Murder at the Villa Byzantine

4

Fire Walk with Me

This is what happens in bad dreams. Somebody you think you know becomes a stranger. No – a stranger turns out to be someone you know.

As I think back to my terrifying encounter at the Villa Byzantine, I start shivering.

Why does Fate insist on buffeting me? Is there any particular reason why I, Stella Markoff, should be made to pass through so many strange fires? Don’t I deserve to be happy? If there is a cosmic design behind it all, I fail to see it. Have I not suffered enough?

I haven’t told James about the incident at the Villa Byzantine. Why worry him? He will probably say I imagined it. He is very nice to me, very considerate, very gentlemanly, though sometimes I wish he weren’t so gentlemanly. I wish he were more demonstrative when we are alone together. I wouldn’t mind.

I am extremely susceptible to bad vibes. Something happened that day at the Villa Byzantine when she – the old owl-faced woman she pretended to be – looked at me through those glasses – a terrible pain cut right across me – I haven’t been myself since – have I been given the evil eye?

She looked like Baba Yaga. When I was a little girl I feared being spirited away and devoured by Baba Yaga more than anything in the world.

I knew who she was at once, the moment our eyes met. Did she imagine I wouldn’t recognize her?

I am sitting in James’ car, James’ old Harris tweed jacket lies on the seat beside me, everything seems familiar and reassuring, but this is no ordinary journey, oh no.

Once more I am on my way to the Villa Byzantine, but it is not to see Mr Vane. Mr Vane will not be there. But for Mr Vane’s Chinamen and other precious objects, the Villa Byzantine will be empty.

As I remind myself that I am about to commit a crime, I clutch at my knees to prevent my hands from shaking.

A crime, yes. I can’t quite believe it. I, Stella Markoff, am about to commit a crime.

I glance at my watch. Each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. I can hardly breathe. How dark the sky is. There is going to be a storm.

Never for a moment does the Great Fear leave my side. Darkness at noon. That is a bad omen. I am extremely nervous. I have a headache. No, I can’t change my mind. It is too late to go back.

But what if Mr Vane has decided to stay at home? Well, I would tell him that I had made a mistake, that I’d come on the wrong day. I intend to ring the front door bell three times, four times – no, till my finger starts hurting! Only then shall I start unlocking the front door.

My headache is rooted behind my eyeballs and seems to cast a spell on every nerve of eye and ear. Perhaps something is there, some terrible growth, some entity, delighting in torturing me, feeding off me, sucking in my vital energies, causing me to make wrong decisions, unsettling my sanity? I don’t want to go for a scan. I dread what they might discover.

But what if Mr Vane suddenly comes back and catches me red-handed? Mr Vane may call the police, then I’ll be put in handcuffs and all the English newspapers will write about me. Villainy at the Villa. English people like to make jokes like that. English people are very childish. I will be ruined, destroyed. I won’t be able to survive the shame.

It is now as dark as the darkest night. This is all wrong. I feel ill. My head throbs. Each breath becomes pain. A meteorite pounds into my heart. There is a clap of thunder, then another.

I am doing all this for my daughter. This is a mother’s sacrifice.

I want my daughter to love me.

The car moves along the drive, slowly, slowly, under the tunnel of trees. As we come out of the tunnel, I see curtains of rain, deep purple, almost black, pierced by gold shafts of sunlight.

I have no idea why I pick up James’ jacket and bury my face in it. I am silly and sentimental. I feel insecure. All my life I have craved reassurance. I shut my eyes and I breathe in the now familiar smell of James – expensive cigars, Polo aftershave, the special mints he claims he can get only at Harrods – James calls it the ‘Good Life’ What is this? Something in the pocket. I open my eyes. Papers – letters? Yes, a bundle of letters.

I hold the letters in my hand. No envelopes. The same handwriting on all of them. I tell myself I mustn’t read the letters, James may not like it, but then I recognize the handwriting…

Suddenly I feel hot. I start shivering.

I gasp The car is stopping. We have arrived. We are outside the Villa Byzantine. My eyes are blurred with tears, but I can’t tear them away from the letters. I feel as though I have run till my lungs have burst.

No, this can’t be true – it is absurd – monstrous – a cruel joke!

I look up and see my reflection in the car mirror. My face is pale and disfigured by shock. It does not look pretty. It does not look like my face at all.

I scream – but no sound comes out of my throat.