Murder At The Masque (10 page)

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. Not 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.

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.