Murder At The Masque (2 page)

‘
Fiacre, monsieur
?’

A cab? No. He would walk. Absorb the smell of the south. His mother had once told him that when the Empress
Marie-Alexandrovna of Russia had come to Cannes nineteen years ago in 1879, her last words on leaving were, ‘Let me smell once more that perfumed air . . .’ The warmth was in his nostrils, beguiling his senses, for all it was only the beginning of March, as he crossed the Place into the Rue de la Gare, heading for Le Suquet, the small house in the Rue du Barri and six weeks of pure bliss.

For Cannes had one other blessing that London, delightful though it was, seemed to lack, at least as far as he was concerned. For Auguste, London was inextricably bound up with murder, which seemed to stalk him as inexorably as Jack the Ripper his victims.

Not long after he had been instrumental (he tried to put it modestly even to himself) in solving the murders at Stockbery Towers in Kent, he had become the chef at the restaurant of the Galaxy Theatre in the Strand – and murder came too. Delightful though Plum’s was, he felt that at the age of thirty-eight he should consider his future carefully. That dream, the dream of every
maître
, to own his own restaurant, even a hotel, was but a dream yet. As seemingly unobtainable as that other dream of Tatiana, his beautiful Russian princess in Paris. His, he thought ruefully. But she could never be his. He was a cook, albeit a
maître
, and she a princess.

But, he had told himself firmly, one cannot produce a dish for a Grimod jury without peeling a potato. And Plum’s in St James’s Square was a potato
très sympathique
. Alas, incredibly, in that place of quiet gentlemanly retreat from the world, murder followed once more. True, all these melancholy events had brought him into contact with
cher
Egbert, Inspector Egbert Rose of Scotland Yard, but murder was murder; it tore at the emotions. He needed a holiday.

And no cold hand of murder could possibly touch this delightful place of sun and warmth.

Early March in London was not a time of beautiful perfumes and scented air. It was a time when the skies were grey, even when they could be glimpsed through the smoke from chimneys that failed to disperse but hung loweringly over the blackened buildings. Muddy pavements were cluttered with equally unsunny Londoners – at least in this part of London – as the hansom continued its journey towards Wapping.

Pulling his greatcoat firmly around him, as the hansom arrived at his destination, Inspector Egbert Rose paid the driver his two shillings, having successfully won the battle of whether or not the journey was within the four-mile radius, by demanding to see his Book of Distances. He ignored the look of distaste at the customary meagre Scotland Yard allowance for tipping and picked his way along the river front. Accustomed to this street from his days on the beat, now thankfully well over twenty years behind him, the filth and smells were no surprise to him; the Thames looked an evil thoroughfare on this bleak day. Peabody could have spent some of his millions building a few new homes round here all right. Place hadn’t changed in a century, if that.

A swarming den of thieving villains, thought Rose grimly, as he pushed open the door of The Seamen’s Rest and surveyed the assembled company. A riverside pub would obviously be packed with seamen, and it looked like the scum of the earth had gravitated to this flash-house. Every villain on the Thames Police’s books – together with Lascars, Arabs, Chinese – all stopped in mid-talk as he entered. They all knew a crusher when they saw one. Especially a jack.

Only the publican, a middle-aged gentleman with impressive Newgate-knockers sidewhiskers, seemed unperturbed as he carefully inspected a glass, whistling ‘The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo’ in a thoughtful manner.

‘Ah, Higgins,’ Rose said blandly. ‘I’ve come about those Fabergé Easter Eggs again.’ He believed in the direct approach.

The publican dropped the glass, then fielded it as expertly as the great W. G. Grace himself. ‘Now now, Inspector. I’ve got my reputation to think of,’ he said indulgently. ‘Don’t want my customers to think I’m running a swells’ dolly-shop—’ His voice swelled in righteous indignation. ‘You will have your little jokes, Inspector. If it’s about that licence, you’d best come in here.’ A broad hand firmly ushered Rose behind the scenes, after its owner’s stentorian shout for ‘Ma!’ They were followed by interested and wary eyes.

‘It ain’t all perlice I’d invite into my home,’ Higgins pointed out.

Rose believed him, glancing round. The room was plentifully though not ostentatiously adorned with the benefits of Higgins’s trade as the biggest fence in London – ‘international trade welcomed’ (the pub conveniently near the docks for overseas business).

‘Muriel,’ Higgins yelled – this time to his wife.

So there was going to be business, Rose thought. Muriel was only summoned when something big was on. The lady appeared, simpering as if Rose were royalty. It was a misleading facade. Were it not for the fact that Rose had once viewed Muriel in full combat bargaining with the toughest cracksman in London, he would have put her down as an unlikely mate for the shrewd James Higgins. Since then, closer attention on his part had revealed her to be if not the brains behind the business, at least the treasurer.

‘Any news for me on those eggs?’ inquired Rose, pushing aside the leaves of an over-excited aspidistra, to sit in a chair surrounded by photographs of all the little Higginses framed in interestingly high-quality silver frames. It had been a long shot, but Higgins had been known to part with information if it suited his book. And Rose’s usual channels of information had yielded nothing.

Higgins shook his head regretfully. ‘Nah. ’Ad you asked me about Lady Becker’s ruby suspenders, or the old Duke’s
cuff-links with the naughty cameos, I might’ve obliged. But eggs? Nah. Out of my class.’

‘You, Higgins? Nothing too hot to handle, that’s your line.’

Muriel interposed on behalf of her husband.

‘Inspector, ’oo wants an egg everyone is going to recognise?’ Her hands resting in her lap, she could have been presiding at an At Home.

‘Abroad?’

‘The Continong? Nah. Mind you, as one pal to another . . .’ Higgins paused, a beaming smile extending almost as far as the sidewhiskers.

‘No pal of yours, Higgins,’ Rose reminded him blandly.

‘Working mates, then. Nah, this ’ere cat burglar of yours. ’Igh-society lad, seems to me. Don’t see ’im in the Ratcliffe ’Ighway pinching old Ma Thomas’s tea caddy. And where does ’Igh Society hang out this time of year?’

Rose looked blank. ‘Hunting?’ he ventured.

‘Nah.’ Higgins tapped his pipe on the table impressively. ‘Cannes, that’s where they go. Down to the old Riviera.’ An enormous wink impressed on Rose that something of importance was being conveyed to him.

Half London society seemed to own one of these Fabergé eggs, thought Rose gloomily as he left, and certainly over-pessimistically. Someone had decided to scoop the pool. Why?

He’d been on the case for weeks now and was getting no nearer to presenting the Chief with any kind of solution. Meanwhile the thefts continued. Six in all now. He felt rather as he had done in Hampton Court Maze when he and Mrs Rose took his sister Ethel’s two youngest. All very interesting, but how do you reach the middle? The middle of this case, if the interviews he’d had so far were anything to go by, was very securely hidden . . .

Rose, assumed to have knowledge of the mysterious ways of the aristocracy after his successful solving of the cases at Stockbery Towers and Plum’s Club for Gentlemen, had with some relief on the part of his superiors been handed the task of discovering who had been carrying out a series of outrageous jewel thefts. The husbands were decidedly well placed in society, and Lord Westbourne in particular had made his views plain. The jewels must be found: and quickly. Seemed straightforward enough, Rose had thought – until he had begun his usual inquiries. Nothing. Not a whisper on the villains’ network.

‘And you know what that means, Stitch.’

His subordinate, known privately as Twitch, was eager to shine.

‘They’re all in it together?’ he suggested eagerly.

Rose regarded him sourly, and Stitch’s overdue promotion went back a few months. ‘Ever known any case where the lads stick together? All of them? Remember the Great Jewel Robbery in ’ninety-four? Princess Soltykoff out at Slough. The whispers came through then all right.’

Stitch fell into offended silence.

‘No,’ Rose meditated. ‘We’ve got an amateur on the job. Or a newcomer.’

‘Still got to get rid of the swag,’ Stitch pointed out, his interest revived.

‘Very true, Stitch. Very true. I think our friend Higgins might be the man . . .’

James Higgins had on Rose’s first visit to Wapping presented the face of a man with no more on his mind than the pouring of the next glass of porter. It had taken all Rose’s powers of persuasion, followed by threats, to extract an offer of ‘keeping a lug open’ on the subject of missing rubies. A second, hasty, visit to Wapping was required, however after Rose’s conversation with the sixth and latest victim . . .

Natalia Kallinkova, former supreme dancer of the
St Petersburg Imperial Ballet, having now taken her ten-year benefit performance rewards and acquired a London residence, was taking the theft with more equanimity than her sisters in sorrow. A slight woman in her late twenties, she had sparkled round the room as she danced from one side to the other, pointing out the wreckage wrought by the intruder. Rose, dispatched by the Yard on a now familiar journey, leaned out of the third-floor window overlooking the garden far beneath, noting the drainpipe and small balconies up which the burglar had climbed to gain entry. His head began to swim and he thankfully drew it in. Must have a head for heights, this gentleman.

‘What is missing, Miss – um – Mrs—’

‘I am just addressed as Kallinkova, Inspector.’ She smiled, her accent charming, her eyes lively. ‘It is a greater tribute, you see.’

Rose didn’t, but accepted it. He always moved cautiously with Russians. Never knew when they might burst into tears.

‘I should like to meet this man,’ said Kallinkova, a little wistfully.

‘So would I, Miss – Kallinkova.’

She laughed, a rich chuckle. ‘Ah,
mon cher Inspecteur
, it is my egg he really wanted, this burglar.’

‘Egg, miss? Did you say egg?’ Visions of stolen breakfasts had at first floated before Rose’s startled eyes.

Kallinkova laughed. ‘My
Fabergé
egg. A gift of His Imperial Highness the Grand Duke Igor. You understand?’

Inspector Rose did at once. That case at Stockbery Towers had given him insight into the ways of the aristocracy in England; he had little doubt that these Russians were much the same. Moreover, he had had dealings with the Grand Duke Igor on many occasions, summoned to the Mayfair home with relentless frequency.

‘He gave it to me when we – ah – parted a year ago. He knows I am discreet. Of course he did not want to part,
you understand, but the Tsar insisted. So did the Grand Duchess Anna,’ she added more realistically.

Rose tried to maintain a straight face before her twinkling eyes, inviting him to share the joke. He failed, and let out a guffaw.

‘Each egg, Inspector, opens to reveal a precious object inside. Outside it is the craftsmanship, you understand, which gives it its value. Inside, however, there is – in the case of the Imperial eggs – the precious stones or gold, fashioned in the likeness of some object, the Imperial coach for example. But my egg, Inspector, and’ – she paused – ‘each of those of the Grand Duke’s other – er – lady friends contains a ruby.’

‘The love of a good woman, eh?’ said Rose incautiously, wrapped up in the story.

‘Exactly,
mon cher Inspecteur
.’ She gurgled with laughter, then continued thoughtfully, ‘And I think you might find, dear Inspector, that those other ladies also have had eggs stolen. You told me there had been several burglaries of jewels, did you not? Rubies perhaps? If you ask them – tactfully of course. They have husbands . . .’ She gave a little shrug.

After he had left, Rose mentally scanned his list, brows furrowed. Tactful inquiries had followed and elicited that a further five Fabergé eggs from a further five mistresses, all, like Kallinkova, now past, and all eggs containing rubies, had been stolen one by one from the great houses of Britain. In each case entrance had been gained by a drainpipe, balconies, or in one case a nearby tree provided access. Five re-interviews had followed. Rose shuddered at the memory of two of them. He wouldn’t like to sit through Rachel Gray’s (Mrs Cyril Tucker) tragic outburst again. He’d felt he was at a performance of one of Mr Pinero’s plays. As befitting her position as one of London’s leading tragedy queens, Mrs Tucker had tottered blindly across the
room – though not too blindly to find the chaise longue and collapse gracefully upon it – moaning at intervals, ‘My husband must not know.’ Or Lady Westbourne, a very different kettle of cod. Cool as a cucumber, he had to prise the information out of her, like a whelk. In all five cases, husbands were to be barred from knowledge of the complete facts.

There was, Rose grudgingly admitted, good reason for this. The gift of a Fabergé egg could only come from one source, if not the Tsar himself: a Grand Duke of Imperial Russia. And Grand Dukes were not noted for handing out such prized gifts unless the relationship with the recipient was close. Moreover since even these eggs, which coming merely from a Grand Duke to a past mistress were somewhat less elaborate than those from the Tsar to the Tsarina, were a year at least in the making, it followed that the friendship with the lady was or had been no mere passing whim. Therefore Mrs Rachel Tucker, Lady Westbourne and three other ladies of equally impeccable social standing, if not morals, conveniently overlooked the theft of the egg itself, when reporting, albeit reluctantly, the theft of the ruby. Husbands, unaware of Fabergé eggs secreted in their households, would not be unaware of the disappearance of a ruby which in each case the lady concerned had been unable to resist wearing. They were exceptionally fine rubies.