Murder At The Masque (31 page)

Rose had filled in the time constructively. ‘Well, Higgins?’

‘Well, Inspector?’ Higgins straightened up from the Delahaye to meet the coming Armageddon.

‘You didn’t keep perhaps one gem for yourself?’

‘No, Inspector. Not that I know what you’re talking about.’

‘Caught us nicely by walking past with your toolbox. What did you do with the real one?’

‘Muriel took it.’

‘All right, Higgins. Explain.’

Higgins paused as if in admiration of his handiwork in polishing the horseless carriage.

‘I take it you’ve no authority ’ere, Inspector?’ he inquired politely.

‘None,’ said Rose cheerfully.

‘E’s a mean old sod,’ said Higgins unexpectedly and unresentfully. ‘That’s what Muriel and me thinks. It all goes back to Muriel’s mum. She works there for years and years, faithful service and all that stuff, ’onest as the day is Muriel’s mum. So all the while, me and Muriel puts the word round London, hands orf the Grand Duke. No nicking, no cracks, no nothing, ’cos Muriel’s mum thinks he’s all right. Then Muriel’s mum gets her eyes screwed up and she can’t work no more. Thank you very much and ’ere’s a copy of the Russian Bible. Mean old devil. So I promptly takes the word orf. ‘Ave a go, lads, I said. Give it all you’ve got. But we ’ardly got started afore Miss Kallinkova comes to see me. Right suspicious I was at first – ’ow she got my name and all. But she’s a lady all right. She talks me round to seeing this is more fun.
And
a bit of an ’oliday,’ he said
virtuously. ‘Going straight makes a change – seeing you’ve no jurisdiction of course.’

It was almost like an afternoon at the Monte Carlo casino, waiting to see on whom the die would fall. But this casino was playing for high stakes. Auguste was almost glad that he knew the outcome and could prepare himself.

Sitting with Chesnais and Fouchard was a sulky Bastide, released in their charge pending confirmation of Rose’s most satisfactory theory. Typical imperialists, dragging people in and out of prison. He had hardly had time to suffer. True, Emmeline seemed eager to see him, which was compensation, and not very eager to sit by Hathaway.

Auguste looked at Natalia, who was chatting to Rachel as though she had not a care in the world. She was beautiful, she was good, but she was not for him. She had been right. He had been forced to realise today that she lived in a different world, that she was not his Natalia, but someone who was his but for a fleeting time, and even then had a whole secret life of which he was not aware. It changed things. A squeeze of the hand, as they sat in the carriage, and without a word it was all acknowledged, leaving a vast emptiness in his heart.

Cyril Tucker was blandly talking to Alfred Hathaway. How self-effacing, how normal-looking. So Jack the Ripper must have looked in everyday life. Yet underneath torrents raged. A double murderer.

And Lady Westbourne, sitting apart from Washington. To think they had almost accused him of being the thief. Auguste smiled. The son of a jewel thief. How would the Gentlemen of England take to that if they knew? Lady Westbourne’s eyes were resting thoughtfully on Alfred Hathaway. Come to that, Auguste noticed with indignation, so were Kallinkova’s. Ah no, he must be imagining things. And there – he turned his glance away quickly – was Count Trepolov, sitting haughtily by the side of the
Grand Duke and Duchess. How could she? Oh, how could she?

There was a crash, as without waiting for a footman to open the door La Belle Mimosa entered, an Easter vision. ‘Hey, Igor, look at my egg!’ She held out her hand on which a Fabergé egg, complete with portrait of the Grand Duke Igor, rested. Igor shrank back. Lady Westbourne and Rachel Tucker glanced at each other with smiles of satisfaction. They had arrived early for their quiet discussion with Igor.

Once again the Grand Duchess swept into action. She rose composedly to her feet. ‘Thank you, madame,’ she said, as she swept the egg from the outstretched hand before La Belle Mimosa could withdraw it. ‘The item will be returned to his Imperial Majesty the Tsar. I think you will find this sufficient compensation, madame,’ she added before the scream of rage left Mimosa’s throat.

La Belle Mimosa’s eyes narrowed as a footman advanced with a small box on a salver. She opened it, looked at the gold necklace and speedily calculated its value. At least she wouldn’t have to go about with that bloody great lump on her bosom any more. Gold necklace . . . she examined it carefully and bit it. She nodded. Then she swept a curtsy that would have done justice to the grandest debutante, giving the Grand Duchess an excellent view of her erstwhile rival’s greatest asset. The Grand Duchess smiled sweetly. Her eye roved thoughtfully over three other ladies in the room, all of whom were smiling sweetly and innocently. But no more was said.

Inspector Chesnais took his moment of glory. By his investigation he had shown that the Comte de Bonifacio was innocent. He beamed. True, Scotland Yard had been of some slight assistance in revealing the true murderer of Lord Westbourne.

Dora gave a sob and Hathaway rose to sit by her in consolation. After all, if Emmeline had decided that Corsican Napoleon was better than he, why should he not? Emmeline
in fact had discovered the joys of being eighteen years old. Devotion was all very well, but so
boring
. There were so many delightful young men in the world, who were neither Corsican counts nor poets.

Egbert Rose began to speak.

‘I’ve our friend Monsieur Didier to thank for leading me to the solution.’

The Grand Duke’s brow furrowed in annoyance.

Auguste’s ego bounded to a new height. He could not bear to look at the Tuckers.

‘Following his suggestion, I went to Paris and London and carried out some investigations with my friend here, Inspector Chesnais. And what we found has led us to make a positive identification of Lord Westbourne’s murderer.’

There was a stir and a muffled shriek.

‘Shall you make an arrest, Inspector?’ boomed Rachel tremulously. She did not look at her husband.

‘No, ma’am. For one thing, I’ve no authority here, and, secondly, the murderer is dead.’

Dead
? Auguste stiffened, thunderstruck. Cyril Tucker looked politely interested, no more, Rachel suddenly relieved.
Dead
? What was this? Was this a trick of Egbert’s? It must be.

‘Lord Westbourne was killed by the Grand Duke’s cook, Boris, just as you suggested, Mr Didier.’

The Grand Duke gave the first reaction. He spluttered. ‘Nonsense!’

Auguste was tossed into a topsy-turvy world.

‘There’s no doubt, sir. Inspector Chesnais has discovered that he became involved with the group of Nihilists who were lying low in Paris and flushed out in the early ‘nineties – all but Boris. He was saved by working for you, which made him above suspicion at the time. In London I’ve discovered he was a frequent visitor to the Autonomie Club in Tottenham Court Road where all the Anarchists used to go. Remember the bomb that exploded in Greenwich Park
and killed the man that was carrying it – a Frenchman, Bourdin? He was a habitué of the club and there’s reason to think Boris knew him in Paris.’

He paused. ‘Boris was not a clever man. He believed in two things: the honour of Mother Russia, and that one day the people would rise, though I doubt if he knew just what that meant until he met the Nihilists in Paris and they persuaded him it was his duty to kill you as an enemy of the people. But to him you upheld the honour of Russia so he simply ignored them. Then circumstances brought things to a head. At the match, sodden with drink, he decided you’d let Russia down, sir.’

The Grand Duke, beleaguered on all sides, sat deflated lacking even the will to protest that he had achieved a wonderful victory in avoiding defeat at the match.

‘He saw you go into the study, turned away, perhaps to get you some milk – who knows? – and then it occurred to him. There was the dagger. He entered. Westbourne over his shoulder saw it was only a servant and went on writing. There was the blazered back. Short-sighted, seeing that and the glimpse of the beard, he stabbed him fatally. Then he went back to the kitchen, and collapsed – where you found him, Mr Didier.’

The Grand Duke’s brows were still knitted in stupefaction. ‘Do you mean to tell me that I’ve been paying a Nihilist to cook for me for eighteen years?’ The Duke seemed to think Rose was to blame as the enormity of it smote him.

‘Well, not eighteen – but a good part of that, sir. Yes.’

No less rigid with shock was Auguste. He had been right in his theories. But what of Tucker? Why had Egbert let him think Tucker was guilty? Why had he not taken him into his confidence? And above all, who—?

‘There’s one thing they all forgot to ask,’ said Rose, eyeing Auguste thoughtfully as they departed. ‘Who killed Boris?’

‘Naturally, they were not interested,’ murmured Auguste, still aggrieved. ‘He was only a servant.’

‘Don’t take it amiss you were wrong,’ said Rose, getting instantly to the bottom of Auguste’s discontent. ‘I couldn’t tell you. Chesnais insisted on it.’

‘Did Tucker kill Boris then?’ asked Auguste, bewildered.

‘You can forget about Tucker, Auguste.’

Auguste grunted, deflated.

‘It’s that dust in the eyes again,’ said Rose. ‘Firstly, we made the mistake of thinking that as there were two murders, they must be connected. They weren’t. Not a bit.’

‘But who would want to murder Boris apart from Westbourne’s murderer?’ Auguste asked, completely at sea.

‘You can come with us to see. Chesnais’s agreed. We’re going to make the arrest now. We thought it too dangerous at the Villa Russe.’

They climbed into the police van with Chesnais, Fouchard and two gendarmes. As they arrived at the villa, Auguste was silent when he saw where he was, his heart churning with emotions.

The manservant opened the door. His master was in the garden he told them. At the far end of the garden was a tall uniformed figure, face unguarded, sword at his side. He was bent over a hive, opening it, singing loudly the while.

‘One moment. I must just attend to my bees,’ he cried.

The group halted abruptly as, annoyed at the noise and disruption, the bees swarmed angrily into the air and fastened on their nearest prey. With a cry of mingled ecstasy and pain, Count Trepolov lunged his sword into his body.

‘Why?’ said Auguste some time later, still visibly shaken. ‘Why did you not warn me?’

‘I couldn’t, Auguste. I was sworn to secrecy. You need a drink, and no wonder,’ Rose said compassionately. ‘Didn’t expect that to happen. Very nasty.’ They sat down at a café
on the Allées de la Liberté. ‘Chesnais will place on record that he was mad, and there’s no doubt he was in a way. He’ll put forward that Boris had something on Trepolov; that Trepolov killed Boris, because he knew Boris had killed Lord Westbourne, or because he knew Boris was a Nihilist and so killed him before he could kill the Grand Duke. On account of the fact that he had a passion for the Romanovs.’ Rose paused. The air was heavy under the velvet sky.

‘Why did I not see?’ asked Auguste helplessly.

‘You said he looked like a murderer, but you were guessing. You got halfway and no further. Because you were blinded by this man, Auguste, because you thought he was going to marry your princess.’

Blindly Auguste set down his glass. ‘
Non
. . .’

‘When I was in Paris,’ said Rose carefully, staring out to the sea, ‘I found out a lot about Boris, as I said, but I also paid another visit. You see, this case has been a mix-up from the beginning and it got worse as it went on. It got so you couldn’t see the criminal – and not the victim either.’

‘You mean Lord Westbourne and the Grand Duke?’

‘No, I mean Boris. Boris was killed in mistake for someone else.’

‘For whom?’ Why did his hand tremble?

‘For you, Auguste.’

A shiver, as Auguste looked at his friend. ‘For me?’ he whispered.

‘I paid a call on a lady when I was in Paris. The Princess Tatiana. A very nice lady too, if I may say so,’ Rose said carefully, not daring to look at Auguste. ‘I had this idea floating around in my head. I asked her a question or two, and she answered quite straightforwardly. I asked her if she was going to marry Count Trepolov.’

‘You—’ Auguste began chokingly. ‘Tatiana—’

‘She told me no, so I started wondering why he’d said she was. It must have been pride, I thought. Had she definitely refused him? I asked. Oh yes, she said. And then she told
me something else. She said she’d told him she was in love with another man, whom’ – Rose steadied his voice – ‘she could not marry, and therefore wouldn’t ever marry anyone.’

‘And who was this man?’ asked Auguste carefully, trying to keep his voice neutral.

‘She told him, she said, she was in love with the cook.’

Auguste was suffused with joy and sadness, incapable of speech or thought. He could not seem to concentrate on what Rose was saying. It made no sense.

‘So I went on to reason,’ Rose continued, ‘that she was staying in the Villa Russe. She couldn’t have meant
Boris
though. She hadn’t seen him. She meant
you
. You’d seen her when you took the menu to the Grand Duchess. She must have assumed
you
were the cook there. But to Trepolov “the cook” meant Boris.’

Then Auguste remembered. He heard himself at the cricket match saying, ‘
Non, monsieur
, I am not the cook. There is the cook.’ And he had pointed at Boris, and so signed his death warrant.

‘So Trepolov decided if he couldn’t have her, you weren’t going to either. I think he saw the murder as some kind of duel, from the way he laid out the body.’

‘Did he love her so much?’ Auguste asked in a low voice.

‘I don’t think he did. Not for herself, anyway. I think he was mad and that’s what she thinks. He was mad about two things: his bees and the Romanovs. He wanted Tatiana because she’s related to the Romanovs, and you got in the way. A cook. It was an insult of the highest order.’

Auguste looked at the drink in front of him. ‘Boris was killed for me.’ He tried to take in the reality of the words.

‘He’d have gone to the guillotine, anyway, Auguste. Don’t go feeling sorry for him.’