Murder At The Masque (12 page)

‘You do these?’ he asked an indignant Auguste.

‘
Non, monsieur
, I am not the cook.
There
is the cook.’ He pointed to a semi-comatose Boris and marched off indignantly to put down this tray as soon as possible. Never had he been so insulted.

Like Trepolov, his honour needed to be avenged.

Cyril Tucker was a quiet, amused observer of the scene. Always there. Never noticed. This was his job at the Colonial Office and he found it excellent practice in everyday life also. And particularly wise just at the moment with things
so tricky in Paris. Indeed it was almost essential with a wife like Rachel, who afforded him much quiet amusement as well as other pleasures (except after cricket matches). He kept his own counsel – usually. He’d had to tell her this latest problem since their affairs were so bound up with it, but she was so wrapped up in her own life, he thought it had hardly registered. He wondered whom she would select after Hathaway. He cast his eye round the room, but could see no likely contenders here. Ah, that young Corsican perhaps. Wouldn’t last long – he looked as if he might be rather too forthcoming on the physical side for Rachel, but nevertheless he had potential, and only one disadvantage: that pretty little girl who hung on to his every word.

As it happened, the nice little thing was not hanging on to Bastide’s words at all, but was in full flood about the glories of Boston, bicycling and tennis. Bastide listened with only half an ear. America had nothing to do with him. Europe must be conquered first. After this stupid conference, he would leave for Africa. For it was there that Empire must begin, and glory awaited him.
A bas les Anglais
, and Lord Westbourne in particular.

The luncheon was ending, as the hour of two-thirty approached and the match was due to begin again. The men, once more purposeful and no longer merely social adjuncts, strode forth, the English to bat, the Russians to field, and still the Grand Duchess’s bosom remained unmolested, as did the dagger under a gendarme’s eye.

Left behind were the staff and the washing up. This Auguste firmly refused to do. He would superintend the clearing of the food, however. It gave him professional interest to see what had been eaten, and what still remained. To his disgust, he found a number of plates of
katushki
had vanished. ‘Ah, the
ballotine
– not a trace remains. It has gone.’ Some slight satisfaction. Even more at the plates of
pyraniki
still remaining. He also felt a small sense of
pleasure that Soyer’s gold jelly remained untouched. Requested by the Grand Duchess, it was in his view a dish simply of expense, not of subtlety or taste. Typical of Alexis Soyer. All showmanship, no true art.

‘Auguste?’

‘Egbert. At last. I thought you had taken up residence with La Belle Mimosa.’

Rose glared at him. ‘Very funny. Is she here yet?’ He looked nervously around.

‘Here?’ Auguste asked with interest. ‘
Non
. I think I would have noticed.’

‘That’s all right, then,’ said Rose, relieved. ‘I thought she meant it. How’s it going here?’

‘No burglaries yet,
mon ami
. Not of the diamond. Nor of the dagger.’

‘The what?’

‘The Jewelled Dagger of the Romanovs,’ Auguste intoned impressively.

Rose groaned. ‘This case gets more and more like an issue of the
Strand Magazine
every day. If there
is
a case,’ he added. ‘You don’t think,’ he paused awkwardly, ‘we’re being taken for a ride, do you?’

‘A ride?’

‘Tricked. There’s something odd here.’

‘I feel that too,’ said Auguste quietly. ‘These men, they take the game of cricket so passionately that it is like Agincourt out there. And yet I feel that there is another game going on altogether.’

‘So our man must be here, then.’

Auguste shrugged. ‘There is a lot of passion everywhere. Much tension. Lady Westbourne, Rachel Gray, the young Comte de Bonifacio. How everyone shouts. Yet still there is no attempt on the diamond. Somehow I don’t think that burglary is to be the main purpose of today.’

‘Perhaps he’s here for the cricket,’ said Rose idly.

‘Perhaps,’ said Auguste, spying the disappearance of a
large plate of sweetmeats into the kitchen. He pursued it, Rose following him. But there was more than sweetmeats awaiting Rose in the kitchen. At the sink, vigorously washing dishes in water supplied by Boris from saucepans on the kitchener was a familiar figure.

‘If it ain’t my old friend James Higgins,’ Rose said gleefully. ‘What could you be doing here?’ He was visibly cheered by this sign that his instincts were not entirely adrift.

‘’Aving a bit of an ’oliday like I said, Inspector. A working one, you might say. This pal of mine, ’e says they could do with a bit of an ’and at the Villa Russe. So off I goes. Chauffeur to ’is Imperial Grand Dukeness. Washer-upper in between.’

‘You wouldn’t have your eye on a particularly attractive ducal piece?’

‘The Grand Duchess?’ inquired Higgins, outraged.

‘The diamond.’

‘Certainly not, Inspector.’ Higgins vigorously polished a glass. ‘What do you take me for? Why, you’ll be saying I’m after Fabergé eggs next.’

‘Ah, Inspector, how lovely to see you.’ Natalia gave Rose her hand, as he walked out to the verandah. ‘It is a good match, yes?’

Rose paused, as Bastide leapt up to the wicket to bowl with a high-pitched unearthly Corsican yell, which had the umpires searching through the rule book, and the ball flew from his hand like a Napoleonic eagle after its prey. The Gentlemen had not begun well. Expectations of easy victory were replaced by alarming thoughts of a Russian win – unthinkable to have to keep that dagger in disgrace for a whole year. Encouraged by Bastide’s example, the Grand Duke sharpened up his own delivery by galloping up to the bowling crease so far as girth would allow and pulling up short, delivering a feeble underarm lob that totally
mystified the Gentlemen of England who faced him.

By such dubious methods the English were all out for a mere 40 runs, the Prince of Wales being clean bowled first ball by a tactless Bastide as a finale. The portly figure stumped off, determined to return to the Cercle Nautique immediately for a calming game of baccarat, and was only dissuaded by Dora’s womanly charms, speedily exercised in the writing room at the rear of the Pavilion.

The Gentlemen were appalled. This was a reverse greater than the summer of ’78, the never to be forgotten occasion of the first Australian team to visit England, not counting those Aborigines of course. Was this Bastide, Comte de Bonifacio, another F. R. Spofforth who dismissed the mighty M.C.C. for 33 and then 19? Had he like Spofforth come down like a wolf on their fold? Could English pride take yet another knock of this magnitude? Even the great W. G. had been clean-bowled for a duck in his second innings on that tragic occasion. How were the mighty fallen. Here in their own town of Cannes as well.

Tactics were busily discussed amongst the Players’ team. Or that’s what they thought they were doing. In fact they weren’t quite sure if they had any, but as this was what the English did, they felt obliged to follow suit. In the kitchen, a jubilant Boris was thrilled at this expression of the superiority of Mother Russia. Duty done, the vodka was playing a prominent part in his triumph.

Auguste, being half English and half French, supported neither side. He was more concerned with tea. Not a large feast should be provided, but certainly something. Had Boris organised sufficient? Surely a Russian cook could manage tea of all things, and Auguste was cheered by the sight of the huge samovars imported into the Pavilion. Why he should concern himself, he did not know, but incompetence disturbed him, over food in particular, and a mystifying unease still gripped him so that to be busy, even in such mundane ways, was a relief. He felt committed to
ensure that no one lacked nourishment, and was torn between this noble objective and helping Rose to keep an eye on the Grand Duchess’s bosom.

Never better than with their backs to the wall, or in this case fronts to the ball, the Gentlemen strode to their positions in the field as if in defence of Rorke’s Drift. Cyril Tucker began well, dismissing the Hungarian count Ibw fourth ball of the first over. Hopes were raised. They were dashed on the fifth ball when Bastide, hitting out wildly, caught the unfortunate Tucker on the hand with a straight drive and sent him back to the Pavilion for medical treatment and the commiserations that Hathaway felt Rachel should have bestowed on him. Washington walked up to take the ball for the new over. But someone else got there first, now it was clear that crisis threatened.

‘Good God, look at that,’ Rose said to Auguste, transfixed.

Alfred Hathaway, embarked on some inner poem of his own, was tearing up to the wicket like a Bacchante after Orpheus, long hair streaming in his slipstream. Nicolai Trepolov, mesmerised with fear, was clean-bowled and walked dazedly back to the Pavilion.

Encouraged, and not noticing in his excitement the look of horror on his Rachel’s face, Alfred let rip. The next member of the team took his place at the stumps only to see both bails go flying. Hathaway had tasted blood and blood. Washington, once the bogey for the Players, suddenly became the easy option. However, fired by professional jealousy of Hathaway, his form improved dramatically and between them another five wickets fell in rapid succession. The next victim essayed a run in an attempt to save the day, but fell on his aristocratic nose before reaching the crease.

The Grand Duke walked impressively in to save the day. Twenty seconds later he was walking rather more quickly back to the Pavilion. He had gone out in grand style;
whirling round to see where the ball had gone after it whizzed past him without his even lifting the bat, he fell over the stumps, and collapsed in an undignified heap. Thanks mainly to Alfred Hathaway, dying poet, the Players were dismissed for 10 runs.

Which face displayed the more horror, Rachel’s or the Grand Duke’s, was hard to determine. To see the latter’s, he would have run for the dagger there and then and used it in the traditional way. Luckily he was a realist. ‘A game, gentlemen,’ he roared to no one in particular. ‘I am a good sport, yes?’

In the kitchen, Boris collapsed sobbing on the empty vodka bottle.

The Gentlemen, perking up considerably, now opened their second innings for England with Harry Washington and Lord Westbourne.

By now, it had percolated through that something interesting was happening on the field, and the spectators temporarily forgot their own tensions involved in the climactic scenes being enacted before them. The women watched avidly, as hitherto languid pats with the willow became purposeful and masterful, their menfolk growing again into white-clad heroes. The staff gathered at the entrance to the luncheon tent where their presence was not too obtrusive; the rest of the Gentlemen watched from the balcony, each dreading their turn at the wicket, none more than the Prince of Wales. Luncheon had been good, but he’d earned it.

Washington had had time now to adjust his thoughts and plan his actions, and settled down to play something more like his normal game, scoring 18 in cracking form. At Auguste’s side, Boris, clutching on to the tent flap with one hand, vodka bottle with the other, gave a low moan at each run scored. He had given up all pretence at tea-making, leaving Auguste to keep an anxious backward glance to ensure that some activity was proceeding within. A battle
promptly ensued between Auguste and the Russian footmen, Auguste unfortunately being unaware of the Russian custom whereby men drank tea from glasses, the women from cups, and by the time the fracas had been resolved, the match seemed virtually won in Washington’s competent hands.

‘Keep your end up, Westbourne,’ shouted Washington. ‘Leave the scoring to me.’

Westbourne had no liking at all for Washington, but gritting his teeth, he followed his advice, leaving Washington to strike out in the manner which had made him a
Boys’ Own
hero, and to thwart all Bastide’s attempts to force his enemy, Westbourne, to face the bowling.

By the time battle was adjourned for tea, the Gentlemen needed only 11 runs for a victory, and 8 wickets were still to fall. The meal was held virtually in tense silence.

Auguste flew hither and thither, dispensing tea and cakes through the brittle atmosphere and forced conversation as each side contemplated its fate. Rushing out of the kitchen he collided with Lord Westbourne entering the study, and both men’s eyes were riveted on Dora, in Washington’s arms, secure in the happy belief that her husband was entertaining the Prince of Wales.

‘Dora,’ Westbourne thundered. ‘By Gad, sir,’ turning to Washington.

Washington, unaccustomed to being caught red-handed, managed a weak: ‘Congratulations on a fine performance, sir.’

‘Be damned if yours was a fine performance, sir,’ said Westbourne, sidetracked. ‘Play for England? I wonder they let you play for the Harrow Juniors.’

At this unmerited insult (Westbourne was an Eton man) Washington turned white, and ignobly fled from the scene, banging the door behind him to Auguste‘s disappointment.

Belatedly, Westbourne turned on Dora. ‘And you, I’ve had about enough of you and your lovers. I’ve been doing
some thinking about these burglaries. We’re going to have a talk about this when we get back to that blasted villa tonight. A
long
talk.’

With this dark utterance, he stamped out, content with venting his spleen so satisfactorily. Dora stared after him quite still with shock, then began to follow him out automatically. What a nuisance husbands were. Always in the way of one’s plans.

In the tea tent, the Gentlemen had now gravitated to one side, the Players to the other, the latter debating even now some final measure that might win the day for them. The ladies were in the middle doing their social best to preserve decorum.

As Lord Westbourne stomped back in, in a thoroughly bad temper, one more shock awaited him.

Rose made a speedy approach to him. No point in waiting till seven o’clock. It was now he needed to know. Westbourne, shaken, was in no mood to think of burglars. He needed to think about these ramifications.