Murder At The Masque (19 page)

There was one other horrified observer of the scene. Emmeline Vanderville, walking back from Holy Trinity English church to the Hôtel du Parc, was brought up short by the spectacle of her beloved Bastide bowling along in what
undoubtedly looked like police custody. The constitution of American eighteen-year-olds is good, especially heiresses’, but this was a severe jolt. Emmeline turned pale, then turned round and began to run helplessly after the police van, picking up her trained skirt. She tripped over the cross-lacing of her kid boots, which were not accustomed to this strenuous exercise, and came crashing down, and Natalia rushed to pick her up.

Emmeline was unhurt, impatiently disregarding grazed hands, and demanded to know the meaning of what she had seen, clearly seeing Natalia as one of the devil’s battalion. Natalia put her arm through hers, and they walked along the quayside as she explained. Emmeline grew pale, both from horror at Bastide’s plight and her own. What would her parents say?

‘Basty couldn’t do it,’ she said firmly, once common sense had reasserted itself. ‘Why, he couldn’t even shoot pigeons at the Cap Croisette when we went. The idea’s ridiculous. All that stuff about France and glory – he doesn’t mean it. He’s a lamb really,’ she said fondly.

Natalia doubted the lamb but agreed that Bastide, the wicked murderer, did seem unlikely.

‘He did make a lot of threats,’ Kallinkova explained gently. ‘The police seem very sure—’

Emmeline’s mouth grew round. ‘You believe it too,’ she accused.

‘No, but I keep an open mind. Someone undoubtedly killed Lord Westbourne, and your Bastide was undoubtedly threatening him.’

‘So was that awful woman and no one’s arrested her,’ pointed out Emmeline passionately. ‘Can’t
you
do anything?’ she asked ingenuously. ‘You’re famous, aren’t you?’

‘I’ll try,’ said Natalia stoutly, but her pessimism (now she had met Chesnais) came through.

‘You don’t believe him either,’ cried Emmeline
vehemently, glancing round for help from the heavens. The heavens did not oblige, but the beach did.

Alfred Hathaway was determined to recover his accustomed ill-health. At the beginning of March the bathing establishments had reopened for the season, but custom was slim since the wind was undoubtedly not warm, rain was all too frequent, and the sea icy cold. It was just what Alfred needed. The shock of the cold water had made him gasp for several minutes, but by the time he came out he was positively glowing with enjoyment. He was splashing happily at the edge of the water on his way back to change from his red-striped bathing costume when he beheld a beautiful sight. An elegantly dressed young lady whom he vaguely recognised was flying purposefully down the beach towards him in a purple hat, its ribbons streaming. Mindful of his undress and only thankful that it was not complete as at Brighton where he heard gentlemen bathed with nothing on at all, he stood there transfixed with shock. He was naturally very wet and much of the wet communicated itself immediately to Emmeline, as she flung herself passionately into his arms.

‘Mr Hathaway,’ she cried, ‘you’ll help me, won’t you?’

The smell of her otto of roses mingling with the sea salt rushed to Alfred’s head, which promptly dispatched a telegram around his body. Alfred found himself only too willing to help her in anything.

‘So this is where you learned to cook,’ said Rose, looking round the small, elegant restaurant in the Rue d’Antibes. ‘Bit different to the Ratcliffe Highway.’

‘
Pardon
?’

‘Where I learned, so to speak. On the beat.’

‘From
Maman
I learn to cook. Here I was trained. Monsieur Escoffier came here, only a year before I myself. It was not so great a restaurant then, perhaps more like your Ratcliffe Highway. But how he transformed it! From a
poor café it has become a restaurant of high renown. Indeed, he almost created restaurants in Cannes, one could say. Before that, one ate with ladies in hotels only, but now—’ Auguste waved a hand towards the illustrious inhabitants of Cannes partaking of Sunday luncheon
en famille
with great gusto.

‘
Eh bien
, my friend, now what do you do? An arrest has been made, but no burglar has been caught.’

‘I don’t like it. I can’t feel that young hot-head stuck a dagger in Lord Westbourne, can you? I’d like to carry on, but it’s nearly another two weeks to the Duke’s ball—’ He broke off, aware that he’d lost Auguste’s attention. He was absorbed in the menu, switching attention only to the waiter with whom he had whispered consultations of great seriousness, much in the manner of Sir Frederick Treves conferring with colleagues over a royal illness. Aware at last of Rose’s gaze, he said grandiloquently: ‘Do not concern yourself, dear friend, I will choose for you. I wish this to be an experience, far removed from the Hôtel Paradis. You will see how French cuisine can transport you to Olympus.’

‘I’ve been there already, thanks to you, Auguste.’

‘Naturally, but now you will taste Provençal cooking in its own home as every cuisine is best enjoyed. Today, truffles – the kitchen’s diamond, as Brillat-Savarin so truly says. The truffles of Provence never taste so exquisite in London as here; they lose their savour, and gain in price. So,’ his eyes sparkled, ‘we will have the
faisan truffé
, the
specialità de la maison
, with a
sauce Périgueux
, or, as I prefer to say,
sauce aux truffes Provence
, as I would not choose truffles of Périgord here; they are black as are our own and all very well, but to my mind our own possess the more exquisite flavour. Of course—’

‘Monsieur Didier,’ The waiter deferentially called him back to the matter in hand.

‘
Alors
– to begin,
huitres marines
– that is, oysters marinated with a little
sauce ravigote
—’

‘I rather fancy these
coquilles à la provençale
,’ said Rose, making a bid for independence. Mrs Rose was doubtful about scallops.

‘As you wish,
cher
Egbert,’ said Auguste, looking anxious. ‘I cannot help but feel, however—’

‘Never have them at Highbury,’ Rose said firmly.

Auguste yielded, against his better judgement. Another ten minutes ensued while the agonising choice of wines was made, and the wine waiter departed. Even then Auguste was clearly pondering whether the right choice had been made.

‘I think it’s a mistake.’ Rose was determined to get back to the case before food arrived to distract Auguste yet again.

‘You think I should have chosen the Chäteauneuf?’ asked Auguste anxiously.

‘The Comte de Bonifacio, Auguste,’ Rose reminded Auguste patiently. ‘My guess is that as soon as my telegram reaches the Yard with news of his arrest, they’ll be sending another one ordering me back, burglar or no burglar. I might get back again for the ball, but in the meantime it’s up to you.’

Auguste heaved a sigh. ‘But I am on holiday, Egbert.’

‘Good, so you’ve plenty of time,’ Rose said hard-heartedly.

‘I have been advised to avoid detection, for my health.’ A slight Gallic exaggeration.

‘The day you do that will be the day you hang up your saucepans for good.’ Rose paused over a mouthful of rich
sauce provençale
. Delicious, but . . . ‘Chesnais has no proof against the Comte. He’ll have to release him, and then the case will be wide open again.’

‘He does not need proof, my friend. Bastide must
prove
his innocence, and he only says he accompanied Trepolov on the field. Yet he and Trepolov were the last to appear. He gave the excuse that before they went out he was seeking
the ball in the changing room, but no one saw him there.’

‘Nor have
we
any evidence against anyone else. Far as I can see anyone could have done it. I’ll show you the notes Fouchard slipped to me. I don’t think he’s too happy about Bastide’s guilt, but he’s not going to get involved.’ He stopped as the silver covers were whipped triumphantly off the
faisan truffé
and eyed them with misgivings.

‘Truffles and pork stuffing you say?’

‘Indeed,
mon ami. La truffe
, the food so dear to the Romans, was forgotten by mankind until early this century. Some, like Kettner, say it was no great loss. But he is no true gourmet, that man,’ Auguste added heatedly. ‘Or else he has never tasted truffles in France. Taste now,’ he waved a lordly hand, as though he had personally snuffled the tubers out from under the ground. ‘Can you wonder a pig that can hunt these down is so highly prized? When they arouse thoughts of love in women and men alike, and their aroma transports them, like love itself, to paradise?’

‘You don’t seem to need help of that sort, Auguste.’

Auguste went faintly pink, and laughed.

‘I still think,’ said Rose, ‘that this burglar business is linked in somehow. And
someone
must know something about it. Get in amongst them. As Miss Kallinkova’s – ah – friend, they’ll accept you here. Someone must know
something
.’

‘I will do what I can.’ The idea of escorting Natalia was an appealing way of working at detection. ‘At the funeral they will all be gathered together. And now, my friend, some’ – enthusiasm restored his voice as he whispered to the waiter – ‘
Charlotte Hélène
. Ah, no one can resist this, it is made with crystallised violets. Monsieur Negre himself, who has originated the idea of sweetmeats of crystallised flowers – you have seen his shop in this very street – has supplied the violets.’

Some hour or so later, Rose, released from his pleasurable torment, almost staggered as they walked out into the
sunshine. In the Allées de la Liberté, a band was playing and he sank down in front of the bandstand gratefully.

‘It was that liqueur did for me,’ Rose said forcefully. ‘What the devil is in it?’

‘That is known only to God, not the devil,’ replied Auguste. ‘The
liqueur de Lérina
is made by the Cistercian monks at the monastery of St Honorat, one of the Iles de Lérins. But it is good for you – made from local flowers and herbs.’

The band was playing loudly, and he had to shout to make himself heard.

‘Maybe,’ said Rose. ‘But if they drink it themselves it must be a merry old monastery. Let us look at these notes Fouchard has produced.’ It was an effort.

Auguste studied the lists for some while. ‘Lady Westbourne claims she went to the ladies’ retiring room after tea, so does Mrs Tucker, but they do not admit to seeing each other. Miss Kallinkova went straight on to the balcony, verified by several people. La Belle Mimosa has no alibi since no one would sit with her, and no one claims to have seen her. Miss Vanderville says she was in the salon with Bastide, but Bastide says he was getting the ball from the locker room where no one says he saw him. Not good,
mon ami
. Cyril Tucker went out on to the balcony, Trepolov claims, and Washington confirms it, that he was in the gentlemen’s cloakroom, and then went on to the field with Bastide. Alfred Hathaway says he escorted Mrs Tucker out to the balcony, after her return from the retiring room but this contradicts what Mrs Tucker told us. There it is. Some of them are obviously lying. But who?’ Auguste finished. True, he did not expect to receive a definite answer, but when there was no comment at all he glanced at his colleague. Despite the climax of the 1812 Overture being rendered with verve, Inspector Rose was fast asleep.

Auguste smiled. It was a fitting tribute to Monsieur Escoffier’s former restaurant.

‘Pah,’ said a voice. Painfully sitting down on his other side was the old Cannois.

‘
Bonjour
,
monsieur
,’ said Auguste cheerily.

His good cheer was not returned.

‘A French bandstand under the eye of that
salaud
—’ The old man spat in the general direction of Lord Brougham’s statue, gazing down beneficently on the town he had created. ‘Have you found him yet?’ he inquired abruptly of Auguste.

‘They have arrested him,
mon ami
.’

The Cannois thought this over. ‘This is not possible,’ he pronounced.

‘You have evidence to prove he is innocent?’ Auguste asked eagerly, recollecting his presence at the ground.

‘
Non
. But how will they keep him?’ the Cannois asked in interest.

‘They have charged him with murder.’

‘Ah. He is in the Bastille again?’

‘
Again
.’ Auguste was jolted. Then, ‘The Bastille,
monsieur
?’ he queried doubtfully. ‘Who?’

‘
Masque de Fer, mon fils
. How today’s youngsters are obtuse! It is very clever to arrest a ghost,
n’est ce pas
?’

Now this was more like a holiday. True, he had promised Egbert, who as Auguste predicted had been summoned back to Scotland Yard a week ago with a ‘now it’s up to you, Auguste’, to continue the investigation; and the sight of Emmeline in the carriage in front pricked at his conscience. But he had done his best with little to show for it. The funeral had come and gone, and all his painstaking and subtle questions had led nowhere either as regards Lord Westbourne’s death or the burglaries.

The funeral might have gone, but Lady Westbourne had not. Clearly determined not to waste a villa paid for in advance, she had remained and had reached the stage when she had decided it would be permissible to take an
outing with a suitable escort – such as Harry Washington. Today’s carriage visit to Grasse provided a most suitable opportunity.

Auguste was rejoicing too, seated next to Natalia, with Emmeline opposite them as the carriage wound its way along the Grasse road. He recalled all these villages from his youth, trundling up through Mougins in an old farm cart at harvest time, tasting the grapes on the hillsides. Grasse had seemed a long way away in those days, a place of magic and wonderful smells, from the flowers grown all around for the perfume factories. The smells lingered faintly to enchant the air even at this time of year, but the mystery of childhood had vanished. Still, there was much to enjoy, particularly at Natalia’s side.

He was particularly amused to see that Emmeline’s neck in its high-necked frilly blouse was almost permanently turned towards the carriage in front, where Alfred Hathaway’s, riding in the Tuckers’ carriage, was almost permanently turned towards their own. A pleasant game of lawn tennis at the Hôtel du Parc last Monday afternoon, hastily suggested by Alfred as a palliative to the shock of her beloved’s arrest, had proved such an unexpectedly exhilarating experience, especially after his bathing exercise, that it had been followed by several more meetings. Alfred was a little disconcerted to find that Emmeline was such an
active
young lady and was reluctant to lie on sofas so that he could hold her hand and commiserate. However, once he had accepted this aberration on her part, he found himself positively enjoying the croquet, walks and visits in which this energetic young lady sought solace, and rejoicing that his health permitted him to take this excursion to Grasse, he had accepted a ride in the Tuckers’ carriage with unwonted enthusiasm, which Rachel had taken to be a tribute to herself.