Although their features were not dissimilar, one wouldn’t have been able to tell at once that Winifred and Melisande were sisters. With her demure chignon, virginal bosom and restrained, somewhat wistful manner, sensible dress and shoes, Winifred Willard might have stepped out of the pages of an Anita Brookner novel. Melisande, on the other hand, was highly strung, restlessly temperamental, brittle and ‘young’. Her eyes were a curious yellow-brown colour. She had good cheekbones, but clearly that was not enough – her face was heavily made up, her hair had been dyed copper; it was short and swept back boldly. She wore a little black dress, an Etruscan-style necklace and high heels.
More guests were expected to arrive at any moment, though not an awful lot, Melisande said. No other neighbours, no. She didn’t really care for the people who lived on either side of Kinderhook, she had to admit. They had made overtures, they seemed good, decent people, one saw them in their landscaped gardens at all times, building rockeries or hunting for moles, even in the foulest weather, but they were not her sort of people. No, no luminaries from the theatre world either – she was sorry if Hugh and Antonia were disappointed – it would be an intimate gathering – her fiance, her agent and a playwright friend, whose one-woman show Tallulah Melisande had performed a couple of years back, to spectacular acclaim.
‘Drinks! Do let’s have drinks – and something to eat. I hope you like pheasant pate? It’s organic. We look awfully solemn – awfully static – or is that the light? The light is all wrong tonight.’
‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it,’ Winifred said.
‘I’m afraid I am too temperamental. I seem to be one of those unfortunate human beings on whom fairy godmothers bestow moods rather than qualities. This is supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I should be in a blissful, glowing, untouchable kind of state, only I am not! There’s plenty of crushed ice, thank God. I don’t think I could have survived without crushed ice.’ Once more Melisande laid her hand on Payne’s arm. ‘Hugh, would you be an angel and open one of the windows? There isn’t enough air in the room. Am I being neurotic?’
‘You are being neurotic,’ Winifred said good-humouredly.
‘I do feel awful. I may need an oxygen mask soon- Oh! That must be James!’ Melisande exclaimed as the front door bell rang. ‘Thank God! At long last! I’ll never forgive James for making me wait, never! One thing I hate more than anything else in the world is waiting. I forgot to mention it, but James is bringing some people I’ve never met before, he told me at the eleventh hour. Hope they won’t be too boring. I have no idea who they are.’
2
The Uninvited
‘Whatever took you so long, darling? I was getting really worried. I thought something truly dreadful had happened. Why don’t you answer your mobile? My fiance, James Morland.’ Melisande introduced him somewhat huffily. She was holding on to his arm.
‘So sorry, Meli. We were held up.’
‘Held up? You mean you were set upon by men with guns?’ She opened her eyes wide.
‘No, not by men with guns. Wherever did you get that idea? The traffic was quite appalling-’
‘Oh dear. Must you always explain in such detail? Why is everything so difficult tonight? That was a joke, James. A joke. But I did say, didn’t I, be here before the Leviathan could swim a league. And you said you would be.’
‘I am so sorry,’ Morland harrumphed.
‘No, it doesn’t matter one little bit, darling. It’s just that I needed you here earlier. That’s all. I did tell you to come as early as possible, didn’t I? I wanted you to do something for me.’
James Morland was most certainly not a toy-boy. He looked every inch the prosperous merchant banker he turned out to be. Late fifties, Payne imagined – pink-faced, fattish, baldish, dullish, resplendent in a Savile Row suit with a subtle stripe but sporting a flamboyant-looking tie, which seemed to have been knotted in a hurry and was a bit askew. Bluff and blissfully uncomplicated. The kind of chap who wears braces rather than a belt, Payne decided. Might turn out to be a pillar of the Weybridge Rotarians. A man of a conventional mind and limited imagination. Or was he doing him an injustice? Was it possible that a chap like Morland could have hidden depths?
‘You told me once you liked to keep your promises,’ Melisande said.
Morland asked what it was she had wanted him to do.
‘Oh, nothing, nothing. It doesn’t matter a row of pins, darling. Not any longer. It was nothing important. It’s just that you promised. Where on earth did you find that tie?’
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘What does it matter whether I like it or not?’ Melisande gave a light laugh. ‘I must admit I get a funny feeling each time I am confronted by a Paisley pattern or what looks like a Paisley pattern. Don’t you think it’s a little too – vertiginous?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do be an angel and get Antonia a drink. Antonia’s been very brave, very stoical. Antonia has been displaying extraordinary powers of patience and fortitude. I have an idea Antonia and Hugh are the cleverest people in this room. The kind of people who have more ideas in one morning than the rest of us have in a week. There are canapes – sandwiches – venison vol-au-vents – pheasant pate – amuse-gueules – all sorts of naughty little things. Hugh, would you care for a nibble?’
So far Melisande hadn’t so much as glanced at the couple Morland had brought with him – a matronly woman in her mid-forties and her black-clad teenage daughter. He felt compelled to introduce them a second time, in a louder voice. ‘Stella and Moon. Friends from Bulgaria. They were at something of a loose end, so I took pity on them. Ha-ha. They didn’t really want to come but I insisted. Ha-ha.’
Melisande went on smiling. ‘You insisted? How extraordinary.’
Morland explained that Stella had been extremely helpful to him in Sofia. ‘Stella knows Sofia like the back of her hand.’
‘How kind. How overwhelmingly touching. Poor James hates being on his own, don’t you, darling? I wish I were as gregarious as James. Tillie, is it? And – Lenya, did you say? Or is it Loon? I am sorry. I am terrible with names. Positively pathological. You mustn’t think I do it on purpose. I don’t. Please make yourselves at home.’
Melisande managed some semblance of graciousness but it was more than clear she could have done without the Bulgarian matron and the Bulgarian matron’s daughter. Her eyes, Payne noticed, rested speculatively on the shawl the Bulgarian matron was wearing. It was of a vaguely Paisley pattern not dissimilar to that of Morland’s tie. Was the colour co-ordination a coincidence? It couldn’t possibly be a statement, could it? Had the Paisley tie been a present from Stella, perhaps?
‘I have very bad headaches,’ Stella informed Antonia. ‘The English weather makes my headaches worse. I am not used to it. My friends warned me. Everybody said to me, you will hate the English weather, Stella. You will be ill all the time.’
Stella had mournful eyes, a prim mouth and vague hair the colour of hay. In addition to the Paisley shawl, she wore a frilly blouse, a long chocolate-coloured skirt and shiny brown shoes with buckles. In shape she rather resembled a plump partridge. Hers, Payne thought, was a ripe kind of femininity. Did Morland fancy her? Was Stella more than a mere friend?
‘Look, Stella – all the cocktails have name tags!’ Morland waved his forefinger.
‘Yes, James, this is very amusing.’
‘Such an awfully clever idea! Ha-ha. What’s that? Modesty Blaise? Battle Royale? That’s the kind of thing that makes a party go with a bang, Payne, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Most decidedly,’ Payne agreed.
‘So today is Mrs Chevret’s birthday,’ said Stella. ‘Mrs Chevret, yes? Not Miss?’
It is Lady Chevret, actually – though I never use my title.’
‘You were married to a Lord?’
‘Something like that. Long time ago. I never talk about it.’
‘There is a birthday cake, yes? With candles? A birthday cake is not a real birthday cake if there are no candles. The birthday cake comes at the end, yes?’ Stella paused. ‘I like cakes with lots and lots of candles. Isn’t that what you say? Lots?’
