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

by R. T. Raichev

  ‘It’s a lovely place … Actually, I needed to make some notes for a book. I am thinking of setting a scene in a Catholic church.’

  ‘Murder in the cathedral? Of course. Murder mysteries. Moon said you were a writer. I didn’t quite believe it at first. She is a terrible liar, you know, but James confirmed it. I intend to order your books from the library. I never have any time for reading, I’m afraid – always too much to do – but I promise I will read your books. It always makes such a difference when one knows the author!’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Antonia wondered why knowing the author should make such a difference to one’s reading habits, but that seemed to be the generally held view. It was frequently suggested that readers felt inspired to buy a book or take it out of the library if they ‘knew’ the author. Something in that. Her publisher wouldn’t be so keen on her going on signing tours if they didn’t believe more copies would be shifted off the shelves that way …

  ‘It is a great relief to know that Moon was in safe hands,’ Julia was saying. ‘Otherwise, I’d have been wondering what she might have got up to. Who she’d been with and so on. So would poor James. Well, she is the kind of girl who could have been anywhere.’

  Antonia smiled. ‘Wouldn’t you have believed her if she told you she had been with us?’

  ‘No, not really. She keeps doing things she shouldn’t. While her mother was alive, there was always some kind of trouble – including an attempt at joyriding in James’ car! James caught her moments after she had managed to pick the car door lock and he frog-marched her back to the flat. She hated him for that. She said some awful things to him. I believe she kicked him.’

  Antonia asked if Moon could drive.

  ‘She says she can. It was her American boyfriend who taught her to drive, so heaven help us. No licence of course. She’s not old enough for a licence. Actually, I saw the A–Z in her room, so she might have gone to Hampstead last night in James’ old car,’ Julia said thoughtfully. ‘The “uncool” one. The one he intends to sell.’

  ‘She told us she hitched a lift from someone … We put her in a taxi this morning.’

  ‘That was extremely kind of you.’

  ‘You’d better check – or perhaps your brother – otherwise you may get a call from the police if the car is found abandoned somewhere.’

  ‘Yes. We will check.’ Julia took a sip of coffee. ‘I must say things aren’t as bad as they were. Not so long ago Moon was either openly hostile to poor James – or she made a big show of ignoring him. Rolling up her eyes each time he said something she deemed “dumb” and so on. He was clearly on the “enemy” side, you see – bracketed with her mother whom Moon seemed to regard as the ultimate foe!’

  ‘But the situation’s changed since her mother died?’

  ‘Oh, yes. There’s been a marked improvement. I believe in being fair. Moon’s become more manageable – more sociable – no question about it. A little more subdued, if that were possible – or should I say less exuberant? She’s started talking to James – mainly complaining about me.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘James took her to the zoo. Not my idea of a fun afternoon.’

  ‘You would rather be on the links, playing a round of golf, I suppose?’

  ‘Well, yes. How did you—? Oh, it’s the golf clubs in the hall – of course! I keep forgetting you are something of a detective. I suppose you’ve got to be observant to be able to write detective stories? I enjoy playing golf every now and then, but I am not what you’d call a lethal golfer. I must admit I am not terribly good at it … I thought Moon would sneer when James suggested the zoo, but she seemed quite excited. She said the zoo would be “crunk” – heaven knows what that means. She employs the most abstruse argot sometimes.’

  One of Hugh’s portmanteau words, Antonia thought, and she ventured a guess. ‘Crazy and drunk?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Crunk – a blend of crazy and drunk. That’s what I imagine it is. I may be wrong of course.’ Must ask Hugh, Antonia thought.

  ‘It made James laugh. It was good to see them like that. They looked happy together, like father and daughter.’ Something about the way Julia Henderson said this made Antonia wonder whether she had really relished the sight. ‘They were laughing and joking – she was teasing him and he seemed to like it.’

  ‘Is she his daughter, do you think? I mean his real daughter? I hope you don’t mind my asking.’

  ‘Well, the idea did occur to me. I even persuaded myself there was a resemblance between them. Do you think there’s a resemblance? I imagined Moon’s nose was the same shape as James’.’

  ‘Does your brother have his own children?’

  ‘James has a son and a daughter. But they haven’t been in touch for the last few years. Some argument over money. James has a lot of money, you see—’ She broke off.

  Her expression changed.

  Julia depended on her brother financially, that much was clear to Antonia. Asecond marriage – the marriage to Stella – might have absorbed a fair amount of James Morland’s capital. Stella might have insisted on donating money to the Bulgarian Monarchist Party or the Bulgarian Poets’ Association or some other worthy cause. There wouldn’t have been much left for Julia …

  Stella’s death must have come as a relief …

  Julia—?

  (Should one really suspect everybody?)

  20

  Sorry, Wrong Number

  ‘What did you make of Stella?’ Antonia asked. ‘Did you like her?’

  ‘No, not particularly, if I have to be perfectly honest. I found her irritating – intrusive. She came over to talk to me each time something went wrong between her and Moon. She didn’t seem to realize that I could be busy. She was entirely wrapped up in herself. She tended not to listen when I talked, but she expected me to give up whatever I was doing and pay very close attention to her jeremiads.’

  ‘She complained about Moon?’

  ‘Yes. She frequently felt hurt by her daughter. Moon couldn’t talk to her save with a gibe and sneer. Moon kept calling her the most offensive names – “lardy lump” – “brainless baba” – clearly terrible insults for a woman who regarded herself as the most marriageable of belles! Moon had jeered at her for “picking up” James. She had suggested her mother was “gagging for it”. She had referred to her poetry as “shit”. And so on and so forth. Terrible bore.’

  ‘How did Stella meet your brother?’ Antonia asked.

  ‘It was Moon who brought them together. That, at any rate, was Stella’s version of the event. James had lost his way in Sofia where he was on a business trip. He bumped into Moon and asked for directions and she took him to the cafe where her mother had been waiting for her. Some such rigmarole.’ Julia waved a dismissive hand. ‘You’d met Stella, hadn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. At Melisande’s party.’

  ‘Stella confided her most intimate fears in me. Things I didn’t really want to hear.’ Julia grimaced. ‘She seemed to find poor James terriblement anglais and it bothered her. No, she didn’t quite put it like that. A little too reserved, a little too “English”, was what she said. She moved into his flat at his suggestion, but nothing much actually happened between them, she said. No “real intimacy”. She seemed to have mixed feelings about it. She seemed to find James’ restraint at once flattering and frustrating.’

  ‘Is that how she put it?’

  ‘Not quite. That was my interpretation. Stella talked a lot about “respect” and “consideration” and how “gentlemanly” James was, but at the same time she made it clear she’d rather things were a little bit more – you know. She was maddeningly prudish. She went on about the importance of “personal warmth” and “affection” and “passion” in one’s life. She was particularly emphatic about “passion”. Passion was “essential” for her poetry.’

  ‘I expect she was looking forward to the wedding?’

  ‘She was. She was excited about it, but she
was also worried that James might change his mind and abandon her at the altar. She didn’t believe she could survive the humiliation and the pain, she said. She feared that her daughter might do something that would blight her chances of conjugal bliss for ever. There were other things as well.’ Julia frowned. ‘Stella seemed to have developed some peculiar phobia concerning Melisande – but she never explained exactly what it was all about.’

  ‘She didn’t drop any hints?’

  ‘No. She was probably afraid I might spill the beans to Melisande … Morbid undercurrents seemed to be part of Stella’s nature. She went on moody, listless rambles in Kensington Gardens. She seemed prone to tormenting anxieties of all sorts. On one occasion she actually said, “Oh, how good I am at finding things to worry about!” She seemed to believe she had cancer.’

  ‘Oh yes. She suspected she had a tumour on the brain. She said she was afraid of having a scan.’

  ‘Once or twice she told me it would be so much better for everybody if she ended her life. Her exact words, if I remember correctly, were, “Sometimes death comes not as an enemy but as a friend.”’

  ‘Do you think she might have been contemplating suicide?’ Antonia wondered if that could be a possible answer. The assisted suicide solution. Stella might have been unable to bring herself to do the deed and got someone else to help her – paid them – people did do that sort of thing. Would the person have used a sword though? It was a very bizarre idea. And why do it at the Villa Byzantine?

  ‘I didn’t really believe she would kill herself. I thought it was nothing worse than flirting with self-destruction.’

  ‘Did you by any chance see her the day she died?’

  ‘No. But she’d talked to me the day before. She floated in, wearing swirling white crepe, high-necked, with scattered crystal new moons and stars. It was beyond ghastly. Try to imagine an inflated Titania. I tried not to look shocked. It was going to be her wedding dress, she said. She expected me to admire it – which I did.’

  ‘So she was in a good mood?’

  ‘Yes! She’d thought of a way of making her peace with Moon, she said. She and Moon had had their first decent conversation in ages and that had made her very happy. She told me she had a plan.’

  ‘What kind of a plan?’

  Julia shook her head and said she had no idea. Stella had been terribly mysterious about it. ‘I am afraid I was not paying much attention. I was in a hurry. I was about to go out. I got the impression that the plan involved Stella doing something Moon was extremely keen on. She didn’t say what it was, but I think she hinted that there was risk involved.’

  ‘Risk?’

  ‘Yes. Some irregularity.’ Julia waved her hand. ‘Oh, it was all terribly garbled.’

  Suddenly Antonia had a very clear idea in her head as to what Stella had been planning to do. Her heart beat fast. She felt certain she was right.

  ‘Did Stella talk about her visits to the Villa Byzantine?’

  ‘About her sessions with the royal biographer fellow? She did. I must admit I was never particularly interested. I believe something happened there, at the Villa Byzantine, which unsettled her – some woman she had met at Vane’s house, who wasn’t who she claimed.’

  Soon after, Antonia rose to her feet.

  ‘No, no, it’s been no trouble at all, Miss Darcy. I enjoyed our chat. You must come again. I will tell Moon that you called, or would you rather I didn’t?’

  ‘That’s all right. Give her my regards.’

  They walked out into the hall.

  ‘I will. You aren’t driving, are you?’

  ‘No. I came by tube. I’d like to go for a walk in Kensington Gardens … Such a pleasant day, isn’t it?’

  The telephone rang and Julia picked it up. She grimaced apologetically at Antonia.

  ‘Julia Henderson speaking. No, this is not the Corrida Hotel— Oh, you are the Corrida Hotel! Sorry!’ She laughed. ‘Yes? Problem over a credit card? Whose card? What are you talking about? Sorry, you must have got the wrong number. I have never stayed at the Corrida Hotel in my life—’

  Antonia stood gazing idly at a framed photograph that was on the little round table beside the telephone.

  ‘Oh, that’s my brother! James Morland is my brother. Sorry. His phone number is the same as mine but for the last digit. Zero instead of nine. Yes. My number ends in nine, his in zero.’ She rolled her eyes at Antonia. ‘My brother lives next door. He is out at the moment. I will tell him to get in touch with you the moment he comes back.’ She put down the receiver. ‘So sorry. This happens all the time. I get phone calls from people who want to speak to James. Same number but for the last digit. Well, he’s moving out next month, so I hope there won’t be many more calls.’

  ‘Moving out?’

  ‘Yes. He’s bought a place in Chelsea. A small Regency house. He’s intent on playing father to Moon.’ Julia Henderson sighed. ‘He told me he wanted to devote himself to Moon’s upbringing and education. He talks about hiring private tutors and so on. Apparently she is terribly clever. Did you find her clever?’

  ‘As clever as a bag of ferrets. That’s how my husband put it … That’s you in the photograph, isn’t it?’ Antonia pointed. ‘I am always fascinated by people who take golf seriously. Especially women.’

  ‘Oh dear. My Surrey past is catching up with me. Don’t I look ridiculous in that little cap? Actually I don’t take golf at all seriously. I don’t know why I keep that silly photo there. I’ve been meaning to put it away.’

  The photograph showed a somewhat younger Julia Henderson wearing a golfing outfit, holding a golf club aloft and beaming triumphantly at the camera.

  Underneath her name in careful script was written: Ladies County Golf Champion 1999.

  21

  Up at the Villa

  Major Payne was immediately struck by how isolated the Villa Byzantine was, how secluded the lane along which he was walking. Its high banks, crowned by massive overhanging trees and ferns, made it a dark tunnel by night and, he had no doubt, a sylvan unfrequented corridor by day.

  He swung his rolled-up umbrella as he strode purposefully in the direction of the house. Around him autumn leaves were being whipped up, swirled and scattered by the wind—

  Skirling and whirling, the leaves are alive!

  Driven by Death in a devilish dance!

  He wished he weren’t so well crammed with English literature! He had parked his car outside the tunnel. When the strange house loomed before him he whistled. He’d never seen anything like it before.

  He stopped and stared.

  He was put in mind of a fantastic growth – he might have been standing in front of some giant poison mushroom!

  Horizontal orange-red and yellow stripes – heavy use of stucco – arched windows – a domed roof. He was put in mind of Edward James and his surreal piles Monkton House and Las Pozas. It was that kind of house. Surreal. Bizarre. The Villa Byzantine.

  He thought of Sir Christopher Wren’s epitaph – Si monumentum requiris, circumspice. If you wish to recall me, look around you. Did the Villa Byzantine reveal anything about Tancred Vane?

  A well-to-do bachelor of irreproachable if somewhat florid taste, leading a life of blameless bookishness. A collector of rare objects. The kind of chap who notices at once if his silver has become tarnished or his precious leather-bound volumes and rosewood tables too exposed to the glare of daylight.

  Or would he turn out to be something more sinister? A connoisseur of the recherché, an aficionado of the fantastic? Like one of those bachelors in L. P. Hartley’s short stories …

  As he walked towards the front door, Payne happened to glance up at one of the first-floor windows. He saw a white hand pull down a parchment-coloured blind with what he imagined to be a frantic gesture. A ring flashed in the sun—

  Payne rang the front door bell. A couple of moments later he rang again. The utter silence that met his ear had the quality of an animal’s freezing in its burrow. He was aware of
great tension – or was the tension inside him? Eventually he heard cautious footsteps coming down the stairs, which creaked a little.

  The door opened tentatively and a face appeared. A youngish man’s face – well-bred, if indeterminate, features – receding chin – flushed – indecisive. What was that the chap was wearing? Not a bow-tie? Major Payne had an aversion to bow-ties. Instinctively distrusted bow-tie wearers.

  ‘Mr Vane?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My name is Payne.’ Silly that their names should rhyme.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We haven’t met, but I was wondering whether I could have a word with you?’

  ‘What about?’ Tancred Vane spoke in an abrupt manner, which, Major Payne felt at once, did not come naturally to him.

  Tancred Vane’s eyes travelled over the intruder’s immaculately knotted regimental tie, his double-breasted blazer with its silver buttons, his sharply creased trousers, and came to rest on his perfectly polished brogues—

  Payne saw his expression change – soften. It was almost as though the royal biographer had expected somebody else – somebody who looked as though they needed to be scared off—

  Major Payne said, ‘We have what is sometimes called an “acquaintance in common”. A foreign lady. Had. She is, alas, no longer with us.’

  ‘What foreign lady?’

  ‘A Bulgarian lady.’

  ‘You don’t mean you knew—?’

  ‘The tragic Stella Markoff. Yes.’

  The door opened a crack wider and now Payne could see the royal biographer’s left as well as his right hand. He wasn’t wearing any rings. The hand which had pulled down the blind hadn’t been his.

  Vane was not alone. Could she be with him?

  Vane’s face had turned a deeper shade of pink. The next moment he shot a glance over his shoulder.

  ‘What – what’s this about?’