Murder At The Villa Byzantine Part 4

'I can. Why not? Isn't that what being an actress is all about?'

'I would have thought such cliches were beneath you, darling.'

Pale sea-water eyes seductively asymmetrical a carefully made-up, predatory kind of face a flat sheep's nose black velvet dress, cut low at the neck long sleeves a single row of black pearls aiming at an intriguing triste effect. At one time, Winifred reflected, men had been mad about her sister.

'D'you remember my Joan of Arc?' Melisande asked.

Winifred said she did, vividly. 'You were twenty-one. You were terribly good. Was that Anouilh?'

'One critic wrote he had feared for the safety of my fellow actors! His exact words were that he'd been surprised heads hadn't rolled on the stage!' Melisande gave a reminiscent laugh. 'Ah, that sword! It was a real sword of course.'

'You declared you couldn't get into the part if you were to hold a papier-mache one.'

'I took fencing lessons. Did some special exercises to strengthen my wrists. They provided me with my own personal trainer. Such a charming boy so agile. Ah, how they indulged me! D'you remember the party they gave after the play? A thousand white cymbidium orchids flown in from New Zealand and suspended from willow branches on sterling silver thread! Then then I appeared in that modernist medieval morality play, which I couldn't understand at all, but the critics unanimously agreed I was brilliant in.'

'Oh dear, yes. What a curious amalgam of antique metaphysics, harsh Calvinism and contemporary absurdism that play was ... What was it called? They invariably sink without trace, plays like that ...'

'But don't you see? If I did accept Arcati, there would be no going back I'd have reached the point of no return don't you see?'

'See what exactly?'

'The die, darling. The die would be cast.' Melisande shut her eyes. 'I'd be entering the dreadful dimension of typecasting. No-nonsense nannies Valium divas. Character parts, darling! Dipso dolly divorcees on the verge of a nervous breakdown.'

'The dipsomaniac divorcee is a particularly Anglo-Saxon phenomenon,' Winifred said thoughtfully. 'In French films, I have noticed, women excel in a kind of existential hysteria without need for a whiff of alcohol-'

'All right, there are some good dramatic parts, perhaps, for, to employ your pet phrase, women of a certain age. I wouldn't mind playing Mrs Stone in her Roman spring ... Blanche Dubois don't tell me I am too old to play Blanche! No, not Bernarda Alba I have pledged never to play matriarchs ... I wouldn't mind Florence Lancaster either, or Livia in Women Beware Women.'

'How about morose Mrs Alving?'

'I am not sure ... I have a soft spot for Ibsen, true ... But it would mean patting the cheek of some sallow, sweaty, syphilitic Oswald night after night after night ... A most definite no to Miss Havisham and Aunt Betsey Trotwood, or to any other d.i.c.kens woman, for that matter. Most d.i.c.kens women are such bores.'

'Lady Dedlock and Rosa Dartle are not bores.'

'I haven't really done much comedy, have I?'

'You did Miss Prism last year.'

'Miss Prism was an exception. I did it as a special favour to Neville. I wouldn't have done it for anyone else.' Melisande lowered her eyes. 'I believe I was a little in love with Neville. I wore pince-nez! How ridiculous people in pince-nez always look!'

'You made Miss Prism recite a limerick, which is not in Wilde. "The Young Lady of Clare".'

'That wasn't too awful, was it?'

'No, not at all. It struck the right note. It was hilarious. You brought the house down. Your comic timing was perfect.'

They were sitting at a corner table at the Savoy Grill. The service, as could have been expected, was impeccable, the food delicious, if a little too rich for Winifred's taste. She regretted having plumped for roast Anjou pigeon with sauteed Jerusalem artichoke and pommes Anna after the pan-fried foie gras. She should have had the veal cutlet with root vegetables. Melisande had insisted that they have dinner together. Melisande had hinted she might have important news to impart ...

'Actually, Win, I would love to play you one day.'

'Me?'

'Yes. One of those ladylike, rather repressed Rattiganesque Englishwomen, pa.s.sionless in a cloche hat.' Melisande sketched an amorphous shape above her head. 'The kind of woman who haunts the Riviera in the low season, having taken advantage of reduced rates, not minding the discomforts of her small pension, her excessively composed manner hinting at latent hysteria. One sees her reading a novel after dinner, or merely immersed in maiden meditation having ordered a small pot of black coffee in perfect French.'

'Is that how you see me? How very amusing.'

'No, not pa.s.sionless. Seething with suppressed emotions behind her fastidious and aloof exterior disguising her true feelings from everyone, even from herself. I'd insist on a scene where she takes off her hat and brooch and disrobes herself to reveal some really outre underwear.'

'Why outre?'

'That would convey the idea that she has a startling fantasy life,' Melisande explained. 'Do you remember how Papa Willard used to say that you would make a good actress? He refused to even consider the possibility of me becoming one.'

'On that count Papa Willard was wrong.'

'As it happens, Papa Willard was wrong on most counts.'

They had always called their late father Papa Willard.

Melisande peered at her. 'You look a bit wan, Win. Grey and withered. What's the matter? Or is it the light?'

'Must be the light. I am fine, really. A little tired, perhaps.'

'What have you been doing to tire yourself? I know you've been up to something.' Melisande spoke in teasing tones. 'I never know what you do or what you think. You look as prim as a prawn, but I am far from convinced that's the real you. I haven't the faintest idea what goes on in your head. No one would think we shared a house!'

'It's a large house,' Winifred said lightly. 'We have our separate quarters.'

'I have been feeling trop troublante,' Melisande said after a pause. 'The truth is that I have been occupying an emotional cul-de-sac. I have been conforming to a pattern of existence only the most desperate human being would have chosen for themselves. You see, I haven't recovered yet. The perfidy of my cavalier servante still haunts me.'

Winifred's face remained blank. When it came to putting on a display of histrionics, her sister had no equal. 'You mean James, don't you?'

Melisande covered her eyes with her hand, as though to protect them from the glare of a merciless sun. 'I still can't believe he left me for that woman. Isn't it incredible that I should have been deposed by a bulky-bottomed Balkanite? Isn't it grotesque? Well, perhaps now he'll reconsider. Perhaps now he'll come to his senses.'

'What do you mean now?'

'I know that I hated James and I wished him dead and I wanted to cut his Savile Row suits and ties into strips and raid his cellar and smash all his bottles of vintage port and pour paint all over his Porsche but that was because I loved him so much.'

'You said that James' conduct, by any standards of civilized behaviour, was despicable.'

'I am sure you think me inconsistent and irrational, but I am quite prepared to give him another chance. I believe it is not too late for me and him to find mutual flowering in each other.'

'You swore you'd never give him another chance.'

'It is a woman's prerogative to change her mind. There will be some conditions of course. He will have to apologize. He will have to show genuine remorse. He will have to give me his word of honour that nothing like that would ever happen again.'

'You said you didn't want to see him for as long as you and he occupied this world. You said he deserved to be buried alive.'

'Oh dear. Such colourful denunciations! Such pyrotechnics of verbal dexterity! I believe I was in a Medea mood. I remember alternating between rage and despair. When one is upset, darling, one says all sorts of things one doesn't really mean. Try not to look so disapproving. The poor waiters will think there's something wrong with your Anjou pigeon. They are so horribly sensitive here.'

'It would be a mistake to have James back.'

'You talk like this, because you were always a little in love with James yourself you think I don't know? No, it isn't nonsense. Whether we like it or not, Win, we are both at an age when our cells and tissues start to impart unwelcome information, when the tick-tock of our body clocks becomes as loud and insistent as a church bell-'

'I don't think it would work. I really don't.'

'I wish I had your uncompromising spirit. Unfortunately, I haven't.' Melisande dropped her starched napkin on the table. 'Furthermore, I am not ashamed to admit my weakness. James and I had something very special. Still have these things don't change overnight.'

'But he is engaged to be married I thought that was as good as settled. You said he told you they'd be leaving for Bulgaria early next month. They've bought the plane tickets, rings and practically everything, haven't they? Stella's moved in with him. Stella wants to be married in an Orthodox monastery, so they even contacted a priest-'

'Oh, how I wish I didn't tell you everything!' Melisande cried. 'Why am I such a fool? You even use the priest against me!'

'Don't be absurd.'

'You've never wanted me to be happy. Never! Not even when we were children. Remember Blue-Eyes and the Turkey? Remember Miss Rossiter and the Gla.s.s-Eaters?'

'I remember Miss Rossiter and the Gla.s.s-Eaters. I don't think that was my fault.'

Melisande took a deep breath. 'As a matter of fact, darling, there has been a development. The status quo has changed. You are, as they say, a bit behind with your facts.'

'What facts?'

'By the most incredible quirk of fate, James' fetters have been removed and he is now what is known as a "free man". He is in a state of shock, of course, though that will pa.s.s soon enough.'

'Why is James in a state of shock?'

'There is something you don't know. Stella is dead.'

'What?'

'She died today. It was a ghastly kind of death, apparently. I mean ghastly. A veritable Grand Guignol. But do let's try to be positive and rational about it.' Melisande tugged at her pearl choker. 'Don't you see? This seems to me a blessing of an extremely obvious kind. These are Miss Prism's words, not mine. I am going to have a creme de menthe now. Sorry. I suppose you will say I am flippant and heartless?'

'How did you know Stella was dead?' Winifred asked quietly. 'How did she die?'

Lethal Weapon.

'She was beheaded?'

Major Payne felt his skin crawl a vibration a pale terror like the mist on an old-fas.h.i.+oned photographic plate.

'Yes. I still can't believe it. It's incredible. It's an abomination. An outrage. It makes no sense.' Morland shook his head. 'What kind of person would want to do a thing like that?'

'What indeed ... Let me get you another drink ... You poor chap ... Would you like something to eat? Sorry, I should have suggested it sooner. I'm not much good without Antonia, I'm afraid, but I could rustle up something an omelette, perhaps?'

'No. Nothing to eat. Thanks awfully, Payne, but I couldn't touch a thing. I'd be sick if I did.'

'Do go on, if you don't mind ... She was lying on the drawing-room floor at the Villa Byzantine? It was Tancred Vane who found her?'

'Correct. She'd been to the Villa Byzantine twice before, you see. I know she rather liked it, but it's a d.a.m.ned peculiar place-'

Villa Byzantine. Without the definite article, Major Payne reflected, it could be the name of a nightclub singer, a racehorse or a secret wartime operation. It was the kind of name that conjured up the intrigue and mystery of oriental adventures.

'I thought it looked like a miniature Albert Hall,' he said, remembering the photo on Stella's mobile phone. 'Is the interior awfully sumptuous?'

'A Carrollian staircase. Lots of curios and draperies and antiques on every possible surface. Curved daggers and gla.s.s cases full of giant b.u.t.terflies on the walls. Silver and crystal. A harmonium, if you please ... Stella her body was in the drawing room on the floor between the french windows and the fireplace. Her head-'

'Yes?' Shouldn't be ghoulish, Payne chided himself.

'Her head was on the floor near the window it had almost rolled out of the window.'

'The french windows were open?'

'Yes ... Such a bloodbath it must have pumped out with great force from the neck. The rug in front of the fireplace was soaked with blood. There was some on the curtains too, I think, unless that was the pattern-' Morland broke off. 'Oh G.o.d it was terrible terrible!'

Payne wondered what he knew about beheadings. The Queen of Hearts in Alice Salome kissing the head of John the Baptist Islamic terrorists Charles I the Lord High Executioner in The Mikado Polanski's Macbeth Marie Antoinette. Wasn't there a detective novel by Ngaio Marsh called Off With His Head? About a beheading during some kind of rural dance? He seemed to remember a mildly comic German folklorist character called Mrs Bunz. Actually, Ngaio Marsh's victims often came to gruesome ends ...

Major Payne hated violent crime stories. Antonia's never were. He had never been able to understand the great following bloodthirsty authors enjoyed. Patricia Cornwell Mo Hayder Val McDermid all women, as it happened but, he believed, it was the creepy Thomas Harris and his cannibal chronicles that had started the trend ...

'No signs of struggle, the inspector said. Nothing broken. None of Tancred Vane's objets seemed to be missing either,' Morland was saying. 'They asked him to check.'

Royal biographers, Payne reflected, tended to be a rum lot. And hadn't Tancred Vane wanted to buy Stella's precious letters and diaries for fifty pounds? Moon had referred to Tancred Vane as 'weird' and a 'crook' ...

The obvious suspect of course was Moon. Moon had said that she liked beheadings. Moon had displayed an unhealthy obsession with blood. Moon had also boasted that if she were to commit a crime, she would never be caught ...

'What was the murder weapon exactly?' Payne asked. 'Sword of some kind?'

'A samurai sword. Twelfth-century, I think. It was lying on the floor by the body. It had been hanging on the wall beside the fireplace. One of Vane's most treasured possessions, apparently. A single chrysanthemum in a vase on a table had also been decapitated as well as one of the curtain ta.s.sels.'

'Really? How curious ... One possible explanation is that the killer decided to test the sword's sharpness before delivering the lethal blow,' Payne mused aloud.

Had the killer played with the sword perhaps? Swoosh-swoosh. Again, the kind of thing a maladjusted demi-adult would do.

'What's Tancred Vane like?'

Morland frowned. 'Youngish ... mid-thirties, I imagine. I found him perfectly civil, though he was in a bad state. Shaking like a leaf ... Extremely spruce ... Wore a bow-tie ... Described himself as a "scattergun collector, but one of the utmost discrimination". Chinamen are his pa.s.sion.'

'Chinamen?'

'Porcelain figurines. He collects them. Has a cabinet full of them in his library. All an inch high. Smooth, luminous, smiling something inhuman and sinister about them. I found myself puzzling whether the ferocious pleasure in their expressions was really the oriental artist's idea of unqualified good humour, or whether the Chinese were not, after all, rather a cruel breed.'

Payne wondered whether what he had just heard revealed something about Tancred Vane or about Morland. Morland, judging by this latest observation, wasn't such an uncomplicated chap after all ... Ferocious pleasures, eh?

'Vane produced some brandy. Good high-quality stuff. I needed it,' Morland went on. 'We sat in the library. He was white as a sheet. Kept tugging at his bow-tie. A bit hysterical. Insisted on showing me the owl he'd bought that morning.'

'A real live owl?'

'No, no, not a live one. A Victorian doorstop fas.h.i.+oned like an owl wrought iron he'd got it at some antique shop, he said. Rather a comic face. He said it reminded him of Miss Hope, that's why he bought it. He kept saying mad things like that. He said he was terribly worried about Miss Hope. He kept looking at the clock. He said he expected Miss Hope to turn up at any moment.'