Murder At The Masque Page 8

  Natalia Kallinkova cared not two kopeks for her reputation, and it said much for her charm that she remained welcome almost everywhere.

  ‘A prima ballerina can do anything, go anywhere, no matter what she does,’ she once told Auguste, laughing. ‘When she is no longer prima, then she begs for her living. Today, why, I can do no wrong. Courted by princes and smiled on by hostesses.’

  ‘Now tell me, Monsieur Sherlock,’ when she had drawn Auguste away, ‘where is your bad man?’

  ‘How can I tell?’ he said in despair. ‘But there,’ he nodded towards the Grand Duchess, and towards the dagger, ‘there are his trophies, and I think he is here.’

  ‘I think you are right, mon chou,’ she said seriously, ‘and so I shall detect too. Voilà,’ her slim figure turned towards the crowd, skirts billowing, ‘I shall begin with the oh so handsome Monsieur Washington.’

  Harry Washington, Auguste considered again. He was active, and popular in society all over London. But at the moment he looked seriously discomposed, despite Natalia’s presence. He was indeed. He was still recovering from the shock of Dora Westbourne’s arching her body sensuously towards him, with fluttering fan and eyelashes, and announcing: ‘At last, Harry, when my husband leaves for Paris, then I will be yours.’

  She had departed, full of womanly happiness at the precious gift she was about to bestow. Washington, on the other hand, was as white as though he, too, had seen the Ghost of the Man in the Iron Mask. His flirtation with Dora had been a purely social ritual, based on the knowledge that that stuffed shirt Trepolov was her lover. What had happened? What the hell was he going to do? He couldn’t spurn Lady Westbourne, for fear of her making trouble with Lord Westbourne. One word from him and doors that Washington depended on being open would be well and truly slammed. He’d got to stride out on to the field as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

  There was a sudden flurry as the footmen, in blue livery with the Romanov crest emblazoned on it, snapped to attention at a sign from the Grand Duke, and two portly middle-aged, bearded gentlemen appeared: one was Lord Westbourne, the other the heir to the throne of the British Empire. A path between swishing skirts opened like the Red Sea, as the cream of Cannes society curtsied or bowed. Albert Edward was going to do his duty by England.

  Twenty minutes later, Lord Westbourne, in his self-appointed role of escort to reluctant royalty, stood opposite the Grand Duke Igor, flanked by two of Fouchard’s men, looking very out of place and sandwiching the Prince of Wales, already bemoaning his lot – What the devil did they have to drag him on to the field now for? Foundation stones he understood, cricket he was far less happy about. Why couldn’t these pesky English over here settle their accounts over a good round of golf?

  The coin spun in the air. The Grand Duke Igor, Lord Westbourne and even the Prince of Wales watched its fateful path expectantly.

  ‘The Three Graces.’ Auguste heard an irreverent onlooker remark of the three identical stalwart backsides bent forward over the coin. A Gentleman turned belligerently. ‘Do not speak slightingly of the great W. G., sir. Or his esteemed brothers. You’re a disgrace to England.’

  ‘Me,’ shouted the Grand Duke, in an un-English display of triumph, as the die was cast. ‘We bat, yes?’

  Deploring this lack of finesse, which confirmed their view of all foreigners, the Gentlemen took the field. ‘I show you who are Gentlemen,’ muttered the Grand Duke gleefully.

  He elected to put Count Nicolai Trepolov and Bastide in first, saving himself for a grand appearance later. He had at last grasped the fact that to bat No. 11, as he had originally intended, was not the best position to play and indeed could be said to have some opprobium attached to it, but nevertheless decided that he might be able to make a dramatic appearance to save the day. He slapped Bastide on the back. ‘You first, mon brave. On you rests the glory of Rus – um – Europe.’

  Bastide was by no means overcome with this honour. Batting was not his forte, and the Vandervilles were watching. On the other hand, Lord Westbourne was bowling. A steely resolve entered his soul. Did the English not boast that Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton? Very well, here at Cannes would Africa be resolved. The beginning of the overthrow of the British Empire from which the French Empire would rise triumphant.

  And the match began.

  The spectators, or rather those who could spare the time from the rather more important matters of discussing hats, hairstyles and Home Rule, according to sex, seated themselves on the raised verandah. Outside the luncheon tent Auguste watched the match for a few moments, trying to refrain from rushing into the tent to supervise. The disaster that would surely follow for luncheon was nothing to do with him, he tried to remind himself. He could watch the cricket. His part was done. Seeing him standing there, Natalia left her seat and came up to him. ‘Voilà, Auguste. So you are a cricket man.’

  ‘I am not,’ retorted Auguste decidedly. ‘The sounds go well with a summer’s day, and the smell of new-mown grass. Even the sight has sometimes elegance. And the passions it arouses. But one should think beautiful thoughts, not watch it.’ He shrugged. ‘Nor do I understand the game. Why every five balls do they all walk round the pitch?’

  ‘It is a rule,’ she laughed. ‘And a very important one. A bitter battle is fought as to whether it should be six or five or four. More blood is split over such decisions than over the Niger River, mon ami.’

  ‘But why walk around at all?’ asked Auguste doggedly. ‘The French are a logical nation, and know that rules must have some purpose. But look at that!’

  There were cries of un-English triumph emanating from the pitch as a lithe wild-eyed Napoleon proceeded to hit his Duke of Wellington’s stately best all over the battlefield. The Russian score was mounting as fast as Lord Westbourne’s concern. Trepolov had some sense of decency and didn’t go attacking the ball like some damned dervish. But this dreadful Corsican costermonger type was another matter, and after another over he took himself off and put on Harry Washington, and the English team regained their momentarily shaken complacency.

  Alas, Harry Washington was not in his usual form, still trembling at the fate that had befallen him.

  ‘Where is Inspector Rose?’ hissed Kallinkova absently, her eye on a ball making resolutely for the boundary. ‘Why is he not here looking for his burglar?’

  ‘He has gone to see La Belle Mimosa,’ replied Auguste. ‘Then he will come. He had to ensure the safety of the Seventh Egg.’ He stopped. What was that thought that had flashed so quickly into his mind and gone? Something about the thief and the Petrov Diamond.

  ‘Of course,’ said Natalia, watching Nicolai Trepolov running between the wickets, almost as enthusiastic as if he had a bee net in his hand.

  ‘Yo heave ho,’ carolled Boris happily, coming up beside them, safeguarding the honour of Russia by alternately taking mouthfuls from the vodka bottle and testing katushki.

  ‘Monsieur Boris, the blinis. Have you prepared them?’ yelped Auguste.

  Boris looked blank. An enormous hand smote a forehead. Grimly, Auguste marched back through the tent into the kitchen, with a contrite Boris trailing behind. The blinis organised, Auguste whirled on a plate of salted herrings that should by now be in the luncheon tent. Could any civilised palate eat such abominations?

  ‘Do not worry. Blinis will be done. Do not worry, please, Diddiums,’ Boris assured him anxiously. ‘You have some vodka, yes?’

  ‘La soupe,’ moaned Auguste in despair, noticing the vast canister standing unheated on the floor. ‘The soup, Monsieur Boris.’

  Even in the midst of his despair, however, suddenly he stopped still. That errant niggle had returned. Egbert Rose was not here, for Westbourne was not going to see him until after the match. But why? he asked himself. If Westbourne knew who this burglar was, and the burglar was thought to be here, and the Petrov Diamond was here, not to mention the dagger, why did he not tell Rose immediately, so that the danger could be averted?

 
He tried to arrange his thoughts methodically, as though this were a galantine to be prepared. This was hard with Boris crashing around, with two Villa Russe kitchenmaids in his wake. Either, he reasoned, the burglar was not going to be here and Lord Westbourne knew it, or the burglar was not interested in daggers or diamonds. Only eggs. And the only unstolen egg (so far as they knew) was in the possession of La Bella Mimosa, who was hardly likely to be present at a cricket match. Auguste frowned. The logic was good, the ingredients were laid out correctly – from them he should be able to recognise the receipt. And yet he could not. Something was still lacking.

  Egbert Rose was sorely lacking something too – the stamina provided by Mrs Rose’s usual morning offering of burnt toast and kedgeree or kipper. Say what you like, but this stale bread they served here was no substitute. He knocked on the door of the ornate villa rented by La Belle Mimosa, and appropriately named the Villa des Camélias.

  He was shown into an elegant morning room and was inspecting a garish painting of one of those can-can dancer ladies in Paris and wondering what the fellow was like who had painted it, when a vision hurled itself through the door bearing no resemblance whatever to her villa’s gentle namesake. Already at a disadvantage being caught examining such a compromising picture, he was rendered speechless by the tigerish tawny eyes in their flaming yellow setting. La Belle Mimosa believed in setting a style and keeping to it. Rose was well used to ‘unfortunate women’ in the Haymarket but unfortunate didn’t seem quite the word to apply to La Belle Mimosa.

  ‘Yes,’ she stormed, ‘what do you want?’

  ‘Inspector Rose, ma’am, Scotland Yard?’

  ‘You wish to become my lover?’ she inquired sharply.

  Rose turned brick-red, a vision of Mrs Rose in her Sunday best flitting before him.

  ‘No, thank you, ma’am,’ he replied as impassively as he could. Then thinking this rather bald for a French lady, added unwisely, ‘Though I’m sure that would be very nice.’

  She looked him up and down pityingly.

  ‘You have possibilities,’ she remarked dismissively and devastatingly.

  He gulped, almost swayed into inquiring what those possibilities might be, but struggled determinedly back to the matter in hand.

  ‘I’ve come about the Fabergé egg I understand you possess.’

  At once she was all practicality, saying briskly, ‘Ah, merci. You come to warn me it is to be stolen, yes?’

  ‘Possibly, ma’am. It is, I gather, the only one given by the Grand Duke Igor that remains, and we have reason to believe the burglar is still in Cannes.’ What reason, he wondered, come to think of it? He was only acting on information received. Suppose it were wrong? The Grand Duke had firmly maintained only six existed, and only the most persistent questioning had brought forth reluctant admission of the possibility of a seventh.

  ‘When do you catch him, this burglar?’ she inquired. ‘At the cricket match today?’

  ‘Lord Westbourne,’ he began unguardedly, only to see the kitten once more turn into the raging tigress.

  ‘That salaud. Ah, all men – they take what they want, but they do not wish to pay. They gave me not true things but fakes!’ She picked up a porcelain shepherdess and threw it across the room for emphasis. Rose ducked just in time. She did not notice. ‘But he will pay, that one. No one scorns La Belle Mimosa. He is at the cricket match today? Bon. I will come. I will tell everyone what he is like,’ she shouted, raising a clenched fist in a manner of which Bastide would have approved.

  Rose wondered if Auguste would notice if he didn’t turn up. Suddenly London’s familiar den of villains seemed a quiet, desirable place to be.

  The Grand Duke, having marched in, according to plan, to save the honour of Russia, stood poised to crown his side’s triumphant innings. Unfortunately he now faced Cyril Tucker. Who would have thought this placid man could be so deceptive? It wasn’t fair. He bowled straightforwardly, deceptively simply. It was only by luck the Grand Duke managed to have his bat in the way of the ball, and the bat pushed it quietly to leg. Igor eyed the next ball with misgivings, and began to be exceedingly grateful that the Prince of Wales had declined to field, and thus would not be a witness should anything of an unfortunate nature occur.

  Their interest in cricket long since exhausted, three ladies were chatting on the Pavilion verandah, a discussion which led by devious means to a cautious discussion of stolen rubies, a fiction in which two of them had almost come to believe.

  ‘Did you hear about my Fabergé egg?’ asked Natalia provocatively, still mindful of her detective mission. Attention thus riveted on her, it did not take long before full confession of the true nature of the ruby thefts was made.

  ‘You mean,’ gurgled Natalia innocently, ‘that we all had Fabergé eggs? What a generous Grand Duke. And there were three more – er – ruby thefts recently,’ she added with relish. ‘I wonder if by any chance . . .’

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘What a busy Grand Duke,’ commented Dora thoughtfully.

  Even Rachel Gray joined in the laughter that followed. It was after all well in the past, and he had been a Grand Duke after all.

  ‘The inspector believes the burglar is here in Cannes,’ chattered Natalia. ‘In fact, here today. Either a cricketer or a guest.’

  ‘Here? Now?’ They regarded her in horror as each woman quickly ran through her mind the possible unpleasant consequences of any further investigations into the identity of the burglar.

  ‘But why? For what?’ Rachel inquired plaintively. They all turned to gaze at the Grand Duchess’s chest.

  ‘For the jewelled dagger perhaps.’ Natalia paused. ‘Or the Seventh Egg—’ she added offhandedly.

  ‘The Seventh Egg?’ her two listeners chorused.

  ‘Oh yes, didn’t you know? I’m not sure who it belongs to,’ Natalia lied happily. She liked to set cats among pigeons. ‘Oh, do look at what’s happening there.’ She waved a hand towards the field. Enough of Seventh Eggs.

  The Duke had become increasingly nervous with each over, finally being so unnerved that he advanced to meet one ball, to end the agony, and hit it fair and square almost by mistake. As it sailed high into the air, fourteen pairs of fascinated eyes on the field watched its progress. Now on the verandah chatting ceased in amazement as all the fielders raced towards the boundary in pursuit of an ostrich, which with a definite gleam in its eye had run off with the ball.

  ‘Why not fetch another ball?’ asked Auguste practically of the Pavilion steward, as he noticed the commotion from the luncheon tent.

  ‘It is the rules, Monsieur,’ was the shocked reply. The steward, being a fixture, was English.

  The ostrich rather reluctantly ceded its prey but the Grand Duke was lbw next ball. The announcement of luncheon coincided with the end of the Players’ innings for 79 runs. The Gentlemen were aghast. Dammit, cricket was their game – something had to be done.

  Swelling visibly with pride, the Russians swept into lunch like a troop of Cossacks, Bastide sandwiched triumphantly between them. As if bolstered by their at least creditable showing, they proceeded to do equal justice to luncheon, katushki included. Even the Prince of Wales, depressed at the thought of the ordeal to come, cheered up at the sight of the food. These Russians didn’t do themselves badly, did they? That salted herring salad looked good.

  ‘How goes the ghost hunt?’ whispered Natalia as she passed by Auguste who was anxiously superintending the tables. ‘I heard he has appeared several times in the old town and the Cannois say it is not a good sign. It is said,’ she lowered her voice dramatically, ‘that he only appears to his own countrymen, so alas I cannot see him. And that death or misfortune comes in his wake.’

  ‘But what countrymen? It depends,’ said Auguste gulping, determined not to be thrown off track as a detective, ‘on who you believe he is. If Louis the fourteenth’s brother, or Molière, French, if Colonel Barclay or the Duke of Monmouth, English, or if Matthioli, Italian. And if th
is new contender Eustache Dauger—’ He broke off. ‘Ah, you laugh at me,’ he said indignantly.

  ‘Just a little,’ she admitted. ‘I like to see your eyes flash. So deep, so dark.’ She patted his hand and moved on.

  Auguste blushed involuntarily. There was something about Russian women, particularly those that sweetened life in Europe. Natalia – and Tatiana. For a moment melancholy overtook him, then he dispelled it. He was on holiday. Egbert was here, and everything was splendid. Except for the sanglier.

  The sound of raised voices made him realise that in fact things were far from splendid so far as this party was concerned. He was a connoisseur of the atmosphere of parties and this was not right. Was it the food? There had been no complaints yet, but surely they must come? Or was it the rivalry of cricket? There was certainly a simmering tension somewhere . . . He decided to take round a tray of savouries – that abomination so beloved of the English – to try to discover what the trouble was. He did not have long to wait.

  The soi-disant descendant of the Man in the Iron Mask, Bastide, was locked in conversation – if that was the word – with Lord Westbourne. ‘I tell you the French flag will hang above Borea,’ he shouted. ‘Au diable with your Royal Niger Company. Our flag will hang in Guinea; it will hang in Australia. All your empire will crumble.’ He paused to take a mouthful of caviar d’aubergines from Auguste’s proffered tray. It really was delicious. ‘As I said . . .’

  Lord Westbourne was listening stolidly as he had listened to similar speeches in Paris for the last six months. This latest crisis was nothing. Pretty soon some kind of compromise would be reached, the flags would be hung out to celebrate and they could all go home and watch some decent cricket. Watch, not play. He’d better make sure these Frenchies toed the line before W. G.’s Jubilee on his fiftieth birthday in July. Good God, what a thought. Better make it a June settlement – provided it didn’t conflict with the Derby or Ascot. Get the work over before then, sign it later. He’d have a word with Tucker. He was at the Whitehall end. Excusing himself, he moved across to join Cyril Tucker. He was in the Colonial Office and could pull a string or two.