‘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.
But Miss Hope said she’d never before clapped her eyes on Stella!
Tancred Vane held his breath. He had remembered one of the questions Stella asked him that day. Did Mr Vane know a woman called-?
Now, what was the name? It was rather an unusual, rather an actressy, sort of name 12
The She-Wolf
Melisande Chevret had had a mental picture of James dropping on his knees, bowing before her and begging forgiveness. She had envisaged a passionate reunion – James covering her hands with kisses, then rising and burying his face in her bosom, mumbling that he was sorry, so terribly sorry, he had been mad to turn his back on her, he had no idea what had possessed him – would she take pity on a miserable sinner? – would she give him a second chance? – would she have him back?
But of course nothing of the sort happened. James was stiff and formal and far from demonstrative. He shook hands with her, then, as an afterthought, gave her a peck on the cheek, near her left ear – as far from her lips as possible.
She was wearing her immaculately cut pearl-grey peignoir with blue ribbon bindings along the edges, with several long gold chains strung from her neck. She had had a massage and a facial in the morning and thought her face looked particularly smooth and luminous, like that of the Dresden shepherdess on her dressing table. She was whippet-thin now – exactly the way she wanted to be. The ayurvedic diet seemed to have worked. No red meat and nothing but liquids after 6 p.m. She’d hated it, but now she looked at least fifteen years younger. Il faut souffrir pour etre belle.
She led the way into the drawing room and sat down on the sofa. She patted the place beside her and gave him her most seductive smile, but he chose to sit in one of the armchairs.
All right. Suit yourself, buster, she thought. Perhaps she was expecting too much. Perhaps it was too soon. It was only three days since Stella had been separated from her head. James was pale and tense and he too seemed to have lost weight. His habitual bulging orb seemed to have diminished somewhat. He kept avoiding her eye.
No, nothing to drink, he said – thank you so much, but nothing to eat either. So much for her carefully prepared dinner a deux. (Asparagus soup, chicken in aspic, green salad, figs in strawberry sauce, Stilton, black coffee.) Why had she bothered? Why had he come? She pressed him to have a drink and eventually he said he would like a cup of tea. Tea! She’d always despised people who asked for a cup of tea, but this – this was particularly bad.
James was wearing a black suit, black tie and black shoes. And black socks. For heaven’s sake, she thought. All he lacked was a black armband! The disconsolate widower! He looked quite absurd. Maestro, the Death March, please, and don’t spare the violins!
Melisande felt the urge to laugh aloud, blow a raspberry, neigh like a horse, but she managed to exercise self-control. She still believed she had a chance with him. Having handed him his cup of tea, she poured herself a large brandy. This was not how she had imagined their reunion, most certainly not the way she had contemplated the evening ahead.
‘Kind of you to come when you clearly have so much on your mind, James,’ she said softly. ‘How have you been?’
‘Not awfully well. I’ve been sleeping badly.’
‘I am so terribly sorry. Have you seen your doctor?’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance. Too busy.’
‘Poor darling. Would you like one of my sachets? They reduce you to the most delicious kind of coma and no headaches afterwards, just a pleasantly treacly sensation. I am quite addicted to them.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Would you like me to massage your poor neck and shoulders? It would release the tension. You know I can do it really well.’
‘No, thanks.’
Melisande pursed her lips. She had only been trying to be helpful. Did he fear she might try to seduce him? He used to love it when she had massaged his neck and shoulders in the past, couldn’t get enough of it, the greedy pig.
She thought the atmosphere in the room had become charged with wariness and potential conflict. I see the world through a shroud that is as clammy as it is dark. Who said that? One of those middle-aged women characters Winifred was urging her to play? Was it Carlotta in Song at Twilight?
She took a sip of brandy. Perhaps she should get roaring drunk?
‘Have the police released the body?’
‘No, not yet. I don’t know when exactly that will be. They keep their cards very close to their chests. We’ve been trying to contact Stella’s relatives in Bulgaria.’
‘What a bore. Who’s “we”?’
‘Moon and I.’
‘That awful girl.’
‘She is very young.’
‘Ghastly manners. Quite shocking. I don’t believe she gives a fig for her mother, dead or alive. Where is she now?’
‘At my sister’s place in Kensington.’
‘That’s the flat next door to yours, isn’t it? There is a communicating door, if I remember correctly. Poor Julia. How I pity her. What an ordeal. How is she coping?’
‘It hasn’t been too bad, actually.’
‘Make sure the girl doesn’t cut your throats as you sleep,’ Melisande murmured.
‘Sorry?’ How ridiculous he looked, cupping his ear and thrusting his head forward.