Murder At The Masque Page 5

  ‘You know the lady, do you, Auguste? What a lad you are. What about Princess Tatiana?’

  ‘There are dreams in this world, Egbert, and there are today and tomorrow to be lived. They are different things,’ answered Auguste with dignity. ‘I do not think of her. I cannot. It makes me too sad, being in the Villa Russe. Tatiana too is Russian. I cannot help wondering—’

  ‘So there really is a Princess Tatiana?’

  ‘Ah, she is real. But not for a cook.’

  ‘You’re a maître,’ Rose reminded him gently.

  ‘The Tsar Alexander much admired le maître Fabergé. But he admired the artist in him. To him Fabergé was not a man. And it is the man one must marry, not the artist – or the maître chef. So what have I to offer a princess?’

  ‘Fabergé,’ said Rose, changing the subject tactfully. ‘And the Case of the Seventh Egg. You help me solve it, Auguste – and I tell you what – I’ll help you track down your ghost. How’s that?’

  Auguste smiled. ‘Very good. At least here there is no murder, hein?’

  ‘Tomorrow I dance for His Royal Highness. Come, you dance with me now.’ Natalia seized Auguste and danced him round the room. Her blue chiffon teagown billowed round them, entwining his legs, a lacy feather from the white trimmings flew up his nose and made him sneeze. But he remained in heaven. ‘There, you are Prince Florizel, my Harlequin. How do you like dancing in the ballet?’

  ‘Mon ange, I want you to myself, not share you with all those people out there.’ He waved a hand towards the flowers adorning the balcony.

  ‘And what will you tell me when we are alone?’ She whirled him dexterously round a chaise longue. ‘There, that is the end of the Casse-Noisette – the Nutcracker.’

  ‘I will tell you that—’ he began solemnly, only to find her laughing at him. ‘I cannot be serious while you laugh,’ he complained, kissing her.

  ‘Then let us speak of solemn things,’ she said.

  ‘Eggs for example,’ said Auguste severely. ‘Fabergé eggs.’

  ‘Now you make me laugh again. So your Inspector Rose has come after all. I told you he would.’

  ‘Do you still see the Grand Duke?’ asked Auguste jealously.

  ‘Yes of course. Why not? But we are no longer amoureux.’ She planted a kiss behind his ear. ‘So I will help you find this burglar,’ she told him. ‘I would like to see my beautiful egg again.’

  ‘How will you help?’

  ‘I know all these people. I think, you see,’ she frowned, ‘this burglar is of society himself – he knows the ways. I know these people. You do not,’ she pointed out. ‘Voilà, I help.’ She sprang up. ‘And now—’

  ‘And now I will thank you,’ said Auguste firmly, pulling her down once more on to the chaise longue. The gratitude took a considerable time to express in fitting manner.

  Chapter Three

  Lord Westbourne, envoy to the Niger Conference on behalf of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, stomped round the Villa des Roses in impotent displeasure. Impotent, because he could give no vent to his feelings; displeasure because he would personally far rather be either at Monte Carlo or at Pratt’s where a fellow could at least relax. He was too old to enjoy playing cricket and Cannes didn’t even have a decent casino; be damned if he was going to pay through the nose to join the Cercle Nautique just for the sake of one game. Thirty francs? Outrageous. Besides, they played baccarat there, still unacceptable in England, and the less, as Her Majesty’s Envoy, he knew about that the better, if His Royal Highness was going to play. His relations with the Prince were sufficiently strained already, thanks to Her Gracious Majesty’s trust in him, and he didn’t fancy being cast in the Prince’s eyes as his mother’s spy in Cannes. Ten to one, the Prince would oppose his membership anyway.

  ‘Darling.’ Lady Westbourne swept into the room, dressed by Worth and half a dozen maidservants, ready for the drive to the port for the foundation-stone ceremony. Dora Westbourne, fair-haired, and steely-eyed, looked superbly beautiful, and utterly uninterested in her ‘darling’. The fair hair was helped by dye to the Lillie Langtry de rigueur shade, and marcel-waved. The dress was rock-pigeon grey silk, the latest Paris fashion for Lent. She was no Kallinkova.

  Her husband regarded her dispassionately. He wondered if that small, almost feline, face lit up when she met her lover, whoever he was – although he had a shrewd idea whom she had her eye on now. Now that he was away half the time on this damned conference, he’d noticed she hardly seemed as eager to see him on his return as two months’ chastity might suggest. Fortunately there had been La Belle Mimosa in Paris – until their last meeting, that is. He cringed at the memory of her screams and threats to kill him if he didn’t provide more money . . . But he’d put a stop to that, and, thank heavens, he was sure he’d seen the last of her.

  Dora’s lover was another matter. He suspected the devil must be in Cannes now, hence her sudden enthusiasm for renting a villa down here – so that ‘I’ll be here when you can take time off from your boring conference, darling’. And that had meant they’d had to pay £1,000 for a whole season although they needed only two months. Dora had even agreed to attend the match – highly suspicious. A sudden alarming thought struck him. Her lover couldn’t be H.R.H. himself, could it? His passion for Lady Warwick was fading at long last. No, Dora wasn’t his type – though she had a fancy for princes, of course.

  He’d have to face her with it, though, after the revealing conversation he’d had with the Russian ambassador in London about Fabergé eggs. The ambassador was a friend of the Grand Duke Igor’s, and the fellow had told him about the Grand Duke’s extra-marital enthusiasms (carefully edited, had Lord Westbourne then appreciated it) and his method of their termination with a Fabergé egg. Lord Westbourne, guffawing with all the satisfaction of a husband with nothing to worry about, had noticed a remarkable similarity between the ladies named by the ambassador and the victims of the jewel thefts that were the talk of London society. Thereupon two nail-heads had been more squarely hit than he intended. Firstly, with a startling dexterity that would have amazed the Niger Conference, he juxtaposed information gathered from two quite different social circles and reached a conclusion about the identity of the cat-burglar, a conclusion he felt impelled to pass on to Scotland Yard if only to clear the matter from his mind.

  The second nail-head had led him to think further about that odd ruby theft of their own. Now he knew all these Fabergé eggs had rubies in too, it had made him not only wonder, but pretty certain. If Dora, who had behaved very oddly about the theft, had had one of those eggs, that meant she’d not only known the Grand Duke, but known him rather well. Not that Igor was her lover now. He sighed, as the depressing truth of her current amour swept over him again. He was going to have a word with her about that.

  The landau progressed down the Rue du Fréjus and onto the Quai de St Pierre. They bowed to the inhabitants of carriages on either side of them, all bound in the same direction. This wasn’t the time or place for frank discussion. Still, he had to do it before he spoke to the inspector tomorrow.

  ‘Who will be at this silly old match?’ Dora inquired, twiddling her parasol carelessly.

  ‘Gentlemen or Players?’ he grunted.

  ‘Which are which?’

  Lord Westbourne was apoplectic. Dammit, the woman was a fool. Or was she? He shot a sharp glance at her. ‘The English are the Gentlemen, of course, the foreign johnnies the Players. We’ve got Harry Washington for us, naturally.’

  Naturally England’s famous amateur cricketer would be playing at Cannes. Wherever society was, there was Harry Washington, tall, slim, handsome and, above all, eligible.

  ‘Then there’s that johnny in the Colonial Office, Tucker, Rachel Gray’s husband, and that poet fellow and of course H.R.H. himself.’ And a fat lot of use he’d be to the side. Westbourne knew he wasn’t much of a bat himself, but he was W. G. Grace himself compared to H.R.H. He related the other members of the team, keeping a careful eye on an apparentl
y fascinated Dora.

  ‘And on the other side?’

  ‘The Grand Duke Igor, of course. That stuffed shirt, Trepolov, and some other foreign count or other.’

  He still watched her narrowly. Occasionally he remembered the time when he used to call her puss and he was her great big roaring lion. Unfortunately the puss had grown into something uncommonly like a cat – and at the moment one who had licked the cream. The cream? Surely not. The dreadful possibility that it was indeed H.R.H. raised itself again. After all, he flattered himself, he resembled the Prince of Wales, and Dora had a penchant for beards, as well as princes.

  ‘Now, Dora,’ he said casually, as the landau rattled over the cobbles into the Allées de la Liberté, which on this March morning was thronged with crowds come to see the heir to the British throne lay the foundation stone for their new jetty. ‘I’m meeting a fellow from Scotland Yard tomorrow afternoon after the match. I’ve got some information on who took your . . . ruby.’

  There was an infinitesimal pause before the last word as he caught himself at the last moment. It did not go unnoticed, and the correct inference was made. A parasol snapped shut abruptly, as Dora thought through all the consequent ramifications. She would have preferred her husband knew nothing about the affair with dear Igor. Indeed, she hardly remembered it herself. It was as boring as her current amour. The time had come to tell the latter so too. It had upset all her plans to find he was coming to Cannes. After all, the other he would be here too. The last thing she wanted was an inquisition by her husband on the past, when the present was so much more on her mind. She could not speak to him today, but tomorrow at the match she . . .

  Natalia Kallinkova danced a pirouette of pleasure in the small (by Cannes’ standards) Villa Lavendre on the route de Fréjus and glided sensuously into The Awakening of Flora. Enough of dull old practice for today. Now, regaled in sober gunmetal grey, albeit enlivened with bright pink trimmings, and pearls, and a pink hat with matching feathers that the Ladies Page of the Illustrated London News would undoubtedly classify as provocative, she was waiting for Auguste, to escort her to the opening ceremony. She was happy, oh how happy she was. It had been a good idea to give her ten-year benefit performance at the Hermitage Theatre and receive the usual hideous Imperial brooch from the Tsar as a reward. Now she could please herself, for her reputation was assured. She had danced in London, in Paris, now Monte Carlo, next Vienna, and then, perhaps, back to Russia. How pleased Igor would be to hear that. She laughed to herself.

  Poor Igor. She was still fond of him, despite everything – she recalled the first time he had invited her along the corridor from the theatre to the Winter Palace for late supper. He had seemed so big, so devoted, and the most generous man in the world. Of course, as with many other generous people, she had noticed small acts of incredible meanness even then. Still, ballerinas needed the patronage of a Grand Duke, even an exiled one. Indeed, his exile had been a positive advantage, while she was still with the Imperial Ballet. Dear Igor. For now, with everything going right for her, he was her dear Igor again. She remembered the small dacha at Tsarkoie Selo during his visit to Russia one summer, their meetings in London and occasionally in Cannes. Here it had been more difficult since discretion was necessary. How nervous he’d been to see her yesterday, as her carriage had passed his on his way to the Golf Links. She smiled. She enjoyed being here in Cannes, oh how she was enjoying it.

  And one of her pleasures was Auguste. He might not be a Grand Duke, but he was infinitely more subtle – in every way. Ah, those eloquent dark eyes. How seriously he took himself, until she mocked him gently and then he would laugh at himself, take her in his arms . . . Ah. Such a pity he remained devoted to some mysterious lady in Paris. Perhaps one day she’d try to help . . . when love had passed.

  ‘Mon chéri, ma galantine, mon foie gras,’ she cried as Auguste was shown into the morning room by her maid. She hurtled towards him and he caught her slim body against him in his arms, rejoicing at its lack of need for artificial support beneath the silk dress.

  ‘I am not a foie gras, dearest,’ he murmured lovingly, but reproachfully. ‘All that fat. I am’ – he paused for reflection – ‘une truffe de Provence and your beloved.’ He kissed her somewhat unrestrainedly after his enthusiastic welcome, and then hurriedly remembering etiquette, glanced round for the maid.

  ‘You need not worry about Marie. She is used to me. Alors, Auguste, you have a look on your face as if you wish to partake of one of Carter’s Little Liver Pills – you have found a murder?’

  ‘Murder? Mais non. But two mysteries. One is that of Inspector Rose and the six Fabergé eggs. About which you know. Dearest, do stop dancing around,’ he complained, his attention diverted to the beautiful instep fleetingly on view. Only last night, he’d caressed it – ‘As one of them is yours,’ he continued reproachfully.

  ‘Yes.’ She flashed him a smile as she picked up her parasol. He opened his mouth, but realised there was nothing more to say on the subject.

  ‘So what have you discovered so far?’ she said brightly.

  ‘I—’ Auguste was checkmated. No wonder Russians were so good at chess. It was unfair. How could he have found out anything so quickly?

  ‘To find things out, ma chérie, one must first have decided the recipe and ingredients. And even more important – the reason for the recipe.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ she said meekly.

  ‘Chérie, do not flutter your eyelids at me. I am right.’

  ‘Ah, but I know,’ she laughed. ‘Now, have you discovered the reason for our burglar’s recipe?’

  ‘I thought perhaps blackmail, but that cannot be as the ladies could simply deny the eggs belonged to them. It is not like incriminating letters. So, it has to be for the sake of the rubies – which is the most likely as the Petrov Diamond has also been threatened, so Inspector Rose tells me.’

  ‘The what?’ she inquired.

  ‘The Petrov Diamond. The Grand Duke had a letter threatening that it would be stolen. And tomorrow the Grand Duchess wears it – darling, you do not listen.’

  ‘I am sorry, Auguste. I was thinking of the burglar,’ she said contritely. ‘He knows very much about us all, does he not? I think we will find it is someone known well to us all.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Auguste eagerly, determined not to lose the status of superior investigator. ‘It could be a valet or maid chatting indiscreetly to a tradesman.’

  ‘Ah, but I do not tell Marie about my egg. I tell no one. So it must be Igor who talks. Voilà, someone in society.’ She paused. ‘Someone here now.’

  ‘And there is the Seventh Egg also. You can tell me where La Belle Mimosa lives?’ he asked eagerly.

  She laughed. ‘Better than that, mon chéri, I will show you the lady herself. She will be there at the ceremony, of course. I will introduce you.’

  ‘You know her?’ Auguste was scandalised, using the word with its full social import.

  ‘Of course,’ she laughed. ‘She and I, we are alike – we are in society, but not of it. She is exquisite, La Belle Mimosa. There is a fountain here, erected last year; it is sculpted into interesting and beautiful shapes – mostly those of La Belle Mimosa; I will introduce you, but I will watch you carefully, Auguste.’

  ‘You need not fear,’ he replied devotedly. He hesitated as she stepped gracefully into the carriage. ‘You are sure you wish me to ride at your side?’ he inquired awkwardly.

  She reached out her hand. ‘Yes,’ she answered simply. ‘Why not?’

  Why not? Auguste thought of the complex laws of society, of her reputation as one of the greatest ballerinas of the day, and his respect for her grew. He climbed up beside her.

  ‘And now, chéri,’ she announced happily, ‘you will tell me of your other case.’

  ‘Ah, the ghost.’

  Ghost? A smile came to her lips. ‘You are a ghost-hunter. Bravo, mon héro.’

  ‘I have seen it,’ retorted Auguste huffily. ‘It is the Man in
the Iron Mask.’

  ‘Ah, my friend, you read too many romances. I let you hunt your ghost, while I dance, I think.’

  ‘You may laugh, chérie,’ said Auguste with dignity. ‘But until I have laid this ghost to rest, I shall not rest. No matter where the quest might lead me,’ he perorated in a manner of which Rachel Gray would have approved.

  Rachel Gray waved a languid hand towards her husband, a cold compress clutched to her brow with the other.

  Cyril Tucker sighed. He supposed he should have expected trouble, renting the Villa Sardou where her namesake, the famous tragedienne Rachel, had died. He should have foreseen his wife would metamorphose herself. Really, it was much easier to live with her on her occasional forays into comedy.

  ‘Fetch me—’ Rachel paused. What could she ask for? Nothing came to mind, ‘Ah, it is too much,’ she said, defeated. ‘I cannot go. I lack the strength.’

  She did not look as if she lacked strength, her Junoesque figure stretched out on the chaise longue, black hair floating round her.

  ‘My dear,’ murmured Tucker on cue, but coming in with the wrong line. ‘It is the Prince of Wales we are to honour after all.’

  A savage look was his reward. ‘What have I to do with princes?’ Rachel demanded feebly. ‘Art is my only mistress.’

  Belatedly Cyril remembered the correct line, privately thinking a mistress of any kind might not be a bad idea. ‘My dear,’ he cried obediently, ‘you have a duty to the public.’

  ‘True.’

  Rachel rose briskly to her feet, suddenly all practicality. ‘Have you summoned the carriage? Is the mistral blowing? Shall I wear this’ – putting an ornate confection of blue on her head – ‘or this?’ The blue was replaced by an even more elaborate red hat. ‘And where is Mephistopheles?’

  ‘Here, my angel.’ Tucker was on cue this time, handing over the sullen bulldog gladly. It had been acquired nearly four years previously, not out of a great love for dogs, but in a bid to even up the score with her rival Mrs Patrick Campbell, and partly in a bid to pay tribute to Mr Jones’s poetic drama Saints and Sinners in the hope of a summons for his next play. Both bids had failed, and Mephistopheles returned with relief to the servants’ room where he now remained except on state occasions. This was one.