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

by R. T. Raichev

  ‘Now this is what I want you to do. Please listen very carefully. I would be extremely grateful if you didn’t interrupt.’

  Winifred had spoken with strange incisiveness. Happening to glance into the tall silver-framed mirror on the wall, she noted that Miss Hope’s face was now quite expressionless.

  ‘Would you stop for a moment, please?’

  But Miss Hope didn’t stop. She pretended she hadn’t heard. It was clear that Miss Hope resented being told what to do. She was stubborn as a mule. They started going up the stairs.

  The front door opened noiselessly and was shut at once.

  (If she had glanced back over her shoulder Winifred would have seen the killer, but she didn’t.)

  The killer stood in the shadow of the grandfather clock and listened as Winifred Willard proceeded to give instructions to Miss Hope.

  ‘Everything must disappear. Some of it is bona fide, which is a shame. I am sure you know that Tancred did have other sources of information, you were not the only one. I am talking about reliable sources, but it is all mixed up with your lies – so it is no good.’

  (Talking to herself, the killer thought.)

  ‘Tancred will be so upset,’ Miss Hope bleated. ‘Can’t we keep some of it?’

  ‘I am afraid we can’t. There is no way round it,’ Winifred said. ‘Allow one rotten apple in – and the whole barrel is contaminated.’

  ‘Tancred will be devastated.’

  ‘Tancred will understand. It will be a shock at first, but he will understand. I will explain everything to him. What good are bogus biographies to anybody?’

  ‘Some people would read anything. Books with titles like Reheated Cabbage and Pregnant Widows.’

  ‘Should such people be encouraged?’ I don’t know why I am talking to her, Winifred thought.

  ‘Tancred will have a nervous breakdown.’

  ‘He won’t. Tancred is a young man. He is strong and resilient.’

  The door to Pupil Room was open. The owl doorstop was in place, preventing the door from shutting. The doorstop was in the shape of an owl whose solemn bespectacled face, it suddenly struck Winifred, looked uncannily like that of Miss Hope.

  Pupil Room was sunk in gloom. The curtains were half-drawn across the windows. The moment she entered, a flash of lightning lit the study with searchlight brilliance and while it lingered, dimming and brightening, for a split second too bright to look at, the inevitable thunder rolled and cracked.

  Winifred crossed to the desk and switched on a brassbase table lamp. She glanced at the book that lay on the desk. Waiting for Princess Margaret. An anti-memoir, Tancred had called it. Flawed but fascinating. Winifred’s eyes strayed to the petunias in the small vase – they were quite dead now. Tancred’s ‘domestic help’ was far from efficient. Winifred pursed her lips. When they were married, she’d give the slouch the sack.

  Her eyes passed over a sepia photograph showing Hitler shaking King Boris’ hand. Tancred believed the photograph had been taken in 1943, at the start of the fatal visit. Boris had died soon after his return from Germany. There had been rumour and endless speculation that Hitler had had something to do with the death …

  Winifred turned on the computer. As she waited for the icons to come up, another clap of thunder shook the windows and the next moment the rain came, a battering kind of sound, like a hail of bullets … It was a firing squad that had executed Prince Cyril … There seemed to be reminders of death everywhere today … There had been a dead mole in the garden that morning … Winifred had put on her gardening gloves, picked it up, wrapped it in an old copy of the Telegraph and dropped it in the bin. She was not the least bit squeamish.

  Documents. Exactly what she wanted. There it was. For a second she hesitated. No – never slack your hand in the day of battle!

  Prince Cyril biography. Delete.

  She stooped a little, her eyes above the half-moon glasses fixed on the computer screen. Her hand became busy.

  Click – click – click – and click.

  There it was. So easy. The work of a moment!

  All gone. The so-called ‘biography’ was no more. Thank God.

  She could imagine Professor Goldsworthy waiting in vain for the Vane papers …

  It was all over! The relief of it! The damage had been undone. She felt the knot in her stomach start loosening. She had been envisaging problems. She had imagined Miss Hope might put up a fight!

  ‘Well done,’ she told Miss Hope. ‘Now take Tancred’s black leather notebook – there it is – and put it in your bag. We’ll deal with that later. How about a bonfire tonight?’

  Winifred thought she heard the stairs creak, then the sound of footfalls across the landing. Suddenly she remembered the slamming of the car door she had heard earlier on. Had she imagined it? Could Tancred have returned? Her hand went up to her mouth. What if Tancred were suddenly to come into Pupil Room? What would he do when he realized she had destroyed the Prince Cyril biography? Well, it would be a shock – he might fly off the handle – he might get into a blind rage, pick up the owl doorstop and—

  She told herself that such wild fantasies were unworthy of her. Tancred would never hurt her. Besides, she couldn’t imagine Tancred in a blind rage – going berserk – no, of course not – why, he was the gentlest of men – apart from being a gentleman.

  She heard a scraping sound – exactly as though the owl had been removed from the space between the door and the floor.

  ‘You must get out of here, quick,’ Miss Hope whispered urgently in her ear. ‘Don’t stand and stare. Turn round. Look behind you!’

  Winifred’s hand went up to her forehead. ‘I have the strangest feeling there are two people inside me.’

  The next moment the blow fell.

  Without a sound she slumped to the floor.

  33

  Murder in Pupil Room

  It was some time after lunch.

  Major Payne pointed with the stem of his pipe. ‘Look at the rain!’

  ‘It’s horrible. Enough to break the windows. It’s been now – what? Three hours?’ Antonia sighed. ‘England’s got so little to recommend it, really. It’s on days like these that I dream of emigrating to Italy. What was it you said about Morland? You thought he looked guilty when he came to you asking for help – he had a haunted air about him?’

  ‘He seemed guilty, yes. I don’t think I imagined it. But Morland has no motive as such. Why should he want to kill the woman he was about to marry, the woman for whom he had ditched Melisande Chevret? He loved her, didn’t he?’

  ‘Actually, Hugh, I don’t think he did.’

  Payne’s left eyebrow went up. ‘What’s this? Don’t tell me it’s anything to do with the … Corrida Hotel?’

  ‘Well, it is … I have a theory,’ said Antonia a little apologetically.

  The next moment Payne’s mobile phone rang and he took it out of his pocket.

  ‘Sorry … What slaves we are to these things … Hello?’

  ‘Major Payne? Oh, Major Payne! Thank God!’

  ‘That you, Vane? Whatever’s happened?’

  ‘Something dreadful – she’s been killed – the body is in my study – lots of blood—’

  ‘Slow down a bit … Who’s been killed?’

  ‘Miss Hope!’

  ‘There’s no such person as Miss Hope.’

  ‘I mean Melisande! Melisande Chevret. The actress!’ The biographer’s voice rose on a hysterical note.

  ‘Melisande?’ The next moment Payne remembered that Vane was a bit behind with his facts. But explanations could wait. ‘Are you sure she is dead?’

  ‘Yes. Her head has been bashed in. It’s terrible. She is in Pupil Room – my study – there’s blood everywhere!’

  ‘Have you called the police?’

  ‘I haven’t! I thought I would call you first.’ Vane’s voice quavered. ‘I am frightened, Major Payne. It’s happened twice! Two murders in my house. The police will say it’s me! They are bound to!�
��

  ‘Don’t jump to conclusions, Vane. And don’t touch anything. We are coming.’ He turned to Antonia. ‘Allons-y.’

  They drove through the pelting rain. The windscreen wipers writhed like living things as they struggled to keep the flood in check.

  ‘What if it is Melisande who has turned up dead?’ Antonia murmured. ‘For some reason, Melisande might have gone to the Villa Byzantine dressed up as Miss Hope …’

  ‘That, my love, would be one of those logic-defying twists which are relished by genre addicts and condemned by the unhooked as nothing better than annoying childish tricks.’

  ‘Don’t you think you are driving too fast?’

  ‘Melisande might have gone to the Villa Byzantine dressed up as her sister dressed up as Miss Hope. Sorry. I forgot you disapproved of double bluffs.’

  ‘What I disapprove of is speeding in a deluge. Please, Hugh, don’t look at me – keep your eyes on the road! We’ll have an accident!’

  The Villa Byzantine was fully illuminated and looked incongruously festive. It brought to mind the Royal Albert Hall at the start of the Proms. Tancred Vane seemed to have walked about turning on all the lights.

  ‘Leaving his fingerprints everywhere, silly fellow,’ Payne said.

  ‘Well, his fingerprints are already everywhere,’ Antonia pointed out. ‘He needn’t account for them. It’s his house.’

  Tancred Vane ushered them in. He was deadly pale. His bow-tie was askew. He didn’t say a word. He was shaking. Payne patted his arm. The royal biographer led the way up the Carrollian staircase and into the study.

  Major Payne’s eye had become practised in taking in swiftly every detail of what a murder scene had to offer. The body lay face downwards beside the mahogany desk. He knelt beside it and, overcoming his extreme revulsion, gently tipped the head to one side so that he could get a good view of it.

  Eyes open and glazed. Theatrical make-up. Vertical lines painted in, from nose down to each side of mouth. Somewhat smudged. White wig. Tight curls. Helmet-like coiffure of the ‘indestructible’ kind. No, not indestructible – it hadn’t succeeded in cushioning the blow – the blows – she had been hit several times. It hadn’t prevented her skull from being smashed.

  So she had come to the Villa Byzantine as before, dressed up as Miss Hope … What could have been going on in her mind?

  ‘It’s Winifred all right,’ said Payne. He rose to his feet.

  The royal biographer stared. ‘Winifred?’

  ‘Yes, Vane. Her name is Winifred Willard.’

  ‘I thought her name was Melisande Chevret.’

  ‘This is Melisande’s sister. It was she who was in love with you. Winifred was Miss Hope. We thought it was Melisande but then we had a sudden revelation. Thanks to my aunt, actually. It happened last night.’

  ‘Thanks to your aunt?’

  ‘You would be perfectly justified in imagining that all reason had disintegrated and the universe had turned into a brainless harlequinade, but I assure you—’

  ‘She’s been killed with the owl,’ Tancred Vane said wildly. He pointed to the blood-bespattered doorstop that lay halfway between the body and the study door. ‘Somebody picked up the owl and hit her with it.’

  ‘That indeed was the way it was done,’ agreed Payne.

  ‘She phoned me last night – at some unearthly hour. She said she wanted to meet me urgently this morning – not here – at the British Library. At midday, she said. She said she wanted to speak to me. It was a matter of life and death. I tried to call you – but I couldn’t get an answer. I left a message.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes! I left a voice message. Just before I set off.’

  There was a pause as Payne produced his mobile phone. ‘So you did, old boy. At … five to eleven … This may be important.’

  ‘You think that I’ll have to prove I have an alibi?’

  ‘It’s possible. The police may want to make sure. How long did you stay at the British Library?’

  ‘An hour or so … I browsed in the bookshop, then had a cup of tea … I thought that Miss Hope might say something important – that she might confess to the murder! That’s why I went. Lord. I keep calling her Miss Hope … She didn’t turn up of course … She never intended to go to the British Library, did she?’

  ‘No. Winifred Willard intended to come to the Villa Byzantine. She wanted you out of the way,’ said Payne. ‘Why? I think my wife may have the answer. At least she looks as though she does.’

  ‘I believe this is yours, Mr Vane.’ Antonia had wrapped her handkerchief round her hand and was holding up a black notebook. ‘Your initials are on the flyleaf.’

  ‘Yes. It’s mine. These are my notes for the blasted biography. Where was it?’

  ‘Inside Winifred’s bag.’ She pointed.

  ‘She took my notebook?’ Vane blinked. ‘But – why? Why?’

  ‘Maybe because it contained lies? All the stories she made up for you … I imagine she meant to destroy it,’ Antonia went on slowly, ‘so that you should not be put to shame. Perhaps she realized that she had acted irresponsibly and that you would become the laughing stock of the literary world? I believe she did it out of consideration for your reputation as a biographer – since she loved you so much – she was very much in love with you, you know.’

  ‘Was she really in love with me?’

  ‘She was mad about you,’ said Payne. ‘She was contemplating a spring wedding.’

  ‘Was there a deadline for what you had written?’ Antonia asked. ‘Were you expected to send any of it to your publisher?’

  ‘No … Actually, yes … Yes!’ Tancred Vane’s hand went up to his forehead. ‘Professor Goldsworthy was going to read my notes. Professor Goldsworthy is a historian – an expert on East European monarchies – knows his Bulgarian royal family inside out, or so I’ve been told … He was to act as a consultant … He had agreed to look at what I’d written … My editor had made arrangements—’

  ‘Did Winifred know about Goldsworthy?’

  ‘I – I told Miss Hope I was going to send him the biography by the end of the week. Via email. As an attachment. She knew, yes.’

  ‘That explains it. That’s most probably the reason why she came here.’

  ‘I’ve got it all saved on my computer—’ Vane broke off. ‘You don’t think she—? She couldn’t have—?’

  ‘You’d better check,’ Major Payne said.

  The royal biographer staggered towards the desk and turned on the computer. ‘She called it “that silly biography”. I thought she was in an odd mood that day.’ He gazed at the screen and his hands became busy. ‘It’s not here. It’s gone. All gone. The whole file. You are right. She’s deleted the Prince Cyril file! She’s destroyed it! She’s even emptied the Recycle Bin! I have no back-up!’

  Payne regarded him sympathetically. ‘It wouldn’t have been any good to you, would it, given that it was all untrue … Shall we go downstairs? We’ll need to call the police. It would look jolly peculiar if we delayed any further.’

  ‘The police … My God … I don’t think I’ll be able to explain all this … About Miss Hope … They won’t believe me … They’ll think I’m mad … They’ll say I did it … They’ll take me away … Would you – would you stay with me?’

  ‘Of course we will, old boy.’

  ‘Should I call my solicitor?’

  ‘No, not yet. It would be wrong to put the cart before the horse, you know. Don’t let’s rush things. Festina lente and all that rot. Perhaps I could use the phone in the hall?’

  They walked down the staircase in silence. Major Payne picked up the phone. Antonia and Tancred Vane went into the drawing room. Vane produced two globular cut-crystal glasses and silently poured out brandy.

  He spoke. ‘Who killed her? Why did they kill her? What reason could anyone have had for wanting Melisande Chevret’s sister dead?’

  Scared out of his wits, Antonia thought. She watched him gulp down his brand
y. He choked and started coughing.

  ‘Would you like some water?’ Antonia asked.

  ‘No. I’m fine … What’s going on? Who killed her? Do you know?’

  ‘Well—’

  Antonia wondered about him. Could he have left the British Library early, come back and surprised Winifred in his study? What if he had caught her red-handed? He might have got so distraught, so angry at the destruction of his brain-child, that he flipped. He might have picked up the owl and—

  ‘Do you believe it’s the same person who killed Stella Markoff?’ Tancred Vane asked.

  ‘It’s got to be the same person,’ said Antonia. ‘It would be an incredible coincidence if Winifred’s murder turned out to be unconnected to Stella’s. I don’t think we are dealing with two different killers.’

  ‘Could her sister have done it?’

  ‘Melisande? That’s an interesting idea. Well, she certainly had an excellent motive for killing Stella. Melisande was jealous of Stella. She is still intent on getting her fiancé back … Yes … But why should Melisande want to kill her sister?’

  ‘Perhaps Miss Hope – Winifred – knew something about Stella’s murder – what if she had proof that Melisande had done it?’ Tancred Vane suggested. ‘What’s Melisande like? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Not now.’ He took a sip of brandy. ‘Did you say she was an actress? I used to have a thing about actresses—’ He broke off.

  There was a pause.

  Major Payne came into the drawing room. ‘The police will be here in about twenty minutes. They remembered at once that they had been to the Villa Byzantine once before.’

  ‘Of course they’d remember. It was only last week,’ Antonia said. ‘It’s an unusual enough name.’

  Tancred Vane put down his glass. ‘They will think it’s me. I know they will. They’ll put me in handcuffs.’

  ‘They won’t. Don’t be an ass. They wanted to know who I was, what I was doing at the Villa Byzantine and so on. They were rather tedious about it … Brandy, eh? I could do with some brandy. May I? Thank you … I say, old boy, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you – what happened to those letters and diaries? The ones that had belonged to Stella’s grandmother.’ Payne spoke conversationally. ‘You didn’t manage to persuade her to sell them to you, did you?’