‘Melisande?’ The next moment Payne remembered that Vane was a bit behind with his facts. But explanations could wait. ‘Are you sure she is dead?’
‘Yes. Her head has been bashed in. It’s terrible. She is in Pupil Room – my study – there’s blood everywhere!’
‘Have you called the police?’
‘I haven’t! I thought I would call you first.’ Vane’s voice quavered. ‘I am frightened, Major Payne. It’s happened twice! Two murders in my house. The police will say it’s me! They are bound to!’
‘Don’t jump to conclusions, Vane. And don’t touch anything. We are coming.’ He turned to Antonia. ‘Allons- y.’
They drove through the pelting rain. The windscreen wipers writhed like living things as they struggled to keep the flood in check.
‘What if it is Melisande who has turned up dead?’ Antonia murmured. ‘For some reason, Melisande might have gone to the Villa Byzantine dressed up as Miss Hope…’
‘That, my love, would be one of those logic-defying twists which are relished by genre addicts and condemned by the unhooked as nothing better than annoying childish tricks.’
‘Don’t you think you are driving too fast?’
‘Melisande might have gone to the Villa Byzantine dressed up as her sister dressed up as Miss Hope. Sorry. I forgot you disapproved of double bluffs.’
‘What I disapprove of is speeding in a deluge. Please, Hugh, don’t look at me – keep your eyes on the road! We’ll have an accident!’
The Villa Byzantine was fully illuminated and looked incongruously festive. It brought to mind the Royal Albert Hall at the start of the Proms. Tancred Vane seemed to have walked about turning on all the lights.
‘Leaving his fingerprints everywhere, silly fellow,’ Payne said.
‘Well, his fingerprints are already everywhere,’ Antonia pointed out. ‘He needn’t account for them. It’s his house.’
Tancred Vane ushered them in. He was deadly pale. His bow-tie was askew. He didn’t say a word. He was shaking. Payne patted his arm. The royal biographer led the way up the Carrollian staircase and into the study.
Major Payne’s eye had become practised in taking in swiftly every detail of what a murder scene had to offer. The body lay face downwards beside the mahogany desk. He knelt beside it and, overcoming his extreme revulsion, gently tipped the head to one side so that he could get a good view of it.
Eyes open and glazed. Theatrical make-up. Vertical lines painted in, from nose down to each side of mouth. Somewhat smudged. White wig. Tight curls. Helmet-like coiffure of the ‘indestructible’ kind. No, not indestructible – it hadn’t succeeded in cushioning the blow – the blows – she had been hit several times. It hadn’t prevented her skull from being smashed.
So she had come to the Villa Byzantine as before, dressed up as Miss Hope… What could have been going on in her mind?
‘It’s Winifred all right,’ said Payne. He rose to his feet.
The royal biographer stared. ‘Winifred?’
‘Yes, Vane. Her name is Winifred Willard.’
‘I thought her name was Melisande Chevret.’
‘This is Melisande’s sister. It was she who was in love with you. Winifred was Miss Hope. We thought it was Melisande but then we had a sudden revelation. Thanks to my aunt, actually. It happened last night.’
‘Thanks to your aunt?’
‘You would be perfectly justified in imagining that all reason had disintegrated and the universe had turned into a brainless harlequinade, but I assure you-’
‘She’s been killed with the owl,’ Tancred Vane said wildly. He pointed to the blood-bespattered doorstop that lay halfway between the body and the study door. ‘Somebody picked up the owl and hit her with it.’
‘That indeed was the way it was done,’ agreed Payne.
‘She phoned me last night – at some unearthly hour. She said she wanted to meet me urgently this morning – not here – at the British Library. At midday, she said. She said she wanted to speak to me. It was a matter of life and death. I tried to call you – but I couldn’t get an answer. I left a message.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes! I left a voice message. Just before I set off.’
There was a pause as Payne produced his mobile phone. ‘So you did, old boy. At… five to eleven… This may be important.’
‘You think that I’ll have to prove I have an alibi?’
‘It’s possible. The police may want to make sure. How long did you stay at the British Library?’
‘An hour or so… I browsed in the bookshop, then had a cup of tea
… I thought that Miss Hope might say something important – that she might confess to the murder! That’s why I went. Lord. I keep calling her Miss Hope… She didn’t turn up of course… She never intended to go to the British Library, did she?’
‘No. Winifred Willard intended to come to the Villa Byzantine. She wanted you out of the way,’ said Payne. ‘Why? I think my wife may have the answer. At least she looks as though she does.’
‘I believe this is yours, Mr Vane.’ Antonia had wrapped her handkerchief round her hand and was holding up a black notebook. ‘Your initials are on the flyleaf.’
‘Yes. It’s mine. These are my notes for the blasted biography. Where was it?’
‘Inside Winifred’s bag.’ She pointed.
‘She took my notebook?’ Vane blinked. ‘But – why? Why?’
‘Maybe because it contained lies? All the stories she made up for you… I imagine she meant to destroy it,’ Antonia went on slowly, ‘so that you should not be put to shame. Perhaps she realized that she had acted irresponsibly and that you would become the laughing stock of the literary world? I believe she did it out of consideration for your reputation as a biographer – since she loved you so much – she was very much in love with you, you know.’
‘Was she really in love with me?’
‘She was mad about you,’ said Payne. ‘She was contemplating a spring wedding.’
‘Was there a deadline for what you had written?’ Antonia asked. ‘Were you expected to send any of it to your publisher?’
‘No… Actually, yes… Yes!’ Tancred Vane’s hand went up to his forehead. ‘Professor Goldsworthy was going to read my notes. Professor Goldsworthy is a historian – an expert on East European monarchies – knows his Bulgarian royal family inside out, or so I’ve been told… He was to act as a consultant… He had agreed to look at what I’d written
… My editor had made arrangements-’
‘Did Winifred know about Goldsworthy?’
‘I – I told Miss Hope I was going to send him the biography by the end of the week. Via email. As an attachment. She knew, yes.’
‘That explains it. That’s most probably the reason why she came here.’
‘I’ve got it all saved on my computer-’ Vane broke off. ‘You don’t think she-? She couldn’t have-?’
‘You’d better check,’ Major Payne said.
The royal biographer staggered towards the desk and turned on the computer. ‘She called it “that silly biography”. I thought she was in an odd mood that day.’ He gazed at the screen and his hands became busy. ‘It’s not here. It’s gone. All gone. The whole file. You are right. She’s deleted the Prince Cyril file! She’s destroyed it! She’s even emptied the Recycle Bin! I have no back-up!’
Payne regarded him sympathetically. ‘It wouldn’t have been any good to you, would it, given that it was all untrue… Shall we go downstairs? We’ll need to call the police. It would look jolly peculiar if we delayed any further.’
‘The police… My God… I don’t think I’ll be able to explain all this… About Miss Hope… They won’t believe me… They’ll think I’m mad
… They’ll say I did it… They’ll take me away… Would you – would you stay with me?’
