‘I am so sorry,’ Morland harrumphed.
‘No, it doesn’t matter one little bit, darling. It’s just that I needed you here earlier. That’s all. I did tell you to come as early as possible, didn’t I? I wanted you to do something for me.’
James Morland was most certainly not a toy-boy. He looked every inch the prosperous merchant banker he turned out to be. Late fifties, Payne imagined – pink-faced, fattish, baldish, dullish, resplendent in a Savile Row suit with a subtle stripe but sporting a flamboyant-looking tie, which seemed to have been knotted in a hurry and was a bit askew. Bluff and blissfully uncomplicated. The kind of chap who wears braces rather than a belt, Payne decided. Might turn out to be a pillar of the Weybridge Rotarians. A man of a conventional mind and limited imagination. Or was he doing him an injustice? Was it possible that a chap like Morland could have hidden depths?
‘You told me once you liked to keep your promises,’ Melisande said.
Morland asked what it was she had wanted him to do.
‘Oh, nothing, nothing. It doesn’t matter a row of pins, darling. Not any longer. It was nothing important. It’s just that you promised. Where on earth did you find that tie?’
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘What does it matter whether I like it or not?’ Melisande gave a light laugh. ‘I must admit I get a funny feeling each time I am confronted by a Paisley pattern or what looks like a Paisley pattern. Don’t you think it’s a little too – vertiginous?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do be an angel and get Antonia a drink. Antonia’s been very brave, very stoical. Antonia has been displaying extraordinary powers of patience and fortitude. I have an idea Antonia and Hugh are the cleverest people in this room. The kind of people who have more ideas in one morning than the rest of us have in a week. There are canapes – sandwiches – venison vol-au-vents – pheasant pate – amuse-gueules – all sorts of naughty little things. Hugh, would you care for a nibble?’
So far Melisande hadn’t so much as glanced at the couple Morland had brought with him – a matronly woman in her mid-forties and her black-clad teenage daughter. He felt compelled to introduce them a second time, in a louder voice. ‘Stella and Moon. Friends from Bulgaria. They were at something of a loose end, so I took pity on them. Ha-ha. They didn’t really want to come but I insisted. Ha-ha.’
Melisande went on smiling. ‘You insisted? How extraordinary.’
Morland explained that Stella had been extremely helpful to him in Sofia. ‘Stella knows Sofia like the back of her hand.’
‘How kind. How overwhelmingly touching. Poor James hates being on his own, don’t you, darling? I wish I were as gregarious as James. Tillie, is it? And – Lenya, did you say? Or is it Loon? I am sorry. I am terrible with names. Positively pathological. You mustn’t think I do it on purpose. I don’t. Please make yourselves at home.’
Melisande managed some semblance of graciousness but it was more than clear she could have done without the Bulgarian matron and the Bulgarian matron’s daughter. Her eyes, Payne noticed, rested speculatively on the shawl the Bulgarian matron was wearing. It was of a vaguely Paisley pattern not dissimilar to that of Morland’s tie. Was the colour co-ordination a coincidence? It couldn’t possibly be a statement, could it? Had the Paisley tie been a present from Stella, perhaps?
‘I have very bad headaches,’ Stella informed Antonia. ‘The English weather makes my headaches worse. I am not used to it. My friends warned me. Everybody said to me, you will hate the English weather, Stella. You will be ill all the time.’
Stella had mournful eyes, a prim mouth and vague hair the colour of hay. In addition to the Paisley shawl, she wore a frilly blouse, a long chocolate-coloured skirt and shiny brown shoes with buckles. In shape she rather resembled a plump partridge. Hers, Payne thought, was a ripe kind of femininity. Did Morland fancy her? Was Stella more than a mere friend?
‘Look, Stella – all the cocktails have name tags!’ Morland waved his forefinger.
‘Yes, James, this is very amusing.’
‘Such an awfully clever idea! Ha-ha. What’s that? Modesty Blaise? Battle Royale? That’s the kind of thing that makes a party go with a bang, Payne, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Most decidedly,’ Payne agreed.
‘So today is Mrs Chevret’s birthday,’ said Stella. ‘Mrs Chevret, yes? Not Miss?’
It is Lady Chevret, actually – though I never use my title.’
‘You were married to a Lord?’
‘Something like that. Long time ago. I never talk about it.’
‘There is a birthday cake, yes? With candles? A birthday cake is not a real birthday cake if there are no candles. The birthday cake comes at the end, yes?’ Stella paused. ‘I like cakes with lots and lots of candles. Isn’t that what you say? Lots?’
Morland harrumphed a warning.
‘May I have some crushed ice? I need more ice.’ Melisande’s smile remained frozen on her lips. ‘Hugh, would you be an angel? The light in this room is awful. I feel a little disoriented. Thank God for Hugh! Hugh strikes me as the kind of man who would be indispensable in a crisis.’
‘Would you like a Brief Encounter, Stella – or how about a Perpetual Passion?’ Morland asked.
‘I would like Perpetual Passion very much, thank you, James,’ Stella said gravely.
Melisande declared she would have a Tomb Raider. ‘Hugh, would you be an angel?’
Antonia congratulated Stella on the excellence of her English.
‘I speak English very well,’ Stella agreed.
Antonia asked her if she knew any other languages.
‘French and Russian and German, a little Albanian and a little Hungarian. I have a degree in political economy and a degree in linguistics. I held a very important job, you see. Isn’t that what you say? Held?’
Antonia said, ‘Most English people are very poor linguists.’
‘English people expect everybody to speak English. One of James’ friends told me the other day – do you remember, James? It was very funny. Oh, it was so funny.’ Stella covered her mouth. ‘He said that my English was so much better than his Bulgarian, but, you see, he did not speak any Bulgarian. I didn’t think that was a compliment at all. It was just something polite to say.’
‘You have met James’ friends?’ Melisande said.
‘Someone called Chambers or Gibbs. And someone called Rutherford? That is correct, isn’t it, James? I liked Rutherford. Rutherford was very funny.’
‘Rutherford is one of the most boring men who ever lived,’ Melisande said. She glanced round. ‘He divorced his wife and then married her again.’
‘Stella used to work for King Simeon.’ As James Morland handed Stella a cocktail, their hands brushed. ‘The rightful heir to the throne of Bulgaria, you know. Can’t get higher than that, can you? Ha-ha.’
Stella explained that until not so long ago King Simeon had been Bulgaria’s Prime Minister.
‘King Simeon is in The Guinness Book of Records. Under “youngest” and “first”,’ Stella’s daughter said. ‘When his father Boris died, he became the youngest European monarch. He was six. And then he became the first former monarch to get involved in politics.’ The girl spoke with an American accent. She was chewing gum and gazing at Payne with the liveliest interest.
‘Are you interested in politics?’ Payne asked.
‘Nope.’
The girl’s name was Monika – spelled with a ‘k’, apparently – but her mother and Morland addressed her as Moon. Although it was a warm evening, she had refused to take off her long black coat, which, she informed them, was a shinel that had once belonged to an Albanian soldier whose head had been blown off by shrapnel. She insisted on showing them the bloodstains on the lapel. Payne found her good-looking in a rough, dangerous kind of way, but then most teenagers of either gender nowadays struck him as dangerous.
‘Balkan politics have always been terribly complicated,’ Payne said diplomatically.
‘Each time I hear the word “politics”, I want to curl up and die,’ Melisande said. ‘Or to go on drinking Tomb Raiders till some kind of conflagration takes place.’
‘My country has a very tragic history,’ Stella said after a sip of Perpetual Passion. ‘No one understands Bulgaria – no one. It’s a land soaked in sunshine and sorrow. We believed the Russians understood us, our big brother, we called them, but we were wrong. We made a big mistake.’
‘I hate Russians,’ Moon said. ‘And I simply hate Muslims.’
Winifred asked Stella if she and her daughter were in England on holiday.
‘No, not on holiday,’ Stella said.
‘My mother is in England on a secret mission,’ said Moon. ‘My mother is a spy. She’d never admit it.’
‘Are you really a spy?’ Payne entered the spirit of the game.
‘I am not a spy.’ Stella gave an awkward laugh. ‘My daughter is joking. Please, Moon, do not say such things!’
‘I told you she’d never admit it.’
‘My daughter is joking.’
‘The Cold War is mercifully over,’ Payne said.
‘I am not joking,’ Moon said. ‘My mother is an undercover agent.’
‘I am the secretary of the Bulgarian Monarchist League. It was so difficult to get that job, but if I decide to get something, I get it.’
Melisande raised her glass to her lips. ‘Something or someone?’ Payne heard her murmur.
‘I am sorry, but I have a headache. I need to take a tablet. Please, excuse me.’ Stella opened her handbag. ‘Sometimes my headaches are so bad, I need to lie down.’
‘My mother thinks she has a tumour on the brain,’ Moon said.
‘I am afraid of having a scan,’ Stella told Antonia.
‘I don’t think scans are at all scary,’ Antonia said brightly. (Why oh why was it so hard to keep the conversation neutral?)
‘I don’t suppose you are aware that we have a real writer in our midst?’ Melisande waved her hand dramatically in Antonia’s direction. ‘I simply adore stories in which novice nuns succumb into lust, paranoia, despair and psychosis, as the convent environment at first rejects them and then violates them.’
Stella said, ‘I write a little too. Articles on the future of the monarchy, and poetry… What kind of books do you write, Miss Darcy? Detective stories? Who is the killer, let’s suspect everybody, there’s arsenic in Aunt Wilhelmina’s tea, yes? Very amusing, very English. But it is more difficult to be a poet than to write detective stories, I think.’ She placed her hand at her bosom. ‘Poems come from the heart.’
‘Detective stories come from the mind,’ Payne said.
‘Poems come from the soul. It is very hard to explain to people who are not poets. Poets in Bulgaria are regarded very highly, especially in villages and in small towns, where poets read their poems aloud at parties. Poets expect no financial rewards.’
‘Poets are losers,’ Moon said.
‘Poets are exceptional human beings. Poets represent the best of every nation,’ said Stella.
Morland frowned. ‘The child is father of the man – what’s that supposed to mean? The boy stood on the burning deck. My love is like a-’ His eyes rested on Stella. He raised his glass. ‘The cocktails are top-notch, Meli. Well done.’
‘Do you think it would be a good idea if Bulgaria became a monarchy again?’ Payne asked Stella.
‘Oh puh-lease, do not start my mother on the monarchy,’ Moon groaned.
‘It would be a very good idea. Yes. The monarch’s role is moderation, something we lack in Bulgaria,’ Stella said. ‘The monarch is above parties and politics. The monarch’s role is to calm people and lessen frictions and tensions and-’
‘Advise, encourage and warn? I see you know your Bagehot.’ Payne nodded. ‘That’s Bagehot, isn’t it?’
But Stella didn’t answer. She had covered her mouth and her nose with her right hand. She seemed distressed. It looked as though she was about to burst into tears. Payne was taken aback. It couldn’t have had anything to do with his introducing Bagehot into the conversation, could it? He saw her rummage frantically in her bag, then mime imploringly in the direction of their hostesses. A handkerchief, she needed a handkerchief. A sound, like the blowing of a raspberry, was then heard and the mystery was resolved.
Stella had had a sneezing fit. They should pretend they hadn’t noticed a thing, that’s what good manners dictated. As Payne helped himself to a Rum Collins, he heard Moon laugh raucously.
Stella’s thanks were profuse when a handkerchief was handed to her. She would wash it, she would iron it and send it back, she promised.
‘Political parties cannot be trusted, but the monarch imparts a sense of permanency and continuity,’ Stella was saying a couple of minutes later. ‘The wisdom of a monarch is to be treasured. Control your rage and do not give offence. Do you know who said that?’
‘Groucho Marx?’ Melisande suggested. ‘Lord Haw-Haw?’
‘No, no-’
‘Cicero? Liberace?’
‘It was Louis XIV who said it. I like clever maxims,’ Stella said. ‘I have a notebook full of maxims-’
‘And I have extremely fond memories of Maxim’s.’ Melisande raised her cocktail glass. ‘Shall we drink to it? To Maxim’s! I mean the one in Paris. The one and only.’
‘This must be the very first time the Sun King of France has been quoted under this roof,’ Winifred whispered to Antonia.
It was all perfectly absurd and rather droll, yet, for some reason, Antonia was filled with a curious apprehension.
Stella’s preoccupations with poetry and the monarchy had converged in a poem she had written entitled ‘The Return of the King’. She had composed it in a state of quiet exaltation, she said, but by the time she had finished writing it, she had been in floods of tears.
‘Won’t you recite it for us?’ Payne urged.
‘No, no.’ Stella shook her head. She had written the poem in Bulgarian. A spur-of-the-moment English translation would destroy any beauty, significance or deeper meaning the poem might possess. Sometimes translations changed poems beyond recognition.
They were familiar of course with the famous experiment? When a poem was translated from Finnish into English into French into Russian into German into Mandarin Chinese into Swahili into Danish – and then back into Finnish? No? The author of the poem – a Finnish poet of some distinction – had been unable to recognize it! He had written a light-hearted allegory about a lonely clown at a circus who falls in love with one of the two performing bears, not about a divorced woman contemplating suicide in a Tunbridge Wells antique shop.
In the silence that followed, Moon asked if there was any Red Bull.
‘What is “red bull”?’ Morland asked amiably.
‘I am not talking to you,’ Moon said. ‘You didn’t let me take a puff at your cigar, so I am not talking to you.’
‘Would you care for a glass of Coke?’ Winifred might have been referring to some outlandish concoction.
The front door bell rang again and Melisande flounced out of the room.
‘Why can’t I have vodka?’ Moon was heard asking her mother.
‘Because it contains alcohol.’
‘What a dumb thing to say. Vodka is alcohol.’ Moon sighed. She turned to Payne. ‘If you ever want a quick buzz, pour some neat vodka over your eyes. It’s called “drinking through the eyes”.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ he said with a curt nod.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is Arthur, my agent!’ Melisande had reappeared with a small grey-haired man, dressed in a bookmaker’s checked, three-piece suit, who raised her hand to his lips and declared he had been hopelessly in love with her for most of his life.
‘Why hopelessly?’ Moon asked.
‘How are you, Win?’ Arthur waved his hands in the air. ‘Have you read any good books lately?’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t.’
‘Why do people bother to write books?
Has it ever occurred to you to wonder?’
‘Frequently,’ Winifred said with a rueful smile.
‘Arturo, darlink, do help yourself to a leetle drinkie,’ Melisande said in a Ruritanian accent.
‘Shame you never did Zsa-Zsa! I can’t remember the exact reason, what was it? You were born to play Zsa-Zsa! What happened?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s all lost now in the mists of time. I believe you persuaded me not to, you faithless man.’
‘No! I always said you were born to play Zsa-Zsa!’
‘I dain’t knair,’ Moon said in Melisande’s voice. She had sidled up to Payne. ‘You faithliss min.’
‘It’s very rude to mimic,’ he pointed out.
‘Arturo looks very camp. Don’t you think he looks camp? He sounds very camp. I don’t like camp men.’
‘There are some things you can think but not say,’ Payne said didactically. Moon laughed.
The front door bell rang again.
3
Wild Thing
‘The Return… of the King!’ Melisande delivered in mock-heroic tones. She mimed the placing of a crown on her head, assumed a solemn expression, then made a neighing sound and pretended to ride a horse. Her mood seemed to have improved considerably. Well, Antonia reflected, she was starting on her third Tomb Raider.
‘Shades of Tolkien… Does King Simeon ride? I suppose all kings ride. At one time it was considered a sine qua non in regal circles.’ Payne was getting bored. Perhaps they could bowl off soon? He stole a glance at his watch, then tried to catch Antonia’s eye.
‘Bravo!’ Arthur clapped his hands. ‘Bravo! How about an encore?’
They had been joined by a morose-faced man – Stanley Lennox, the playwright and author of Tallulah. He was accompanied by an anonymous blonde in tinted glasses.
‘Is there any water? I can’t drink anything but water,’ the blonde in the tinted glasses said.
‘I have a big surprise for Melisande tonight,’ Arthur whispered in Antonia’s ear.
‘You’ve got her a part?’
‘Yes! Coward. Don’t breathe a word. Not yet. She’ll be delighted. She’s been resting for – um – quite a bit. You aren’t an actress too, by any chance?’
Murder at the Villa Byzantine chm-6 Page 2