Murder At The Masque Read online

  Off the coast of Cannes, the destroyer Cosmao let off a salvo, and a stir ran through the crowd. A little off-key, the 12th Regiment of the Line struck up with ‘The Marseillaise’, the men of the 7th Regiment of Chasseurs Alpins stood to attention. Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, heir to the throne of the British Empire, was on his way.

  An elderly Cannois, walking by the rows of seats where Auguste was sitting, spat. ‘Les anglais,’ he muttered.

  ‘Oui, mon ami,’ Auguste said placatingly, and hearing this expression of sympathy the Cannois stopped and spat again.

  ‘Look at the place,’ the elderly resident expostulated. ‘Ruined by the English. It’s never been the same since that Lord Broogam’ (as he pronounced it) ‘came here, matter of sixty years ago. Then the others, building houses all over the place. Why, I remember this road’ – he pointed to the glory of Cannes, the Boulevard de la Croisette – ‘when it didn’t have all these fancy palms and sugar canes. Nor this fancy sand either. Just a nice old lane and seashore, as le Bon Seigneur made it. Now look at it. Les hiverneurs, pah! Ruined,’ he spluttered indignantly. ‘Now they come and build new ports. What’s wrong with the old one? The modern world, monsieur, the modern world!’ Shaking his head sadly, he was about to continue on his way, when Auguste remember his second quest.

  ‘You remember Cannes in the old days, monsieur? You have heard of the Man in the Iron Mask?’

  ‘Mais oui, mon fils, and I remember you. The small boy of Monsieur Didier—’

  ‘Yes, monsieur. But tell me, have you heard of the ghost?’

  ‘Ah yes, monsieur. Rumour has it that when he walks, there is danger.’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘For those who see it – or for Cannes herself.’

  ‘But I have seen it,’ cried Auguste in alarm.

  The old man shook his head regretfully. ‘Then, monsieur, beware. Old Madame Briard saw it and the next day she was dead. Murdered,’ he said with gusto. ‘And Monsieur Pintard, too, and’ – remembering his grievance – ‘many people saw him the day before Lord Broogam arrived, and see what happened to our beautiful village! Pah – les hiverneurs.’

  Danger . . . Auguste frowned. There were no such things as ghosts. He would prove it, wouldn’t he?

  The portly man in late middle age with a splendid moustache and beard stood to attention as ‘God Save the Queen’ was played. He was duly presented with a silver trowel, far from the first in his long career, and duly cemented in stone the never-ending love-hate relationship of the French and English. He composed his features into the correct expression for the long flowery speech in his honour by the Mayor, only to find the agony extended into an equally long and flowery one by the Prefect. He then recited his own diplomatic hope that France might long enjoy the benefits of the Government of the Republic, and that cordial relations between France and Great Britain (so necessary for his own future enjoyment of the delights of Paris) ‘may long continue for the good of humanity’. He meant it. To him this stone was a symbol, an entente cordiale . . . Now that wasn’t a bad idea . . . When he was king . . .

  Chapter Four

  The Cannes Cricket Club had begun enthusiastically at the end of the 1880s, but had had an existence as bumpy as its pitch. The Mediterranean climate simply did not understand the demands of cricket. Nevertheless the English pressed on doggedly. Golf was all very well, ran their thinking, but cricket was England. The French remained unconvinced. Perhaps as a result of their lack of enthusiasm, the pitch’s site had one or two disadvantages, the main one being the ostrich farm next door whose occupants took all too much interest in their neighbour’s movements. In the tradition of good sportsmen, the English put up with it.

  The same tradition led them to erect a pavilion as reminiscent of Lord’s as they could manage handicapped by French workmen. It was somewhat more squat, and the balconies became one covered verandah, but the results satisfied them that they had done their duty by England, and the British flag flew proudly from the roof.

  The symbol of the flag was mainly responsible for the club receiving the ultimate accolade this year – the presence (albeit unwilling) of the Prince of Wales. No lover of cricketing politics, he had successfully evaded the club in his previous private annual visits to Cannes. This year, with yesterday’s ceremony, the club had taken the mean advantage of assuming he was here officially, and requested him to bat for the honour of England, appointing him honorary captain. Trapped, he had reluctantly agreed on condition that he bat No. 11, and on no account would he be called upon to field, let alone to bowl. This compromise (since the Prince’s girth made his presence on the field more of a liability than an asset) suited everyone.

  However, a harassed Auguste was far from appreciating the enormous advantage the presence of the Prince bestowed upon the proceedings.

  ‘Monsieur Boris, you cannot put the ballotine on the hot kitchener,’ shouted Auguste, agonised beyond endurance as he rushed round the small kitchen in the Pavilion, normally designed to provide only gateaux, ices and sandwiches.

  ‘Yis. Yis, Diddiums.’

  Auguste flinched at this Ukrainian crassness.

  ‘Here, I put it on the table.’ Boris was unusually anxious to please. Auguste had not yet noticed the non-appearance of his sanglier. Boris rushed from the kitchen into the luncheon tent erected by the side of the Pavilion, hotly pursued by Auguste, determined that no Russian should mar the perfection of a table which he had himself approved.

  Left to himself, he would have served a Provencal feast of tapenades and fresh crusty bread, small succulent sardines and anchovies, oysters and langoustines, thick slices of country ham, petites cailles, a salade de mesclun, and the red sweet tomatoes of Provence. But such simple fare he knew full well would be disdained. For all the Prince of Wales’s love of plain food, it had to be English. So now they had a mixture of Russian dishes, including meatballs, mixed with over-sauced, rich fare. This meal would be a disaster, and he, maître chef Auguste Didier, was associated with it. Only the sanglier would save his reputation. The sanglier! A sudden fear gripped him.

  ‘Monsieur Boris,’ in awe-filled tones, ‘where is the sanglier?’

  Boris looked innocently puzzled. ‘The sanglier. Ah, Monsieur Didier—’ broad hand smote brow. ‘It is left behind. What catastrophe,’ he said, beaming.

  Auguste regarded him. ‘Left behind?’ he repeated, unable to believe it. Suspicion began to grow on him. ‘We will send for it,’ he said firmly.

  ‘It is gone,’ admitted Boris unhappily, edging back towards the kitchen.

  ‘Gone?’ repeated Auguste, neatly positioning himself between Boris and the door. ‘Gone? Eaten?’

  ‘Melted.’

  ‘No aspic of mine melts,’ Auguste pointed out. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It is dropped.’ Then seeing Auguste’s face, Boris added encouragingly: ‘You not worry, Diddiums. I, Boris, guard the honour of Mother Russia. Do not fear. They will remember today always.’

  Here, he was entirely correct. Auguste, however, was in no mood to consider the future when the present seemed to hold only disaster.

  ‘They grind the faces of the poor and leave us only this,’ Boris continued morosely in a cunning bid for sympathy, picking up the vodka bottle.

  ‘Non,’ Auguste shouted. The affair of the sanglier must wait. A worse catastrophe stared at him in the shape of a bottle. ‘Not until after the meal, monsieur. I plead with you.’ He wondered anew what possible standard dinners could reach at the Villa Russe, when they were not able to import the services of an Auguste Didier.

  Reluctantly, the bottle was replaced on the cupboard, Boris’s hand lingering lovingly on it. ‘Come,’ said Auguste, overcoming his desire to pummel this wretched idiot with as little respect as he had treated his masterpiece of a sanglier, ‘we will check the coffee arrangements, yes?’

  Taking a reluctant Boris by the arm, he led him through the door into the salon where the participants and guests would shortly be gathering f
or the match. Refreshments would be served in the salon, while the combatants donned their battle gear for the fray in the changing room.

  Four footmen from the Villa Russe were busily and efficiently at work in the salon to Auguste’s surprise, but nevertheless he steered Boris bemusedly round the tables, checking the Harlequin decorations and the napkins folded cornucopia style.

  The salon was decorated with Phil May cricketing cartoons from Punch, photographs of past XIs, banqueting menus and old bats, all of which Inspector Fouchard, standing in one corner of the room, looking as out of place as W.G. Grace at a game of boules, regarded suspiciously as though just to spite him Nihilists or burglars might lurk behind this peaceful scene.

  The object he guarded lay on a velvet cushion on a silver salver – a sheathed dagger, hilt and sheath jewel-encrusted with diamonds, emeralds and rubies.

  ‘What,’ inquired Auguste, amazed at the incongruity, ‘is that?’ He expected Fouchard to reply. Instead, Boris suddenly became animated.

  ‘This,’ he said proudly, ‘is the jewelled dagger of the Romanovs. The Grand Duke, he will present it to the loser of the match. Next year, he give it to the new loser, and the same, and the same, and the same. In Russia, you killed yourself if you were handed this dagger. It is honour, you understand. Nowadays they do not insist. But it is disgrace to be presented with the dagger.’ He made a graphic gesture across his throat, gurgling with bull-like noises.

  Auguste was puzzled. ‘Disgrace? Like the Ashes in England?’

  ‘Ashes? What are Ashes?’

  Auguste ignored him, as he had never understood what the Ashes were himself. He frowned. Jewels? And shortly the Petrov Diamond would arrive somewhere on the person of the Grand Duchess – a double prize indeed for Egbert’s cat burglar. The ghost would have to wait. For the moment his services were needed here. If Egbert was right, and the thief moved in society, then he might undoubtedly be here today. Inspector Fouchard was no doubt most capable, but he looked to Auguste as if he lacked the finesse necessary to catch this particular gentleman. Whereas he, Auguste – modesty forbade him to continue the thought. Instead he suggested to Boris that he should return to the kitchen, leaving the final details to him.

  Boris beamed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I milk the cow.’

  ‘Hein?’

  ‘I milk the cow,’ repeated Boris patiently. ‘This,’ he swept a hand scathingly at the full milk jugs, ‘no good for Grand Duke. He drink only his own milk and bring his cow with him. You no worry, I do it.’

  He departed, leaving Auguste fervently thankful that even the more eccentric members of Plum’s hadn’t thought of that one.

  Under the wary eye of Inspector Fouchard, he turned his attention to the dagger. Here in a corner of the room, and guarded by the inspector or his men, the dagger would seem to be in no danger. But he was a clever man, this burglar, and two prizes presented themselves for him today. This dagger perhaps was an easier target than the Grand Duchess Anna. But when would he strike? During the match itself, when the gentlemen on the batting side would be on the verandah watching the game and the guests busily occupied in social converse? Or during luncheon when everyone was in the tent by the side of the Pavilion, and the guard could be tricked away? How would this burglar make himself invisible? Just like a ghost – he laughed to himself. He had ghosts on the brain.

  Auguste’s thoughts were arrested by the sound of high-pitched feminine laughter outside. The guests were beginning to arrive. He scurried back to the kitchen to galvanise the staff into action. Too late he recalled he had no authority here, but it was second nature to him, and in any case necessary.

  The gentlemen were flocking into the changing room, where talk was muted, sobered, by the realisation that the honour of their countries lay with them. In the salon, where Auguste was busily serving trays of croutons à l’Alberta and other delicacies, the women were more concerned with how the other ladies had solved the vexed question of dress. As it was mid-morning, carriage or morning dress should have prevailed; on the other hand, this event would continue until the evening. Normally a retiring room would be provided for ladies to change their dress several times accordingly as the day made its sartorial progression. Unfortunately the Pavilion lacked this facility, as the architect, a bachelor, had seen no need, even in Cannes, to yield one inch of this exclusively male bastion to female frivolities. Great thought therefore had to be devoted to the problem. Surreptitious glances on arrival revealed to the relief of all that there had been a consensus. Afternoon dress had prevailed. Silks, even muslins, light mousselines-de-soie and chiffon veiling floated everywhere, accompanied wisely by a pile of warm shawls.

  As the company regathered, Auguste began to pick out one or two faces from London. Strange to see them here – the tempestuous Rachel Gray (who had once thrown one of his timbales at an unforthcoming actor manager in the Galaxy Restaurant); the poet Alfred Hathaway, a new member of Plum’s; Henry Washington, a constant visitor at Gwynne’s, favourite of Emma Pryde (Auguste’s lips pursed grimly); Lady Westbourne, frequent visitor at Stockbery Towers some years ago – and a lively one too, he remembered. The fiery young man, he was told, was the Comte de Bonifacio, the eager-faced young girl on his arm an American heiress. A mere Corsican upstart, the footman sniffed. The tall stiff-backed man was Count Trepolov – ah, what ails him? He has a face like a fallen soufflé, Auguste thought.

  The hubbub of voices crescendoed, loosened by the coffee and plates of Auguste’s delicacies. In one corner, the Grand Duchess held court; in another, her husband, as befitted the challenger. What a good idea! Always before the Romanovs had been excluded from this cricket game; English only. But it had been his idea to challenge them! And they would win! He had been surreptitiously practising, and had made sure his team did also – all but one or two had valiantly complied. The rules were difficult, the English said, but that was nonsense. The ball comes, you hit it, you run, someone tells you if you are out; if they say nothing you stay in. Simple. And when you are all out, you all come in. Then you all play on the field and run about catching the other team. Igor was confident of victory.

  His voice grew louder, and every so often the low tones of the Grand Duchess could be heard too. As the crowd moved, Auguste saw from time to time the flash of the famous Petrov Diamond. He wanted to see it closer, so determinedly made his way towards her with a tray of croûtons with caviar, trying not to gaze too interestedly at her bosom where the diamond rested. But their eyes met over the plate; and a faint puzzlement flared into the Grand Duchess’s. Servants were not allowed to have eyes that were alive, that spoke of a person and not an automaton.

  Noticing this and realising the cause, Auguste hastily ducked his head deferentially and whisked away to the Grand Duke’s corner, where Rachel Gray momentarily had the advantage in noise level, a devoted Alfred Hathaway at her side. Cyril Tucker helped himself to a fillet of beef à la Provençale but nevertheless Auguste noticed he kept an eye on his wife’s doings. He was just about to enter the corridor on what was then the quicker route to the kitchen, when he overhead a sob and a plaintive, ‘My husband suspects, Nicolai. He is a brute, but I do think it better we part—’

  Nicolai? The tall Russian no doubt. He remained in the doorway an instant longer, time to hear an anguished, ‘Dora carissima. You cannot mean this. I live only for you.’ (And his bees, but strict truth was not necessary at such a time.)

  Alas, Dora did mean it, as was obvious when Auguste emerged into the corridor as she extricated herself gracefully from her companion and entered the salon once more, leaving a stricken Trepolov staring into the coffee cup Auguste pressed upon him as though it held the answers to woman’s fickleness.

  There was a limit to Dora’s interest in bees. She had been prepared to tolerate them for the sake of Nicolai’s handsome uniformed appearance and dark romantic gaze. But the delights of the latter had begun to pall. When the uniform was off, the results were by no means as exciting as she could have wished. No
t a patch on Igor – so far as she could recall. But whatever did Nicolai mean by hissing ‘Death before dishonour’ at her? How strange, she thought vaguely. These Russians were very odd.

  So Lady Westbourne had not changed, thought Auguste, smiling, since he had seen her at Stockbery Towers over six years ago now. Then her husband was always abroad, now he appeared to be with her, but it had not dampened her style, obviously.

  He picked up a tray of almond gauffres and returned to the fray.

  Bastide stood scornfully watching these English. Ah, if only they knew what awaited them. Vengeance should be his. Today, the battle for the glory of France must begin. He would tell Lord Westbourne that the French would never withdraw from Boussa. Furthermore the British flag at Borea should be hauled down. To the devil with international treaties. He began to pulse inside with excitement and dreams of future glory. He was only recalled to reality by Emmeline pulling at his arm.

  ‘Basty, do have one of these Krauts.’

  ‘Croûtons, dearest,’ cried Bastide, irritated, recalled from his dreams.

  Burglars? Auguste flashed around busily, trying to reconcile these people with Rose’s cat burglar. Bastide? Never. Trepolov was possible, the poet perhaps. Harry Washington. Now there was a possibility. Cyril Tucker – but it was all supposition. Even Rose had no proof that the cat burglar was in Cannes. Where had this rumour started? He frowned. It made sense, but there was something strange—

  ‘Garçon.’

  Lady Westbourne lifted an imperious finger, and after a quick glance round it was clear to Auguste that it was he who was summoned. Seething at this insult, he nevertheless obligingly presented himself.

  ‘The Prince of Wales is arriving with my husband. Make sure you have refreshments ready.’

  He bowed. But someone arrived before the Prince of Wales, pressing Auguste’s hand, to the intense disapproval of Lady Westbourne.