Murder At The Masque (6 page)

‘They’re after the Petrov Diamond. Of course, my dear. That’s why the inspector’s come to guard us.’ An unblinking eye dared Rose to contradict him. He was too well aware of a recent anonymous conversation. ‘They sent us a letter threatening us. Saying they’d get it one way or another.’

‘Indeed, sir, may I see it?’

The Grand Duke reddened. ‘Burned,’ he said fiercely. ‘I dare say,’ he added in a hurry, to forestall comment, ‘you’ve never heard of the Petrov Diamond?’

‘No, sir.’

‘The Petrov Diamond is the second largest diamond in Russia,’ the Grand Duchess told him informatively. ‘Given – or some say lent – to the Tsar Anne in the seventeenth century by Count Petrov in the hope that he might become her consort. His hope was in vain, but she graciously kept the diamond. Unlike other Imperial jewels, the Petrov Diamond is not kept in the Hermitage in the Winter Palace under the guardianship of the Tsar, but is bequeathed by the current owner to whichever Romanov they choose. Igor was given it by his great-uncle Constantin. Unfortunately from time to time someone thinks they would like to acquire it, usually a descendant of the Petrovs, convinced that the jewel was lent, not given. No doubt the time has come to try again. At the cricket match, perhaps.’

‘Because the house will be less guarded then?’

‘
Non
,’ said the Grand Duchess Anna coolly. ‘Because I shall be wearing it.’

Head reeling, Rose began to trudge back down the hill, hardly noticing in his gloom the blue Mediterranean and the warmth of the sun. What he did notice just ahead of him was a familiar figure. He quickened his step.

‘Morning, Auguste!’

Auguste spun round, dark eyes lighting up with pleasure. ‘Ah, Egbert. What pleasure. What delight to see you.’

‘You don’t seem surprised though. Heard I was coming, did you?’

Auguste paused. ‘I heard a rumour,’ he said diplomatically, not knowing the conditions under which Natalia had acquired her information. ‘A case, perhaps?’

‘I see you’re not on holiday either,’ Rose said meaningfully.

Auguste blushed. ‘A quick visit to the kitchen of the Villa Russe,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘Just to give advice, you understand.’

‘Of course.’ Something in his tone told Auguste that Rose was not convinced.

‘How could I let the Prince of Wales dine on meatballs?’ he cried. ‘A luncheon for His Royal Highness at the cricket match cannot serve meatballs.’

‘Cricket,’ remarked Rose disgustedly. ‘I come all the way to France and hear about nothing but cricket. What’s it all about?
What
match?’

‘The Gentlemen versus the Players. There is coffee, then there is luncheon, then there is tea, then there is apeŕitifs. In between there is cricket,’ Auguste explained simply. ‘Everyone will be there.’

‘Including my cat burglar perhaps?’

‘The Grand Duke thinks someone will take Misha?’ (This was not the original Misha naturally, but Imperial Grand Cat Misha IV to give her full title.)

Rose grinned. ‘No, Auguste. The sort of burglar that runs up drainpipes.’

‘And this is your case?’

‘I’m blowed if I know
what
my case is,’ said Rose.

‘Then you may help me solve mine,’ said Auguste generously. ‘Mine is The Mystery of the Man in the Iron Mask.’

‘I thought they solved that long ago,’ said Rose. He’d been reading about it in his guidebook on the railway train. ‘Not the brother of Louis the fourteenth, but an Italian gentleman by name of Matthioli, sort of messenger between the French ambassador to Venice and some Italian duke, while the ambassador was trying to get on the good side of Louis the fourteenth. Friend Matthioli was stupid enough to sell out to Louis’s enemies and landed up over there—’ He nodded towards the Ile Ste Marguerite lying peacefully in the blue sea.

‘And you are right. There is his prison – you see. He was kept in a room overlooking the sea, forced to wear an iron mask all the time, even to
eat
, his face never to be seen by anybody. There are many stories as to who he was, the English Duke of Monmouth some said, others a Dutchman who planned to kill
le roi
Louis the fourteenth, some say even the great Molière. Recently a new one – Eustache Dauger. Oh, there are many. But what
I
want to know is: why does his
ghost
still walk?’ Auguste paused impressively.

‘Ghost?’ Rose started to laugh. ‘You a ghost-hunter, Auguste? That’s your case, is it?’

‘It is all very well to laugh, Egbert. But I have
seen
this ghost.’

‘Too much fish soup,’ chortled Rose, unable to control his mirth.

‘Fish soup. Do not speak slightingly of fish soup,’ Auguste replied indignantly, ghosts forgotten. ‘Ah, Egbert, now you are here, I will cook for you the
real
fish soup.’

‘No, you won’t,’ said Rose hastily. ‘I’ve had quite
enough of fish soup, thank you,’ and related his gastronomic experience.

It was Auguste’s turn to laugh. ‘Ah, Egbert, I will woo your appetite back. I will take you to the Faisan Dorè in the Rue d’Antibes where I was apprenticed to
le maître
Escoffier, you will taste of the wild hillsides and perfumes of Provence, dishes that are a song of which the troubadours would have been proud, you will feast as the gods. The honour of Provence is at stake here.’

‘And mine too, if I don’t crack my case.’ Rose turned to the matter in hand. He related the story of the Fabergé eggs, concluding with the Petrov Diamond. ‘Whatever that may have to do with it, if anything.
Wearing it
! I ask you,’ he added glumly. ‘Now you just tell me, Auguste, why anyone should want to steal
just
Fabergé eggs? And should I warn the Princess of Wales to keep hers locked up? Is he going to make for Sandringham next? Her egg came from the Tsar, of course,’ he added hastily, suddenly aware of his own implied
lèse majesté
.

‘Perhaps he steals for blackmail?’ offered Auguste diffidently. ‘If all these ladies are worried about their husbands knowing.’

Rose considered this. ‘It’s a thought,’ he said at last. ‘But why just the Grand Duke’s ladies? Why not any jewels from any former lovers?’

‘Because,’ Auguste thought carefully, ‘these are the ones he
knows
about. He has heard gossip . . . perhaps he will move on to other things.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Rose. ‘All the same, I’m going to find La Belle Mimosa.’

‘Who?’ asked Auguste slowly.

‘Silly name, isn’t it? She’s the owner of the Seventh Egg, so Miss Kallinkova says.’

‘
Who
?’ repeated Auguste in awe-filled tones.

‘Kallinkova. A ballerina. She lost an egg.’ Rose laughed. ‘Makes her sound like a chicken.’

Auguste had stopped in his tracks. Kallinkova! The lovely Natalia who had held him in her arms yesterday afternoon the mistress of the Grand Duke . . . The brute must have ravaged her. She was too pure, too good, to have yielded otherwise. Carefully, he asked himself if he minded. Was it not hypocritical of him to mind Natalia having other lovers, when always in his own heart he held the memory of his beloved Tatiana?

‘You know the lady, do you, Auguste? What a lad you are. What about Princess Tatiana?’

‘There are dreams in this world, Egbert, and there are today and tomorrow to be lived. They are different things,’ answered Auguste with dignity. ‘I do not think of her. I cannot. It makes me too sad, being in the Villa Russe. Tatiana too is Russian. I cannot help wondering—’

‘So there really
is
a Princess Tatiana?’

‘Ah, she is real. But not for a cook.’

‘You’re a
maître
,’ Rose reminded him gently.

‘The Tsar Alexander much admired
le maître
Fabergé. But he admired the artist in him. To him Fabergé was not a man. And it is the man one must marry, not the artist – or the
maître
chef. So what have I to offer a princess?’

‘Fabergé,’ said Rose, changing the subject tactfully. ‘And the Case of the Seventh Egg. You help me solve it, Auguste – and I tell you what – I’ll help you track down your ghost. How’s that?’

Auguste smiled. ‘Very good. At least here there is no murder,
hein
?’

‘Tomorrow I dance for His Royal Highness. Come, you dance with me now.’ Natalia seized Auguste and danced him round the room. Her blue chiffon teagown billowed round them, entwining his legs, a lacy feather from the white trimmings flew up his nose and made him sneeze. But he remained in heaven. ‘There, you are Prince Florizel,
my Harlequin. How do you like dancing in the ballet?’

‘
Mon ange
, I want you to myself, not share you with all those people out there.’ He waved a hand towards the flowers adorning the balcony.

‘And what will you tell me when we are alone?’ She whirled him dexterously round a chaise longue. ‘There, that is the end of the
Casse-Noisette
– the
Nutcracker
.’

‘I will tell you that—’ he began solemnly, only to find her laughing at him. ‘I cannot be serious while you laugh,’ he complained, kissing her.

‘Then let us speak of solemn things,’ she said.

‘Eggs for example,’ said Auguste severely. ‘Fabergé eggs.’

‘Now you make me laugh again. So your Inspector Rose has come after all. I told you he would.’

‘Do you still see the Grand Duke?’ asked Auguste jealously.

‘Yes of course. Why not? But we are no longer
amoureux
.’ She planted a kiss behind his ear. ‘So I will help you find this burglar,’ she told him. ‘I would like to see my beautiful egg again.’

‘How will you help?’

‘I know all these people. I think, you see,’ she frowned, ‘this burglar is of society himself – he knows the ways. I know these people. You do not,’ she pointed out. ‘
Voilà
, I help.’ She sprang up. ‘And now—’

‘And now I will thank you,’ said Auguste firmly, pulling her down once more on to the chaise longue. The gratitude took a considerable time to express in fitting manner.

Lord Westbourne, envoy to the Niger Conference on behalf of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, stomped round the Villa des Roses in impotent displeasure. Impotent, because he could give no vent to his feelings; displeasure because he would personally far rather be either at Monte Carlo or at Pratt’s where a fellow could at least relax. He was too old to enjoy playing cricket and Cannes didn’t even have a decent casino; be damned if he was going to pay through the nose to join the Cercle Nautique just for the sake of one game. Thirty francs? Outrageous. Besides, they played baccarat there, still unacceptable in England, and the less, as Her Majesty’s Envoy, he knew about that the better, if His Royal Highness was going to play. His relations with the Prince were sufficiently strained already, thanks to Her Gracious Majesty’s trust in him, and he didn’t fancy being cast in the Prince’s eyes as his mother’s spy in Cannes. Ten to one, the Prince would oppose his membership anyway.

‘Darling.’ Lady Westbourne swept into the room, dressed by Worth and half a dozen maidservants, ready for the drive to the port for the foundation-stone ceremony. Dora Westbourne, fair-haired, and steely-eyed, looked superbly beautiful, and utterly uninterested in her ‘darling’. The fair hair was helped by dye to the Lillie Langtry
de rigueur
shade, and marcel-waved. The dress was rock-pigeon grey silk, the latest Paris fashion for Lent. She was no Kallinkova.

Her husband regarded her dispassionately. He wondered
if that small, almost feline, face lit up when she met her lover, whoever he was – although he had a shrewd idea whom she had her eye on now. Now that he was away half the time on this damned conference, he’d noticed she hardly seemed as eager to see him on his return as two months’ chastity might suggest. Fortunately there had been La Belle Mimosa in Paris – until their last meeting, that is. He cringed at the memory of her screams and threats to kill him if he didn’t provide more money . . . But he’d put a stop to that, and, thank heavens, he was sure he’d seen the last of her.

Dora’s lover was another matter. He suspected the devil must be in Cannes now, hence her sudden enthusiasm for renting a villa down here – so that ‘I’ll be here when you can take time off from your boring conference, darling’. And
that
had meant they’d had to pay £1,000 for a whole season although they needed only two months. Dora had even agreed to attend the match – highly suspicious. A sudden alarming thought struck him. Her lover couldn’t be H.R.H. himself, could it? His passion for Lady Warwick was fading at long last. No, Dora wasn’t his type – though she had a fancy for princes, of course.

He’d have to face her with it, though, after the revealing conversation he’d had with the Russian ambassador in London about Fabergé eggs. The ambassador was a friend of the Grand Duke Igor’s, and the fellow had told him about the Grand Duke’s extra-marital enthusiasms (carefully edited, had Lord Westbourne then appreciated it) and his method of their termination with a Fabergé egg. Lord Westbourne, guffawing with all the satisfaction of a husband with nothing to worry about, had noticed a remarkable similarity between the ladies named by the ambassador and the victims of the jewel thefts that were the talk of London society. Thereupon two nail-heads had been more squarely hit than he intended. Firstly, with a startling dexterity that would have amazed the Niger Conference, he
juxtaposed information gathered from two quite different social circles and reached a conclusion about the identity of the cat-burglar, a conclusion he felt impelled to pass on to Scotland Yard if only to clear the matter from his mind.

The second nail-head had led him to think further about that odd ruby theft of their own. Now he knew all these Fabergé eggs had rubies in too, it had made him not only wonder, but pretty certain. If Dora, who had behaved very oddly about the theft, had had one of those eggs, that meant she’d not only known the Grand Duke, but known him rather well. Not that Igor was her lover now. He sighed, as the depressing truth of her current amour swept over him again. He was going to have a word with her about that.

The landau progressed down the Rue du Fréjus and onto the Quai de St Pierre. They bowed to the inhabitants of carriages on either side of them, all bound in the same direction. This wasn’t the time or place for frank discussion. Still, he had to do it before he spoke to the inspector tomorrow.