Murder at the Villa Byzantine chm-6 Page 3

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘Are you sure? You possess a certain indefinable something.’

  Antonia smiled. ‘You don’t really mean that, do you?’

  ‘I do mean it.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I don’t say these things lightly.’

  ‘But the King is already in Bulgaria!’ Stella was heard crying triumphantly. ‘He was our Prime Minister, now he leads his own party.’

  ‘What’s the party called?’ Payne asked.

  ‘The King’s Party.’

  ‘How intoxicatingly witty,’ Melisande said. ‘How inordinately original. We must drink to the King’s Party.’

  ‘I believe the King styles himself Mr Saxe-something-or-other, doesn’t he?’ Morland said. He was smoking a cigar. ‘Quite a mouthful.’

  ‘Saxcoburggotski,’ Stella said. ‘His advisers persuaded him to take on a name that was the closest to a Bulgarian name. His family name is Saxe-Coburg-Gotha.’

  ‘Sexcoburggotski,’ Moon said, casting a meaningful glance at her mother, then at Morland.

  ‘Pleasant sort of chap,’ Morland said. ‘Or so everybody says. Unassuming, though of course he never lets anyone forget who he is. Not particularly effectual, perhaps. Too much of a gentleman. Bulgarians don’t seem to understand him.’

  ‘They used to execute kings.’ Moon squashed her empty Coke can, producing a crack that might have been a gunshot. ‘My mother used to believe all kings and queens were parasites. My mother was brainwashed by the Communists. She became a “pioneer” and kissed the red flag and then she became a Communist. And she married a Communist. My father was a Communist.’

  ‘We didn’t have much choice, Moon!’ Stella protested.

  ‘Now my mother is a Monarchist. My mother is a turncoat. Turncoats should be executed.’

  ‘Those were such difficult years. My parents struggled, how they struggled. If you wanted to have a successful career, a happy home life or travel abroad, you had to be a Communist. We had no choice! We had to do what we were told. We had to spy on our neighbours.’

  ‘So that’s where you learnt how to spy.’ Moon nodded. ‘My mother spies on me all the time.’

  Moon’s American accent was explained by the fact that she had been attending high school in America, in the state of Pennsylvania. She had had to give it up because her mother’s funds had run out. ‘Stolen money goes fast totally, I guess,’ she said. She then turned to Payne and tried to get him interested in something called Hammers of Hell.

  ‘What’s that? Not a story by Chesterton? Some sort of an electronic game?’

  ‘Yep. The coolest game there ever was.’ It had been her American boyfriend who introduced her to it. Elimination by numbers as well as ingenious ways of killing your enemy seemed to be at the heart of the game and one had to be ‘like totally ruthless’ to achieve one’s goal. ‘I like beheadings best. I guess I am a bloodthirsty kind of person.’

  Arthur said, ‘I read somewhere that the brain of a severed head continues functioning long enough for the executed person to see the body from which his head has been detached. Then the person dies of shock. It is a scientifically proven fact, or so it was claimed.’

  Her father, Moon informed the company, was in jail in Bulgaria. For bribery, corruption, falsifying documents, money-laundering and general abuse of power. Only dumb people managed to get themselves sent to jail, she said firmly. ‘If I were to commit a crime, they would never catch me.’

  ‘I like your coat,’ Arthur said. ‘It could do with a wash, or is that how you like it?’

  ‘This is not a coat. It’s a shinel. I bought it on eBay for fifty dollars. This is real blood. I am not kidding. I don’t want it washed.’

  ‘I am told Liza Minnelli sold her Oscar on eBay.’ Arthur lowered his voice. ‘It seems she’s completely bonkers now.’

  ‘Do you really write murder mysteries? That’s so cool.’ Moon addressed herself to Antonia. ‘Like Mrs Fletcher in Murder, She Wrote?’

  Antonia admitted she hadn’t seen a single episode of Murder, She Wrote.

  ‘Is there a lot of blood in your books?’

  ‘No, not much.’ Antonia gave an apologetic smile. What an alarming girl, she thought.

  ‘Blood is kinda interesting. Pure red liquid. Gallons and gallons of it. Our bodies are full of it. If you cut someone’s throat, blood will gush out like a fountain. It will be so powerful, you will have to jump away.’

  ‘Do you enjoy reading?’ Antonia asked politely.

  ‘I read all the time. When I was a kid, I used to be mad about the Marvel comics. I used to imagine I was Rina Logan, the daughter of Wolverine and Elektra. You know Rina Logan?’

  Antonia said she didn’t. It occurred to her that most of her responses to Moon’s queries had been negative.

  ‘Rina Logan is an extremely dangerous character, kinda loopy, so many heroes avoid her. I used to believe I possessed a set of “psi-claws”, like Rina Logan. Psi-claws do damage on a mental rather than on a physical level,’ Moon explained.

  ‘I thought cyclones did damage on the physical level,’ Morland said as he helped himself to another cocktail and a handful of peanuts.

  ‘Psi-claws, not cyclones, James. Psi-claws. Have you never heard of psi-claws?’

  ‘What books do they do at American schools?’ Payne asked. ‘Nathaniel Hawthorne? Mark Twain? Arthur Miller? Have you read The Crucible?’

  ‘Yep. It’s about witches, isn’t it?’ Moon cast a meaningful glance in the direction of Winifred and at Melisande. ‘We read a story called “The New Mother”. At first I thought it would be dumb, kids’ stuff, but it was so cool. It’s about two innocent children who are encouraged in their naughty behaviour by this strange and charming young woman who may or may not be an evil spirit. The children’s mother threatens to leave them and send home a new mother – a mother with glass eyes and a wooden tail.’

  Payne was intrigued. ‘And what happens?’

  ‘Not telling you! It’s by a woman called Lucy Lane Clifford. Get it and check it out, then you’ll see how it ends. It’s really weird stuff. Oh, do you know what they call Rina Logan?’

  ‘What do they call Rina Logan?’

  ‘Wild Thing.’ Moon made a snarling sound, which she accompanied by a clawing gesture in Payne’s direction.

  Stella and her daughter had arrived in England some ten days earlier. The reason for the visit, Stella explained, was her collaboration with an English biographer, Tancred Vane. Tancred Vane was engaged on writing a ‘life’ of Prince Cyril, King Boris’ dissolute younger brother, who, after a misspent life, had been executed by the Communists in 1945.

  Stella had answered an advertisement placed by Tancred Vane in the International Herald Tribune. Payne thought the biographer’s name rang a bell. It was a distinctive enough name. Obscure royalty seemed to be Vane’s speciality. Stella’s grandmother, it transpired, had operated the switchboard at the royal palace in Sofia during the war. An insatiable eavesdropper, she had become privy to a great number of secrets, which she had revealed in diaries and letters, some of which had survived and were now in Stella’s possession.

  Moon said, ‘Tancred Vane wanted to give her fifty pounds for the letters and the diaries, but my mother wouldn’t sell them for less than five thousand.’

  Stella’s face turned red and she said something in Bulgarian, which made Moon laugh.

  ‘I guess Tancred Vane is a crook. He’s the sort of guy who wants something for nothing. He looks kinda weird. Show them the photos!’ Moon tugged at her mother’s sleeve. ‘Come on, show them the photos. Let them see what a weird guy he is and what a weird house he lives in.’

  ‘I am in the grip of an intolerable restlessness. I believe I am unhappy.’ Melisande leant towards Payne. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if something marvellously unexpected happened?’

  ‘Mr Vane is a very nice man. Very educated, very cultured.’ She had already paid Tancred Vane two visits, Stella said as she produced her mobile phone and squinted dow
n at it. ‘I like to take photographs of interesting buildings and interesting people. My friends in Bulgaria will be very interested.’

  ‘What friends?’ Moon said. ‘You have no friends.’

  ‘This is Mr Vane’s house. It is called the Villa Byzantine. It is very interesting, isn’t it?’ Stella held up her mobile. ‘Very unusual. It is baroque, I think.’

  ‘Golly,’ Payne said. ‘No, not baroque. Where’s this monstrosity?’

  ‘In St John’s Wood.’

  ‘Really? I’ve got an aunt who lives in St John’s Wood.’

  ‘The house looks like a lunatic asylum,’ Moon said. ‘I bet this guy Tancred is a homicidal maniac. Or a necrophiliac. Be careful he doesn’t steal your grandmother’s diaries,’ she warned her mother.

  ‘And this,’ Stella said, ‘is Mr Vane.’

  Melisande laughed. ‘Such an earnest look. Rather sweet, actually. What a pet. I bet he speaks hesitantly without finishing his sentences? Reminds me of someone I used to know-’

  ‘Mr Vane is a young man,’ Stella said with an odd emphasis.

  Payne caught a look of unadulterated hatred on Melisande’s face.

  Winifred’s expression on the other hand was hard to interpret. She looked as though she had had some kind of revelation. ‘Are these church bells?’ Her voice shook a little. ‘Can you hear them?’

  The next time Major Payne heard the Villa Byzantine mentioned was precisely six weeks later – on the day of the first murder.

  4

  Fire Walk with Me

  This is what happens in bad dreams. Somebody you think you know becomes a stranger. No – a stranger turns out to be someone you know.

  As I think back to my terrifying encounter at the Villa Byzantine, I start shivering.

  Why does Fate insist on buffeting me? Is there any particular reason why I, Stella Markoff, should be made to pass through so many strange fires? Don’t I deserve to be happy? If there is a cosmic design behind it all, I fail to see it. Have I not suffered enough?

  I haven’t told James about the incident at the Villa Byzantine. Why worry him? He will probably say I imagined it. He is very nice to me, very considerate, very gentlemanly, though sometimes I wish he weren’t so gentlemanly. I wish he were more demonstrative when we are alone together. I wouldn’t mind.

  I am extremely susceptible to bad vibes. Something happened that day at the Villa Byzantine when she – the old owl-faced woman she pretended to be – looked at me through those glasses – a terrible pain cut right across me – I haven’t been myself since – have I been given the evil eye?

  She looked like Baba Yaga. When I was a little girl I feared being spirited away and devoured by Baba Yaga more than anything in the world.

  I knew who she was at once, the moment our eyes met. Did she imagine I wouldn’t recognize her?

  I am sitting in James’ car, James’ old Harris tweed jacket lies on the seat beside me, everything seems familiar and reassuring, but this is no ordinary journey, oh no.

  Once more I am on my way to the Villa Byzantine, but it is not to see Mr Vane. Mr Vane will not be there. But for Mr Vane’s Chinamen and other precious objects, the Villa Byzantine will be empty.

  As I remind myself that I am about to commit a crime, I clutch at my knees to prevent my hands from shaking.

  A crime, yes. I can’t quite believe it. I, Stella Markoff, am about to commit a crime.

  I glance at my watch. Each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. I can hardly breathe. How dark the sky is. There is going to be a storm.

  Never for a moment does the Great Fear leave my side. Darkness at noon. That is a bad omen. I am extremely nervous. I have a headache. No, I can’t change my mind. It is too late to go back.

  But what if Mr Vane has decided to stay at home? Well, I would tell him that I had made a mistake, that I’d come on the wrong day. I intend to ring the front door bell three times, four times – no, till my finger starts hurting! Only then shall I start unlocking the front door.

  My headache is rooted behind my eyeballs and seems to cast a spell on every nerve of eye and ear. Perhaps something is there, some terrible growth, some entity, delighting in torturing me, feeding off me, sucking in my vital energies, causing me to make wrong decisions, unsettling my sanity? I don’t want to go for a scan. I dread what they might discover.

  But what if Mr Vane suddenly comes back and catches me red-handed? Mr Vane may call the police, then I’ll be put in handcuffs and all the English newspapers will write about me. Villainy at the Villa. English people like to make jokes like that. English people are very childish. I will be ruined, destroyed. I won’t be able to survive the shame.

  It is now as dark as the darkest night. This is all wrong. I feel ill. My head throbs. Each breath becomes pain. A meteorite pounds into my heart. There is a clap of thunder, then another.

  I am doing all this for my daughter. This is a mother’s sacrifice.

  I want my daughter to love me.

  The car moves along the drive, slowly, slowly, under the tunnel of trees. As we come out of the tunnel, I see curtains of rain, deep purple, almost black, pierced by gold shafts of sunlight.

  I have no idea why I pick up James’ jacket and bury my face in it. I am silly and sentimental. I feel insecure. All my life I have craved reassurance. I shut my eyes and I breathe in the now familiar smell of James – expensive cigars, Polo aftershave, the special mints he claims he can get only at Harrods – James calls it the ‘Good Life’ What is this? Something in the pocket. I open my eyes. Papers – letters? Yes, a bundle of letters.

  I hold the letters in my hand. No envelopes. The same handwriting on all of them. I tell myself I mustn’t read the letters, James may not like it, but then I recognize the handwriting…

  Suddenly I feel hot. I start shivering.

  I gasp The car is stopping. We have arrived. We are outside the Villa Byzantine. My eyes are blurred with tears, but I can’t tear them away from the letters. I feel as though I have run till my lungs have burst.

  No, this can’t be true – it is absurd – monstrous – a cruel joke!

  I look up and see my reflection in the car mirror. My face is pale and disfigured by shock. It does not look pretty. It does not look like my face at all.

  I scream – but no sound comes out of my throat.

  5

  The Worst Crime in the World

  It was seven o’clock on a mild evening in mid-September. There had been a storm in the morning but all was quiet now. The air felt fresh.

  ‘So they think she bumped off her mama-’

  Major Payne broke off. Mustn’t be flippant, he reminded himself. The trouble was he tended to view life, even when at its most appallingly tragic, as comedy. Made him appear inconsiderate, insensitive and damned superficial – which he was not. Antonia thought it was a defensive reaction of sorts.

  He pressed another scotch on James Morland.

  ‘Thank you, Payne. I didn’t mean to drink, but this is a terrible business. Yes, that’s what the police think. I’m afraid they regard Moon as their number one suspect. Complete nonsense of course. Um. It helps me, being able to talk about it. Most decent of you to listen to me.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, my dear fellow.’

  ‘I hardly know you, Payne, but I felt you’d be the right person to come to.’

  Major Payne found himself wondering why he hadn’t called Morland ‘old boy’ but ‘my dear fellow’. He tended to employ the latter address with men he didn’t quite take to. Morland had a haunted air about him and, unless it was Payne’s imagination, a somewhat guilty look. Morland gave the distinct impression he was holding something back…

  ‘She has been “helping them with their inquiries” – that was how they put it – that’s how they always put it, don’t they?’

  ‘How old is she? Fifteen? Sixteen?’

  Payne remained standing by the 1930s cocktail cabinet, which had been a present from his aunt
. Lady Grylls had at long last managed to sell her country estate and move to a house in St John’s Wood, which had always been her dream. Chalfont Park was now a conference venue, managed by some super-rich industrialists who, Lady Grylls insisted, were in fact members of the ‘Russian mafia’.

  ‘Sixteen and a half, nearly seventeen.’

  ‘Did you say you bailed her out?’

  ‘Yes. Money’s not a problem. I know she’s a difficult girl, but I feel responsible for her, Payne… In a loco parentis kind of way… Stella and I were about to get married… I’d have been Moon’s stepfather.’ Morland spoke haltingly. ‘Melisande has no idea I’m here

  … I don’t want her to know… She took it rather badly, you know – our breakup… My fault… Couldn’t be helped… One of those things.’

  ‘Yes, quite.’

  ‘Look here, Payne, I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention to Melisande that I’d been here. I mean, if you bumped into her or something.’

  ‘My lips are sealed.’

  ‘I’m sure they – the police – will realize they’re on the wrong track soon enough and start looking for the real killer… Though when is soon enough?’

  Payne gave another sympathetic nod. Morland seemed to have got himself into a pretty mess. It was the kind of complicated emotional drama one wouldn’t have associated with him. By no stretch of the imagination could Morland be said to represent high romance, but there it was, no accounting for taste. When they had first met him, Morland – middle-aged, widowed, with grown-up children – had been about to marry Melisande Chevret. Melisande had introduced him to the gathering as her fiance. Morland had then become secretly engaged to the Bulgarian matron, Stella Markoff, with whom he appeared to have been having an affair for some time. And now Stella Markoff was dead – mysteriously murdered!

  Morland sat slumped in his armchair, looking dejected. ‘I wonder what Moon’s doing now. She didn’t like it when Julia told her she had no Sky. That’s my sister,’ he explained.