Murder At The Masque (28 page)

‘It would give me great pleasure if Trepolov were the guilty man,’ Auguste said quietly.

‘Ah.’

‘To think that such a man—’ He broke off, with a swift look at Rose. ‘It is insupportable.’

‘Quite so, Auguste.’

‘There’s the Grand Duke and Duchess,’ went on Auguste
with an effort. ‘Boris would protect them, and it would tie in with his melancholy after the event. The Russian despondency of which Natalia has told me.
Toska
they call it.’

It was an obvious fill-up for something to say and eagerly snatched at by Rose.

‘Spare me that, Auguste. Not our Igor.’

Auguste laughed somewhat awkwardly. ‘I cannot see the Grand Duke Igor deciding to kill his cook. But of course there have been such abominations.’ He went off on a sidetrack. ‘There was the Earl Ferrers who killed his steward, of course, and—’ He broke off and looked at Rose.

Rose nodded. ‘I know. We’re still forgetting all about our friend Higgins. And the lovely Muriel.’

At this moment Mrs Didier brought in apéritifs and appetisers of
moules
marinated in lemon, wine and herbs.

‘Taste them, my friend,’ Auguste advised. ‘They are somewhat different to those on Southend Pier.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with a good whelk,’ Rose proclaimed stoutly. ‘Our friend Higgins does a grand line in them at The Seamen’s Rest. He’s tied in with this somehow.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t see him as a murderer, though. Thief perhaps. Here to remove the swag, certainly. But do you see Higgins shinning up drainpipes like an ape? Or dressing up in fancy cloaks? Much too fat.’

‘Muriel’s not.’

Auguste was at the flower market early on the Tuesday morning. He would take some flowers to Kallinkova, who had been dancing at Monte Carlo the previous evening. She would await him this morning eager to know what was happening. In his wretchedness over Tatiana, he had unconsciously avoided Natalia, when she had been so good to him. He bought a huge bunch of camellias and, almost blinded by them, cannoned into someone.

‘Pah. You are a bad omen,’ said the old Cannois. ‘Every
time I see you something bad happens. I get arrested, I see ghosts . . . My son, you bring trouble in your wake.’

Auguste stood still, his spirits at the lowest ebb he could remember. Tatiana gone, she loved another. Natalia was her own mistress, doubtless she too would soon go. His art lay in ruins, and as a detective he seemed as good as a fallen soufflé. Did he truly bring trouble in his wake? Murder had followed him from Kent to the Galaxy Theatre, from there to Plum’s – and now to Cannes, his native town. He swallowed, and seeing this the old Cannois’s eyes softened. He patted his shoulder comfortingly.

‘
Alors, mon fils, courage
. You are a
peis d’Avril, peutêtre
. A mackerel. The April fool that comes too quickly to the net. Reflect, my son, reflect.’

Natalia buried her head in the camellias, a gesture Auguste recognised. He recalled just so had she bent that graceful neck in
The Awakening of Flora
. He also recalled that camellias had no perfume, and wondered of what she was thinking. Perhaps it was simply to hide irritation at being thus interrupted in the midst of practice. He looked at her unlovely blue practice clothes and thought inconsequentially that those baggy trousers might very well do for bicycling. He quickly reproached himself for thinking thus critically of her. How privileged he was that she had even consented to see him. Her goodness, her kindness, her beauty – just the sight of her assuaged the pain in his heart left by Tatiana, now gone from his life for ever, gone back to Paris, no doubt to prepare for her wedding. Why did they speak of pain in the
heart
? It rested, that ache, not in the heart, but the stomach, lying there as physically manifest as one of Soyer’s heavier receipts indulged in late at night.

Natalia sighed. ‘I shall be glad when this season is over. I dance only tonight, and Thursday – and then— ’ She snapped her fingers.

‘And then where?’ he asked with resignation.

‘Vienna,
chéri
, but then,’ looking thoughtfully at him, ‘in Paris. You come to see me?’

‘
Non
,’ he said abruptly. Not Paris, with its memories.

‘Then we shall meet again when the good God wishes. Or perhaps not, if He sends your lady to you in my place.’

‘
That is not possible
,’ he said stiffly. ‘She is to be married.’

‘Ah.
Mon pauvre Auguste
,’ Natalia said gently. Then: ‘
Eh bien
, now you tell me what happened on Saturday night after the inspector made me leave.’

She had changed the subject after a look at Auguste’s face, but to a subject which had obviously caused her much annoyance. She was still aggrieved that she had been dispatched like the other guests with no recognition given to her special status. She had merely been delegated as hostess to the Princess Tatiana Maniovskaya who was to leave for Paris early the next morning. That had been most enjoyable, but nevertheless she still smarted from being omitted from the scene of the crime.

‘So, poor Boris Ivanovich. Who wanted to kill him? He was a blackmailer perhaps? And he had a meeting in the belvedere with his victim?’ It was an excellent plot for a
Strand Magazine
shocker but even she conceded that Boris hardly fitted the pattern.

‘
Non
, it was a spur-of-the-moment murder,’ Auguste said. ‘It was his own knife. Moreover it was no appointment, for I myself sent him there.’

‘And did anyone hear you tell him to go to the belvedere?’ she pressed.

Auguste considered. ‘It is very possible. I’ – he looked shamefaced now that Boris was dead – ‘I had raised my voice,’ he admitted. He had indeed – he could remember the surprised glances of the guests looking round. But who? Which guests? He ransacked his memory. Surely – the thought went as Natalia spoke:

‘He was not killed in mistake? After all, the lights were out.’

‘Not in the belvedere. The candles gave sufficient light. Whoever killed him knew it was Boris. The murderer was either present when he arrived, or saw him setting off down the gardens, or’ – he admitted – ‘he heard me ordering him to go.’ That memory again.

‘But nobody would be in the belvedere alone?’ objected Natalia. ‘They would go
with
someone.’

‘Many people,’ said Auguste gloomily, ‘seem to have been in the belvedere, and by the time the lights went out most claim to have been back at the villa, either with other people or having gone back alone. Except,’ he paused, ‘for Mr Hathaway and La Belle Mimosa.’

‘Pah,’ said Natalia vigorously. ‘Why should La Belle Mimosa kill Boris? She makes a fool of you, perhaps.’

The old Cannois – you are a
peis d’Avril
, my son, Auguste thought fleetingly.

‘
Mais non
,’ he said. ‘One must not think that because she shouted to the world that she would kill Westbourne, that she
told
us she was walking to the belvedere when Boris was there, that she is
not
the person who committed these crimes. We are not playing games here.’

‘Why should she wish to kill Boris?’ Natalia demanded, still scornful.

‘Because he knew who killed Lord Westbourne,’ said Auguste simply. ‘Because he knew who the thief was.’

‘Knew who – Ah,
mon ami
. You have robberies on the brain, you and the good Inspector Rose. Now I tell you, Auguste. I said I would help you in this affair so I have been talking. I have talked to more ladies of society, and some not in society, in the last ten days than ever before, and I tell you, Auguste, much goes on. You know already that Lady Westbourne had a lover, that she now has another lover, but you do not know that the day before the cricket match Lord Westbourne had discovered this fact and said he was going to put an end to it. She was scared. She did not know what to do. Suppose she decided what to do? Much happened at the cricket match, and not all on the field. Suppose when Lord Westbourne stamped off to make his report, she went with him? Think back.’

Auguste thought. He remembered La Belle Mimosa shouting, he remembered Lord Westbourne, deep in discussions on Africa, disappearing to write his report, and an idea came to him. Just suppose— He was recalled abruptly
to the present by Natalia’s voice finishing triumphantly: ‘. . . Trepolov.’

Auguste thought savagely of the pleasure it would give him to see Count Trepolov arrested. ‘He was with Bastide,’ Auguste muttered unwillingly. ‘They went out to the field.’

‘
Oui, c’est vrai
, but what did he do while Bastide was kissing the lovely Emmeline?’

Auguste brightened. ‘Natalia, you are a pearl of great price. A white truffle in the midst of mere mushrooms.’ Then his face clouded. ‘
Non
.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘It is not possible. Washington saw him in the gentlemen’s cloakroom. We must go on thinking if we are to free Bastide—’

‘Bastide?
Comment
? But he
is
released.’ she cried in surprise.

‘Inspector Chesnais arrested him again, this time for being the robber. He was dressed as the Man in the Iron Mask, and so the Great Detective believes that because the robbery was done by the Man in the Iron Mask, it must be Bastide. No matter that the thief glowed in the dark. The identification is complete. He would like to pin the murders too on Bastide but at the moment cannot prove this.’

‘
C’est ridicule, ça
,’ said Natalia slowly. ‘Something must be done.
La pauvre Emmeline
.’

What would Mrs Rose say if she could see him now, driving along the Boulevard de la Croisette in the carriage filled with flowers, next to one of the world’s leading ballerinas, and wearing a fashionable new boater he’d bought at Folkett-Browne’s in the Rue d’Antibes at the urging of Miss Kallinkova. Egbert grinned at Auguste. What would she say about this French haircut, come to that? Yet underneath this fairy-tale life he was well aware of the darker side, the side that spoke of murder and passions. And how easy it was to forget that to keep all this going there was a whole army of poorly paid French servants, who barely
scraped a living. He supposed it was no different anywhere else; it became more noticeable in a place where foreigners were the meringue and the native population only the sponge beneath. He smiled. Auguste had got him at it now – giving everything a cooking analogy.

The Cannes Battle of Flowers organised by the Fetes Committee was a special event. The Croisette was jammed with carriages smothered under flowers, many people in fancy dress and people throwing flowers at each other with much merriment. Rose had drawn the line at fancy dress but Natalia had fastened round his neck a garland of jonquils. He hoped this did not get back to the Yard, that no one was around to record this fact for the social columns of the
Illustrated London News
or even the
Cannes Gazette
. Lord Westbourne’s murderer still remained at large, the murder of Boris too was unsolved, and the thief still remained elusive. The Grand Duke and Duchess passed their carriage in the Delahaye. Apart from the absence of the horse, it was indistinguishable from a carriage, since the vehicle was almost buried in flowers, the Grand Duchess seated in their midst like a fountain arising from a pool.

‘There’s that police inspector,’ said Rachel suddenly to Cyril and the dog – once more in favour as she found herself bereft of outside male attention.

‘True, my dear.’

‘Why’s he still here?’

‘They haven’t solved the murders yet. He cannot return until Lord Westbourne’s murder is solved.’

‘But they had the murderer! That Count.’ Rachel’s voice almost squeaked in most unactresslike tones.

‘Apparently not.’

‘You don’t think he’ll go on investigating, do you? Not
us
?’ Rachel asked carefully.

Cyril did not answer.

She did not persist but flung a piece of heliotrope, not at
Dora Westbourne’s face, but at her hat, knocking it askew, which was far more devastating. In return she received a red rose in her lap. Not from dear Dora. From Harry Washington.

Was it
lèse majesté
to throw flowers at a Grand Duke during the Battle of the Flowers? thought Auguste hazily and decided it wasn’t. Unfortunately the orange flowers caught the Duke behind the ear. Auguste hastily ducked. Only Kallinkova was looking Igor’s way, and his eye met hers meaningfully. She laughed, and tossed a geranium in his direction.

Now Count Trepolov was passing them. How dare he? thought Auguste furiously. He was riding in the Battle of Flowers with another woman when he was betrothed to Tatiana. Auguste had hardly recognised him. He was dressed as a bee, his companion clearly representing honeysuckle (the only reason for her presence had Auguste but known).

‘He has murderer written all over him,’ Auguste said viciously to Rose. He flung a particularly solid sprig of orange-blossom at him, and had the pleasure of hitting his target. ‘He looks so like a murderer,’ he continued wistfully. ‘He had much time to kill Lord Westbourne and—’

‘Now, Auguste, Trepolov’s out. You know that.’

I still think he’s a villain, Auguste thought, mutinously. Tatiana, to think that anyone but he, Auguste, should marry Tatiana. This holiday was turning into misery . . . save for seeing dear
Maman
and
Papa
. Almost he wished to give up this detection, yet he knew he had to stay to the bitter end if Bastide were to stand any chance of freedom. Yet now he
knew
who the villain was despite his wistful leanings to Trepolov. And very shortly now he would tell Egbert and Natalia. He had had time to think.

The Prince of Wales already was a free spirit. Riding in the carriage of his American friends, the Goelets, he was enjoying pelting as many bosoms as he could manage under the pretext of his fancy dress costume of a masked Don Juan. He fooled nobody.

He was congratulating himself that he’d had the sense to bow out of Igor’s masquerade ball. He went hot and cold at the thought he could have been involved in a
second
murder.