ he added as an afterthought.
    ‘Well, with that kind of threat hanging over us I suppose we’ll have to climb it ourselves, Angela,’ said Elsa, and they all laughed.
    They were a little distance from the house when Elsa suddenly said, ‘Why, Angela, where is your jacket?’
    ‘Dear me,’ said Angela, ‘I must have left it in the car. It was so hot I simply couldn’t bear to wear it, but if it rains I’ll get drenched, won’t I?’
    ‘You certainly will, in that thin frock of yours,’ said Elsa.
    ‘I will fetch it for you,’ said Mr. Morandi.
    ‘No, no,’ said Angela. ‘Thank you, but I can get it myself. I’ll catch you up in a few minutes.’
    She set off briskly back the way they had come, but had not gone fifty yards before she felt a spat on her arm, and then another on her cheek. A second later there was a blinding flash of lightning, quickly followed by a thunderclap such as she had never heard before, and then the heavens opened and the downpour which had been threatening all afternoon was unleashed with all the force that gravity could provide and more.
    Angela had only read of the Indian monsoon, but it seemed to her that she had now found herself in the middle of it. Within seconds she was soaked to the skin, and she began to run as fast as she could towards the nearest shelter, which happened to be the little summer-house they had seen on the way up to the villa. As she arrived she barely noticed that the door, which had been firmly shut before, was now open, and she ran inside thankfully, intending to wait until the worst of the rain had passed. The window shutters were all closed and it was dim, almost dark inside, and it took a second or two for Angela’s eyes to get used to the light. As soon as they did she realized that someone had arrived before her, and she started as she recognized Edgar Valencourt, who was standing in the centre of the room looking up at something. When she entered he glanced towards her, but barely seemed to register her presence and immediately turned his eyes back up towards the thing he had been staring at before. Angela followed his gaze and immediately clapped a hand across her mouth for there, hanging from an overhead beam and quite beyond help, was Raymond Sheridan.
     

TEN
     
    The heat inside the summer-house was suffocating, almost overwhelming, and for a moment or two Angela was sensible of nothing but the sound of the rain drumming incessantly upon the roof and the beating of her own heart. Gradually, however, her senses returned and she noticed that the body was swaying gently, causing the rope to creak against the beam to which it was attached. She turned a questioning gaze to Valencourt.
    ‘I knocked against him when I came in,’ he said, as though reading her mind.
    The air was dead and flat. Angela glanced up at the mortal remains of Mr. Sheridan, who had been talking to her so cheerfully about his garden only two days ago, and then back at Edgar Valencourt, who had now turned his attention away from the thing in the middle of the room and towards her. They stared at each other. Angela’s mind was a rush of jumbled thoughts but for the moment she was unable to give voice to any of them. The sound of the rain seemed to be getting louder and louder in her ears, and she felt the pressure in her head growing.
    ‘What happened?’ she managed at last.
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Valencourt, without taking his eyes off her. ‘I’d only just got here when you arrived. I know as much as you do.’
    ‘Is it suicide?’
    ‘It looks like it, don’t you think?’
    ‘But why?’
    He said nothing, but continued to stare at her. She turned away and back towards Mr. Sheridan. She could not bear to look at the contorted face of the hanging