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.
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.’
