R Raichev - Murder at the Villa Byzantine

‘Isn’t she upset?’

‘Of course she’s upset. Terribly upset. Distraught. She’s not as tough as she appears. It’s suddenly hit her she’ll never see her mother again. She’s frightened. She knows it’s serious. She’s no fool. My solicitor’s doing his best, though he advises caution… I don’t think he took to Moon… Not many people do… Stella… My God, I can’t believe Stella is gone!’

‘When was the last time you saw Stella?’

‘This morning. We made plans for tonight. I had tickets for Covent Garden. Stella loves opera – loved… She was delighted, awfully excited, really looking forward to it… I’ve still got them somewhere

… I mean the tickets.’ Morland took out a fistful of papers from an inside pocket, but his hand shook and some of them scattered on the floor. Puffing, he picked them up. ‘Here they are.’ He waved the tickets in the air.

‘What were you going to see?’

(Why did Morland think it necessary to show him the tickets?)

‘Battered Bride. No, Moon wasn’t coming with us. There were going to be only the two of us. Covent Garden, yes. I mean Bartered Bride – sorry.’ Morland gave an awkward laugh. ‘Moon hates opera.’

‘Did she hate her mother too?’

‘I wouldn’t say “hate”, that’s too strong a word, but they didn’t get on too well. Moon is keen on doing her own thing. She’s wilful, headstrong… She wants to go back to America. I don’t know what to do, Payne… I really don’t…’

Battered bride, eh? A Freudian slip? Had Stella been battered to death then? The manner of her demise was yet to be revealed to Payne.

‘Stella used to say all of Moon’s problems sprang from the fact that she’d never had a proper father figure in her life. I’ve been wondering whether I could adopt Moon. Not a terribly good idea, perhaps? Not sure it would work. It might prove to be a disaster.’ Morland spoke distractedly. ‘Moon doesn’t really like me, but she knows no one in England. She doesn’t want to go back to Bulgaria. She refuses to give me the names of any of her relatives in Bulgaria. Says they are all peasants.’

Would a man planning a brutal battering buy expensive opera tickets? When he knew perfectly well they would be wasted? Well, yes – the tickets constituted an alibi of sorts. Money was not a problem for Morland.

‘Is her father really in jail?’ Payne asked.

‘I believe so. Yes. He was one of those Communist apparatchiks. That’s all I know. Poor Stella didn’t like talking about it. It embarrassed her. She managed to get a divorce. She’d had a terrible life. Terrible. And now – now she is dead!’

‘Did the police question you?’

‘They did. All sorts of idiotic questions. Made me feel like a criminal! You used to work in the police, didn’t you?’

‘Not the police. Intelligence. That was some time ago now.’

‘Melisande said you and your wife were experts in murder.’

‘I don’t know where people get such ideas.’

‘Melisande said you told her you always carried the Police Code and Procedure with you and you tried to memorize seven pages a day. Oh. Is that a joke? The story’s bound to be in tomorrow’s papers. People are such ghouls. The way poor Stella died is sure to attract attention-’ Morland broke off. ‘Where did you say your wife was?’

‘America. Signing tour. It ends the day after tomorrow… How did Stella die? Where did it happen?’

Morland’s hand went up to his forehead. It looked as though he was checking whether he had a temperature. He then loosened his tie. ‘She was found at the Villa Byzantine. Tancred Vane’s house. The royal biographer fellow. It was Tancred Vane who discovered her body. It was in the drawing room. If the police had any sense at all, they’d see at once why Moon couldn’t have done it. You see, Payne, Moon broke her wrist only a couple of months ago. She can hardly use her right hand. It – it would have been too heavy for her-’

‘What would have been too heavy?’

‘The-’ Morland broke off. ‘Stella was – she had been-’ Payne leant forward eagerly. ‘Yes?’

‘No, it’s too horrible.’ Morland made a breath-catching sound like a sob. ‘I can’t say it. No, I can’t.’

The next moment he did. He blurted it out. There was a pause.

‘Golly.’ Payne stared back at him.

Blithe Spirit

‘This is the best thing that’s happened to me in a long while, you are absolutely right, so I should be happy. Only I am not.’ Melisande Chevret raised the champagne glass to her lips. ‘Oh, don’t look like that, Win. You do think I am being unreasonable and spoilt, don’t you?’

‘As a matter of fact I do. You have been “resting” for quite a while. I’d have thought you’d leap for joy at any opportunity to act again.’

‘Leap for joy. You do say horrid things. You make me sound like one of those desperate ageing actresses for whom anything is better than nothing. Listening to you, one might be excused for imagining my career has entered the tundra-like wasteland stage. My bone structure is not yet obscured by pouches and jowls.’

‘I never said it was… I wouldn’t call Madame Arcati “anything”.’

‘It’s a wonderful character part, I do agree – Coward at his most comically inspired and so on – but I simply can’t make the transition that easily.’

‘What transition?’

‘I was Elvira not such a long time ago. Unpredictable, wilful, capricious, irresistibly attractive Elvira. Bursting with erotic energy – dangerous – destructive! I enjoy being destructive,’ Melisande added in a reflective voice. ‘Can you see Elvira transmogrifying into Arcati? I mean – can you?’

‘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.’