Murder At The Masque (23 page)

‘Come, my friend. I have much to tell you. While you have been away, as well as concerning myself with the release of
le pauvre
Bastide,’ Auguste said with some pride, ‘I have been thinking. Let us take some refreshment in the belvedere.’

‘The what?’

Auguste pointed towards the golden edifice at the far end of the gardens.

‘That’s what it is, is it? I’d been wondering.’

Followed by a footman bearing suitable apéritifs for the hour of sunset, they walked down the long gardens to the belvedere.

The sun would soon make its final dive behind the horizon in the bay, the sky glowing reds and pinks in the west, and velvet soft above their heads in the still, warm air.

Rose sat down, taking the pink kir offered to him by Auguste somewhat dubiously.

‘Ah, do not fear. It is a drink invented by a bishop and thus acceptable to
le Bon Seigneur
,’ laughed Auguste.

Rose took a sip, then another, and began to relax as Auguste related what had happened in his absence, and offered his conclusions that Lord Westbourne’s death might have been a case of mistaken identity.

‘The Prince of Wales?’ Rose paled, setting his kir down in a hurry.

‘Possibly, but more likely the Grand Duke.’

‘Why would anyone want to kill the Grand Duke?’ He paused. ‘Oh no. If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, Auguste, it’s ridiculous.’

‘It is possible, my friend.’

‘The Nihilists,’ said Rose resignedly. ‘That’s all we need. Wait till Chesnais hears this one.’

‘I forgot to mention,’ Auguste added carelessly. ‘La Belle Mimosa is more deeply involved than we thought. She knows something,
mon ami
.’

‘Oh?’ said Rose uneasily.

‘But she will not tell us, until she is certain. You seem to have made a friend in that one,’ added Auguste, rewarded by the red flush that filled Rose’s thin cheeks.

‘If this were England, I’d know how to deal with the lady,’ he retorted darkly. ‘But here’ – he paused, looking at the golden edifice encircling them, with its onion-shaped cupola – ‘I feel as if I’m in a birdcage. Two nightingales in the Emperor’s birdcage, eh? And with just as little to sing about, the way this case is going.’

Inspector Fouchard and his men marched, as purposefully as the Grand Old Duke of York on his outward journey, up the hillside of La Californie to the Villa Russe. Chesnais, impatient for action, had preceded them, and he and Egbert Rose were escorted into the Grand Presence.
Le Bon Seigneur
had been merciful to the Grand Duke and accorded him a fine day. Even now an army of servants was installing the huge gilt-painted plaster candelabras in the grounds, each one bearing three four-foot candles in the Russian national colours. They were arranged over a wide area in avenues forming a four and an eight in honour of the Grand Duke’s years. At the apex of the four was the golden belvedere, also lit by candles, these arranged roughly in the shape of the Romanov double-headed eagle.

His birthday it might be, but the Grand Duke seemed ill at ease as he received them in the morning room. Behind him on a finely carved desk was a gleaming working model of the St Petersburg-Cannes Express constructed in pearls and amethysts. He had clearly been playing with his new toy as they entered. An animated picture projector and a box marked
Fatima’s Danse du Ventre
and
The Diamond Jubilee of Her Majesty Queen Victoria
also bore witness to the event. But the Grand Duke still did not look like a happy man.

‘You have guards on all the gates?’ he inquired anxiously.

‘Two on the main entrance, two on the tradesmen’s and
one on the side gate. And two on every entrance into the house itself, including the cellar and the chimney. Everybody entering will have to display an invitation card and all the servants are being given identity cards.’ Chesnais waited for praise of his efficiency. The honour of the French Police Force had been impugned by Rose, but would quickly be redeemed. If possible, by the re-arrest of the Comte de Bonifacio.

‘And no one can enter unobserved?’ Igor asked anxiously. ‘Over a wall perhaps?’

‘To escape our men, they’d have to get one of these flying machines working,’ Chesnais said confidently.

‘And what if he is here already?’ demanded Igor. ‘One of my guests here, or a servant?’

‘I’ll be at your side, sir, throughout. And Inspector Fouchard will have guards on all the rooms.’

‘At
my
side?’ The Grand Duke looked startled.

‘Inspector Rose believes that you may well have been right, that Lord Westbourne was killed in mistake for you,’ announced Chesnais cheerfully. Tact was not his strong point. ‘That being so, today offers a wonderful opportunity –
pardon
,’ hastily recalling his audience, ‘a tragic opportunity for another attempt. But nothing will happen, rest assured.’

The Grand Duke’s face was panic-stricken. He had shouted wolf so often that he had come to disbelieve in his own assertions. The fact that the police were taking them seriously was a most alarming innovation.

‘The Nihilists,’ he breathed. He thought over the implications. Then: ‘No, you are wrong,’ he announced more cheerfully. ‘There would be no Nihilists at a cricket match. The English would not tolerate it. It is thieves you must expect tonight,’ he continued fiercely. ‘They want the Petrov Diamond. They shall not have it.’

Rose coughed apologetically. ‘There may be other people who have reason to dislike you, sir, besides the Nihilists.’

‘Nonsense,’ cried Igor, hurt. ‘I am kind to everyone. Why should anyone wish to hurt me?’

Rose plunged in. ‘There’s the matter of the ladies who received the eggs, sir.’

‘The eggs?’ The Duke’s eyes grew glassy. ‘You think—’ He broke off. ‘Ah,’ he said, delighted, ‘I see. You think because they are no longer my mistresses, they wish to kill me. No, they
lof
me,’ he explained loftily.

‘La Belle Mimosa doesn’t seem to love you, sir. She hasn’t love Lord Westbourne either.’

The Grand Duke lost a little of his confidence. ‘You keep her out of here,’ he said firmly.

‘She has an invitation, sir. It would be difficult—’

The Grand Duke’s eyes bulged. ‘Not from me, she hasn’t. Or from the Grand Duchess,’ he muttered as an afterthought. ‘It was a mistake,’ he added rather plaintively and somewhat obscurely to Rose. ‘Used to be able to tell: if a woman wore jewels in the daytime, she was a demi-mondaine – nowadays everything’s going down the drain. Why, I even saw—’

‘And we have to assume,’ Rose cut across a possibly interesting reminiscence firmly, ‘that she will be wearing her egg to the ball tonight.’

The Grand Duke’s eyes blinked nervously. ‘Will she?’ he muttered.

‘We’ll be guarding her, but our priority must be the Petrov Diamond. Will the Grand Duchess be wearing it?’

‘No. It’s with the other jewels. Under your guard,’ the Grand Duke pointed out.

Rose frowned. He’d just come round to the Grand Duchess’s way of thinking that a bosom was as good a place as anywhere to keep it safe.

‘Sir, I don’t like it.’ Rose hesitated. ‘There’s your new chauffeur.’

‘Higgins. Good fellow. What about him?’

‘He’s a publican, sir, from the East End of London.’

‘I know that, he’s on holiday here.’

‘He’s also the biggest receiver of stolen jewels in London.’

The Grand Duke frowned. ‘Nonsense, he’s a good chap.’

‘He may be a good chap, sir, he’s also a good fence.’

‘Then that just serves to prove my point, doesn’t it?’ said the Grand Duke with irrefutable logic. ‘His presence means that damned burglar is going to be here tonight. Now look, I can’t waste time here discussing the servants. The jewels are in the Petite Bibliothèque and as many of your fellows as you like can guard them there. It’s more sensible than following Anna round the whole evening. I’ll show you.’

He led the way up the marble and gilt staircase now smothered with lilies and roses, their purity given material elegance by the diamond-studded holders which secured them to the balustrades. The small library, on the second floor, was combined with a study for the convenience of guests.

‘There.’ The Grand Duke pointed to the desk which bore an ancient and somewhat scruffy wooden chest about eighteen inches by twelve. ‘Look at this,’ he said proudly, opening the box with his key. In the bottom, on a bed of opals, Siam rubies, Persian turquoises, garnets, chrysoberyls and topaz lay the Petrov Diamond.

‘The Orlov Diamond’s bigger, of course,’ ruminated the Grand Duke, ‘not to mention the Great Mogul. Women are never satisfied,’ he brooded. ‘Got her eye on the Tiffany yellow now. She thinks I’m made of money.’

‘You’ve no safe, sir?’

‘What do I need a safe for? There’s enough safebreakers in the world without me putting in a safe to attract them. If they want it, they’ll get it anyway.’

Again, such was his overpowering personality that Rose could not think offhand of a rebuttal to this argument.

‘The chest is supposed to have belonged to my ancestor, Tsar Peter. Used it when he went to London. Before he was Tsar of course. Some kind of tradesman, wasn’t he? Anna
was going to throw it out. But I said no. Might come in handy. And it did. Who’d expect the Romanov jewels to be in there?’ he asked proudly.

‘Who indeed? thought Rose. Only all the world and his wife, if I know Igor. He looked out of the windows down to the garden beneath. ‘I don’t see anyone in evening clothes shinning up this pipe unnoticed,’ he said. ‘But we’ll post someone at the bottom in case. And a couple of guards up here. You’ve told no one?’ he said routinely.

‘No one,’ said the Duke vigorously. ‘Anna of course knows.’ He smiled brightly.

By a natural progression of thought Rose next tracked down James Higgins. He found him in the stables polishing the lamp holders on the horseless carriage and vigorously whistling ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. He was taking no notice of the obvious hatred emanating from the French coachman lovingly polishing his spurned carriage wheels.

‘Certainly I’ll be ’ere tonight, Inspector. It’s my duty. The old Hayebox might be needed.’ He patted it virtuously. ‘We got to know each other, this old ’orse and me. Days it took to bring ’er down, and I wouldn’t leave ’er now if you offered me the Crown Jewels and no questions asked.’

‘Forget about jewels, Higgins. We don’t want the Stepney swell mob in here, do we? Remember I’ll be watching. You
and
Muriel.’

‘I’m sure Muriel will appreciate that, Inspector. A soft spot for you, she ’as.’

He lightly ran his chamois over the gleaming radiator.

‘And remember, Higgins, there’ll be someone at your side, all day.’

‘That will be very pleasant, Inspector. I always enjoy ’aving someone to chat to.’

A toothy grin and he resumed his whistling. He had switched to ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’.

Boris had at last galvanised himself into some kind of action, impressed by the imminence of the event. He rushed around after Auguste reiterating then countermanding his orders, and tasting his own concoctions, since Auguste showed no inclination to do so. Madame Didier, glancing at her son, detailed herself to restrain Boris’s peregrinations, so that Auguste could continue his eleventh-hour rescue without hindrance.

So much remained to do, and he had so little time in which to do it. The ices were to be stirred in the refrigerators, the galantines to be garnished, the
salades
to be supervised. And the fish! It was all very well this fish menu, but it posed difficulties as most dishes had to be prepared today. At six in the morning the tradesmen’s entrance had been chock-a-block with fishermen, and the kitchen resembled Billingsgate. Lobsters, crabs, crawfish, scallops, oysters and turbots lay in baskets, and the smell of the salt combining with the heat of the stoves made the kitchen almost unendurable, even for Auguste. Now the turbots reposed in their fish kettles, salmon fastened unseeing eyes upon their chef, boiled
écrevisses
waited pink and fat, ready to be peeled by the kitchenmaids, the crawfish were ready for Auguste’s preparation of the dish of dishes,
crawfish à la provençale
, the recipe with which the
Maître
Escoffier had made his name in 1869 at the Favre in Nice.

Thank heavens, thought Auguste in despair, that he had had the sense to moderate the fish menu with some
entremets
of egg and cheese dishes, some
souffles d’épinards aux anchois
, and naturally, also,
aux truffes
. He recalled making the latter dish at Stockbery Towers in Kent with Kentish truffles, and the difficulty with which he had persuaded the Duke that Kentish truffles, although naturally not like those of Provence, had a distinguishing flavour of their own. Unconvinced, the Duke had sampled the dish, and had afterwards waxed so lyrical about Kentish truffles that he promptly purchased his own trained dog to hunt them out.

Auguste was in the middle of a discussion with himself on the perennially interesting subject of whether
crawfish à la provençale
was or was not superior to
homard à l’américaine
, when he was jerked back to the present as a pageboy shot in, piping:

‘Monsieur Didier and menu to the Grand Duchess.’

She treated him as if he were their cook, he fumed. Did she think he was their
servant
? Then, recalling the standards that had to be maintained at this ball, and the stories of the balls at the Winter Palace, he could not find it in his heart to blame her for wanting the best – himself.

The Grand Duchess had replaced Igor in the morning room and was in the process of taking morning chocolate with a guest, as Auguste ran feverishly upstairs watched suspiciously by one of Fouchard’s men. This Sergeant Didier was an impostor in his view. Some policeman, he was. The
soi-disant
sergeant’s head was still spinning with dishes and plans and receipts, as he entered the room.

‘The menu,
Votre Altesse Imperiale
.’

A head turned slightly at the movement, and Auguste’s life changed for ever.