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

by R. T. Raichev

  For a moment Tancred Vane looked blank. He didn’t seem to know what Payne was talking about. ‘Oh God, no. No.’

  ‘Did you really offer her fifty pounds for them?’

  Vane wetted his lips. His eyes shifted their gaze from Payne to Antonia. ‘As a matter of fact Stella suggested an exchange – the diaries for the sword, but I said no – wouldn’t have been an equal exchange – the samurai sword is much more valuable than the diaries. Besides, I wasn’t entirely convinced of their authenticity—’

  ‘I know who the killer is,’ Antonia said suddenly.

  ‘You do?’ Payne raised the brandy glass to his lips.

  ‘There is only one person who could have killed Stella and Winifred.’

  Payne cast a glance at their host. Tancred Vane had given a little gasp. His forehead glistened with sweat.

  ‘I have an idea Stella’s murder wasn’t premeditated – was it?’ Payne said quietly.

  ‘I don’t think it was. Something precipitated it. I believe an event took place,’ Antonia went on slowly, ‘either in the car or soon after they arrived at the Villa Byzantine. I may be wrong, but I believe that Stella made a discovery. I think she tumbled to a certain shocking secret—’

  There was a scraping noise. Tancred Vane had risen to his feet and pushed back the elegant velvet-upholstered spoon-shaped chair with carved arms and legs, in which he had been sitting. He was holding his hand to his mouth. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to be sick—’

  He made for the door. He was walking so fast, he slithered on the polished parquet floor and nearly fell. Major Payne looked as though he was going to follow him but thought better of it.

  He glanced back at Antonia. ‘What shocking secret?’

  She told him.

  Antonia told the police as well. She had been contemplating testing out her theory, but decided this was not the time for games.

  She was unsure of the inspector’s reaction, but she needn’t have worried. Inspector Davidson listened to her carefully, making notes. He then asked her what she did and his expression did not change when she told him she wrote detective stories. He was certainly interested in her ‘theory’. He asked her to explain her reasons. He agreed it was something of a long shot. There was hardly any ‘concrete evidence’.

  ‘He might give himself away when he realizes I am aware of what has been going on,’ Antonia said.

  There was a pause, then the inspector said, ‘Very well, Miss Darcy. We won’t do anything till you hear from him. If you hear from him. You still believe he will contact you?’

  ‘I think he will. He’d want to know what my next move would be …’

  ‘Is there anything you’d like us to do?’

  ‘You can make inquiries at the Corrida Hotel in Earls Court … Then there’s the car,’ Antonia said thoughtfully. ‘You’d better check the car. There is a second car, are you aware? I think that’s the one that’s been used … There may be blood – DNA—’

  34

  Les Liaisons Dangereuses

  So the cat’s out of the bag. Antonia Darcy knows, Julia Henderson thought. She pulled her sable coat round her for she suddenly found she was shivering.

  Walking out of the Corrida Hotel in Earls Court, she got into her car and started the engine.

  No. Antonia Darcy couldn’t possibly know, not for sure. Antonia Darcy suspected. Was it possible that she had seen them in a compromising situation – holding hands, cuddling, kissing? Had they ever been that careless?

  Julia knew exactly what must have happened. Antonia Darcy had heard her speaking on the phone when she came to her flat – she’d come to snoop of course, Julia saw that now. Antonia Darcy had noted down the mention of the Corrida Hotel—

  There was something else Antonia Darcy knew, Julia couldn’t say exactly what, but she felt sure it must link up with the Corrida Hotel in some way. Yes. Antonia Darcy had laid a trap and was now biding her time. Antonia clearly believed there would be a – well, a reaction.

  Clever woman. Knew how to use her brains. Had nerve. Julia admired people who had nerve. She had to admit she had rather liked Antonia Darcy. Her sort of woman. She’d enjoyed talking to her. Having a gossip about Stella. But perhaps she had told her more than she should have …

  Antonia Darcy was a detective story writer, so she was probably more interested in the intricacies and perversities of human behaviour than in seeing justice done. She might also be keen on verifying whether traps worked in real life …

  Would Antonia Darcy turn out to be one of those public-spirited bores? Julia couldn’t stand public-spirited bores. She herself had no moral scruples. She thought of the couple of occasions on which she had done things that counted as criminal offences – such as forging her brother’s signature on his cheques. James had never got wise to it.

  It had been easy. Child’s play. All Julia had to do was get hold of one of his cheque books, then practise signing James’ name on a sheet of paper. That had been fun. Well, poor old James never so much as glanced at his bank statements and he seemed to trust her implicitly. She would do it again, if she had to! Julia nodded to herself. She needed money. She always needed money, alas.

  Julia had already managed to pinch Stella’s letters and diaries – the grandmother’s letters and diaries – she’d found them tucked away at the bottom of Stella’s suitcase. She intended to try and strike some sort of bargain with Tancred Vane. It might be tricky. Oh well, that could wait.

  Julia’s thoughts turned back to her brother. Antonia Darcy would never be able to prove a thing – unless poor old James got flustered, lost his nerve and gave himself away …

  Must talk to him, warn him. Would it be any good? Was it too late? Why didn’t he answer his mobile phone?

  Where was he?

  ‘It’s the biographer guy and your sister.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They did it. They are the killers. They are in it together.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘At first I thought it was one of the witches. Melisande or Winifred. Everything was pointing first to one, then to the other witch, but soon I started putting two and two together. Suddenly I knew.’

  ‘Knew what?’

  ‘That they were in it together of course, James. Your sister and the biographer guy.’

  Moon blew a giant bubble with her chewing gum. The television set was on, but she had muted it – they were showing Lethal Weapon 4, a film she quite liked, though she had already seen it four times and knew it by heart, so she was not interested.

  ‘I saw the pattern. I deduced that it had been them all along. I didn’t immediately know why they had to kill my mother. I worked that out later on. I am smarter than Mrs Fletcher, I keep telling you. Actually, I’m not at all surprised your sister Julia is the killer.’

  ‘You aren’t serious, are you?’

  ‘I am serious. Julia, dear Julia is peculiar. You don’t know your sister at all well, do you, James? You think you do, but you are wrong. You don’t. You are too busy making money. You know the stock market, but you don’t know your sister.’

  ‘You should go to school. School is better than tutors. I’ll get you into a good school. The very best,’ he went on, though he found it very difficult at the moment to conjure up a picture of a future that made sense, let alone one that was happy.

  ‘I don’t want to go to school. I don’t need to go to school. I know everything I need to know.’

  Morland had missed most of what Moon had told him earlier on. He had been too preoccupied with his own thoughts to pay close attention.

  ‘Julia is the biographer guy’s secret girlfriend,’ she went on. ‘I guess Julia contacted him as soon as Mother started going to that weird place with the weird name. Pizza-at-nine.’

  ‘You mean the Villa Byzantine?’

  She laughed. ‘Mother kept saying how rich the biographer guy was, how educated, how cultured, how delicate, all that shit.’

  ‘Langu
age, Moon,’ he said absently.

  ‘She chattered about him all the time and about his house and how strange and baroque everything was. The biographer guy has a collection of Chinamen and an owl doorstop in his study, can you imagine? All extremely baroque and cultured. Mother showed Julia the pictures she’d taken on her mobile. Of Sacred Crane and his baroque house.’

  ‘His name is Tancred Vane.’

  ‘No, it’s Sacred Crane,’ she said firmly. ‘Julia’s curiosity was, as they say in books, piqued. She said to herself, I must have this man. You look as though you don’t believe me.’ Moon heaved a sigh. ‘You need to trust me more, James.’

  ‘I trust you.’

  ‘You need to trust me more.’

  I shouldn’t have smoked that awful thing, Morland thought. His head was spinning. He was finding it hard to focus. He was feeling a little sick. It didn’t seem to have any effect on her. She said she smoked spliffs quite often. She liked the feeling it gave her. The feeling of power – she felt she could do – anything.

  ‘Now listen very carefully. This is important. Julia decides on a plan of action. She contacts the Sacred guy. She tells him some incredible tale and gets him interested.’

  ‘What incredible tale?’

  ‘How the fuck d’you expect me to know? I wasn’t sitting inside her head taking notes, was I? Something about those diaries and letters. All that shit. Perhaps she said she could make him photocopies of the diaries and give them to him for free.’

  Moon was becoming impatient. She no longer enjoyed making every little detail fit in. She was getting bored. She yawned.

  ‘Sacred got interested all right. Maybe Julia’s voice reminded him of his late mother’s voice? Guys like Sacred are all twisted inside. Most English guys are twisted inside. Sacred agrees to a meeting. They meet and they talk and then – then they become lovers.’

  ‘You are making this up, aren’t you?’

  ‘Julia is strong and domineering. Sacred Crane is weak and perhaps he likes to be whipped, or tied up, so it was a perfect match. Julia then asked him to help her. She told him she wanted Stella Markoff dead – eliminated.’ Moon made a slashing gesture across her throat with her right hand.

  ‘Why should Julia want Stella dead?’

  Morland really didn’t know what to do. Should he tell Moon about Antonia Darcy? About what Antonia Darcy had done? Moon might be very young but she was intelligent, what she called a ‘smart cookie’; she was faster and cleverer than him, so she might – she just might think of a way out. He knew he was clutching at straws.

  ‘Julia knew that once you were married to Mother, she would have to say goodbye to all the money you’ve got in the bank. Julia planned everything. I was going to be the patsy. That’s why she used the sword, to throw suspicion on me – because I am maladjusted and mad about swords and beheadings and blood and stuff. I am the most obvious suspect, see?’

  A lot of silly nonsense, Morland thought, though of course he didn’t dare say so. The next moment he frowned. What was it Moon had said earlier on? Something which had sent an inexplicable shiver down his spine—

  ‘Julia drove Mother to the Villa Byzantine in her car. Sacred was there of course, but it was Julia who killed her. Julia took the sword off the wall and – swoosh.’ Moon yawned. ‘I hate this hotel – I really hate it – couldn’t we go some other place? I liked the Corrida Hotel better. Why don’t we go there any more?’

  Her voice rose plaintively. She sounded like a child now. They were sitting on the double bed. Outside it was a grey afternoon. The rain had stopped. It was very quiet.

  ‘When are we moving into your new house, James? I like the new house. I think it’s the coolest house ever.’

  ‘I am glad you like it.’

  Should he tell her? What a mess he had got himself into. What have I done? Morland thought in sudden panic.

  ‘One thing I must make clear, James. When we get married, I am not taking on your name. No way. Moon Morland sounds the dumbest name ever! What’s the matter with you? I don’t like it when you look sad. Come here,’ she said softly. ‘Come here.’

  At the touch of her hand he shut his eyes. His physical reaction was so sharp, so powerful, so overwhelming, it blotted out all rational thought. Not that there’d been much rational thought in the first place.

  Each time it felt like that very first time—

  Holding her, smelling her, tasting her. He had feared he might faint with the ecstasy of it. He had broken down and wept. Never before had lovemaking been such an uplifting experience – so glorious, so infinitely rewarding!

  He made a sound at the back of his throat, a kind of whimper.

  She drew his head towards hers and kissed him on the lips.

  35

  The Cry of an Owl

  It was the following morning. Antonia had made herself a cup of coffee when the telephone rang.

  ‘Miss Darcy? James Morland speaking.’

  ‘Oh, hello.’

  There it was. She had been right. It hadn’t taken him too long. She looked at the clock: ten minutes past ten.

  ‘Would it be possible for me to have a word with you?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve been expecting you to call,’ Antonia said conversationally. Let him see he was not mistaken. Let him realize that his worst fears had been confirmed. Don’t let there be the slightest doubt in his mind that she knew. ‘Would you like to come to us? You’ve been to our house before, haven’t you?’

  ‘Would your husband be there?’

  ‘Would you rather he weren’t?’

  ‘I suppose he knows?’

  ‘He knows, yes.’

  ‘Do the—?’ Morland broke off. Clearly he was going to ask whether the police knew too, since in the end that was what really mattered. He was probably clinging to the hope that he might be able to strike some kind of a bargain with Antonia. ‘I will be with you in about an hour,’ he said tonelessly.

  Despite herself, Antonia felt sorry for him. She believed that girl had led him on. Still, he was the adult. He should have known better. A fifteen-year-old girl.

  There was such a thing as self-control.

  She hadn’t seen him since the evening of Melisande’s birthday party at Kinderhook and she wondered whether she would have recognized him if she bumped into him in the street. Probably not – not unless he reminded her where they’d met and who he was.

  At the party he had looked florid and festive in his Paisley-patterned tie. He hadn’t said anything remotely interesting, certainly nothing memorable. Blissfully uncomplicated, Hugh had said. Devoid of hidden depths. He was a recognizable type. One saw chaps like James Morland at superior gentlemen’s clubs – dozing at board meetings – taking their time over the wine list at expensive restaurants, usually in the company of a horsey lady – watching a cricket match at Lord’s, Pimm’s in hand, a white panama on their head, their face the colour of ripe tomato.

  He looked different now.

  He had lost weight and his expensive tweed jacket hung loosely on him. A candy-striped silk handkerchief stuck out of his breast pocket. His face was extremely pale and haggard as though with lack of sleep. Gone was the ruddy hue. He didn’t seem to have had a haircut recently. He hadn’t shaved either. In a funny kind of way he looked younger, raffish, somewhat dissolute. His eyes were bright, feverish.

  ‘Would you like some tea or coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Won’t you sit down?’

  He sat on the sofa, making it creak. He was still a heavy man. She glanced at his hands. Big, well-tended hands—

  ‘Why did you pay my bill at the hotel?’ Morland spoke without preamble. He was staring at the floor. Keeping custody of his eyes like a nun, Antonia thought incongruously. ‘What business was it of yours?’ He sounded a little breathless.

  ‘It was none of my business, you are right.’ She remained standing, giving herself, she reflected, an advantage of sorts.

  ‘You had no righ
t to meddle in my affairs. No right at all.’ His voice rose slightly. ‘My private life is my own.’

  Antonia walked slowly away from the sofa and stood beside the window. She hoped he wouldn’t make a scene. Hugh would be down any moment now. Not that she feared Morland would try to assault her. Still, she would feel safer with Hugh in the room.

  ‘I wouldn’t have gone to the Corrida Hotel,’ she said, ‘if it hadn’t been for Stella’s murder.’

  ‘You think – the two are connected? The hotel and the murder?’

  ‘I believe they are … Not the hotel as such—’ Antonia broke off. ‘There has been a second murder.’

  This time he looked at her. ‘What second murder?’

  ‘Winifred Willard was killed yesterday at the Villa Byzantine.’

  ‘Winifred? Melisande’s sister? Are you serious?’

  ‘We saw the body.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ He shook his head. ‘Melisande would have told me about it. She would have telephoned me. You are lying.’

  ‘Melisande has been admitted to hospital. She’s had a nervous breakdown. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘I don’t believe you. You are lying,’ he said again. ‘What gave you the idea I’d stayed at the Corrida Hotel?’

  ‘You dropped a receipt the first time you came here. It was headed “The Corrida Hotel, Earls Court”. You had paid for a room, a bottle of champagne and a can of Red Bull. I thought it an unusual combination. I didn’t think you were the kind of man who would drink champagne with Red Bull. Actually, you didn’t seem to know what Red Bull was when it was mentioned – don’t you remember? At Melisande’s birthday party?’