Murder At The Masque (5 page)

After the funeral Igor departed from Russia convinced the Nihilists lurked behind every tree. He was proved right when in 1890 a small group of émigré Russians in Paris turned out to be Nihilists lying low as was their wont, patiently waiting for their opportunity to exterminate more Romanovs. Despite the assertion of the Sûreté that they
had been disposed of, Igor remained deeply suspicious and when Anarchists terrorised Paris with bombs during 1893 and ’94 he packed his bags, and those of his Grand Duchess, and accompanied by Boris, though not by Misha, he departed for London where Anarchists had not yet publicly reared their revolutionary heads. The small group that existed, he was informed by Special Branch at Scotland Yard, was under careful watch, and the bomb-minded Fenians had nothing, but nothing against the Russian aristocracy. Whoever they blew up it would not be the Romanovs – not on purpose anyway. But the Grand Duke Igor remained deeply suspicious. The English translation of Mr Kropotkin’s book on anarchy had done nothing to reassure him, and Scotland Yard was left in no doubt about the pleasures of having the Grand Duke Igor as a resident of London. His open-hearted warmth and zest for other aspects of life they were not in a position to appreciate. His impulsive generosity of purse as well as person, when it came to ladies, made him a popular figure in society, and if he sometimes repented of the former, he made no apologies for the latter. Life in London during the summer and in the Villa Russe during the winter was lived with few expenses spared. Unfortunately those that were, though minor, were unpredictable and he was thus a figure of awe to his staff, who treated him gingerly since the beneficent Grand Duke could turn at a moment’s notice into a pettifogging tyrant. True, he swiftly metamorphosed back into his more usual self, but the interims were apt to be uncomfortable. Particularly in the regions where the work of the house was carried on.

Auguste looked approvingly round the kitchen. It was not what he himself would have chosen. The huge range was not to be compared with his own Sugg’s gas kitcheners, though it was true for some dishes the range was to be preferred. The Jones smoke-jack installed on the chimney breast was
admirable, as were the rows of small refrigerators. Certainly this light, airy place was a paradise compared with the small, antiquated basement kitchens of Plum’s Club for Gentlemen. Tradition was all very well, but modern comfort was occasionally desirable. How he envied Alexis Soyer’s chance to design the kitchens at the Reform Club himself. How would Soyer have fared at Plum’s? Very well, he was forced to admit. A master chef could cook anywhere, and no one could have proved this more resoundingly than Soyer, cooking in the Crimean War, on top of the Pyramids, in the soup kitchens of Ireland. Auguste gritted his teeth. A showman, that’s what Soyer was. Just a showman.

A massive figure lurched into the kitchen, dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-bearded, white-aproned. Madame Didier grew pink-cheeked with barely suppressed pride.

‘This is my son, Monsieur Boris. He’s a cook in London.’

Auguste closed his eyes. How without honour was a prophet in the eyes of his mother. A cook in London indeed. Would Escoffier’s
maman
describe her son so?

‘So, London.’ A bleary eye fastened on him. ‘Vere in London?’

Auguste patiently told him, and was rewarded. ‘You are
zat
Monsieur Didier.
Eh bien. The
Monsieur Didier.’ He was enveloped in two brawny arms, kissed enthusiastically on both cheeks twice and released, feeling as if he had just been embraced by a bear.

‘I understand you require advice for a buffet luncheon for the Prince of Wales at a cricket match on Friday. I have some experience,’ Auguste began modestly – and cautiously. Instinct was telling him not to get in too deep here.

‘
Katushki
!’ cried Boris enthusiastically. ‘
Katushki
on black bread. Wonderful.
Katushki
for everyone. Meatballs.’

Horror of the first degree overcame Auguste. If this was the standard of cuisine at the Villa Russe, what was he, a
maître
chef, doing here? He had been misinformed. He understood Monsieur Boris had spent some years in Paris with the Grand Duke. Surely there he had been forced to progress in his culinary ambitions? Court circles in Russia were highly refined. The great Gouffet had been chef to Tsar Alexander.
Katushki
indeed. Peasant food. He had some knowledge of the gastronomic preferences of the Prince of Wales, and they did not include meatballs.

‘Mr Boris, you are drunk again,’ said Madame Didier robustly. ‘He can never think of anything else but meatballs when he’s drunk,’ she explained to her son.

‘It is true, it is true,’ said Boris sadly, tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘I think of Mother Russia, then I drink. And I think of Mother Russia
often
.’

Auguste braced himself. Was this not a fellow countryman of his beloved Tatiana, his lost princess in Paris? He firmly put his only true beloved out of his mind. There was little in common between Tatiana and Boris. Not that he could ever recall Tatiana speaking lovingly of meatballs. Nevertheless, how could he in honour let food be less than perfect when he had the means to put it right? The Mystery of the Ghost of the Man in the Iron Mask must wait a while.

‘If I might suggest,’ he murmured, ‘um, meatballs for your Russian guests, perhaps, with
blinis
and
piroshki
, and for your other guests, perhaps
saumon froid avec beurre de Montpellier
. For His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, I suggest a hot
plat, Poularde Derby
, created by
le maître Escoffier
for His Royal Highness at the Grand Hotel in Monaco. And perhaps also some Provençal dishes –
une tapenade, naturellement
– adapted for English tastes.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Boris eagerly. ‘This is good. What more?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Auguste, waxing over-enthusiastic under this unexpected and wholehearted approval, ‘a
sanglier
in aspic, if you have one brined, with “Edouard” upon it in gum-paste – ah,
non
, perhaps not – and His Royal
Highness is particularly fond of lamb cutlets. Perhaps cold
à la Belle-vue
? And of course truffles.’

‘Yes, yes,’ interposed Boris, hanging on his every word. ‘What then? The puddings. Blanc-mange?’

‘
Non
– charlotte, souffles,
une pêche Melba – une vrai
, with a cullis
de framboise
and a
Bombe Skobeleff—
’

‘No,’ thundered Boris. ‘The Grand Duke no like bombs.’

‘Quite,’ said Auguste hastily. ‘The savouries then.’ He reeled off a list of His Royal Highness’s likes and dislikes. ‘And then there is tea to consider. This is most important at a cricket match.’ He knew from overhearing conversations at Plum’s that tea could stiffen the wearying sinew, and strengthen the frailest bat for the fray.

‘Yes, yes, this is good. My friend, this is good. Mother Russia thanks you.’ Boris took it upon himself to act as Mother Russia’s emissary and fell upon Auguste again with open arms. Unfortunately, being short-sighted, he fell upon Mrs Didier first, a thing she stoically endured and obviously not for the first time.

‘But I have my
katushki
, yes?’ Boris looked threatening.

‘By all means, Monsieur Boris. Please serve your
katushki
.’

Inspector Egbert Rose was travelling by the Express railway train. Inspector of Police Chesnais of the Sûreté Générale, pausing a moment from the continuous discussion of the trial of Monsieur Zola that was gripping the whole of the country, had tried hard to get him to travel by the de luxe train, but he was adamant in his desire for speedy travel, only to discover that the Express took some seven hours longer. It was therefore somewhat late when he arrived in Cannes, unappreciative of the air, and desiring only a bed and a sandwich.

‘Those requiring to study economy will find the most reasonable hotels and pensions at the east end of town . . .’ his guidebook had helpfully suggested. Gloomily convinced
that Scotland Yard would indeed expect him to study this fine art, Rose had little distance to go to seek his bed. The Hotel Paradis was very near the railway station, looking down upon it but hiding from this unfortunate neighbour in a large garden. The garden did little to prevent the rumbustious noise of the railway disturbing his slumbers, already light because of the substitute for his desired sandwich.

Service had finished by the time he arrived at the pension, but when it was understood Monsieur had not eaten, great concern was expressed. A sandwich?
Mais non
. The unfortunate Rose had met his first Provençal meal head-on. Some fish soup, some morsels of pigeon
à la provençale, une confiture de figues
. But was that enough? Madame inquired anxiously. It was, it was. Lying awake in the middle of the night, Rose remembered Auguste waxing lyrical about
la bonne soupe
. The well-beloved of the stomach, someone or other had said of it. He had news for Auguste. His stomach had a serious quarrel going on with its well-beloved. Finally he fell into tortured sleep, dreaming longingly of Mrs Rose’s boiled beef and plain, plain carrots.

He woke the next morning, hating all things foreign, and the breakfast of stale bread did little to reconcile him.

Tomorrow, 10 March, everyone who was anyone would be gathered at the port to watch the Prince of Wales lay the foundation stone for the new jetty. His appointment with Lord Westbourne at the cricket match was not until the day after, Friday. Just like England, the only place you can be sure of catching these johnnies was watching – or in this case playing – cricket. The ladies would be there too, Lady Westbourne, Rachel Gray, perhaps that pretty ballerina – he wondered how the Grand Duke liked being surrounded by all his ex-mistresses?

Rose knew the Grand Duke Igor of old and he knew the Grand Duchess Anna even better. In London they held no
fears for him. But they were not in London now. They were in France, albeit with the number of English around you could easily think yourself mistaken. Rose glanced around him. The number of English accents on this broad road by the sea, bordered by palm trees, made it just like Torquay. What was it his guide book had said? A Continental Bournemouth, but the better air would be found away from the sea. Well, this was good enough for him. Nice, bracing walk along the seashore. His spirits rose and he wished Mrs Rose were here. Perhaps he’d bring her one day. He thought he’d detected quite a wistful look when he’d announced where he was going. He’d always thought she was happy having her holidays at Ramsgate every year. Perhaps he’d have to think about bringing her here instead. He couldn’t see her taking to the fish soup though. His stomach gave a slight lurch at the thought of it.

Perhaps he’d been wrong to walk; it was a fair old step to the Villa Russe. Rose puffed slightly, as he climbed the Californie hill. Still, it was clearing his brain nicely. He had to get this right. Couldn’t go upsetting Grand Dukes with the wrong sort of question.

It was hard to take the case seriously, what with all these eggs and so on. But there was no doubt he had to solve it, and double quick too if he wasn’t to find Twitch sitting at his desk on his return. So he had to find out about that Seventh Egg. Did it really exist? And were there any more? He devoutly hoped not. Where did this Mimosa live? Ten to one, his villain was in Cannes right now. What better time for a snatch than the ceremony tomorrow, or better still the match on Friday, when the whole of society would be away from their villas.

The Villa Russe, surrounded by its eucalyptus and aloes, reminded him of something out of the Arabian Nights. He was bemusedly studying one of the more naked of Cezanne’s nudes (the Grand Duchess had modern tastes) when the door of the morning room flew open with a crash
and the Grand Duke filled the gap it left, towering a good eight inches over Rose.

‘Yes, yes, yes, you have come to tell me of Nihilists, Inspector,’ he roared. It was not a question.

‘Nihilists, Your Imperial Highness?’ queried Rose resignedly. He had heard all this before from the Grand Duke in London. ‘Here? No.’

‘No Nihilists? Then why are you here?’ asked the Grand Duke blankly. ‘On Friday is the match. Tomorrow is the ceremony. So you come to guard me against the Nihilists, as I ordered.’

‘I didn’t know there were any around,’ said Rose, sidetracked.

‘They are
always
around,’ said the Grand Duke sadly. ‘Always. One must be on guard.’ He advanced cautiously into the room, then leapt in the air and spun around. No Nihilist emerged, only the Grand Duchess entering through the door into the salon.

In her late forties, a few years younger than her husband, the Grand Duchess Anna was a beautiful woman. Her pale oval face, surrounded by dark hair drawn back to set off her fine features, gave her classic Russian beauty; she was as contained as her husband was ebullient. Rose had never warmed to her although she had never been other than charming to him – and to everyone so far as he could gather. If she were as charming as all that, he asked himself, why did the Grand Duke need so many mistresses?

‘Ah, Anna, the man from the Préfecture has come to guard us against Nihilists,’ the Grand Duke announced happily. He had a habit of mentally transplanting familiar faces to suit his own convenience, pawns in his imaginary chessboard of Romanovs versus Nihilists.

‘No,’ said Rose, pulling his thoughts away from his irreverent thoughts on the Imperial love life.

‘Yes, yes,’ insisted the Duke, going off into a stream of French, thus to prove that Rose was a Frenchman.

‘Look here, Your Highness, it’s about that—’ Rose began desperately. Then he broke off. He could hardly mention eggs, neither Nos 1 to 6 nor No 7, in the presence of the Duchess.

‘Yes?’ Two pairs of imperious grand-ducal eyes were on him.

‘Possible theft,’ he ended weakly.

A startled pause, then the Grand Duchess said composedly: ‘The Petrov Diamond, Igor. Of course.’

Another pause as the Grand Duke thought this over. Then he gave a shout.