Murder At The Masque (15 page)

‘They grow impatient, Inspector.’ Auguste was careful to preserve the proprieties in public, despite his friendship with Egbert Rose.

Rose turned to Fouchard who nodded fervently. ‘Let’s go,’ he said in the manner of one setting out to St Giles’ rookery.

‘And
you
speak to them,’ Fouchard reiterated nervously. ‘Then we think,’ he added somewhat ingenuously. He was not accustomed to violent crime, and felt obscurely indignant that fate had once again singled him out. Only last year the Grand Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin had thrown himself from the balcony of the Villa Wenden; this, however, was infinitely worse. Murder! And one of the English community. How pleasant it would be if they should have their own police force . . . a permanent detective from Scotland Yard for such unfortunate eventualities among the
hiverneurs
. He eyed Rose speculatively.

As the three men entered the room there were several heated discussions in progress. The most spirited came from the raised voices of the Gentlemen. Once again they were
thrashing over the vital question that had held all right-thinking Englishmen’s attention for the last three years: was the bottle of champagne brought on to the pitch to celebrate the great W. G.’s achievement of scoring his hundredth hundred at Bristol in May ’95 a magnum or a jeroboam. The Russian concern was of less magnitude. They were merely arguing about the ostrich (not having understood the English challenge), and whether neck before boundary meant something like leg before wicket to the Gentlemen. The women were discussing the question of whether the forthcoming Russian royal wedding was really worth the penalty of remaining in Cannes unfashionably late in the season.

Into this maelstrom plunged Inspector Fouchard: ‘
Vos Altesses Imperiales, mon ami
Inspector Rose of Scotland Yard wishes to speak with you.’ He sat down, congratulating himself that he had handled the situation rather neatly.

Rose, with the confidence of not being on his home territory, decided on the bold approach: ‘I’m sorry to say, ladies and gentlemen, we’ve had an unfortunate occurrence. Lord Westbourne’s been murdered, and’ – waiting for the murmurs of satisfaction at this confirmation of their guesses to die down – ‘it’s for certain that someone here knows something about it.’

It took a moment for this to sink in, then they realised the impertinence of the suggestion, and the gasps were even louder.

‘Surely, Inspector,’ said Washington, ‘some tramp must have entered through the window, bent on burglary, stabbed him and left the same way.’

‘’Fraid not, sir. Why leave the dagger behind?’

‘He was surprised by someone,’ said Washington nonchalantly.

‘Window not disturbed, sir,’ said Rose, scotching this firmly on the head.

‘Then it was a servant,’ said Washington, impatiently
now. ‘You don’t seriously imagine a
cricketer
– one of us – would stab a man
in the back
?’

There was a general murmur of approval at this conclusive evidence.

‘I don’t imagine, sir. I look for facts,’ Rose countered stolidly.

Count Trepolov stood up, drawing his full six foot two inches erect. ‘At least the Players can have nothing to do with this unfortunate business. I trust we may retire. We were all on the field—’

‘Do you know when he was killed, sir?’ inquired Rose mildly.

The Count flushed and thought quickly. ‘The lord retired to the writing room at the end of the tea interval and the Players were all on the field after that. No one on our side would wish to kill Lord Westbourne. The idea is ridiculous.’

‘I disagree. He stood for English imperialism,’ shouted Bastide, eyes flashing. ‘Africa is French.’ He stood up, carried away with a chance for fervour. ‘To us the glory.’ Remembering an old print of Napoleon in his youth, he pushed his sharp-featured profile forward, his fist upraised, and held the pose.

‘Oh, Basty, you are wonderful,’ breathed Emmeline, her cheeks flushed pink, then she uneasily thought perhaps it was not so wonderful of him in view of the fact that they were looking for motives for murder.

‘Maybe, sir. Someone didn’t like his politics. Now, if you’ll sit down.’

Somewhat deflated, since his announcement had caused no great stir, Bastide did so, but was rewarded by a comforting squeeze of Emmeline’s hand.

‘But it’s more likely,’ Rose continued, ‘that this burglar I’m after killed him and that he’s here today. As you all heard, Lord Westbourne thought he knew who it was. It seems to us that his lordship had to be got out of the way
before my lad could get to his victim.’ Two bosoms swelled, and there was a strident female laugh.

‘
C’est ridicule, ça
. If it is this burglar, and he is here, why do I have thees still?’ La Belle Mimosa pointed dramatically to the egg. ‘Unless it is ’im – he gave it to me.’ The finger now pointed straight and devastatingly at the Grand Duke.

At this outrage to all rules of society, consternation broke out. The Duke cowered, the Grand Duchess’s eyes glittered, though whether at La Belle Mimosa or her husband was not clear. Or wasn’t until she rose composedly to her feet, not to address the gathering, but to depart.

‘If,’ announced the Grand Duchess Anna in dulcet tones to Inspector Rose, ‘you wish to find this murderer,
it
is here. You heard
it
threaten to kill Lord Westbourne and now Lord Westbourne is dead.’

La Belle Mimosa was on her feet with the dexterity that World Champion Jem Mace would envy in the ring and confronted the Grand Duchess bosom to bosom, hands on her hips.

‘It is your husband’s, thees,’ she jeered, thrusting out her breasts and patting the egg.

The Grand Duchess hardly hesitated. ‘
Vraiment? Bien
!’ An apparently languid white hand darted out like a snake’s tongue, wresting the egg away from its moorings, and the Grand Duchess passed on leaving La Belle Mimosa shrieking impotently with rage, only held back from physically attacking the Grand Duchess by her guards. She took refuge in words. ‘But he sleeps with me,’ she jeered.

The shapely head did not turn or pause, but a cool voice was heard to remark: ‘
Pauvre homme
. And to have to pay too.’ Only then did she look carefully at the egg and with a slight sneer on her face turned and deposited it with a gesture of disgust in a nearby aspidistra pot.

There was a silent round of applause for the departing Grand Duchess, broken by a rich, full, female voice: ‘Cyril,
am I suspected?’ Rachel Gray had ceded the limelight long enough.

‘No, Rachel,’ said Cyril Tucker. ‘Not you in particular. Everyone.’ He was going to have a difficult time this evening, he could see that. He took temporary refuge in his own nirvana. He knew every cricket score since the Lion of Kent scored his first century. He mentally selected Gloucestershire versus Surrey in 1880 and replayed the finish, in the hope that such excitement would shore him up to face the journey home with his wife.

The Grand Duke also suffered from forebodings about the evening ahead and seemed anxious not to follow his wife. Being a possible suspect for murder seemed a reasonable alternative at the moment.

‘Even me?’ he inquired. ‘You suspect me?’

Rose had learned much from his case at Stockbery Towers. ‘Only a formality, sir,’ he said smoothly.

The grand-ducal brow remained furrowed.

The Grand Duchess’s carriage, fluttering its white ribbons and with the coachman’s hat turned sideways to denote its grand-ducal occupant, drew off, and the company, dismissed by the police, gradually made their way to their belated dinner engagements. La Belle Mimosa was carrying the egg, somewhat less ostentatiously than previously. The Grand Duke inconveniently remained, despite being obviously in the way of the police who were now removing the body. He gazed at the departing ex-Lord Westbourne uneasily. ‘Are you sure,’ he inquired of Rose anxiously, ‘that it isn’t the Nihilists?’

‘Why should the Nihilists wish to kill Lord Westbourne, sir?’ replied Rose patiently.

‘Thought it was me,’ offered the Grand Duke apologetically. ‘All in white. Both of us in blazers.’

‘But,
Votre Altesse Imperiale
,’ put in Auguste deferentially, ‘you were on the cricket field for all to see. No one could have mistaken Lord Westbourne for you.’

‘That’s true.’ The Grand Duke cheered up. He peered at Auguste. ‘You’re the relief cook, aren’t you? Boris told me about you. Not bad, not bad at all, that luncheon. You’ve got a future ahead of you. Any time you want a job come and see me. Time old Boris was retired.’

‘
Merci, Votre Altesse Imperiale
,’ murmured Auguste straightfaced.

‘All the same,’ the Grand Duke reverted to his favourite theme, ‘I want a guard at our ball. And I want
you
—’ He stabbed a finger at Rose.

‘It is the local police’s task, sir—’

‘Couldn’t tell a burglar from a bortsch. No, it’s you I want. I’ve an idea that’s where your fellow will strike next.’

‘Your – er – vehicle awaits you, sir,’ announced a footman. The Grand Duke’s face fell. Home was suddenly less inviting than the cricket club. He’d have to do a lot of thinking on the way home.

‘Come and have a look.’ He waved a hand at Rose and Auguste and they obediently followed him out to the roadway at the rear of the Pavilion. There, awaiting him, was the Delahaye, Higgins, and the cow which was attached to the motor car by a rope.

‘There,’ said the Duke proudly, admiring the motor car and ignoring the cow. ‘Just a fad. Won’t last. Anna won’t ride in it.’

But Rose’s attention was on the chauffeur. ‘I’ll be along to see you, Higgins,’ he said meditatively.

‘Muriel and I will look forward to that, Inspector,’ announced Higgins, as he leapt down to usher the Grand Duke up.

Inspector Fouchard departed to make urgent contact with the Nice Sûreté, fervently wringing Rose’s hand, kissing him on both cheeks, to Auguste’s amusement, and announcing amid protestations of eternal gratitude that he was his saviour.

Rose emerged physically and emotionally ruffled with
the distinct feeling that he was being outmanoeuvred and also that he was going to have a lot of explaining to do at the Yard. He mentally began composing his telegram.

‘I think for you, dear Egbert, a cup of tea,’ announced Auguste thoughtfully, as the Delahaye moved off at a snail’s – or rather a cow’s – pace.

‘To hell with tea,’ said Rose forcefully. ‘This is France, I’m officially on no duty whatsoever, and I need more than tea.’

Auguste searched the small kitchen, eyed wistfully by the gendarme left on duty, and produced
un marc de Provence
, which Rose, coughing slightly, pronounced satisfactory.

‘That’s lubricated me nicely. Now, Auguste, your ghost is going to have to wait. There’s more important work for you.’

‘So are your Fabergé eggs,
mon ami
.’

‘Not necessarily. If it’s our burglar. And if it
is
our burglar, then we can look at those who were in England at the time of the robberies and are here now.’

‘But suppose it’s someone from Paris – La Belle Mimosa may have known him there. Then there is
le jeune Comte
who believes that glory lies in war and death. Suppose he killed him for the glory of France, in the hope that the conference would collapse?’

‘Or Lady Westbourne herself. Had a row with her husband and stabbed him—’

‘She would have to have brought the dagger with her,’ Auguste pointed out.

‘True. Still, why not? The lady wasn’t feeling very friendly towards him when he left for the study.’

‘And there is something you forget, Egbert. Dora Westbourne was robbed of an egg, and we know she is not always a faithful wife.
Cherchez la femme
as the good doctor said. I heard today a conversation which suggested she had parted from one lover, and then was with Lord Westbourne when he observed that she had undoubtedly taken another.’

‘
Voilà
, I am here.’

They jumped as Natalia returned from her duties with Lady Westbourne. She had clearly overheard some of their conversation. ‘If it is this burglar who stabs Lord Westbourne and you find him, I get my egg back,
n’est ce pas
?’ She smiled at them. ‘So I help you, because I do want my egg back. Very much.’

‘I don’t know—’ Rose began dubiously.

‘Ah, but I move where even you cannot, Inspector. I hear what you cannot. Gossip. Some nights I dance, but when I am in Cannes then I can detect. Come, let us go to dine. I have my carriage here.’

‘My hotel—’ Rose began.

‘Ah, Inspector, hotels can wait. Tonight you need something special.’

Hobbling past her carriage was a familiar figure, at least to Auguste. It was the ancient Cannois he had met at the port.

‘
Monsieur
,’ he asked, puzzled, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘
Le meutre
,’ the Cannois replied, spitting scornfully.

‘What,
mon ami
, do you know about this murder?’

‘It is only an Englishman. No need for excitement.’

‘But what—’

‘Did I not say nothing good would come of it? Once the
Masque de Fer
is seen, trouble comes.’

‘You would like to be taken back to the town,
monsieur
?’ inquired Natalia, leaning down from the carriage.

He looked at her. ‘
Cherchez la femme
,’ he said cryptically, and hobbled off chuckling to himself.

‘Come, Auguste, Inspector. You at least will ride with me, will you not?’ and they climbed up beside her with alacrity. Happiness filled Auguste’s heart and swept aside thoughts of murder. For this moment he tried to think only of Natalia. After all, he was on holiday.

The police headquarters at the rear of the town not far from Rose’s hotel was as ahum with activity as Trepolov’s bees on a brood comb. Rose was impressed by what Fouchard’s men had so far achieved in a brief morning’s work, perhaps pleased by their unusual temporary assignment in tracking down a murderer. The Sûreté in Nice had, as Fouchard predicted, promptly handed the case to Paris. If he were a villain with the choice of being hunted down by British crushers or French gendarmes, he decided he’d choose the British. His admiration for Fouchard shot up. He was presented with names and addresses of all those present (even La Belle Mimosa’s, he was amused to notice); vigorous inquiries were rapidly noting those known under the useful Registration of Foreigners Act to have travelled from England recently, and the Sûreté Générale in Paris, he was told, was working on Lord Westbourne’s movements there. The greater number of persons who could be established to have been in England while the robberies took place, the greater role Inspector Rose and the Sûreté would have to play in the proceedings, was Fouchard’s reasoning. Moreover, he might with good fortune share in the credit when this monster was discovered, but escape blame should he elude justice.