Murder At The Villa Byzantine Part 3

'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 down 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 finis.h.i.+ng 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.

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 s.h.i.+vering.

Why does Fate insist on buffeting me? Is there any particular reason why I, Stella Markoff, should be made to pa.s.s 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 gla.s.ses 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 rea.s.suring, 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 eyeb.a.l.l.s and seems to cast a spell on every nerve of eye and ear. Perhaps something is there, some terrible growth, some ent.i.ty, 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 rea.s.surance. 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 s.h.i.+vering.

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.

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 b.u.mped 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 d.a.m.ned 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 c.o.c.ktail 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 b.u.mped 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 a.s.sociated 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.

'You left her with your sister?'

'Yes. In my sister's flat in Kensington. She wanted to come with me here, actually. Moon likes you. She said you were "cool". She said you say funny things. She likes that. She wants to know about the murders you and your wife have investigated.'

'Isn't she upset?'

'Of course she's upset. Terribly upset. Distraught. She's not as tough as she appears. It's suddenly hit her she'll never see her mother again. She's frightened. She knows it's serious. She's no fool. My solicitor's doing his best, though he advises caution ... I don't think he took to Moon ... Not many people do ... Stella ... My G.o.d, I can't believe Stella is gone!'

'When was the last time you saw Stella?'

'This morning. We made plans for tonight. I had tickets for Covent Garden. Stella loves opera loved ... She was delighted, awfully excited, really looking forward to it ... I've still got them somewhere ... I mean the tickets.' Morland took out a fistful of papers from an inside pocket, but his hand shook and some of them scattered on the floor. Puffing, he picked them up. 'Here they are.' He waved the tickets in the air.

'What were you going to see?'

(Why did Morland think it necessary to show him the tickets?) 'Battered Bride. No, Moon wasn't coming with us. There were going to be only the two of us. Covent Garden, yes. I mean Bartered Bride sorry.' Morland gave an awkward laugh. 'Moon hates opera.'

'Did she hate her mother too?'

'I wouldn't say "hate", that's too strong a word, but they didn't get on too well. Moon is keen on doing her own thing. She's wilful, headstrong ... She wants to go back to America. I don't know what to do, Payne ... I really don't ...'

Battered bride, eh? A Freudian slip? Had Stella been battered to death then? The manner of her demise was yet to be revealed to Payne.

'Stella used to say all of Moon's problems sprang from the fact that she'd never had a proper father figure in her life. I've been wondering whether I could adopt Moon. Not a terribly good idea, perhaps? Not sure it would work. It might prove to be a disaster.' Morland spoke distractedly. 'Moon doesn't really like me, but she knows no one in England. She doesn't want to go back to Bulgaria. She refuses to give me the names of any of her relatives in Bulgaria. Says they are all peasants.'

Would a man planning a brutal battering buy expensive opera tickets? When he knew perfectly well they would be wasted? Well, yes the tickets const.i.tuted an alibi of sorts. Money was not a problem for Morland.

'Is her father really in jail?' Payne asked.

'I believe so. Yes. He was one of those Communist apparatchiks. That's all I know. Poor Stella didn't like talking about it. It embarra.s.sed her. She managed to get a divorce. She'd had a terrible life. Terrible. And now now she is dead!'

'Did the police question you?'

'They did. All sorts of idiotic questions. Made me feel like a criminal! You used to work in the police, didn't you?'

'Not the police. Intelligence. That was some time ago now.'

'Melisande said you and your wife were experts in murder.'

'I don't know where people get such ideas.'

'Melisande said you told her you always carried the Police Code and Procedure with you and you tried to memorize seven pages a day. Oh. Is that a joke? The story's bound to be in tomorrow's papers. People are such ghouls. The way poor Stella died is sure to attract attention-' Morland broke off. 'Where did you say your wife was?'

'America. Signing tour. It ends the day after tomorrow ... How did Stella die? Where did it happen?'

Morland's hand went up to his forehead. It looked as though he was checking whether he had a temperature. He then loosened his tie. 'She was found at the Villa Byzantine. Tancred Vane's house. The royal biographer fellow. It was Tancred Vane who discovered her body. It was in the drawing room. If the police had any sense at all, they'd see at once why Moon couldn't have done it. You see, Payne, Moon broke her wrist only a couple of months ago. She can hardly use her right hand. It it would have been too heavy for her-'

'What would have been too heavy?'

'The-' Morland broke off. 'Stella was she had been-' Payne leant forward eagerly. 'Yes?'

'No, it's too horrible.' Morland made a breath-catching sound like a sob. 'I can't say it. No, I can't.'

The next moment he did. He blurted it out. There was a pause.

'Golly.' Payne stared back at him.

Blithe Spirit 'This is the best thing that's happened to me in a long while, you are absolutely right, so I should be happy. Only I am not.' Melisande Chevret raised the champagne gla.s.s to her lips. 'Oh, don't look like that, Win. You do think I am being unreasonable and spoilt, don't you?'

'As a matter of fact I do. You have been "resting" for quite a while. I'd have thought you'd leap for joy at any opportunity to act again.'

'Leap for joy. You do say horrid things. You make me sound like one of those desperate ageing actresses for whom anything is better than nothing. Listening to you, one might be excused for imagining my career has entered the tundra-like wasteland stage. My bone structure is not yet obscured by pouches and jowls.'

'I never said it was ... I wouldn't call Madame Arcati "anything".'

'It's a wonderful character part, I do agree Coward at his most comically inspired and so on but I simply can't make the transition that easily.'

'What transition?'

'I was Elvira not such a long time ago. Unpredictable, wilful, capricious, irresistibly attractive Elvira. Bursting with erotic energy dangerous destructive! I enjoy being destructive,' Melisande added in a reflective voice. 'Can you see Elvira transmogrifying into Arcati? I mean can you?'