‘Why – what happened?’
‘My niece – no, you don’t want to know! A calamity! Young people nowadays! I must admit I find young people impossible to understand. A closed book, as they say. Nothing compared to your calamity, of course.’
‘I suppose you saw the newspapers?’
‘I did. It’s on page three of The Times. I couldn’t believe my eyes! Murder at the Villa Byzantine. Are you all right?’
‘I am fine. I am fine now. I didn’t sleep too well last night. I lay awake till five in the morning…’
‘Yes? Go on, go on. I want every single detail!’
‘I couldn’t stop thinking about the murder. Then – then a great weight of numbness began to pull me down. I believe I fell asleep because I had a dream – a terrible dream! It all seemed so real. I saw her – Madame Markoff – Stella – pale and haggard-looking, her hand stretched out before her in an imploring gesture – no – accusingly!’
‘Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair… Sorry, Tancred – most tasteless – couldn’t resist it!’
‘She was stiff and immobile – her eyes were wide open, glazed and staring. Suddenly I realized she was not real. She was made of wax. It gave me such a jolt that I woke up. I felt awful, really ill. My heart was pounding-’
‘My poor boy!’
‘I read somewhere that – that dreams are misleading because they make life seem real. That’s a paradox I don’t understand but for some reason I felt chilled thinking about it. Does it make sense?’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ she said robustly. ‘Paradox – bah! You must take your temperature. I don’t suppose you slept in your house?’
‘No. I was with a friend… I came back about an hour ago.’
He expected her to ask which friend he meant exactly, she seemed to take an interest in everything he did, but all she said was, ‘I am glad. A friend in need is a friend indeed. What are you doing now?’
‘Writing. Working on the biography.’
‘That’s the spirit! Work is the best remedy for a troubled mind. Work and more work and then more work! That was the splendidly Puritan ethic of my dear late father. The police have gone now, of course? Did they leave a mess behind?’
‘I don’t think they bothered to wipe their shoes,’ he said in a rueful voice.
‘Pigs! Who do they imagine they are? The Pope? I think you should complain,’ Miss Hope said firmly. ‘Don’t let them get away with it. They didn’t break anything, did they? None of the Chinamen? I’ve been worried about the Chinamen.’
‘No, nothing’s broken. The Chinamen are intact.’
‘I am so glad. Rivers of blood everywhere?’
‘No. It wasn’t too bad, actually. Still, it was pretty horrible. I never thought – I never imagined I’d come back and find-’
‘No, of course not! You poor thing! You have had the curtains changed, of course? All that magnificent brocade!’
‘How did you know there was blood on the curtains?’
‘Mere guesswork. I am notorious for my morbid imagination. Sometimes I see things – my Scottish ancestry, you know. But I shouldn’t keep nattering away at a time like this. I do believe you need a little rest? How about a nap?’
‘Actually – Miss Hope – I was wondering whether you-’
‘Catherine,’ she reminded him. ‘Catherine. We agreed, didn’t we? You promised! You gave me your word of honour! You want me to come? Are you sure you don’t feel like taking a nap?’
‘No. I don’t feel at all sleepy at the moment.’
‘In that case I will come. And we’ll talk. About the murder, yes! I want you to get the whole thing out of your system. It will release the tension. It will exorcize the demons. You must tell me everything – how you found her, where the body lay and so on. It was you who found her, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes… You won’t be bored?’
‘Not at all. I must confess to a certain degree of vulgar curiosity. I lead such a drab life.’ Miss Hope sighed. ‘I hope you’d be able to elucidate at least one of the mysteries surrounding Mrs Markoff’s dreadful demise. How on earth did the woman manage to gain entry into the Villa Byzantine? You didn’t by any chance give her a key, did you?’
9
Hearing Secret Harmonies
An hour later they were sitting on the ottoman in Tancred Vane’s green-and-gold study, drinking coffee out of large snow-white cups and eating the delicious cake Miss Hope had made herself and brought with her. It was one of her very special walnut cakes that had a don’t-you-dare-cut-me-with-anything-but-a-silver-knife sort of air about it. Tancred had been only too happy to bring a silver knife from the kitchen. He had no great appetite but she urged him to eat. He needed to eat! She was treating him like a growing boy.
‘The police took the sword away-’
‘Ah – the sword! That noble sword! It was a samurai sword, wasn’t it? What can ail thee, knight at arms, alone and palely loitering?’
‘They need it for fingerprinting and – and blood analysis, I believe they said.’
‘Keats’ knight of course would have been carrying a different kind of sword altogether,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Not a samurai one. I told you, didn’t I, that there was a samurai sword at the royal palace in Sofia?’
‘No, you didn’t.’ The way she sprang the most fascinating information on him! ‘Wait a minute.’ Tancred Vane produced his little notebook and pen. ‘Was the sword Prince Cyril’s?’
‘His brother’s. It belonged to the King, but Cyril couldn’t keep his hands off it. The sword was a present to Boris III from Hirohito, the Japanese Emperor, you know. The Japanese were to become allies. Fellow fascists, you know. Rome, Berlin and Tokyo. The notorious Axis. Those appalling POW camps! The way they treated our boys! Such beasts, the Japs. That’s what my dear father used to say-’ She broke off. ‘Sorry, I was telling you about something else. What was it?’
‘Cyril and the samurai sword.’
‘Oh dear. Yes. He would pick it up and brandish it from left to right and then from right to left, looking gleeful – swoosh-swoosh – around the Salle de l’Ambre – the Amber Chamber – swoosh-swoosh – making those ferocious “Japanese” noises… Aaargh! It drove the Queen mad! Giovanna couldn’t stand her brother-in-law.’
Tancred Vane reflected that many readers would be more interested in Prince Cyril and the sword than in, say, Prince Cyril’s Nazi sympathies and treachery, or the account of his kangaroo trial and summary execution.
‘I believe I tried to pick up the sword once or twice, didn’t I? I mean your sword. The murder weapon. So my fingerprints would be on it? I don’t think I was wearing gloves, was I?’ Miss Hope frowned. ‘Would that get me in trouble? Would the plod come pounding after me?’
‘Actually the inspector asked for your phone number. I’m sure it’s only routine. I gave it to him. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Not in the least,’ she reassured him. ‘I’d be happy to talk to the plod, though of course I wouldn’t have much to say. How did my name crop up?’
‘I said I was expecting you. I kept looking at the clock. I told them you might come any moment – only you didn’t.’
‘I suppose that made them suspicious?’ The familiar dry laugh. ‘Did they take your fingerprints?’
‘They did. I also had to write a statement – um – explain how long I’d known Stella Markoff, the reason she’d been coming to my house and so on.’
‘How fatiguing for you!’
‘I can’t believe any of it happened.’
‘Neither can I! This murder yet is but fantastical.’ Miss Hope spoke in grave tones but there was an air of impish gaiety about her.
‘Isn’t it considered unlucky to quote Macbeth?’
‘Nonsense. The Scottish Play can only affect actors. Which, my dear boy, you and I are not.’ For some reason this made Miss Hope laugh till tears sprang from her eyes. ‘Can’t abide actors!’ She blew her nose with her handkerchief. ‘Detest the theatre!’
This was odd, Tancred Vane reflected, since Miss Hope seemed to know an awful lot about the theatre. Only a couple of days before she had quoted from Terence Rattigan’s The Sleeping Prince. Prince Cyril, she explained, had talked to British embassy officials in a manner similar to that employed by the Regent in the Rattigan play. She had also told Tancred how at the age of thirteen she had been taken to see an amateur production of Murder in Pupil Room, William Douglas Home’s very first play. Douglas Home had written the play while he was a pupil at Eton.