By a strange coincidence Tancred Vane had always called his study Pupil Room. Strange coincidences seemed to be happening all the time with Miss Hope, from the very moment his collaboration with her had started. Objects she saw at the Villa Byzantine, or something she heard him say, seemed to trigger off the most extraordinary memories. It was almost as if they had been meant to meet and collaborate on this project.
She had entered his life a month before, completely unexpectedly. She had answered his ad. Was it only a month? It felt as though he had known her all his life! He felt at peace when they were together. They moved in perfect harmony. He adored her. She had become indispensable. She was now part of his life.
Miss Hope wore a sensible tweed skirt and a heather-coloured blouse. She sported a hairnet over her carefully arranged white hair and an anachronistic rimless pince-nez on a black ribbon. She sat very straight. She was the English nanny par excellence, the last of a vanishing breed, yet, he reflected, there was something archetypal about her. The wise woman – the fairy godmother – the white witch – the eternal aunt figure – one of Barbara Pym’s excellent women. Eccentric, faintly preposterous, yet kindly and reassuring and spouting sound no-nonsense advice.
‘You are a funny colour, Tancred.’ She reached out and held him by the chin. ‘Show me your tongue – say aah – wider – wider! This looks all right, but when I leave, I want you to go to bed. Promise you will. Pull the blinds down, let your head hit the pillow and start counting – no, not sheep – coronets. That would be more your thing. Envisage peers. A sea of peers in ermine cloaks – each with a coronet on his head. Say you promise?’
‘I promise…’ A curious happiness, a contentment, a warm glow crept over him.
‘Good! No, don’t move. Your tie is a bit askew. Your terrible tartan bow-tie! Let me-’ Once more she leant towards him. ‘There! The perfect butterfly effect.’
‘Is my bow-tie terrible?’
‘An absolute fright, but then there is no accounting for tastes, is there? Why the long face now? Vane by name, vain by nature! All right, you silly boy, your bow-tie makes you look like an auctioneer at Christie’s! That better?’ She patted his cheek.
He reached out for his notebook. ‘One thing I wanted to ask you. What was the colour of Prince Cyril’s eyes exactly?’
‘Cyril’s eyes? I am sure I have told you. You’ve started asking me the same questions twice, Tancred!’ She laughed. She wagged her forefinger at him. ‘I hope you aren’t testing me, are you?’
‘No, of course not. It’s just-’
‘Windsor blue. Cyril’s eyes were Windsor blue. There!’
‘I’ve been reading Chips Channon’s diaries and Chips refers to Prince Cyril’s “dark satanic gaze”. Apparently Prince Cyril’s were the only dark eyes among the royalty that attended George V’s funeral in 1936. Chips Channon is usually quite accurate over little details like that.’
‘I do believe Cyril’s eyes changed colour,’ she said slowly. ‘They were like the sea. On a “good” day, that is when he hadn’t drunk the night before and didn’t have a hangover, his eyes appeared much lighter. This does suggest, doesn’t it, that he must have been drinking heavily the night before George V’s funeral? I must say Cyril drank an awful lot, like the proverbial fish. Now you must tell me something.’ She leant forward. ‘How did this Stella manage to get in?’
‘I have absolutely no idea. Perhaps I forgot to lock the front door. I never gave her a key.’
‘She might have stolen one of your duplicate keys from the hall the last time she was here… How about that?’
‘Why should she want to do any such thing?’
‘I don’t know, Tancred, but, to tell you the truth, she struck me as a bit odd. I wouldn’t say “unhinged”, but she reminded me very strongly of-’ Miss Hope broke off. ‘No, that’s awfully unfair! All right, but you must promise you won’t laugh at me!’
‘I promise.’
‘Well, she reminded me very strongly of a woman who stole my poor father’s umbrella at an open-air event in Sofia in August 1941. The same soulful eyes, the same prim mouth, the same vague hair. There was thunder and lightning and it looked as though the heavens were about to open. The woman stopped us and asked the time, then she suddenly grabbed my father’s umbrella, just as he was about to open it, and skedaddled. She vanished into the night. We never saw her again.’
‘She stole your father’s umbrella?’
‘It all happened in a flash. My father was not amused! Now then, your three duplicate keys are prominently displayed on that wall board in the hall, correct? And as though that were not enough, you have actually attached tags with Front Door written out on each one of them! Most invitingly, if you know what I mean.’
‘As a matter of fact one of the keys is missing,’ he said sheepishly.
‘Are you serious? Goodness.’ She put down her coffee cup. ‘Did you tell the police?’
‘I did.’
‘You are too good, Tancred, too trusting. Too full with the milk of human kindness!’
‘But why should Stella want to come into the house while I was away?’
‘Why indeed! Well, one’s name is often an indicator. Stealing Stella. It would be different in Bulgarian, of course. No, no, we shouldn’t assault the integrity of someone who was destined to remain a stranger. Still, your house is full of treasures. Something may have caught her fancy. Not inconceivable, is it? One of your bibelots – or even the sword?’
‘Now that you mention it, she did ask to look at the sword the last time she was here.’ Tancred frowned. ‘She said her little girl would find it interesting – she’s got a daughter, apparently – but she wouldn’t try to steal the sword, would she? It’s too big!’
‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way,’ Miss Hope said firmly. ‘Shame you haven’t got a security alarm. Culpable carelessness, my Tancredi!’
Sometimes, when in one of her ‘Italian moods’, she addressed him as ‘Tancredi’.
‘I ordered a security system this morning.’
‘Being wise after the event, my Tancredi!’
There was a pause.
‘That day – when she met you – Stella Markoff behaved rather oddly,’ Tancred said. ‘She stared at you, did you notice?’
‘I did notice. Hard not to! Such big eyes! I thought it bad-mannered of her, but then Bulgarians do tend to stare, poor souls, even the so-called “better-class” ones.’
‘She seemed somewhat agitated – asked a lot of questions about you after you left.’
‘I know one mustn’t speak ill of the dead, Tancred, but she gave the impression of being a little peculiar – as well as of being a singularly unfulfilled woman. But what an awful way to die! To be deprived of one’s head! I believe the sword was in what they call “good working order”, wasn’t it?’
‘It was. It was extremely sharp.’
She shook her head. ‘The whole thing brings to mind a not very good detective story, if you know what I mean. Incidentally, Prince Cyril was terribly fond of Englische Kriminalgeschichten. Cyril adored Edgar Wallace. He had quite a collection of Edgar Wallace’s books, all in German translation. German was the language he spoke best. Not a congenial language, my father used to say. Designed for barking out orders and cracking crude jokes.’
Tancred picked up his pen. ‘I had no idea Prince Cyril liked Edgar Wallace.’
‘He adored Edgar Wallace. On one memorable occasion Cyril missed a dinner party at the Romanian embassy because he needed to finish Edgar Wallace’s Das Gasthaus an der Themse. He actually wrote a fan letter to Edgar Wallace in English and had it despatched to London through diplomatic channels.’