Murder At The Villa Byzantine Part 8

He harrumphed. 'I'm not as bad as I was.'

'I think this whole thing was nothing but a ghastly mistake from start to finish. The sooner you realize that, the better. It is my firm belief that once Stella has been buried, and her daughter goes back to Bulgaria or America or wherever, you will start seeing things in a totally different light.'

'I'm not sure I will.'

'You're still in a state of shock, darling. I don't imagine you've been thinking rationally. You really have been your own worst enemy, you know.'

'What the h.e.l.l do you mean?'

'The impulse to destroy oneself is among the most ancient human impulses. It is the crux of most of Shakespeare's greatest tragedies. The moment of madness when a great man makes a single decision that sets his downfall irreversibly in train. Macbeth allowing the witches to plant ideas in his mind. Lear preferring his wicked daughters to his good, loving one.'

'I don't think I understand-'

'Clearly insane decisions,' she said firmly. 'It is almost as though some bacillus has infected your entire physiology and unbalanced your judgement!'

'What bacillus? What are you talking about?'

She took another gulp of brandy. I am going to drink myself into scintillations of self-pity, she thought.

'Remember Malvolio suckered into wearing yellow cross-garters as a supposed aphrodisiac to his employer, Olivia?'

Looking at his blank face, it occurred to her that she might not be adopting the right approach. James wasn't the least bit artistic or intellectual. Theatrical allusions weren't exactly his thing. Witty parallels between life and high literature were all but lost on him.

Rising from the sofa, she went up to him and perched on the arm of his chair. 'I feel for you, James. If you only knew how much I feel for you. My heart bleeds for you, darling. You can kiss me, if you like.'

'I'd rather I didn't sorry, Melisande. I don't feel terribly well-'

He'd rather he didn't. She was dismayed. He was off her. He'd always called her Meli, never Melisande. This was the end. He no longer found her attractive. He no longer desired her. He was off her!

She told herself to persist. 'I admire you for wanting to do the right thing, darling, I really do. You have such a munificent heart. I am sure everything will be all right in the end. You will see Stella's body transported back to Bulgaria in one of those hermetically sealed coffins, give the daughter a couple of bucks and make sure she is safely ensconced on the plane. After that you will be a free man! The paralysing effect this whole dreadful business has had on your faculties will wear off soon enough and you will start seeing things as they really are.'

'Moon doesn't want to go back to Bulgaria.'

'Well, she'll have to go! She has no other option!' Anger surged through Melisande like blood bubbling up through a sharp cut in skin. 'You'd better impress it on her. You mustn't allow that little b.i.t.c.h to twist you round her little finger, James, you really mustn't! She's taking advantage of your good nature, don't you see? The brazen gall of it!'

'She is very young,' he said again.

'I am sorry, James, but I have very little patience where that girl is concerned. I find her tiresome beyond endurance. She was outside the house this morning.'

'Moon was outside your house? Are you sure it was her?'

'Of course it was her! She was wearing that disgusting shinel.'

'What was she doing?'

'Standing and staring, James. Standing and staring. Indulging her penchant for meddlesome intrusion. Spying writing things down, in what looked like a notebook trying to intimidate us! She's got a screw loose, that much is clear. We nearly called the police. Poor Win said it gave her the heebie-jeebies, looking at that girl, though I believe it was me Moon was after. She hates me.'

'She must have been playing at detectives. She-'

'She is a b.i.t.c.h, James. A manipulative b.i.t.c.h. She is twisting you round her little finger.' Melisande smoothed her peignoir with her hand. 'I am sorry, darling, but sometimes it is best to be brutally honest. Do you know what? I pray for you incessantly. You can move in here, if you like,' she added casually, giving his earlobe a playful tweak. 'How about it?'

'Don't do that, please.' The way he drew back, she might have announced a leprous condition. 'Thank you, but I'm afraid that that will be quite impossible.'

'Impossible? I suppose you need more time to recover?'

'I think so. Yes. I need more time and s.p.a.ce. My own s.p.a.ce.'

Melisande rose slowly to her feet. Her expression didn't change, but the turmoil inside her frightened her. It was only with great difficulty that she resisted the temptation to claw his face or strangle him with his black tie. Examining her long red fingernails, she asked him if he wanted another cup of tea.

'No, thank you.'

She sighed. 'We seem to have been overtaken by events,' she said obscurely. 'How is the investigation progressing? They haven't yet caught the killer, have they?'

'Not as far as I know. There has been nothing in the papers or on TV. I have no idea what is going on.'

'So they still don't know who did it. You don't think it's the girl?'

'What girl?'

'The daughter, James. Stella's girl. The offensive offspring. Moon. Didn't you say the police found her hankie not far from her mother's body and that it was dripping blood?'

'The police thought it was her handkerchief, but they were wrong. It has the initials MM on it, but it is not her handkerchief. She's not the only one with the initials MM. It could be anybody's handkerchief.'

'Indeed it could be.' An icy calm descended upon Melisande. 'It could be my friend Lady Mariota Madrigal's only she happens to be in Acapulco at the moment. It could also be Marcel Marceau's, the French mime artist. Or is he dead? The handkerchief could also be yours, you know.'

'I am not in the mood for jokes.'

'Your second name is Morgan. You told me your parents used to call you Morgan when you were a boy and how much you hated it.' She laughed. 'Morgan Morland sounds a bit silly, I agree, but it matches those initials perfectly.'

'It's a woman's handkerchief.'

'Well, darling, some men get a kick out of carrying feminine articles about their person. Lipsticks and powder compacts and bottles of nail varnish. Some men wear their girlfriends' silk stockings wrapped tightly about their bodies. It's called fetish, James. One meets more fetishists than farmers, according to statistics, socially, I mean, though of course, one doesn't realize it it isn't something one sees written on their foreheads. Soft materials can be a particular turn-on-'

'I am not in the mood for jokes,' Morland said again.

'I am absolutely, utterly, profoundly serious. What if I told you it was my handkerchief?'

'It isn't your handkerchief.'

'My unwed and unweddable sister gave me such a peculiar look when I announced Stella's death to her. Win didn't seem to believe that it was you who'd phoned me and told me about it. I have an idea she's been avoiding me.'

'Why should she want to do that?' Morland spoke absently. He looked at his watch.

'I believe she is afraid of me. Perhaps she's got it into her head it was I who killed Stella? Perhaps she thinks I am MM? My middle name, after all, is Mariah. Melisande Mariah.'

'Your middle name is not Mariah. You have no middle name.'

'You are right, I haven't. But I have a good motive for Stella's murder. Stella stole you away from me. I have been consumed by jealousy devoured tormented crazed! My pride has been severely wounded. Perhaps I decided to get rid of her, so that I could have you back? Perhaps, unlike the cat in the adage, I didn't let I dare not wait upon I would?'

'What cat?'

Really, Melisande thought, he is rather stupid. He will never belong to the aristocracy of the mind, as Proust or somebody put it. And he is so fat and so pink. Heaven knows why I am so terribly keen on binding his faithless heart to mine. Of wanting to unite my destiny with his. This is quite the wrong kind of obsession.

'Do you think I killed Stella, James?'

'Of course I don't. I need to go now.' He stood up. 'Thanks for the tea.'

'Don't mention it. The eager way you gulped it down, it might have been the elixir of life. Goodness, you do exude clerical severity. Must you wear black? That rather tedious police inspector wanted to know where I was on the fatal day and I said I was at home, but I wasn't. Has it never occurred to you that good murderers are often good actors? Both species have a lot in common, haven't you noticed?'

James started walking towards the door.

'Vain, determined, egocentric and they possess an enviable amount of sangfroid. Both species can bluff their way through the trickiest of situations. How many times have I forgotten my lines on stage and had to improvise and no one the wiser?'

Three Sisters?

'You would never believe this, my love,' Major Payne said, handing Antonia a gin and tonic, 'but while you've been away, I got myself embroiled in murder.'

'I have had enough of murder to last me at least a month, thank you very much. I am not starting on a new book till after Christmas.'

'I am serious.'

'So am I. No murder till after Christmas.'

'A murder took place on Tuesday. At the Villa Byzantine.'

'One thing is certain. In America they take murder mysteries much more seriously than they do here. Even if they call them "cozies". I wish they didn't. I believe the intention of whoever coined the phrase was to domesticate the genre, but what he, or she, succeeded in doing was to trivialize it. I strongly suspect it was a she.'

'Remember Morland? The chap we met at Kinderhook. He's asked me for a.s.sistance-'

'n.o.body mixes a gin and tonic quite like you.' Antonia gave him a searching glance. 'You look thinner. You haven't been eating properly, have you? Omelettes, I suppose? Did your aunt have you over for dinner? She promised she would look after you.'

'It was Stella Markoff who was murdered. Didn't you see any English papers?'

'No, thank G.o.d.'

Payne sat down in the chair opposite Antonia. 'Stella was beheaded at the Villa Byzantine.'

'Was she? By a republican, no doubt. Or perhaps it was someone who resented being bored by lectures on the future of the Bulgarian monarchy?'

'The Villa Byzantine is in St John's Wood. It is an architectural oddity. Faux oriental,' Payne persisted. 'My aunt actually went and took a peek at it. She thought it perfectly gruesome singularly suited to a beheading.'

'This is all terribly amusing, but I am not in the mood, Hugh.'

'My aunt may prove to be a valuable spy. She's quite thrilled at the prospect of doing a Mata Hari-' Payne broke off. 'Do I have the fatal knack of making everything I say sound a little preposterous?'

'You do, rather. I must admit it's part of your charm, but at the moment I happen to be tired, oh so tired. I believe I have jetlag. I can never sleep on planes. I watched a wonderful film. The Illusionist. I should have seen the twist at the end coming, only I didn't.'

'The Villa Byzantine belongs to a Tancred Vane who is a royal biographer. Stella showed us photos of both at Melisande's party. Remember?'

'Melisande's agent insisted I should go on stage. Do you think I should? He said I had something.'

'At the moment Tancred Vane is engaged on a biography of Prince Cyril. Actually, this has nothing to do with the murder.'

'There was a Prince Leopold in the film,' Antonia said dreamily. 'He was something of a s.a.d.i.s.t where his ladies were concerned ... I see that you have been living it up in my absence.' She had picked up a slip of paper from the little table beside her chair. 'You stayed at the Corrida Hotel in Earls Court and drank a bottle of champagne and a can of Red Bull!'

'What's that?'

'How appropriate drinking Red Bull at the Corrida Hotel!' Antonia laughed. 'Though not with champagne. No gentleman of taste and discernment would do that sort of thing. Un peu plebeian, as you'd be the first to point out. It's a bill, Hugh. A hotel bill.'

'It's not my bill.' Payne sounded annoyed. 'No idea how it got there.'

'Are you sure you are not playing some exceedingly silly game with me?'

'I am not playing a game.'

'I refuse to believe that. It is a fact universally acknowledged that an Englishman of good breeding always plays the game whenever it offers. It is a national trait such as the rest of the world admires ... And now I must go to bed.' Antonia yawned. 'Sleep, I need sleep.' She rubbed her temples.

There was a pause.

'Why are you sitting so still? And why are you looking at me so pitifully? Stella Markoff wasn't really beheaded at the Villa Byzantine, was she?'

'She was. And I've got the newspaper cuttings to prove it.' Payne spoke in a weary voice. 'I've been putting them aside for you.'

Antonia gazed at him with slightly unfocused eyes. She tried to collect her thoughts. No, Hugh wasn't playing a game. He was not making things up. While she had been away, he had got involved in murder. Stella Markoff, the rather boring Bulgarian woman they had met at Kinderhook, had been beheaded ... Antonia remembered the curious apprehension she had felt at Melisande's party. Had she sensed something? A premonition ... Perhaps she was still on the plane, perhaps at long last she had fallen asleep and was dreaming?

She said, 'The police have no idea who the killer is?'

'At the moment Stella's daughter is their prime suspect.'

'The bloodthirsty girl?'

'The bloodthirsty girl.'

'Hasn't she got an alibi for the time of the murder?'

'No. She was arrested, but then the police released her. They don't seem to have enough evidence. I b.u.mped into Melisande this morning and she called it an absolute outrage that the girl hadn't been clapped in the cooler yet. Melisande is convinced Moon is the killer.'

'That strikes me as the most logical a.s.sumption,' said Antonia. 'Moon couldn't stand her mother. She made no attempt to conceal the fact. And didn't she go on about blood and beheadings?'

'She did. Yes. Well, maybe that's all there is to it. Asordid case of domestic violence, which has been unduly glorified by its neo-Byzantine setting.' Payne drew a thoughtful forefinger across his jaw. 'I am ashamed to admit it, but deep down, I harbour the rather illogical suspicion that the elusive Miss Hope has something to do with Stella's death.'

'Who is Miss Hope?'

'An owl-faced woman Vane was expecting on the day of the murder but who didn't turn up. Vane seemed to think that Stella and Miss Hope knew one another.'

'An owl-faced woman ... Are you absolutely sure you are not making this whole thing up? I'll be very cross if you are,' Antonia warned. She sighed. 'You might as well tell me the whole story. You are clearly dying to.'

Some ten minutes later Antonia said, 'How utterly bizarre ... You are right about the odd features ... The scene of the crime in itself is rather unusual. Why at the Villa Byzantine? And why with a sword? Perhaps it was Tancred Vane who lured her to her death, wouldn't you say? He phones her and asks her to pay him a visit-'