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

by R. T. Raichev

  ‘What kind of story?’

  ‘It will be the kind of story that moves like a series of tapestries as it enacts the consequences of an artist’s strange encounter with his own being. It will be an extended metaphor for the separation, even estrangement, between the artist and the conventional world, and the artist’s sense of an inner glory and necessity, which can be shirked only at the expense of his true relationship to himself.’

  ‘What do you mean? Sorry – all this is a bit above my head.’

  ‘Do you think you know yourself? Tell me truthfully!’ Her eyes were fixed on him.

  ‘Do I know myself? Well, I think so, yes. Don’t most people?’

  ‘No! Of course they don’t.’

  ‘In that case perhaps I don’t … I don’t really know.’

  ‘I was once told that I had no idea what I was really like, that I hid my feelings even from myself. It was even suggested that there was a great wild forest within me, of which I was not aware.’

  ‘A forest?’ Miss Hope, Vane decided, was in a decidedly fanciful mood today. He was not in the least interested in the wild forest inside her, honestly, though of course he wouldn’t dream of saying so. It wouldn’t do to hurt the old girl’s feelings.

  ‘As the river flows to the ocean, my soul shall flow to thine,’ she murmured. ‘For some reason I am haunted by these lines.’

  ‘Shall we continue? You started telling me about the fancy dress party at the lodge?’

  ‘Oh dear!’ Miss Hope threw up her hands in a gesture of mock despair. ‘From the sublime to the ridiculous! Very well, Tancred. You shall have your fancy dress party if that’s what you want. I remember it was crazy weather for January. A sudden balmy spell had swept a froth of showers and the fresh breezes of April into Sofia in the dead of winter … The fancy dress party was Cyril’s idea.’

  ‘Was Prince Cyril a good host?’

  ‘He was a terrible host. He liked to say tactless and embarrassing things to people. But there were always a lot of guests at the lodge. Some people don’t mind being insulted and discomfited, I suppose, so long as it is a prince of the blood who does the insulting.’

  ‘What was the lodge like?’ Tancred asked. He had a particular reason to want to know about the lodge.

  ‘It was made of creamy-coloured limestone and had a shiny, rather intricate, steel-trimmed art nouveau canopy. A most enchanting building … You look as though you want to ask something?’

  ‘N-no – nothing.’ He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

  ‘Are you sure? You have a secretive mouth, you know. Cyril’s fancy dress party was not of the ordinary kind. Everybody had to impersonate a character from fiction and had to behave consistently all the time, and at the end of the party a specially selected jury had to decide who or what one’s character was. The person who was voted to have acted his or her character with the greatest conviction got a prize.’

  ‘What kind of a prize?’

  ‘A box of cigars for the men, a box of the finest chocolate creams for the ladies. I don’t need to tell you that there existed among Prince Cyril’s entourage a tendresse for all things Teutonic. So, unsurprisingly, we had several Brünnhildes and Nibelungen and half a dozen Siegfrieds.’

  ‘What character did you dress up as?’

  Miss Hope’s lips hovered on the edge of a smile. It was as if she knew some strange secret, which she would almost, but never wholly, divulge. ‘Nannies don’t dress up, Tancred. But you might be amused to know I was made to recite a funny English poem! On account of my extreme youth, no doubt. So I recited “The Young Lady of Clare”. Do you know it? No?’ Miss Hope clasped her hands on her lap and cleared her throat.

  ‘There was a Young Lady of Clare, Who was sadly pursued by a bear; When she found she was tired, she abruptly—’

  She looked at him. ‘Can you guess what it was the Lady of Clare did?’

  ‘Retired?’ Tancred suggested. ‘Perspired?’

  ‘Expired, Tancred. She expired! That unfortunate Lady of Clare! Edward Lear, I think. Well, it was at that very same party that Cyril decided to make me his confidante. Till then he’d treated me with amiable indifference. Oh, he was so unpredictable!’

  ‘What was it he confided in you?’

  ‘Well, he started by telling me that he preferred bad weather to good weather. If he woke up in the morning and saw it was grey and drizzly outside, he felt reassured that life would go on for ever. Sunny days, on the other hand, made him want to hide under the covers and think of dying.’

  ‘Think of dying! How very strange.’

  ‘He was a very strange character. Prince Cyril had an “innate” dislike of wrapping paper. He called it “my peculiar animus”. He was sick at the mere sight of it! An “inexplicable” feeling surfaced within him, he said. For that reason he found Christmas particularly trying.’

  ‘I assume presents were given to him unwrapped?’

  ‘They were. It eliminated the element of surprise completely. Oh, his oddities were endless! In his study he kept different seals to suit his different moods. I remember one particular occasion when the Montenegrin chargé d’affaires and various other dignitaries stood round, waiting for him to seal a document. “Has anyone seen my mellow seal?” Cyril asked. But the mellow seal seemed to have vanished into thin air.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Cyril went on smiling – he was in a mellow mood, you see – but then he became furious – which was fortunate since he decided to use his “furious” seal instead, after which he calmed down. There was a collective sigh of relief, I remember, like a gust of wind.’

  ‘I wonder if he was a manic-depressive – bipolar?’

  ‘He used to say things like, “My pain is crushing when I suffer, but my joy, when I’m happy, is also inexpressible.” He said it in German, of course. Well, that night – the night of the fancy dress party – he told me how much he enjoyed racing up and down the streets of Sofia in his Lagonda Rapier and the high price he had paid for his pursuit of speed records when his beloved dog Fritzie was catapulted out of the car and killed!’

  Tancred Vane looked up slowly. ‘I thought you said before his beloved dog’s name was Sascha?’

  ‘Sascha was Prince Cyril’s second beloved dog, Tancred. He had two dogs.’ Miss Hope’s eyes remained steady. ‘Prince Cyril then spoke to me about international affairs and the possibility of war, which he gave every impression of relishing. He seemed convinced of a German victory! I must say his abstractions and absolutes had an unmistakably Teutonic stiffness about them.’ She adjusted her pince-nez. ‘What happened next took me completely by surprise, it was so terribly sudden.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He started whispering in my ear that he felt the irresistible urge to make love to me. He said fresh young girls were his passion, that my smooth cheeks drove him to distraction, words to that effect. Again he spoke in German. I misunderstood him completely – oh dear! I was so naive, so innocent!’ Miss Hope gave a girlish laugh.

  ‘You mean – Prince Cyril made a pass at you?’

  ‘Well, yes, since you choose to put it like that.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I said – oh, what was it? No, I can’t remember. I am so sorry, Tancred … I must look up my diary notes … Call me a muddle-headed old ass, but I can’t remember a thing! Don’t look so disappointed, it’s not the end of the world.’ Her hands continued to be clasped on her lap, but now she was looking out of the window. There was a pause. ‘Tell me, Tancred, how would you feel if this project of yours were to be snatched away from you?’

  ‘What do you mean, snatched away?’

  ‘If you were to learn that, for some reason, you couldn’t go on writing this silly biography? Would you be upset?’

  ‘Would I be upset if—?’ He broke off. Had he misheard? Had she said ‘this silly biography’? ‘Of course I would be upset! Terribly upset!’

  She did look odd today and no mistake! The wa
y she sat, something taut about her, like a spring. Her pince-nez kept catching the sun and flashing its reflection back at him.

  ‘You haven’t heard of someone making trouble, have you? Of someone trying to prevent the biography from being published?’ Tancred said in an anxious voice. ‘Cyril’s nephew – King Simeon – or some of the other living Coburgs? I haven’t heard anything from the Fleur-de-Lis Press. I am sure they would have informed me if there’d been a problem.’

  She smiled indulgently. ‘Of course they would have. The estimable Fleur-de-Lis Press would have been the first to know, should anyone have started muddying the waters. Their legal department would have got in touch with you without fail. No, nothing of the sort. Nothing as literal as that.’

  ‘Thank God … What do you mean “nothing as literal”?’

  ‘I have been trying to understand you better, Tancred, to see what kind of person you are … What your priorities are … Life is so short … I care an awful lot about you, you know.’

  ‘I care about you too,’ he said after a pause.

  ‘Do you, Tancred? Do you really? My dear boy.’ She rose slowly from her seat. Her shoulders, he noticed, were less hunched than before. ‘That is what I always thought, but it’s good to hear the actual words spoken out. I knew it from the very start of our association. I knew we were meant to be together, work together, exist together, the very moment I saw your photograph, the very moment I heard your name!’

  ‘Really? What photograph?’

  ‘Oh Tancred, you have moved the flowers from left to right.’ She pointed with her forefinger.

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Yes!’

  Her face had gone pink. He didn’t see what the fuss was about, but she seemed absolutely delighted by this discovery. She meant the little bronze vase with the petunias she had brought him during her previous visit – pale mauve with deep red complicated veins that made them look like a medical diagram of human lungs.

  He didn’t know why he chose that particular moment to tell her about the lodge.

  18

  Light Thickens

  ‘I saw something on the internet last night. You know I’ve been looking for information on the internet as well? I told you, didn’t I?’

  ‘No, you didn’t. Information – you mean information about Prince Cyril?’ She resumed her seat beside the window.

  ‘Yes. I told you sources were scarce. King Simeon’s office sent a very stiff letter saying he was reluctant to discuss his late uncle with anyone. Anyhow. I’ve been looking for information on the internet and last night I found something.’

  ‘What did you find?’ She didn’t sound particularly interested.

  ‘It was an architectural enthusiast’s website. Some Italian – lives in Siena – who seems to be a nut about royal residences. He displays pictures, photos, plans, drawings of European royal palaces, past and present, and so on. There was a picture and a plan of the royal palace in Sofia. A very detailed plan.’

  ‘I have little patience with detailed plans,’ she said.

  ‘This Italian had got hold of the original plan somehow, that goes back to the time the palace was first built in the 1880s – after Bulgaria’s liberation from Turkish rule in 1878. The palace was built for Bulgaria’s first German prince, Alexander Battenberg.’

  ‘I am perfectly familiar with the historical facts, Tancred.’ Miss Hope was looking out of the window, shading her eyes.

  ‘The palace is very small. I mean, as royal palaces go.’

  ‘Bulgaria is a very small country, Tancred. Once, centuries ago, it was the largest kingdom in the Balkans, but then it became the smallest. It has had a turbulent history. The Berlin treaty was particularly unfair to it.’

  ‘The royal palace in Sofia is no larger than a Viennese rentier’s residence, someone wrote.’

  ‘That is quite true. Here we go again, exchanging bits of not very interesting information, instead of which we could have been talking about things that really matter!’ She was looking at him with great intensity. ‘That’s exactly the point I wanted to make earlier on, Tancred. We could be talking about things that matter.’

  ‘The plan shows the main building and the gardens around it – but it shows no lodge.’

  Miss Hope bowed her head slightly. ‘What do you mean, no lodge?’

  ‘There are stables and a pavilion or two and a pagoda and what looks like a small ornamental lake, but there is no sign of a lodge.’

  ‘Where thou lodgest, I will lodge,’ she murmured.

  I’ve started slipping up, she thought calmly.

  It was inevitable that sooner or later she’d make a mistake. She had always known that, so she was not particularly surprised. Inspector Davidson had caught her out first – then she had given the dog a different name – and now this ridiculous absence of a lodge. Keep your head, she told herself and felt the irresistible urge to laugh out loud. Keep your head. Had Stella ever been given the same advice?

  ‘Let me show you the plan.’ She saw Tancred, silly boy, pick up a sheet from his desk and half rise from his chair.

  She put up her hand. ‘No need. I believe you. I believe you unconditionally. I know you are incapable of telling a lie. Your noble nature would never allow it. Well, what can I say?’ She gave a contemptuous shrug. ‘It is no doubt some busybody’s awkward drawing. I am sure this so-called “plan” you have in your possession will be conspicuous for the absence of a lodge … And what does the absence of a lodge signify to you?’

  ‘What does it signify? Why – don’t you see? The lodge has played such an important part in your narrative. That is where Prince Cyril and Victoria lived – that’s where Victoria went when she was upset by Giovanna – the party you just described took place at the lodge – it was at the lodge where Prince Cyril made a pass at you!’

  ‘Of course I see. My dear boy! I see perfectly. The question now is, who do you believe? Me – or some espresso-sipping Sienese?’

  ‘It strikes me as extremely odd that—’

  ‘I hope, Tancred, you are not suggesting that I make things up? That all this time I have been perpetrating some infernal swindle?’ Miss Hope seemed greatly amused by the idea. She gazed out of the window. The next moment her expression changed. She gave a little gasp and pulled the blind down.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Tancred, there is a man outside!’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘He’s coming up the steps … He is about to ring the front door bell.’ Her voice quavered slightly. She took off her pince-nez and placed it on the little table beside the window seat. ‘Now listen very carefully, Tancred. I wouldn’t open the door if I were you. Please, don’t open the door. Or if you do, on no account allow this man into the house. Something terrible is going to happen if you let him inside the house.’

  19

  Mrs Henderson

  ‘You have been exceedingly kind, Miss Darcy.’

  ‘Not at all. I didn’t wake you up when I phoned this morning, did I?’

  ‘You didn’t. Don’t worry. I do tend to wake up awfully early. To tell you the truth I was not aware that she wasn’t in her room. I had no idea that she’d sneaked out last night either. Moon can be terribly argumentative, so I try not to appear prying or spying. Sometimes I find myself within an ace of giving her a clip on the ear, but of course that would never do.’ Julia Henderson shook her head. ‘She’d probably try to knock me down.’

  ‘Do you really think she would? Is she violent?’

  ‘I think she can be. Yes. She’s certainly thrown things at her late mother – and at poor James. Do help yourself to some coffee.’

  ‘Well, I intended to take a look at Brompton Oratory,’ Antonia elaborated untruthfully. The real reason for her visit was to try to learn more about Stella and the events of the fatal day. ‘I then suddenly realized I was standing in your road. So I decided to pay you a visit. Hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s a pleasure to
have you,’ said Julia Henderson graciously and she urged Antonia to have a slice of Madeira cake.

  Antonia glanced round the room. It was light, uncluttered and pleasantly furnished in a minimalist way. Julia Henderson looked a very pleasant kind of woman too – late forties, early fifties, unobtrusively smart in pastel-coloured cashmere, open weather-beaten face, short brown hair, next to no make-up, forthright, sensible, no-nonsense manner.

  Did she play golf? Antonia had seen an array of golf clubs in the hall. They might have belonged to Julia’s late or former husband – Antonia was assuming Julia was either widowed or divorced. No, the clubs all looked as though they were in regular use.

  Strong sunburnt wrist, Antonia thought as she watched her hostess pick up the coffee pot. Likes to spend time in the open. Julia’s handshake had been extremely firm. Yes, without doubt her hostess was the golfer.

  Julia had been in the process of writing a cheque. She sighed, waving her gold-topped pen. ‘Bills! They expect me to subtract a thousand pounds from my little capital at a moment’s notice.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ Antonia said with a smile.

  ‘I am sure you don’t. I am ready to bet you are much more prudent and disciplined than I shall ever be. I live at the top of my income, you see. I hate economizing. I am in constant dread of ruin. I keep borrowing money from poor James—’ Suddenly realizing she was talking to a perfect stranger, she broke off and apologized for being a bore.

  She had mentioned a committee meeting she needed to attend, but that wasn’t till five in the afternoon, so Miss Darcy needn’t worry. She seemed a well-balanced, easygoing woman, with only the slightest hint that she might be formidable if she chose. Moon had suggested Julia was a prying dragon. She had called her a ‘bitch from hell’. Teenage angst, Antonia thought. Probably more than mere angst. Moon, she imagined, took drugs. Drugs made you paranoid.

  Julia Henderson asked if Antonia’s interest in Brompton Oratory was purely aesthetic. The implied question was whether Antonia might not have been seeking some form of spiritual solace.