Murder At The Masque (14 page)

‘Murder?’ bellowed the Grand Duke, shepherded by Auguste through the door, staring bewilderedly at the body of Lord Westbourne. This was not a custom at English cricket matches from what he’d been told. ‘The devil must have thought it was
me
. Nihilist, of course. That’s my dagger, too.’

‘When did you last see it, sir?’ inquired Rose, only too well aware that the Grand Duke himself was the last person in charge of the dagger. Just his luck the handle of this dagger was so knobbly with jewels; no fingerprinting would show up anything useful, even if the system were officially in use yet.

‘Where I put it,’ the Grand Duke answered, in the confident manner of expecting everyone to know his every movement.

‘And where was that?’

‘Back in the salon on the salver, of course.’

‘Did anyone see you do it,
Votre Altesse Imperiale
?’ put in Fouchard, thinking he should take his share.

The Grand Duke looked black. ‘Room was packed. I’ve no idea. More important things to do. There was a match to win. Who did it?’

‘What, sir?’

‘This murder.’

Rose gave up. ‘We’ – it had come naturally – ‘Inspector Fouchard will find him, sir.’

‘Or her?’ The Grand Duke looked pleased at his unexpected talent for detection.

‘Now, sir, I don’t know’ – Rose murmured cunningly – ‘if you could arrange with your chef to provide a spot of tea for everyone, we’ll have to tell them soon; they’ll think it strange to be kept here just for a burglary.’

‘Burglary? You think it was the cat burglar did this –
thing
?’ Kallinkova had swept past the gendarmes, determined to find out what was happening.

‘As you’re here, miss,’ said Rose a trifle grimly, ‘I wonder if you would like to go with Inspector Fouchard while he breaks the news to Lady Westbourne.’

Fouchard’s eyes opened in alarm.

‘It is your case, Inspector,’ Rose said, firmly returning to the fray.

‘Yours, Inspector,’ Fouchard purred. ‘Until the Sûreté arrive.’

‘
Monsieur l’Inspecteur
,’ interposed Auguste agitatedly. Fouchard took no notice. Nor did Rose.

‘Scotland Yard would not wish to—’

‘The Sûreté would insist. In matters where political considerations might apply, the country concerned—’

‘But it had all the signs of one of your
crimes passionels
,’ countered Rose. ‘He was publicly threatened – by a Frenchwoman.’

‘Inspector Rose,’ Auguste tried again.

‘
Non
. It is undoubtedly a crime beginning in London—’

‘On French soil,’ said Rose, coming back to checkmate.

‘Egbert!’ yelled Auguste. They stopped abruptly and looked at him in amazement. ‘
Messieurs
,’ he continued despairingly, ‘he is not in the salon so where
is
the Prince of Wales?’

The heir to the throne of the British Empire had performed a vanishing act only comparable to the miracles accomplished by Messrs Maskelyne and Cooke in Piccadilly’s Egyptian Hall of Mysteries. He mopped his face in relief as his carriage proceeded speedily on its way to the sanity of the Cercle Nautique on the Boulevard de la Croisette. There he could get a good whisky and soda and reflect on his unfortunate position. He must try to remember whether Mama was at Cimiez yet or whether distance was on his side and he could concoct a sufficiently plausible telegram as to how he had managed to be present at the scene of the murder of an English lord. Not just any lord but old Charles Westbourne, one of her favourites. Now he came to think of it, hadn’t she commanded him to be on the station platform at Cannes some day soon, when her railway train passed through? That meant she might already have left. And be greeted with the news in her morning newspaper, if his luck continued on its present course.

That was the end of cricket for him. He might have known something disastrous would happen. Another disagreeable thought came to him. Suppose – after all, Westbourne was roughly the same height and build, though Westbourne was much fatter of course – suppose it was someone trying to assassinate
him
again. After all, only last week someone had nearly got King George of Greece. No, he’d keep away from cricket from now on.

A frantic search by Inspector Fouchard, recollecting his original duty, revealed that the Prince of Wales was not lying dead anywhere in the vicinity, and brief interrogation revealed that he had departed of his own free will and not under restraint by some Balkan Moriarty. He had merely summoned his carriage, shot a murderous look at the Delahaye horseless carriage awaiting the Grand Duke, and gone. For this Fouchard was immensely grateful; he had no
wish whatsoever to be involved in an investigation in which the Prince of Wales figured among the suspects, a sentiment with which Rose wholeheartedly agreed. He then departed with the unhappy task of breaking the news to Lady Westbourne.

Left alone in the waiting room, Rose and Auguste contemplated the corpse sprawled over the desk, noting that it faced the window with its back to the door.

‘Looks like he meant it when he said he was writing a report,’ said Rose. ‘It’s still there, all right.’ There was half a page covered with confident copperplate.

‘So he was killed soon after tea,’ said Auguste. ‘It does not take long to write two paragraphs.’

‘Depends on how long he thought about it, and he was thinking hard enough about it not to turn round when someone came through the door,’ Rose pointed out, ‘and there are no signs of anyone coming through the window.’

‘Or it meant he knew his killer well enough to turn his back on him during a discussion. Someone he knew very well.’

‘Like his wife,’ was the unspoken thought in both their minds.

‘It must have been a murder on the spur of the moment, for the dagger was guarded all day. Only at the end of the tea break did it reappear again without a guard. Provided the Grand Duke speaks the truth when he says he left it there,’ Auguste added.

Rose groaned. Fouchard would never get involved if the Grand Duke were a suspect and even he, Rose, quailed at the thought. ‘There’ll be witnesses,’ Rose said hopefully. ‘Even if the guests didn’t notice, the servants would be clearing the tea after all. They’d have seen it there. Even Higgins—’ The awful truth jolted him. Jewels and Higgins went together like safe and cracksman. And Auguste had blithely dispatched him to hunt down a doctor. But he couldn’t see Higgins going as far as murder. Or could he?

‘If this were one of those Sherlock Holmes mysteries, the villain would have left clues a mile high,’ said Rose disgustedly. ‘I never seem to have his luck,’ eyeing the desk and floor completely free of such things as telltale hairpins and cuff-links.

‘’Ere’s the bloke you wanted,’ cried Higgins cheerily, ushering in Dr Earl from the Villa Beatrice, who bustled in eagerly. This was a change from the griping pains of new arrivals. Moreover, although titles were two a penny in Cannes, Lord Westbourne was different. His death would undoubtedly be fully reported in the English newspapers, perhaps even Her Majesty might take an interest. With luck Archibald Earl might well make the columns of
The Times
.

‘Going out in style, eh?’ he remarked jovially, observing the jewelled hilt, as though he attended murders in Cannes every day. ‘
Cherchez la femme
, eh?’ He began his examination as Rose paled at the thought of La Belle Mimosa. It wasn’t a pleasant one.

‘I’d say he’s been dead two and a half hours at the most, perhaps less. Is his wife here? Need attention, does she?’

‘She’s being told now. Two and a half hours – that brings it to just after tea, as we thought,’ Rose said to Auguste. ‘The dagger must have been taken almost immediately.’

‘But surely some people would still be in the salon, and then there’d be servants around?’ objected Auguste.

‘Any later and we could eliminate the Russian side, because they were on the field.’

‘Could have run in for a trip to the toilet,’ said Rose doggedly, if unrealistically. No way was he going to eliminate the foreigners at this stage, and leave the burden on the English side.

There was a commotion outside as Fouchard returned, followed apparently by half the Cannes police force and Lady Westbourne pushing her way through, Natalia trying in vain to prevent her.

‘I demand to see him. He’s my husband.’

‘Madam.’ Rose fielded her expertly before she could enter.

‘Don’t you dare stop me, you common little man!’ she shrieked.

But the shriek was cut off as he reluctantly stood aside and she viewed her husband’s body and the dagger. ‘How odd,’ she remarked conversationally, ‘he never liked rubies.’ Then her eyes glazed. ‘How could he do it?’ she moaned, and collapsed gracefully on the floor.

With an ‘I told you so’ look Dr Earl cleared his throat and advanced in professional manner, but Natalia forestalled him, shooting him an indignant look as though he were responsible.

‘Camomile tea,’ cried Auguste. ‘I will obtain some camomile tea. There is some in the store . . .’ He rushed into the kitchen, expecting to find preparations for refreshments in full flood. But the kitchen was empty save for Boris, and there were no signs of any sustenance at all. And Boris was sprawled insensible over the small working table.

‘What are you doing, you foolish man?’ howled Auguste, shaking him violently. ‘Food, we need
food
, and tea. Monsieur Boris, rouse yourself.’

Boris opened a bleary eye. Tears began to pour out of it unheeded into the remains of Auguste’s galantine. Unsympathetically Auguste shook him again.

‘Get up, get up,’ he cried, pulling at his arms. ‘We need tea, and food. There is much to organise.’

‘The Englishman,’ cried Boris. ‘The poor Englishman. He is dead.’

‘Yes, yes, but it’s not your job to worry about that. You must look after the living.’

‘But we lose the match,’ said Boris anxiously. ‘The honour of Mother Russia is lost. Why the Grand Duke no win match? Why he fall over? He is wonderful man. The Tsar is wonderful man. But the people—’

‘Yes, yes, food,’ yelled Auguste, cutting across this diatribe.

‘
Piroshki
?’ murmured Boris lovingly, beginning to motivate himself.

‘
Au diable, your piroshki
,’ muttered Auguste, rushing out with a tray of camomile tea for Lady Westbourne.

He handed the tea to Natalia, who proceeded to coax Dora back to life, while the men stood awkwardly by. Inspector Fouchard took advantage of the pause, having now ascertained from Rose that Auguste’s qualification for his presence ran deeper than camomile tea.

‘May I say what a privilege it is to meet Monsieur Escoffier’s favourite apprentice? Ah, how I recall the
civet de lièvre
you prepared at the Faisan Dorè. Why, it must be over fifteen years ago?’

‘
Alors
,’ said Auguste with pride. ‘That was my first named dish. The year was 1881 and the
Maître
Escoffier permitted me the honour of putting my name to the dish,
civet de lièvre à la façon Didier
. It was a small thing, but all the difference to the taste when I added the – ah,
non
, I keep my secrets. But tell me,
Monsieur l’Inspecteur
, did you also taste my
loup de roche aux herbes
?’

‘No,’ Fouchard said with interest. ‘Tell me your method.’

Egbert Rose coughed, and guiltily Auguste returned his thoughts to murder, as Natalia, averting her eyes from the corpse, rose to her feet, raising Lady Westbourne who clung to her, a dead weight.

‘Shall I take Lady Westbourne to her home, Inspector?’ She looked from Rose to Fouchard. ‘I fear she will answer no questions today.’

‘We will call upon
madame
tomorrow,’ said the inspector, determined where he could safely be so.

‘
Merci, monsieur
,’ said Natalia meekly, winking at Auguste, who pretended not to notice, conscious of his status as specially co-opted detective. ‘And, if she inquires, the body?’

‘Remains with the police,
madame
, for the moment.’

‘And now,’ said Fouchard firmly after they had gone, ‘we will go to tell everyone what has happened. And you,’ pointing amicably at Rose, ‘will do the telling.’

‘But—’ Rose began.

‘First, they must have apéritifs,’ broke in Auguste anxiously. ‘I hear them now. Give me five minutes, I beg.’

He slipped out as a small army of servants carried by all sorts of carts and carriages scurried up to the Pavilion with emergency rations organised by
Maman
, with
Papa’s
enthusiastic support. Thank goodness
Maman
was in one of her English moods. Today she could have organised the British Empire, had she been called upon to do so. Tea for a hundred or so people presented no true challenge.
Papa
was agog with curiosity. If the Grand Duke had been assassinated there would be no surprise, for Grand Dukes tended to come and go. But an English milord was something else. Every charcuterie in town had been ransacked in order to provide something palatable. More tea appeared, champagne hardly seemed fitting, however desirable. Boris was now completely
hors de combat
, eyes glazed, lurching hopelessly around, oblivious of Auguste’s rushing hither and thither. Auguste was endeavouring to be both detective and
maître d’hôtel
for the matter of tea, torn as usual by twin loves. In despair he wondered what on earth he was doing. He was supposed to be having a holiday. And now here he was not only serving and cooking food, but involved in a murder once again. What the secretary of Plum’s was going to say to him, he shuddered to think. He hoped
The Times
never heard of this affair. On the other hand, there was nothing like detective work for clearing the brain, a loving assembling of ingredients, and the fitting of the pieces together to make a whole
plat
.

Chivvying the staff of the Villa Russe into the tea room with refreshments, Auguste brought up the rear. He attracted no attention. Fifty pairs of eyes saw him and
turned away; he was only the chef. But to his alert eyes, it was clear that the company had divided itself into groups. The Gentlemen had banded together with their womenfolk, the Players were together with their ladies, and the others, outsiders to their coterie, remained apart, including La Belle Mimosa, who accepted and drank from her teacup, declining stronger beverage, as though nothing more potent than this delicate liquid had ever passed her lips. As Auguste returned to the study he saw the gendarmes at the door struggling to keep out yet another element; the news was clearly all round Cannes, and the newspapers, including one strident English voice announcing himself as the
Cannes Gazette
, were determined to make full use of this unexpected variety for their pages, resigned usually to who was in town and who was not. Now they had an event of a most exciting nature.