R Raichev - Murder at the Villa Byzantine

She looked like Baba Yaga. When I was a little girl I feared being spirited away and devoured by Baba Yaga more than anything in the world.

I knew who she was at once, the moment our eyes met. Did she imagine I wouldn’t recognize her?

I am sitting in James’ car, James’ old Harris tweed jacket lies on the seat beside me, everything seems familiar and reassuring, but this is no ordinary journey, oh no.

Once more I am on my way to the Villa Byzantine, but it is not to see Mr Vane. Mr Vane will not be there. But for Mr Vane’s Chinamen and other precious objects, the Villa Byzantine will be empty.

As I remind myself that I am about to commit a crime, I clutch at my knees to prevent my hands from shaking.

A crime, yes. I can’t quite believe it. I, Stella Markoff, am about to commit a crime.

I glance at my watch. Each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. I can hardly breathe. How dark the sky is. There is going to be a storm.

Never for a moment does the Great Fear leave my side. Darkness at noon. That is a bad omen. I am extremely nervous. I have a headache. No, I can’t change my mind. It is too late to go back.

But what if Mr Vane has decided to stay at home? Well, I would tell him that I had made a mistake, that I’d come on the wrong day. I intend to ring the front door bell three times, four times – no, till my finger starts hurting! Only then shall I start unlocking the front door.

My headache is rooted behind my eyeballs and seems to cast a spell on every nerve of eye and ear. Perhaps something is there, some terrible growth, some entity, delighting in torturing me, feeding off me, sucking in my vital energies, causing me to make wrong decisions, unsettling my sanity? I don’t want to go for a scan. I dread what they might discover.

But what if Mr Vane suddenly comes back and catches me red-handed? Mr Vane may call the police, then I’ll be put in handcuffs and all the English newspapers will write about me. Villainy at the Villa. English people like to make jokes like that. English people are very childish. I will be ruined, destroyed. I won’t be able to survive the shame.

It is now as dark as the darkest night. This is all wrong. I feel ill. My head throbs. Each breath becomes pain. A meteorite pounds into my heart. There is a clap of thunder, then another.

I am doing all this for my daughter. This is a mother’s sacrifice.

I want my daughter to love me.

The car moves along the drive, slowly, slowly, under the tunnel of trees. As we come out of the tunnel, I see curtains of rain, deep purple, almost black, pierced by gold shafts of sunlight.

I have no idea why I pick up James’ jacket and bury my face in it. I am silly and sentimental. I feel insecure. All my life I have craved reassurance. I shut my eyes and I breathe in the now familiar smell of James – expensive cigars, Polo aftershave, the special mints he claims he can get only at Harrods – James calls it the ‘Good Life’ What is this? Something in the pocket. I open my eyes. Papers – letters? Yes, a bundle of letters.

I hold the letters in my hand. No envelopes. The same handwriting on all of them. I tell myself I mustn’t read the letters, James may not like it, but then I recognize the handwriting…

Suddenly I feel hot. I start shivering.

I gasp The car is stopping. We have arrived. We are outside the Villa Byzantine. My eyes are blurred with tears, but I can’t tear them away from the letters. I feel as though I have run till my lungs have burst.

No, this can’t be true – it is absurd – monstrous – a cruel joke!

I look up and see my reflection in the car mirror. My face is pale and disfigured by shock. It does not look pretty. It does not look like my face at all.

I scream – but no sound comes out of my throat.

The Worst Crime in the World

It was seven o’clock on a mild evening in mid-September. There had been a storm in the morning but all was quiet now. The air felt fresh.

‘So they think she bumped off her mama-’

Major Payne broke off. Mustn’t be flippant, he reminded himself. The trouble was he tended to view life, even when at its most appallingly tragic, as comedy. Made him appear inconsiderate, insensitive and damned superficial – which he was not. Antonia thought it was a defensive reaction of sorts.

He pressed another scotch on James Morland.

‘Thank you, Payne. I didn’t mean to drink, but this is a terrible business. Yes, that’s what the police think. I’m afraid they regard Moon as their number one suspect. Complete nonsense of course. Um. It helps me, being able to talk about it. Most decent of you to listen to me.’

‘Don’t mention it, my dear fellow.’

‘I hardly know you, Payne, but I felt you’d be the right person to come to.’

Major Payne found himself wondering why he hadn’t called Morland ‘old boy’ but ‘my dear fellow’. He tended to employ the latter address with men he didn’t quite take to. Morland had a haunted air about him and, unless it was Payne’s imagination, a somewhat guilty look. Morland gave the distinct impression he was holding something back…

‘She has been “helping them with their inquiries” – that was how they put it – that’s how they always put it, don’t they?’

‘How old is she? Fifteen? Sixteen?’

Payne remained standing by the 1930s cocktail cabinet, which had been a present from his aunt. Lady Grylls had at long last managed to sell her country estate and move to a house in St John’s Wood, which had always been her dream. Chalfont Park was now a conference venue, managed by some super-rich industrialists who, Lady Grylls insisted, were in fact members of the ‘Russian mafia’.

‘Sixteen and a half, nearly seventeen.’

‘Did you say you bailed her out?’

‘Yes. Money’s not a problem. I know she’s a difficult girl, but I feel responsible for her, Payne… In a loco parentis kind of way… Stella and I were about to get married… I’d have been Moon’s stepfather.’ Morland spoke haltingly. ‘Melisande has no idea I’m here

… I don’t want her to know… She took it rather badly, you know – our breakup… My fault… Couldn’t be helped… One of those things.’

‘Yes, quite.’

‘Look here, Payne, I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention to Melisande that I’d been here. I mean, if you bumped into her or something.’

‘My lips are sealed.’

‘I’m sure they – the police – will realize they’re on the wrong track soon enough and start looking for the real killer… Though when is soon enough?’

Payne gave another sympathetic nod. Morland seemed to have got himself into a pretty mess. It was the kind of complicated emotional drama one wouldn’t have associated with him. By no stretch of the imagination could Morland be said to represent high romance, but there it was, no accounting for taste. When they had first met him, Morland – middle-aged, widowed, with grown-up children – had been about to marry Melisande Chevret. Melisande had introduced him to the gathering as her fiance. Morland had then become secretly engaged to the Bulgarian matron, Stella Markoff, with whom he appeared to have been having an affair for some time. And now Stella Markoff was dead – mysteriously murdered!

Morland sat slumped in his armchair, looking dejected. ‘I wonder what Moon’s doing now. She didn’t like it when Julia told her she had no Sky. That’s my sister,’ he explained.

‘You left her with your sister?’

‘Yes. In my sister’s flat in Kensington. She wanted to come with me here, actually. Moon likes you. She said you were “cool”. She said you say funny things. She likes that. She wants to know about the murders you and your wife have investigated.’