‘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.’
‘Did he receive a reply?’
A strange faraway light came into Miss Hope’s eyes. ‘I believe he did, yes. Edgar Wallace sent Cyril his autograph. The Guesthouse on the Thames, that’s correct. Well, few writers can resist the allure of royal patronage and second-rate writers are particularly susceptible. All of Edgar Wallace’s books are quite ghastly. I don’t suppose you have read any?’
‘No.’
‘He apparently boasted that he could write a book in a week! Well, let me tell you one thing – it shows! He had three secretaries, I read somewhere, sitting in the same room – he would walk about and dictate a different book to each one.’ She watched Tancred Vane as he scribbled in his notebook. ‘I hope you are feeling better?’
‘I am much better. Thanks to you.’
‘Jolly good.’ She beamed at him. ‘Jolly good.’ Suddenly she rose from her seat and smoothed down her skirt.
‘What’s the matter?’ He blinked. ‘You aren’t – you aren’t going, are you?’
‘I’m afraid I am. Don’t look so disappointed! I’m sure you will find sleep more salutary than my silly old yarns.’
‘I won’t! Must you go?’
‘Ah, Lady Antonia Fraser’s memoir. I’ve been reading it. What a terrifying creature the late Pinter seems to have been. Unfortunately, my answer, unlike hers, will have to be, yes, I must go. I am sorry, Tancred, but I’ve got to go. So much to do! All kinds of unresolved problems. My niece – my great niece, actually – an absolute calamity-’ Miss Hope broke off and shook her head. ‘Young people nowadays!’
‘When – when will you come again?’
‘Soon.’
‘When exactly?’
‘Soon.’
‘When is soon?’
‘Soon enough.’ She adjusted her hat and pushed the pince-nez up her nose. ‘Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps. At half-past three? We’ll have tea together. We’ll have a proper powwow then. And now – now you must go to bed.’
Tancred protested that he did not feel in the least sleepy.
‘You need to make an effort, my boy. All great artists need to die for a few hours in order to live for centuries. You wouldn’t want to develop into one of those insomniacs who get sent to a kurhaus in the mountains, would you? Have you ever been to a kurhaus? Such strange places! Staffed by werewolves and vampires, or so everybody said. Sinister sanatoria, my mother called them. They have them in the Balkans. Or used to.’
‘I’ll go to bed later,’ he prevaricated.
‘No. Now.’
‘How happy is he born and taught,’ Tancred quoted sullenly, ‘that serveth not another’s will.’
‘Whose armour is his honest thought – and simple truth his utmost skill. See? I know my Sir Henry Wotton!’ She patted his cheek. ‘Come on, let’s go. Chop-chop.’
‘Five more minutes?’
‘Chop-chop.’
‘Three minutes – please!’
She remained adamant. ‘Chop-chop.’
