30
Spellbound
‘It’s one of the most remarkable stories you are ever likely to hear. I’d hesitate to describe it as a romance, though it’s that all right. I must admit I was exceedingly romantic as a girl.’ Winifred Willard gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘I used to identify with Juliet – with Heloise – with Isolde! Too embarrassing for words!’
‘I bet you know Tatiana’s letter to Onegin by heart?’
‘Why, yes – Hugh, how did you-? Goodness, I do believe you have a sixth sense!’ She lowered her eyes. ‘It all started with a photo. That woman – Stella – had taken a photo of Tancred with her mobile phone camera. She wanted a memento, apparently. She showed us the photo of Tancred – it was the day James brought her here – you remember?’
‘Oh yes. Melisande’s birthday party.’
‘It is extremely difficult to explain what I felt, it was such an intensely personal experience, it was also so very extraordinary, but, as a writer, Antonia, I am sure you will understand. I hope Hugh won’t say it’s the craziest thing he’s ever heard in his life?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘No. Of course not. It wouldn’t be your style. You see, till I met Tancred, I’d been leading a narrow, solitary sort of life, devoid of any significant human contacts. I kept reading books. I felt intellectually superior but I don’t think I was ever happy. I tended to indulge in melancholy introspection. The river of my existence was, as they say, sluggish. I yearned for the torrent of life, and yet I’d convinced myself that – that I’d found – how can I put it?’
‘That you’d found contentment in deprivation?’
‘Yes, Hugh! You seem to understand me so well. But then – then I saw Tancred – his photograph – his face – his smile – his eyes. That’s when – it happened. It was quite incredible. I experienced a quickening in my spirit. I felt an immense burden lift from my heart. Suddenly – suddenly I felt free. My spirit leapt out of its confines!’ Winifred threw her hands up and opened them, as though she were releasing a dove.
‘Remarkable,’ Payne said.
‘I felt as light as the proverbial feather. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if I had started levitating. And then – then there was the jubilant ringing of bells! I knew in that instant that, whatever happened, I could never go back to my old constraints and restrictions. You heard the bells, didn’t you? Well, I must say that’s the closest I have ever come to a religious conversion. I hope you won’t think it terribly peculiar of me?’
‘Not at all, dear lady. Not at all.’
‘Do you remember in Death in Venice, when Aschenbach begins to see Tadzio as a bearer of death? Well, I saw Tancred as a bearer of life. No! As life itself. You do understand, Antonia, don’t you? I am sure you do.’
‘I believe I do,’ Antonia said gravely. She did her best to keep her face expressionless. (Why did they always have to meet oddballs?)
‘I managed to engage Stella in a conversation about Tancred Vane. I believe you’d gone by then? I did it most casually,’ Winifred went on. ‘I asked how she had established contact with him and so on. She showed me the advertisement. She took it out of her bag. It was a newspaper cutting from the International Herald Tribune – royal biographer Tancred Vane seeking information about Prince Cyril of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha and the Bulgarian royal family – words to that effect. Well, I knew exactly what my next action should be.’
‘You phoned him?’
‘No. I feared that might be a little too forward. I have had a very strict upbringing, you see. My father used to make me write thank-you notes to him each time he punished me! I have remained, in many ways, an old-fashioned kind of girl.’
‘You wrote to him?’
‘I sat down and wrote Tancred a letter, yes. Like Tatiana! It was a very formal missive. Stiff and uninspired.’ Winifred gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘I addressed him as “Dear Mr Vane”. Tancred wrote back by return of post. He declared himself delighted by my letter. He said he was longing to meet me. He invited me to visit him at the Villa Byzantine. He said he would be counting the hours-’
Of all the elliptic accounts, thought Antonia. What Winifred was omitting was the highly significant fact that she had written to Vane as ‘Miss Hope’, former nanny to Prince Cyril’s son, and that she had offered to share her ‘reminiscences’ with him. That of course was the only reason why he had written back by return of post and asked her to visit him at the Villa Byzantine.
‘Needless to say, Tancred and I “clicked” at once. Our very first meeting felt as though it had been pre-ordained. It was exactly as I had imagined it would be. We sat facing each other and we talked and talked! We couldn’t keep the smiles off our faces. It felt as though he and I had known each other all our lives.’
There was a pause. Payne remembered something de Clerambault had written. That patients with this particular delusional disorder frequently cast a quasi-religious veil over their feelings. Patients were unlikely to seek help since they did not regard themselves as ill.
He cleared his throat. ‘Going back to what we were saying earlier on, do you think it at all possible that it was Miss Hope who killed Stella?’
Winifred remained thoughtful for a moment or two, then said quietly, ‘What would her motive have been?’
‘Perhaps Stella tumbled to her secret? Discovered she was an impostor?’
‘Yes… That is possible.’ Something like a shadow passed across Winifred Willard’s face and her expression changed a little. Her smile faded. She looked confused.
‘Did you know that a bloodstained handkerchief bearing the initials WW was found by Stella’s dead body?’
‘No. How extraordinary. I had no idea.’
‘Do you think it might be yours?’
Oh dear, Antonia thought.
‘I don’t think so.’ Winifred slowly rose from her seat. ‘I believe my sister is calling me. I am sorry. I will need to go upstairs. Would you mind frightfully if I said au revoir?’
Antonia and Payne stood up. Their visit was at an end. They hadn’t heard anyone call.
31
Divided We Stand
It was a bland golden morning, but oh so deceitful! At around eight o’clock the sky was as bright as a jewel and she stood in the back garden, holding up her hands to the sun, but then suddenly and without any warning a mist descended between her and the brilliant young red willow and chilled her to the bone. Quarter of an hour later the electric coffee pot gave her an electric shock, which for a minute or two staggered her considerably. Such an alarming kind of pain, she thought – a kind of abstract snakebite.
She heard Melisande moan in her room – what was she saying? Watch over her in the Labyrinth… Protect her from the Voices… Protect her from the Visions. Were those lines from a play or a prayer? For whose protection was her sister pleading? Had Melisande got it into her head that Winifred might be in danger? Had Melisande lost her mind completely?
The night before, Winifred had started putting her plan into action.
She had phoned Tancred and arranged to meet him at the British Library. He had sounded taken aback, poor boy, but he had agreed to it. She had pretended to be the Other – that ridiculous Miss Hope! She said she had something of vital importance to impart to him. A matter of life and death, no less. It was a melodramatic way of putting it and she had spoken breathlessly. It was not Miss Hope’s usual style, but then old ladies were notoriously unpredictable. Oh, how she hated Miss Hope! How she despised her. Well, today was going to be Miss Hope’s last outing. Yes.
Winifred Willard laughed happily. It wouldn’t be so very odd for a woman in her early eighties to disappear suddenly and without a trace, would it? Miss Hope might stumble into some black hole – the kind of place where bogus nannies vanished, perhaps? The Hole of Lost Hope?
Two hours later, still laughing, she walked out of the front door of Kinderhook.