Murder At The Masque (7 page)

‘Who will be at this silly old match?’ Dora inquired, twiddling her parasol carelessly.

‘Gentlemen or Players?’ he grunted.

‘Which are which?’

Lord Westbourne was apoplectic. Dammit, the woman was a fool. Or was she? He shot a sharp glance at her. ‘The English are the Gentlemen, of course, the foreign johnnies the Players. We’ve got Harry Washington for us, naturally.’

Naturally England’s famous amateur cricketer would be playing at Cannes. Wherever society was, there was Harry Washington, tall, slim, handsome and, above all, eligible.

‘Then there’s that johnny in the Colonial Office, Tucker, Rachel Gray’s husband, and that poet fellow and of course H.R.H. himself.’ And a fat lot of use he’d be to the side. Westbourne knew he wasn’t much of a bat himself, but he was W. G. Grace himself compared to H.R.H. He related
the other members of the team, keeping a careful eye on an apparently fascinated Dora.

‘And on the other side?’

‘The Grand Duke Igor, of course. That stuffed shirt, Trepolov, and some other foreign count or other.’

He still watched her narrowly. Occasionally he remembered the time when he used to call her puss and he was her great big roaring lion. Unfortunately the puss had grown into something uncommonly like a cat – and at the moment one who had licked the cream. The cream? Surely not. The dreadful possibility that it was indeed H.R.H. raised itself again. After all, he flattered himself, he resembled the Prince of Wales, and Dora had a penchant for beards, as well as princes.

‘Now, Dora,’ he said casually, as the landau rattled over the cobbles into the Allées de la Liberté, which on this March morning was thronged with crowds come to see the heir to the British throne lay the foundation stone for their new jetty. ‘I’m meeting a fellow from Scotland Yard tomorrow afternoon after the match. I’ve got some information on who took your . . . ruby.’

There was an infinitesimal pause before the last word as he caught himself at the last moment. It did not go unnoticed, and the correct inference was made. A parasol snapped shut abruptly, as Dora thought through all the consequent ramifications. She would have preferred her husband knew nothing about the affair with dear Igor. Indeed, she hardly remembered it herself. It was as boring as her current amour. The time had come to tell the latter so too. It had upset all her plans to find he was coming to Cannes. After all, the other
he
would be here too. The last thing she wanted was an inquisition by her husband on the past, when the present was so much more on her mind. She could not speak to
him
today, but tomorrow at the match she . . .

Natalia Kallinkova danced a pirouette of pleasure in the small (by Cannes’ standards) Villa Lavendre on the route de Fréjus and glided sensuously into
The Awakening of Flora
. Enough of dull old practice for today. Now, regaled in sober gunmetal grey, albeit enlivened with bright pink trimmings, and pearls, and a pink hat with matching feathers that the Ladies Page of the
Illustrated London News
would undoubtedly classify as provocative, she was waiting for Auguste, to escort her to the opening ceremony. She was happy, oh how happy she was. It had been a good idea to give her ten-year benefit performance at the Hermitage Theatre and receive the usual hideous Imperial brooch from the Tsar as a reward. Now she could please herself, for her reputation was assured. She had danced in London, in Paris, now Monte Carlo, next Vienna, and then, perhaps, back to Russia. How pleased Igor would be to hear that. She laughed to herself.

Poor Igor. She was still fond of him, despite everything – she recalled the first time he had invited her along the corridor from the theatre to the Winter Palace for late supper. He had seemed so big, so devoted, and the most generous man in the world. Of course, as with many other generous people, she had noticed small acts of incredible meanness even then. Still, ballerinas needed the patronage of a Grand Duke, even an exiled one. Indeed, his exile had been a positive advantage, while she was still with the Imperial Ballet. Dear Igor. For now, with everything going right for her, he was her
dear
Igor again. She remembered the small
dacha
at Tsarkoie Selo during his visit to Russia one summer, their meetings in London and occasionally in Cannes. Here it had been more difficult since discretion was necessary. How nervous he’d been to see her yesterday, as her carriage had passed his on his way to the Golf Links. She smiled. She enjoyed being here in Cannes, oh how she was enjoying it.

And one of her pleasures was Auguste. He might not be
a Grand Duke, but he was infinitely more subtle – in every way. Ah, those eloquent dark eyes. How seriously he took himself, until she mocked him gently and then he would laugh at himself, take her in his arms . . . Ah. Such a pity he remained devoted to some mysterious lady in Paris. Perhaps one day she’d try to help . . . when love had passed.

‘
Mon chéri, ma galantine, mon foie gras
,’ she cried as Auguste was shown into the morning room by her maid. She hurtled towards him and he caught her slim body against him in his arms, rejoicing at its lack of need for artificial support beneath the silk dress.

‘I am not a
foie gras
, dearest,’ he murmured lovingly, but reproachfully. ‘All that
fat
. I am’ – he paused for reflection – ‘
une truffe de Provence
and your beloved.’ He kissed her somewhat unrestrainedly after his enthusiastic welcome, and then hurriedly remembering etiquette, glanced round for the maid.

‘You need not worry about Marie. She is used to me.
Alors
, Auguste, you have a look on your face as if you wish to partake of one of Carter’s Little Liver Pills – you have found a murder?’

‘Murder?
Mais non
. But two mysteries. One is that of Inspector Rose and the six Fabergé eggs. About which you know. Dearest, do stop dancing around,’ he complained, his attention diverted to the beautiful instep fleetingly on view. Only last night, he’d caressed it – ‘As one of them is yours,’ he continued reproachfully.

‘Yes.’ She flashed him a smile as she picked up her parasol. He opened his mouth, but realised there was nothing more to say on the subject.

‘So what have you discovered so far?’ she said brightly.

‘I—’ Auguste was checkmated. No wonder Russians were so good at chess. It was unfair. How could he have found out anything so quickly?

‘To find things out,
ma chérie
, one must first have
decided the recipe and ingredients. And even more important – the
reason
for the recipe.’

‘Ah yes,’ she said meekly.

‘
Chérie
, do not flutter your eyelids at me. I am
right
.’

‘Ah, but I know,’ she laughed. ‘Now, have you discovered the reason for our burglar’s recipe?’

‘I thought perhaps blackmail, but that cannot be as the ladies could simply deny the eggs belonged to them. It is not like incriminating letters. So, it has to be for the sake of the rubies – which is the most likely as the Petrov Diamond has also been threatened, so Inspector Rose tells me.’

‘The what?’ she inquired.

‘The Petrov Diamond. The Grand Duke had a letter threatening that it would be stolen. And tomorrow the Grand Duchess wears it – darling, you do not listen.’

‘I am sorry, Auguste. I was thinking of the burglar,’ she said contritely. ‘He knows very much about us all, does he not? I think we will find it is someone known well to us all.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Auguste eagerly, determined not to lose the status of superior investigator. ‘It could be a valet or maid chatting indiscreetly to a tradesman.’

‘Ah, but I do not tell Marie about my egg. I tell no one. So it must be Igor who talks.
Voilà
, someone in society.’ She paused. ‘Someone here
now
.’

‘And there is the Seventh Egg also. You can tell me where La Belle Mimosa lives?’ he asked eagerly.

She laughed. ‘Better than that,
mon chéri
, I will show you the lady herself. She will be there at the ceremony, of course. I will introduce you.’

‘You
know
her?’ Auguste was scandalised, using the word with its full social import.

‘Of course,’ she laughed. ‘She and I, we are alike – we are in society, but not of it. She is exquisite, La Belle Mimosa. There is a fountain here, erected last year; it is sculpted into interesting and beautiful shapes – mostly
those of La Belle Mimosa; I will introduce you, but I will watch you carefully, Auguste.’

‘You need not fear,’ he replied devotedly. He hesitated as she stepped gracefully into the carriage. ‘You are sure you wish me to ride at your side?’ he inquired awkwardly.

She reached out her hand. ‘Yes,’ she answered simply. ‘Why not?’

Why not? Auguste thought of the complex laws of society, of her reputation as one of the greatest ballerinas of the day, and his respect for her grew. He climbed up beside her.

‘And now,
chéri
,’ she announced happily, ‘you will tell me of your other case.’

‘Ah, the ghost.’

Ghost? A smile came to her lips. ‘You are a
ghost
-hunter. Bravo,
mon héro
.’

‘I have
seen
it,’ retorted Auguste huffily. ‘It is the Man in the Iron Mask.’

‘Ah, my friend, you read too many romances. I let you hunt your ghost, while I dance, I think.’

‘You may laugh,
chérie
,’ said Auguste with dignity. ‘But until I have laid this ghost to rest, I shall not rest. No matter where the quest might lead me,’ he perorated in a manner of which Rachel Gray would have approved.

Rachel Gray waved a languid hand towards her husband, a cold compress clutched to her brow with the other.

Cyril Tucker sighed. He supposed he should have expected trouble, renting the Villa Sardou where her namesake, the famous tragedienne Rachel, had died. He should have foreseen his wife would metamorphose herself. Really, it was much easier to live with her on her occasional forays into comedy.

‘Fetch me—’ Rachel paused. What could she ask for? Nothing came to mind, ‘Ah, it is too much,’ she said, defeated. ‘I cannot go. I lack the strength.’

She did not look as if she lacked strength, her Junoesque
figure stretched out on the chaise longue, black hair floating round her.

‘My dear,’ murmured Tucker on cue, but coming in with the wrong line. ‘It is the Prince of Wales we are to honour after all.’

A savage look was his reward. ‘What have I to do with princes?’ Rachel demanded feebly. ‘Art is my only mistress.’

Belatedly Cyril remembered the correct line, privately thinking a mistress of any kind might not be a bad idea. ‘My dear,’ he cried obediently, ‘you have a duty to the public.’

‘True.’

Rachel rose briskly to her feet, suddenly all practicality. ‘Have you summoned the carriage? Is the
mistral
blowing? Shall I wear this’ – putting an ornate confection of blue on her head – ‘or this?’ The blue was replaced by an even more elaborate red hat. ‘And where is Mephistopheles?’

‘Here, my angel.’ Tucker was on cue this time, handing over the sullen bulldog gladly. It had been acquired nearly four years previously, not out of a great love for dogs, but in a bid to even up the score with her rival Mrs Patrick Campbell, and partly in a bid to pay tribute to Mr Jones’s poetic drama
Saints and Sinners
in the hope of a summons for his next play. Both bids had failed, and Mephistopheles returned with relief to the servants’ room where he now remained except on state occasions. This was one.

Rachel was very cautious where the
mistral
was concerned. She had once come to stay at the Grand Hotel in March, ignorant of the wind’s frequency in that month, and sallied out to an unaccountably deserted Boulevard de la Croisette in rose-pink chiffon. She had ended up looking as if she were auditioning for a mad Ophelia, and spent the following week with an audience consisting solely of Dr Gordon Sanders of the Villa Nina, and a nose as pink as the chiffon she had so unwisely donned. After that, she had followed the guidebooks’ advice, eschewed the simulating
and bracing air of the seafront and repaired to climes more suited to her supposedly fragile health in the village of Le Cannet. Where better than the Villa Sardou where
she
had come to die? Not that Rachel Gray had any intention of dying. Life was far too interesting. Soon she would see him, and tomorrow at the match he would undoubtedly require an answer to his ultimatum. Would she or would she not yield to his embraces? Really, he was becoming uncomfortably persistent.

The Honourable Harry Washington, gentleman cricketer and man-about-town, gazed into a gilt-framed mirror in the Villa Esterel, to ensure that thanks to Rowland’s Macassar Oil not a hair was out of place. He was right to have rented this villa. It might not be so grand as those of his neighbours, but it was on the right side of town, and suited his purpose admirably. It was good to be in Cannes for the season before returning to the new cricket season at Lord’s and his comfortable bachelor flat in Albany. It promised to be an exciting year. Grace’s fiftieth birthday. Surely not even the great W. G. could go on much longer? And when he retired the field, so to speak, would be open. This upstart Ranjitsinhji would disappear as quickly as he’d arrived. All the more reason for him to enjoy this last break here. In the match tomorrow he would be playing in the same team as the Prince of Wales. That would permanently ensure his social right to play with the Gentlemen at Lord’s, without delving too far into his background. He’d arrange to be batting with him, to ensure the Prince faced the easy bowling and not that madman Bonifacio, for example. Yes, he flicked at his cuffs, tomorrow would be beneficial in many, many ways. A smile came to his lips.

‘Basty.’

Miss Emmeline Vanderville bounced joyously through the doors of the salon in the family suite in the Hotel du
Parc. She’d much rather have been down on the seafront in the Grand Hotel but her parents had insisted on the Hôtel du Parc. She might meet a real live prince here, they reasoned. But it looked so like something built by the Pilgrim Fathers. All these towers, and dull old folk. That is, until
he
had appeared.