Murder At The Masque (29 page)

Emmeline sat next to Alfred, her parents facing them. Alfred was enjoying himself. He gaily pelted Rachel with a heliotrope as her carriage passed by, not noticing the look on her face that resulted. True, Emmeline had been just a little quiet since Bastide’s abrupt reappearance and rearrest but nevertheless Alfred was happy. Her parents, clearly thinking a penniless English poet was one step up on a murderer and thief, were smiling on his suit. Oddly, Emmeline, once her parents had given their blessing, didn’t seem quite so ardent when he kissed her, but she would come to herself again. Greatly daring, with her parents watching indulgently, he took her hand and was rewarded by a faint smile.

‘You’d never think,’ said Rose, amazed, looking at the flowers arcing through the air between carriages, ‘that they were all suspects in a double murder case, would you?’

The day was sunny, the air was perfumed, all the glory of Cannes surrounded them, lulling them into its sensuous embrace.

‘
Non
,’ said Auguste absentmindedly. ‘I would not.’ He would not speak now. The dish required just a little more cooking before he presented it.

‘’Ello, Wales,’ shouted a throaty voice to Don Juan. A true gentleman, he did not, like the occupants of many other carriages, ignore the greeting, crude though it was, but
cheerfully tossed a rose at the Chinese Empress. La Belle Mimosa was riding in solitary state, her carriage smothered in sweet-smelling mimosa. Her thoughts were not as sweet.

Save for the Prince of Wales, only Kallinkova bowed towards her as their carriages passed. ‘
Bonjour, madame
,’ she greeted her. A grin crossed La Belle Mimosa’s face as she took in her companions.

‘Eh, Natalia, you throw me a rose, huh? That one—’ She pointed to a red-faced Egbert.

From the beach, the old Cannois stood watching disgustedly. The Battle of the Flowers was for the
hiverneurs
nowadays. Now in the old days it had really been something. It had been part of the old Cannes. It was part of the old Provence. The Greeks had brought the floral games. His eyes lit up. Races by naked girls. Now that had been something . . . Not so long ago, only two hundred years or so, in his great-great-grandfather’s time, they’d still run them in Grasse on every Thursday in Lent. Then the bishops had put their foot down. He sighed. Spoilsports. No individuality anywhere any more. It had come to this –
hiverneurs
throwing flowers at each other. He noticed Auguste and shuffled forward purposefully to the carriage. ‘It’s Friday,
mon fils
,’ he cackled. ‘You’ll be out tonight, yes?’

‘Why?’ Auguste looked at him suspiciously.

‘Good hunting, my son. I reckon he’ll walk tonight, that ghost of yours. He likes Fridays, he does. ’Specially this one.’

‘Don’t you ever tell Edith about this,’ said Rose forcefully as, fortified by a feast of
Papa’s bourride
and
Maman
’s Pond Pudding, they set out that evening. ‘A whiff of a suspicion about me going ghost-hunting and I’d never hear the last of it.’

‘And moreover it is the day of April fools,’ Auguste
joked. ‘Nevertheless, I think there is something deeper than a jest here.’ He shivered. The evening was cool. There was not a soul about. This was not La Croisette where the grand hotels ensured a flow of people whatever the time of day; this was the old town where people went to bed early and rose early, and at night there was no distraction comparable with the pleasures of eating a meal behind closed shutters, and retiring replete to bed.

They walked out of the Rue du Barri and climbed into the Rue de Mont Chevalier, leading up to the church and the old fortress.

‘It was here that he walked before, Egbert. Just there he vanished.’

‘Into thin air? I don’t believe in ghosts, Auguste. And I don’t believe in this one. What I do believe is that if we track him down, it may help us persuade friend Chesnais to let that boy go.’

‘I think,’ said Auguste excitedly, ‘that we can do that without a ghost,
mon ami
. I feel the truth stares us in the face, and we have ignored it.’

‘What – cripes, look at that!’

Rose grabbed Auguste’s arm, and pointed. High above them by the battlements of the old fortress was a shrouded figure, glowing dimly in the dark.

‘It’s him.’

‘Well,’ said Auguste grimly, ‘if he’s glowing he is our thief and no ghost.
Courage, mon ami
—’ as much to convince himself as Egbert.

‘Sure?’ gulped Rose, as they ran up the slope of the pathway. Below the fortress the path divided, one way leading round to the far side, the other, the quicker way, to the postern-gate drawbridge leading into the Place de la Castre surrounded by the battlement wall.

‘You go that way, it’s easier,’ panted Auguste, speeding round the far side and up the connecting steps. His heart was thumping by the time he arrived at the old fortress.
Pelting round to the front into the Place de la Castre, he joined Rose by the battlement wall overlooking the hillside.

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing,’ Rose confirmed.

‘But there must be some sign. There’s no other way he could have gone. The church?’

‘Locked.’

‘The old church?’

‘Locked. And so’s the tower.’

They gazed out over the dark Suquet hill, below them the Bay of Cannes, the Croisette and the new town glowing with lights.

‘That was no ghost,’ said Rose flatly. ‘Was it?’ he asked, suddenly uncertain.

They looked around them but neither the old disused twelfth-century church of St Anne behind them nor the new church of Notre Dame bore any sign of possible routes of escape for human ghosts.

‘I tell you what, Auguste, this is an April fool and no mistake. If that was a ghost, I’ll eat my new boater.’

‘I think I can find you a dish more palatable than that, Egbert,’ said Auguste thoughtfully. ‘The dish that stares us in the face.’

‘Let’s hear it.’

‘It seems to me that we all overlooked one thing,’ said Auguste. Here in the cool air it seemed so clear, so obvious, he wondered at their blindness. ‘Lord Westbourne announced he was going into the writing room to prepare his report for the Niger Conference. He never did so – he was murdered before he had written more than a few lines. Suppose that was the intention? Suppose someone wanted to stop his report?’

‘Bastide?’ said Rose doubtfully.

‘No. Westbourne was a peacemaker. Had Bastide stopped to think – as he rarely does – he would realise that Westbourne was France’s best hope – that’s unless Bastide
actually wanted a war, of course,’ said Auguste, sidetracked. ‘In which case it does give him a motive if Westbourne was about to suggest a compromise. But others too perhaps. Now think, who would know Westbourne’s views? Who is in the Colonial Office?’

‘Cyril Tucker,’ said Rose thoughtfully. ‘Of course.’

‘Suppose it was in his personal interests to stop Lord Westbourne’s arranging a compromise? Just suppose. And he could have done it,’ said Auguste eagerly, ‘if he’d followed Westbourne out almost immediately.’

‘I’ll make inquiries,’ said Rose. ‘It’s a thought. It’s definitely a thought. I’m going to Paris tomorrow to see Chesnais and I’ll go back to the Yard to see what I can find out. I’ll let you know when I’ll be back.’ He paused. ‘While we’ve a moment, Auguste, that Princess Tatiana – was she your Tatiana by any chance?’ he asked awkwardly.

‘Yes.’ Auguste stared out over the bay, trying to stem the wave of misery that flowed over him.

‘Did she know you were here?’

‘She saw me when I took the menu to the Grand Duchess. She left and we did not speak.’

‘Ah.’ There was a silence, then: ‘It’s a funny old case, isn’t it?’ Rose tactfully changed the subject. ‘Like that maze at Stockberry Towers. And that play of Shakespeare’s.’ An idea occurred to him, but before he had time to pursue it:

‘Look!’ Auguste hissed and pointed downwards. There in the gardens below them was a ghostly glowing figure, beckoning. ‘This way. We watch him this time.’ Auguste was already running.

Rose followed him through the postern and on to the pathway, but the ghost had already vanished.

‘You take the top road, Egbert. I will go down the hill.’

Auguste ran down the pathway. This was ridiculous, he was thinking. He was in search of a ghost that wanted to be seen, that was clear. Was that it ahead? He turned the corner. The figure didn’t seem to glow now, but there was
undoubtedly a misty shape in the gloom beyond the single gas light. A shape that had nothing to do with imagination. He ran towards it as it disappeared round the corner. No matter. He would catch it up, there was nowhere for it to go. No doors that might open for it provided Auguste was quick. Yet by the time he reached the old watchtower, misty and dank-smelling, the road held nothing but himself. He was alone.

‘Here!’ he heard Rose’s voice shouting, high above, just as he himself shouted, ‘Egbert!
A moi
!’

Impossible that the ghost could still be up there! Rose had made a mistake. Yet Auguste turned and panted back up the pathway. No human could have run quicker. By the time he reached Rose his breath was coming in uneven jolts.

‘I nearly got him,’ cursed Rose. ‘Round there, going down to the old town behind the hill.’

‘He wasn’t,’ said Auguste. ‘He was my side of the hill, by the old watchtower.’

‘No,
here
– look!’ Rose pointed to the foot of the pathway leading off the hill, where a black-cloaked figure had halted, its hand briefly raised in farewell, before disappearing into the gloom.

‘The fellow seems to fly. And he wasn’t glowing either. There’s no ghost. He’s human, and using phosphorus. But it can only be on one side of the cloak. He turns it inside out. That’s how he wasn’t noticed going into the room by the gendarme.
Ghosts
! Rubbish. Our man went along the corridor or down the drainpipe and in his black and all the confusion wasn’t seen.’

‘Then why,’ asked Auguste, not wholly convinced, ‘did he bother with the phosphorus at all?’

‘Had to persuade them he was a ghost, so as they would panic and run outside, and he could pinch the jewels.’

‘But that—’ Auguste stopped, then looked at Rose who nodded and completed the sentence.

‘Meant the lights had to go off.’

‘Higgins,’ they both said in unison.

‘
Maman
, it is too much. The Grand Duke must do without a cook—’

‘Would you let the Grand Duke go without his Easter luncheon on the
jour de Pâques
?’ Madame Didier cunningly pleaded.

‘Then I will prepare it,
Maman
, and not you.’ Thus resigned, on Saturday the 9th Auguste found himself once more in the kitchens of the Villa Russe.

It was strange without Boris rumbling around. The police were all gone now, and the villa was licking its wounds. But with no trace yet of the Petrov Diamond, and Boris’s murder still not solved, there was a feeling of unease in the air. Tomorrow morning Egbert would return, and then perhaps all would be well once the murderer was arrested.

Meanwhile he had seen little of Natalia, and nothing of the Tuckers. The case was almost over, but why did he not feel the same sense of combined exultation and relief as he had before?

The Easter cake was ready for the morrow. How Boris would have approved. He offered up a silent apology for having suspected him of being a murderer and in propitiation had prepared the Russian Easter specialities of
kulitch
and
pascha
himself. He could do no more, barbarous though they seemed. Doughy, heavy and solid. Was this fare for Provence? True, the cardamon was an interesting touch. He had won the approval of the kitchen staff at any rate by the time he was ready to go. The
real
food, the lobster, the
faisan
, were as perfect as his professional eye could demand.
Voilà
, tomorrow he would meet Rose, and the case would be settled.
Then
he could enjoy his holiday.

He unlatched the gate of the tradesmen’s exit and went out into the quiet velvet night. With a sudden lurch of horror he realised he was not alone in the chemin de
Montrouge. Dropping from the wall on to quiet feet not far in front of him was a familiar figure, cloak, hat and mask. This couldn’t be a ghost. This was flesh and blood, and he intended to find out whose.

But startled at first, the other’s reflexes were quicker, as he sped away on quicksilver feet. How so quietly? pondered Auguste even as he ran. Perhaps it was not a man, not a ghost, but a hallucination. Despite a nagging irrational fear that when he reached him his arms would enclose empty air, he ran on in pursuit, up towards the grounds of the Villa Nevada and the fir woods. Would he turn right towards the woods, seeking safety among the cypresses and pines? No, he was going into the grounds of the Villa Nevada. Auguste hauled himself up slowly over the high wall, but the other had the advantage and had disappeared by the time he got there. Breathing heavily, Auguste stood indecisive. Where now? He must not lose him again . . .

Bushes loomed dark at him in the night, trees rustled gently. Not a sign of human movement. Then he saw the folly, an English eccentricity of a summerhouse. He must be in there. He crept up to it, out of sight of the door, entering only to see his quarry disappearing through a window.

That settled it. No ghost! he thought grimly. Auguste ran out of the door and through the grounds like an eel, brushing past huge eucalyptus trees and palms. His prey was making for the far wall. Ten seconds later and he was over it.

Cursing, shins already barked from the last encounter with a wall, Auguste flung himself over, falling heavily on the other side. He picked himself up, to see just ahead of him his quarry, who had stayed for a moment to look back at his pursuer’s mishap.

Staggering after him Auguste ran on, through the carpet of pine needles. Perhaps his own cuisine gave him strength, perhaps his quarry half-halted in indecision, but he gained
on him, until he was but a hand’s stretch beyond Auguste’s grasp. A superhuman effort, and the cloak was in his hand.

A sudden lurch of terror lest nothing be beneath it, lest it were a ghost after all. Then throwing himself at his quarry’s back he brought him to the ground, tumbling together until the wiry body lay struggling beneath him. With his last ounce of strength, he ripped off the mask.