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

that someone else had got there before her, and Angela to her annoyance once more found herself in the position of having to keep silent on behalf of Valencourt, who unlike herself could presumably go about his business in peace without having to answer ghoulish questions about what a dead body looked like.
    Fortunately for her, Mr. Morandi returned shortly after dinner and came to join her and Elsa at their table, and he was able to take over the disagreeable business of answering inquiries. Of course, Angela and Elsa were full of their own questions, and Mr. Morandi was more than happy to answer them. He said that between them, he and the doctor had managed to get Mr. Sheridan down, and that the doctor had now taken the body away for examination.
    ‘What did the doctor say about it?’ said Elsa. ‘Presumably it was suicide?’
    ‘Yes, I think there is no doubt that he died by his own hand,’ said Mr. Morandi. ‘There seems to be no other explanation.’
    ‘But why?’ said Angela. ‘Was there a note?’
    ‘Not one that we could find,’ said Morandi. ‘You did not find one yourself in the summer-house, I suppose?’
    Angela shook her head.
    ‘We looked in the principal rooms of the house,’ he went on. ‘His bedroom, for example, and the salone , and all the other places where one might expect to find one, but we found nothing.’
    ‘Not all suicides leave a note,’ observed Elsa. ‘It might have been quite a spur of the moment thing.’
    ‘When did he do it?’ said Angela. ‘Those women we saw at the house—when did they last see him?’
    ‘He spoke to them yesterday afternoon, to give them instructions about the picnic,’ said Mr. Morandi. ‘They expected him to speak to them again today, but he did not, and so they merely carried on with what they had been told to do. Of course, I asked them whether they had noticed anything unusual about Mr. Sheridan’s manner—was he angry or depressed, for example?—but they are not the most observant of women and they could tell me nothing.’
    ‘And what about the other servants?’ said Angela. ‘Have you spoken to them?’
    ‘The Sheridans do not keep a large number of servants at the house,’ said Mr. Morandi. ‘Most of the people they employ live out and we have not seen them yet.’
    ‘I see,’ said Angela. ‘Then we have no way of knowing anything about Mr. Sheridan’s state of mind in the hours leading up to the event. That’s a pity.’
    ‘Has Mrs. Sheridan been informed?’ asked Elsa.
    ‘Yes,’ said Mr. Morandi soberly. ‘I telegraphed her myself and she will be here as soon as she can.’
    ‘Poor woman,’ said Elsa. ‘What a thing to return to.’
    Just then the Ainsleys turned up. The rumour had evidently arrived in town and they had hurried back to the hotel to ascertain its veracity or otherwise. When assured of the truth of the matter, they sat down, looking appalled.
    ‘And to think that while we were waiting for him the poor thing was there all the time in the summer-house!’ said Mary. ‘If only we’d gone there sooner—he might have been still alive then and perhaps we could have prevented it in some way.’
    ‘Do not distress yourself,’ said Mr. Morandi. ‘I think there is nothing any of us could have done. Once someone has resolved to do a dreadful thing such as this then they will always find a way of doing it.’
    ‘I suppose so,’ said Mary. ‘But to die like that! Angela, you poor darling, it must have been such a shock. Are you quite all right?’ Angela assured her that she was, and Mary went on, ‘But someone said Mr. Smart was there too. What was he doing?’
    ‘Taking shelter from the rain, apparently,’ said Elsa. ‘It was rather a deluge.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Jonathan. ‘Unfortunately it got in through the window of my office and ruined the notes for this week’s sermon. I shall have to begin again—or perhaps I shall rewrite it and take the opportunity to tell the story of the Flood