R Raichev - Murder at the Villa Byzantine

‘The King was a thin, mild-mannered man with a high balding forehead, and, like his younger brother, he sported a well-trimmed dark moustache. He was a decent chap, but scarcely an entertaining one. His two much-publicized passions were for steam trains and Bavarian cream, but he was best known for never telling people what he really thought.

‘The King was dressed in a white general’s uniform and had white gloves on. He was covered in glittering decorations and had a sheathed sabre at his right thigh. Good thing too – otherwise he might have been mistaken for a bank manager taking it easy at some Continental spa!

‘The palace was adorned with flags of all sizes. Brightly coloured tapestries hung from the windows and the balconies. There were flowers everywhere – white freesias, lilies of the valley, parrot tulips, pansies, morning glory and roses. A hussar band played a pot-pourri of Viennese waltzes and polkas. Trays of chilled champagne were carried round by footmen in splendidly frogged silk coats and silver-buckled shoes.

‘The food was scrumptious. I remember something called norde pole – extra-special vanilla ice-cream on a pedestal of clear ice – and an “architectural” cake with ramparts fashioned after the bastions of the palace of Darius! I remember the great glazed slabs jewelled with scarlet cherries glistening on fine porcelain plates…

‘The next day the Sofia papers were to describe the event in the most gushing of terms. “A scene of profuse hospitality and festivity… a most elegant repast… a brilliant display of loveliness, beauty and style”.

‘I believe it was the kind of saccharine prose that was churned out on every grand occasion of the time.’

Smiles of a Summer Day

‘It was a sweltering hot kind of day. The thermometer had climbed to eighty-six degrees! I don’t think anyone was really surprised when Fraulein Guldenhove groaned, clutched at her bosom and pitched forward in a dead faint, like some felled oak. There was a commotion. People rushed towards her. I think someone pushed the pram, causing Clemmie to start crying.

‘It was no ordinary crying, Tancred. You’ve never heard anything like it. The badling was bawling – screaming his tiny head off. The badling was notoriously sensitive – might have been a baby oyster, was how the Austrian military attache put it – I believe he suffered from colic – I mean the badling, not the Austrian military attache. Various flunkeys and ladies-in-waiting tried ineffectually to calm him down, but they only managed to make matters worse.

‘I was standing nearby, sucking iced lemonade through a straw. I saw Clemmie’s face turn the colour of a Seychelles sunset as he was passed round like a parcel from one pair of arms to another. No one seemed to know what to do with him. They put him back into the pram, but then he started making a noise as though he were breathing his last – gasping, gurgling, coughing, spluttering. Really, it was most alarming.

‘The band had been playing the Merry Widow waltz. They hadn’t stopped when Fraulein Guldenhove prostrated herself on the beautifully mown lawn, but now all the musicians leapt to their feet.

‘Victoria had disappeared a couple of minutes previously. She was seen storming out of the garden and stomping towards the lodge where she and Clemmie lived, following some acerbic remark made to her by Giovanna. I can’t say what remark exactly. The Queen always spoke in a low, flat voice, thinned by resentment.

‘Poor Clemmie’s face started turning a German-plum kind of blue. King Boris stood by, glumly contemplating the scene, tugging at his moustache, looking indecisive. (He frequently looked indecisive.) I surprised an expression of pure schadenfreude on Giovanna’s face. Giovanna would have rejoiced if the badling had swallowed his tongue and choked to death!

‘Prince Cyril’s eyes were terribly bloodshot. He flew into a rage and started swearing in German. His moustache bristled. He cut a fearsome figure.

‘It was at that point that I stepped forward. I stood beside the pram and picked Clemmie up. It was something I felt I had to do. What happened next was quite extraordinary. You have heard about horse whisperers, of course? Somebody told me afterwards I must have the same kind of “touch” where babies were concerned!

‘Clemmie stopped crying at once.

‘In a few seconds he was his normal colour once more. A smiling semicircle formed round me. Then the clapping started. Really, it was most embarrassing. I hate fuss. Fraulein Guldenhove was still lying on the ground, moaning, wretched woman, but I fear she remained unheeded. In later years she was to write a colourful account of life at the palace. I believe it became quite a bestseller in Liechtenstein.

‘What did I do next? Well, I took out my handkerchief and wiped Clemmie’s face with it. Clemmie smiled back at me. He then began to coo. He waved his hands in the air and laughed! His fingers brushed my chin.

‘That poor badling.

‘Sorry, Tancred – this always makes me a little emotional – no, I’ll be all right. Let me blow my nose ‘Prince Cyril marched up to me. (He must have been wearing stays because he creaked.) He shook my hand and patted my cheek with a gloved forefinger. He told me I was a gift from a kindly Providence. I had saved his son’s life and words could not express his gratitude. He then said that I should consider myself employed as his son’s nanny. I was to take over from Fraulein Guldenhove without a second’s delay. All boring formalities would be taken care of by his aide-de-camp, so I needn’t worry about anything.

‘He had always known English nannies were the best in the world, English nannies were legendary, it had been madness employing an Austrian one. That, he explained, had been his sister-in-law’s tomfool idea. He should never have listened to Giovanna. “You are fired. No nanny should be so fat anyhow,” he then barked at Fraulein Guldenhove, whom four people had just, with considerable difficulty, managed to pull up to her feet – causing her to collapse on the ground once more!

‘No, Tancred, it never occurred to me to say no… Funny, isn’t it?

‘What did I do? Well, I felt thrilled, but I managed to keep my presence of mind. Don’t forget that I’d been impeccably brought up. I curtsied and I addressed Prince Cyril very correctly as “Your Royal Highness”. I then said I was greatly honoured – but would His Royal Highness mind if I consulted my parents first?’

Tancred Vane had fallen asleep, but at some point during the afternoon he stirred and woke up with a start.

The room was dark and very quiet. The fluorescent hands of the bedside clock said six o’clock. He’d slept for quite a while. What was it that had awakened him? He lay still and listened. He heard furtive noises, the squeak of a pressed floorboard, dragging footsteps, a scraping sound, as though a stealthy hand had removed the metal owl doorstop from Pupil Room – but he knew it was all his imagination.

Something was nagging away at the back of his mind. He had a vague sense of… danger.

He had had a dream. He had seen Stella again. Stella was anxious to impart some information to him urgently – to warn him – time, for some reason, seemed to be very short. She kept pointing to her mouth and he saw that her lips had been sewn up crudely with black wire. She only managed to emit a series of inarticulate mumbling sounds. Realization then dawned on him. Stella had been silenced. Stella had been killed because she knew someone’s guilty secret.

I am imagining things, Tancred Vane thought. It’s just a silly dream. My nerves are in a bad state. I need to start taking exercise.

Stella Markoff had been extremely curious about Miss Hope. She had asked him questions. How old was Miss Hope? Had he known Miss Hope long? Where did Miss Hope live? What exactly was Miss Hope’s connection with the Bulgarian royal family? He had had the distinct impression that Stella had met Miss Hope on some previous occasion – or imagined she’d met her – that she had recognized her.