Murder At The Masque (24 page)

The morning room became at once a paradise and a hell; his heart held him captive as the world kaleidoscoped around him. For one moment he looked into her eyes, then calmly she set down her cup upon the silver trolley, and with a murmur to the Grand Duchess rose to her feet. The Princess Tatiana did not look back as she walked towards the far door, but had Auguste not been so swept away on glory and misery he would have seen a certain tenseness about her shoulders, a slight hesitation on the threshold. Then she was gone, the flunkeys closing the door behind her.

‘Monsieur Didier.’ There was a note of impatience. The Grand Duchess was not used to her servants gazing spellbound at other people while she was addressing them, and she was forced to repeat his name somewhat sharply before he came to his senses.

‘My apologies,
madame
.’ Auguste stumbled over the words, head still reeling.
Tatiana here? ‘May
I suggest we serve the turbot with a lobster sauce rather than with mayonnaise—’
She is related to the Romanovs, why should I not have considered that she might be here
? ‘The langoustines will make a blaze of colour, so they should not be next to the sturgeon, whose glaze is mixed with lobster coral—’
She has not changed. Was it a dream
? ‘The cod and the caviar,
madame
—’
She looked at me and walked on. She cares no more
. ‘The cod will have a sauce of grief—’

‘
Une sauce de grive
? Thrushes, Monsieur Didier?’ Her tones were cold, since Auguste’s abstraction was obvious. She then recalled that her ball was tonight, and even though this cook seemed as mad as Boris, he had to stay. Auguste was therefore reprieved from instant dismissal from a post he had no idea he was occupying.

Auguste walked trembling back to the kitchen, all interest in food leaving him. Tatiana in Paris was bearable. But Tatiana in this very house – ah, that was different. Suppose she was married? The torment. How could he endure the next twelve hours? He might see her again; he could not bear the exquisite torture of that thought. He must throw himself into his work, forget her. Forget that his dream of life was centred on the floor above.

He took a deep breath full of resolve, and erupted into the kitchen. ‘
Petite Marie
, what do you do with that salamander? You think it is a warming pan? Jean-Paul, you call that a garnish?
Alors
, Monsieur Boris—’

Equally elaborate preparations were going on in villas and hotels all over Cannes. A masked fancy dress ball in Cannes, especially at the Villa Russe, was an event. Madame Verrier had been swamped with work. Balls were as hard work in the dressing room as in the kitchens. Ideas had been ruthlessly stolen from the Nice masked ball at Mardi Gras. Thus there were several
Mesdames de la Lune
, dressed in
ivory satin and diamonds, and at least three lady devils, tastefully arrayed with golden horns and black dresses heavily encrusted with rubies.

Rachel Tucker at the Villa Sardou discovered that her Phèdre dress, a copy of that worn by the great Rachel herself, required an entirely different corset, and mourned that she had not bought the one with the Pompadour embroidery and suspenders that had looked so versatile.

Emmeline Vanderville impatiently tugged at her new pink spider-web tulle dress and twisted and turned to look at the effect of the lace butterfly decorated with diamonds that her maid had just placed in her hair. But she was not concentrating on them. She was looking at the posy of Neapolitan violets that had just arrived from Alfred. What a sweet romantic gesture. She’d pin it on her dress so that he would see them. They didn’t last as long as amethysts, but they were so pretty and she could always press them between the pages of her very private diary. The orchids supplied by Bastide remained in their box.

Dora, Lady Westbourne, was in a quandary. As a widow she should not attend a ball, yet she could not miss it. She would ensure that if she could not dance, Harry would not either. Such a pity she had to wear black. She had briefly considered going as a lady devil. Such interesting costumes at the Nice ball. But she had decided in favour of Mary Queen of Scots . . . She too had lost a husband by murder,
and
she, too, had a lover. Yes, she should look as regally fragile as Mary.

Natalia Kallinkova had arrived early at the Villa Russe and was taking tea with her acquaintance Princess Tatiana. Not hampered by having to consider a change of corset, she had simply brought her costume with her, and its satin folds were even now being lovingly hung out by Marie in an upstairs bedroom.

‘I shall go as the Queen of Hearts,’ she confided to Tatiana. ‘It is an old English rhyme. She stole some tarts.
So I shall wear some real tarts which
mon cher ami
Monsieur Didier will supply from the kitchens. Ah, he is a knave indeed, that one. It is not tarts but hearts he steals, all on a summer’s day,’ she laughed.

Tatiana continued to sip her tea, her face impassive.

The newest scullerymaid had barely finished washing the marble steps for the fifth time that day before the first carriage arrived. Showing invitations at the gates was a novelty, and speculation was intense. The Grand Duke, standing at the entrance to the ballroom to greet his guests with the Grand Duchess, was not yet masked, and was arrayed as an opulent Turkish Sultan, his splendid red turban encrusted with emerald bands; his Grand Duchess, who had not wished to be taken for a common lady of the harem, had chosen Scheherazade. Both roles displayed their jewels in quantity. Six seamstresses had worked for a week to sew them on to the costumes. Peter the Great’s box, however, still contained the largest items of the collection, including of course the Petrov Diamond, the Grand Duke assured Rose.

Rose fidgeted by his side. No fancy dress for him; he even felt uncomfortable in his faithful old tailcoat and old-fashioned collared waistcoat. The Duke, once accustomed to the idea that he might indeed be a target, now refused to let Rose out of his sight, and he had been enjoined to share the grand-ducal luncheon. He looked forward to telling Edith all about it. From Highbury to Grand Dukes! From bangers to
bisques
.

Cannes society, or rather its top echelons, was now flocking into the ballroom, and Rose’s unease grw. How on earth to feel master of this situation, when in theory anybody might be carrying a dagger in his costume. Indeed, one was. The Grand Duke. As Rose’s eyes took in the Grand Duke’s costume, he became painfully aware of a familiar sight sticking out of one of the Turkish Sultan’s
boots. A jewelled dagger. It gave him a nasty jolt, for a moment thinking it the very same dagger used to kill Lord Westbourne.

The Grand Duke had followed his eye. ‘Ah,’ he said, pleased. ‘I take notice of what you say. I protect myself. This is the Dagger of Prince Tanarov. He displeased one of my ancestors.’ He did not go on to elaborate, and Rose did not press the point. He was too busy thinking of the possible ramifications of a jumpy Grand Duke imagining every bush a Nihilist bear.

The ballroom was huge by Cannes standards, even if not by those of the Winter Palace, and as if to provide a reminder of this fact, the main decorations consisted of a huge representation of the Winter Palace, twenty feet high and thirty feet long, constructed from lilies and decorated with greenery, with small diamond clusters composing the windows. The Grand Duke believed in having birthdays in style. By its side and tastefully hidden behind a tall screen of palms was the orchestra.

‘Are they checked?’ frowned Rose, glancing at Fouchard.

‘
Oui
. Local men,’ said Fouchard loftily. ‘No danger. Do not worry so, Inspector Rose. No stranger can enter the grounds of the Villa Russe tonight.’

He spoke too soon. One of his men came rushing through the crush of people. ‘We have him, sir!’ he cried excitedly.

‘Who?’ asked Fouchard sharply.

‘A Nihilist, sir.’ They had been well indoctrinated in the art of Villa Russe protection. ‘He doesn’t deny it.’

Fouchard rushed off, filled with horror, and Rose’s unease grew. Where there was one . . . But his fears were misplaced on this occasion. He recognised him at once as Fouchard returned, trophy firmly in his grasp. It was the old Cannois.

Auguste had other things on his mind than the capture of Nihilists. Food. Only food. He must concentrate and not think of Tatiana. Now was the important time when the
kitchens disgorged their masterpieces and the
plats
were laid in the supper room and garnishes were added; when the
maître
must stand back to criticise his handiwork, to bring it one step nearer perfection. There stood his creations, pristine, untouched, gifts from heaven. The hot
plats
were in their chafing dishes, the salads arranged to delight the eye. Liveried servants stood proudly by their charges. Ah, this was the supreme moment for a chef. Afterwards there was a different kind of satisfaction for a
maître
, when dirty, messy plates bore a testimony of their own.

Auguste went to superintend the tables in the supper room while Boris floundered around below. The food was to be served from golden and silver dishes, on to Sevres china plates. Even the Villa Russe could not run to 400 golden plates, but to make up for it, each table groaned not only with food but with huge living green plants, carried on silver pergolas up to the ceiling, with fresh orchids and roses peeping between the leaves. Auguste regarded these almost disparagingly, lest their splendour detract from the glory of his food. The eye was so important. Not
all
important, but certainly a part of it. He would not go so far as to insist on the theatrical displays of Monsieur Grimod de La Reynière, who heralded the arrival of each dish with flutes and trumpets; there was a need, it was true, to create a sense of anticipation, but not to overwhelm the food itself.
His
food, at least, did not require this.

He was still lost in anxious admiration of his achievements when Natalia came in, recognisable only by her Queen of Hearts costume, in white satin with red satin hearts. Few jewels for Kallinkova. She mischievously placed a kiss on his cheek, seeing he was in the midst of his professional checking. She felt only a slight reaction.

‘So,’ she said softly. ‘The lover thinks of other things. Of detection perhaps?’

‘I feel we are pawns on a chessboard,’ he said apologetically, gratefully leaping to this excuse. Because he had
seen Tatiana, that was no reason to slight Natalia.

‘Then think like a knight,
mon ami
.’ She laid her hand gently on his cheek. ‘
Eh bien
, where are my tarts?’

Think like a knight, forward and along. Round sharp corners – like the Ghost of the Man in the Iron Mask. It had disappeared. But if one accepted there were no such things as ghosts then it had to go somewhere. Absentmindedly he changed the order of two
plats
, refixed a white Piedmontese truffle on the glaze of a sturgeon. Always before, the method and routine of cooking had helped his detection; perhaps this time also it might. Suppose each
plat
here represented a person present at the cricket match: this sturgeon was the Grand Duke, the centrepiece, and perhaps the intended victim. This turbot, Lord Westbourne. These pink salmon, the ladies. His eye went round the tables. All round the edges were the lesser
plats
, the
entremets
, the vegetables, there to supplement, to serve . . . the kitchenmaid . . . A wild idea came into his head, so extraordinary he sat down, head in hands. His dream returned to him. Ah yes, now he remembered. The idea grew. He thought it over. But how? Why?

‘Natalia,’ he said slowly. ‘I have been blind. It is maybe so simple, just at right angles to the line we followed. Like chess, as you say. They told us themselves, and we did not listen. We have been so busy thinking of everyone’s motives, first to kill Lord Westbourne, then to kill the Grand Duke. But I of all people have been guilty of thinking the
vegetables
were there to supplement. They
are
the
plat
. We took no notice of the servants. We thought of them as witnesses, but not players in the game. Why not?
Why not
?’ He waved a decorative crab claw around in growing triumph. ‘Why am I here myself?’ he demanded.

‘To cook.’

‘
And why
?’

‘Because Boris is not capable.’

‘And
why
is that? What is different after the cricket match than before?’

‘Lord Westbourne is dead.’ She considered, following his thoughts. ‘But why should Boris wish to kill Lord Westbourne?’

‘He didn’t – he intended to kill the Grand Duke.’

She stared, then laughed. ‘What? Ah,
non, mon ami
, that is
pas possible
. Everyone knows that Boris is devoted to the Grand Duke. He has served him for twenty years.’

‘Yes, and perhaps that is why he was not killed sooner.’

‘Oh, Auguste, you’re being ridiculous. Simple? You’re making things complicated.’

‘Am I? Suppose he is a Nihilist. He was in Paris when that group was discovered some years ago. His task is to kill the Grand Duke. He waits his time. You Russians are patient people, and it is the Nihilists’ way to lie low. Some day he will do it, he reasons, but only when the honour of Russia, safeguarded by the Romanovs, is at stake. And at the cricket match, what happens?’

Natalia opened her mouth, but Auguste swept on.

‘The Grand Duke made an idiot of himself. He threw away the chance of victory for the Players and fell over the stumps on the first ball instead of scoring magnificently as he had boasted earlier. He laughed, but Boris did not. I heard him, Natalia. The honour of Russia, he kept saying. And then see his horror when he discovered Lord Westbourne was the victim. He was drunk, he is short-sighted, he saw the Grand Duke enter the study but not come out. Don’t you remember I told you he blamed the cow? He went out to milk the cow and did not see the Grand Duke leave. So he enters and there is a broad blazered back. He took his chance to avenge Russian honour. But he killed the wrong man, and in his distress, his answers to me came out oddly. I thought he was drunk, but he was following his own reasoning.’