Murder at the Villa Byzantine: An Antonia Darcy and Major Payne Investigation

by R. T. Raichev

  ‘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 fiancé. 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 God, 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 constituted 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 embarrassed 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.

  6

  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 glass 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 enj
oy being destructive,’ Melisande added in a reflective voice. ‘Can you see Elvira transmogrifying into Arcati? I mean – can you?’

  ‘I can. Why not? Isn’t that what being an actress is all about?’

  ‘I would have thought such clichés were beneath you, darling.’

  Pale sea-water eyes – seductively asymmetrical – a carefully made-up, predatory kind of face – a flat sheep’s nose – black velvet dress, cut low at the neck – long sleeves – a single row of black pearls – aiming at an intriguing triste effect. At one time, Winifred reflected, men had been mad about her sister.

  ‘D’you remember my Joan of Arc?’ Melisande asked.

  Winifred said she did, vividly. ‘You were twenty-one. You were terribly good. Was that Anouilh?’

  ‘One critic wrote he had feared for the safety of my fellow actors! His exact words were that he’d been surprised heads hadn’t rolled on the stage!’ Melisande gave a reminiscent laugh. ‘Ah, that sword! It was a real sword of course.’

  ‘You declared you couldn’t get into the part if you were to hold a papier-mâché one.’

  ‘I took fencing lessons. Did some special exercises to strengthen my wrists. They provided me with my own personal trainer. Such a charming boy – so agile. Ah, how they indulged me! D’you remember the party they gave after the play? A thousand white cymbidium orchids flown in from New Zealand and suspended from willow branches on sterling silver thread! Then – then I appeared in that modernist medieval morality play, which I couldn’t understand at all, but the critics unanimously agreed I was brilliant in.’

  ‘Oh dear, yes. What a curious amalgam of antique metaphysics, harsh Calvinism and contemporary absurdism that play was … What was it called? They invariably sink without trace, plays like that …’

  ‘But don’t you see? If I did accept Arcati, there would be no going back – I’d have reached the point of no return – don’t you see?’

  ‘See what exactly?’

  ‘The die, darling. The die would be cast.’ Melisande shut her eyes. ‘I’d be entering the dreadful dimension of typecasting. No-nonsense nannies – Valium divas. Character parts, darling! Dipso dolly divorcees on the verge of a nervous breakdown.’

  ‘The dipsomaniac divorcee is a particularly Anglo-Saxon phenomenon,’ Winifred said thoughtfully. ‘In French films, I have noticed, women excel in a kind of existential hysteria without need for a whiff of alcohol—’

  ‘All right, there are some good dramatic parts, perhaps, for, to employ your pet phrase, women of a certain age. I wouldn’t mind playing Mrs Stone in her Roman spring … Blanche Dubois – don’t tell me I am too old to play Blanche! No, not Bernarda Alba – I have pledged never to play matriarchs … I wouldn’t mind Florence Lancaster either, or Livia in Women Beware Women.’

  ‘How about morose Mrs Alving?’

  ‘I am not sure … I have a soft spot for Ibsen, true … But it would mean patting the cheek of some sallow, sweaty, syphilitic Oswald night after night after night … A most definite no to Miss Havisham and Aunt Betsey Trotwood, or to any other Dickens woman, for that matter. Most Dickens women are such bores.’

  ‘Lady Dedlock and Rosa Dartle are not bores.’

  ‘I haven’t really done much comedy, have I?’

  ‘You did Miss Prism last year.’

  ‘Miss Prism was an exception. I did it as a special favour to Neville. I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else.’ Melisande lowered her eyes. ‘I believe I was a little in love with Neville. I wore pince-nez! How ridiculous people in pince-nez always look!’

  ‘You made Miss Prism recite a limerick, which is not in Wilde. “The Young Lady of Clare”.’

  ‘That wasn’t too awful, was it?’

  ‘No, not at all. It struck the right note. It was hilarious. You brought the house down. Your comic timing was perfect.’

  They were sitting at a corner table at the Savoy Grill. The service, as could have been expected, was impeccable, the food delicious, if a little too rich for Winifred’s taste. She regretted having plumped for roast Anjou pigeon with sautéed Jerusalem artichoke and pommes Anna after the pan-fried foie gras. She should have had the veal cutlet with root vegetables. Melisande had insisted that they have dinner together. Melisande had hinted she might have important news to impart …

  ‘Actually, Win, I would love to play you one day.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. One of those ladylike, rather repressed Rattiganesque Englishwomen, passionless in a cloche hat.’ Melisande sketched an amorphous shape above her head. ‘The kind of woman who haunts the Riviera in the low season, having taken advantage of reduced rates, not minding the discomforts of her small pension, her excessively composed manner hinting at latent hysteria. One sees her reading a novel after dinner, or merely immersed in maiden meditation – having ordered a small pot of black coffee in perfect French.’

  ‘Is that how you see me? How very amusing.’

  ‘No, not passionless. Seething with suppressed emotions behind her fastidious and aloof exterior – disguising her true feelings from everyone, even from herself. I’d insist on a scene where she takes off her hat and brooch and disrobes herself to reveal some really outré underwear.’

  ‘Why outré?’

  ‘That would convey the idea that she has a startling fantasy life,’ Melisande explained. ‘Do you remember how Papa Willard used to say that you would make a good actress? He refused to even consider the possibility of me becoming one.’

  ‘On that count Papa Willard was wrong.’

  ‘As it happens, Papa Willard was wrong on most counts.’

  They had always called their late father Papa Willard.

  Melisande peered at her. ‘You look a bit wan, Win. Grey and withered. What’s the matter? Or is it the light?’

  ‘Must be the light. I am fine, really. A little tired, perhaps.’

  ‘What have you been doing to tire yourself? I know you’ve been up to something.’ Melisande spoke in teasing tones. ‘I never know what you do or what you think. You look as prim as a prawn, but I am far from convinced that’s the real you. I haven’t the faintest idea what goes on in your head. No one would think we shared a house!’

  ‘It’s a large house,’ Winifred said lightly. ‘We have our separate quarters.’

  ‘I have been feeling trop troublante,’ Melisande said after a pause. ‘The truth is that I have been occupying an emotional cul-de-sac. I have been conforming to a pattern of existence only the most desperate human being would have chosen for themselves. You see, I haven’t recovered yet. The perfidy of my cavalier servante still haunts me.’

  Winifred’s face remained blank. When it came to putting on a display of histrionics, her sister had no equal. ‘You mean James, don’t you?’

  Melisande covered her eyes with her hand, as though to protect them from the glare of a merciless sun. ‘I still can’t believe he left me for that woman. Isn’t it incredible that I should have been deposed by a bulky-bottomed Balkanite? Isn’t it grotesque? Well, perhaps now he’ll reconsider. Perhaps now he’ll come to his senses.’

  ‘What do you mean – now?’

  ‘I know that I hated James and I wished him dead and I wanted to cut his Savile Row suits and ties into strips and raid his cellar and smash all his bottles of vintage port and pour paint all over his Porsche – but that was because I loved him so much.’

  ‘You said that James’ conduct, by any standards of civilized behaviour, was despicable.’

  ‘I am sure you think me inconsistent and irrational, but I am quite prepared to give him another chance. I believe it is not too late for me and him to find mutual flowering in each other.’

  ‘You swore you’d never give him another chance.’

  ‘It is a woman’s prerogative to change her mind. There will be some conditions of course. He will have to apologize. He will have to show genuine remorse. He will have to give me his word of honour that nothing like that would ever happen again.’

&n
bsp; ‘You said you didn’t want to see him for as long as you and he occupied this world. You said he deserved to be buried alive.’

  ‘Oh dear. Such colourful denunciations! Such pyrotechnics of verbal dexterity! I believe I was in a Medea mood. I remember alternating between rage and despair. When one is upset, darling, one says all sorts of things one doesn’t really mean. Try not to look so disapproving. The poor waiters will think there’s something wrong with your Anjou pigeon. They are so horribly sensitive here.’

  ‘It would be a mistake to have James back.’

  ‘You talk like this, because you were always a little in love with James yourself – you think I don’t know? No, it isn’t nonsense. Whether we like it or not, Win, we are both at an age when our cells and tissues start to impart unwelcome information, when the tick-tock of our body clocks becomes as loud and insistent as a church bell—’

  ‘I don’t think it would work. I really don’t.’

  ‘I wish I had your uncompromising spirit. Unfortunately, I haven’t.’ Melisande dropped her starched napkin on the table. ‘Furthermore, I am not ashamed to admit my weakness. James and I had something very special. Still have – these things don’t change overnight.’

  ‘But he is engaged to be married – I thought that was as good as settled. You said he told you they’d be leaving for Bulgaria early next month. They’ve bought the plane tickets, rings and practically everything, haven’t they? Stella’s moved in with him. Stella wants to be married in an Orthodox monastery, so they even contacted a priest—’

  ‘Oh, how I wish I didn’t tell you everything!’ Melisande cried. ‘Why am I such a fool? You even use the priest against me!’

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘You’ve never wanted me to be happy. Never! Not even when we were children. Remember Blue-Eyes and the Turkey? Remember Miss Rossiter and the Glass-Eaters?’

  ‘I remember Miss Rossiter and the Glass-Eaters. I don’t think that was my fault.’

  Melisande took a deep breath. ‘As a matter of fact, darling, there has been a development. The status quo has changed. You are, as they say, a bit behind with your facts.’