Murder At The Masque (11 page)

Egbert Rose was sorely lacking something too – the stamina provided by Mrs Rose’s usual morning offering of burnt toast and kedgeree or kipper. Say what you like, but this stale bread they served here was no substitute. He knocked on the door of the ornate villa rented by La Belle Mimosa, and appropriately named the Villa des Camélias.

He was shown into an elegant morning room and was inspecting a garish painting of one of those can-can dancer ladies in Paris and wondering what the fellow was like who had painted it, when a vision hurled itself through the door bearing no resemblance whatever to her villa’s gentle namesake. Already at a disadvantage being caught examining such a compromising picture, he was rendered speechless by the tigerish tawny eyes in their flaming yellow setting. La Belle Mimosa believed in setting a style and keeping to it. Rose was well used to ‘unfortunate women’ in the Haymarket but unfortunate didn’t seem quite the word to apply to La Belle Mimosa.

‘Yes,’ she stormed, ‘what do you want?’

‘Inspector Rose, ma’am, Scotland Yard?’

‘You wish to become my lover?’ she inquired sharply.

Rose turned brick-red, a vision of Mrs Rose in her Sunday best flitting before him.

‘No, thank you, ma’am,’ he replied as impassively as he could. Then thinking this rather bald for a French lady, added unwisely, ‘Though I’m sure that would be very nice.’

She looked him up and down pityingly.

‘You have possibilities,’ she remarked dismissively and devastatingly.

He gulped, almost swayed into inquiring what those possibilities might be, but struggled determinedly back to the matter in hand.

‘I’ve come about the Fabergé egg I understand you possess.’

At once she was all practicality, saying briskly, ‘Ah,
merci
. You come to warn me it is to be stolen, yes?’

‘Possibly, ma’am. It is, I gather, the only one given by the Grand Duke Igor that remains, and we have reason to believe the burglar is still in Cannes.’ What reason, he wondered, come to think of it? He was only acting on information received. Suppose it were wrong? The Grand Duke had firmly maintained only six existed, and only the most persistent questioning had brought forth reluctant admission of the possibility of a seventh.

‘When do you catch him, this burglar?’ she inquired. ‘At the cricket match today?’

‘Lord Westbourne,’ he began unguardedly, only to see the kitten once more turn into the raging tigress.

‘That
salaud
. Ah, all men – they take what they want, but they do not wish to pay. They gave me not true things but fakes!’ She picked up a porcelain shepherdess and threw it across the room for emphasis. Rose ducked just in time. She did not notice. ‘But he
will
pay, that one. No one scorns La Belle Mimosa. He is at the cricket match today?
Bon
. I will come. I will tell everyone what he is like,’ she shouted, raising a clenched fist in a manner of which Bastide would have approved.

Rose wondered if Auguste would notice if he didn’t turn up. Suddenly London’s familiar den of villains seemed a quiet, desirable place to be.

The Grand Duke, having marched in, according to plan, to save the honour of Russia, stood poised to crown his side’s triumphant innings. Unfortunately he now faced Cyril Tucker. Who would have thought this placid man could be
so deceptive? It wasn’t fair. He bowled straightforwardly, deceptively simply. It was only by luck the Grand Duke managed to have his bat in the way of the ball, and the bat pushed it quietly to leg. Igor eyed the next ball with misgivings, and began to be exceedingly grateful that the Prince of Wales had declined to field, and thus would not be a witness should anything of an unfortunate nature occur.

Their interest in cricket long since exhausted, three ladies were chatting on the Pavilion verandah, a discussion which led by devious means to a cautious discussion of stolen rubies, a fiction in which two of them had almost come to believe.

‘Did you hear about my Fabergé egg?’ asked Natalia provocatively, still mindful of her detective mission. Attention thus riveted on her, it did not take long before full confession of the true nature of the ruby thefts was made.

‘You mean,’ gurgled Natalia innocently, ‘that we
all
had Fabergé eggs? What a generous Grand Duke.
And
there were three more – er – ruby thefts recently,’ she added with relish. ‘I wonder if by any chance . . .’

There was a brief silence.

‘What a
busy
Grand Duke,’ commented Dora thoughtfully.

Even Rachel Gray joined in the laughter that followed. It was after all well in the past, and he
had
been a Grand Duke after all.

‘The inspector believes the burglar is here in Cannes,’ chattered Natalia. ‘In fact, here today. Either a cricketer or a guest.’

‘Here?
Now
?’ They regarded her in horror as each woman quickly ran through her mind the possible unpleasant consequences of any further investigations into the identity of the burglar.

‘But why? For what?’ Rachel inquired plaintively. They all turned to gaze at the Grand Duchess’s chest.

‘For the jewelled dagger perhaps.’ Natalia paused.
‘Or the Seventh Egg—’ she added offhandedly.

‘The
Seventh
Egg?’ her two listeners chorused.

‘Oh yes, didn’t you know? I’m not sure who it belongs to,’ Natalia lied happily. She liked to set cats among pigeons. ‘Oh, do look at what’s happening there.’ She waved a hand towards the field. Enough of Seventh Eggs.

The Duke had become increasingly nervous with each over, finally being so unnerved that he advanced to meet one ball, to end the agony, and hit it fair and square almost by mistake. As it sailed high into the air, fourteen pairs of fascinated eyes on the field watched its progress. Now on the verandah chatting ceased in amazement as all the fielders raced towards the boundary in pursuit of an ostrich, which with a definite gleam in its eye had run off with the ball.

‘Why not fetch another ball?’ asked Auguste practically of the Pavilion steward, as he noticed the commotion from the luncheon tent.

‘It is the rules,
Monsieur
,’ was the shocked reply. The steward, being a fixture, was English.

The ostrich rather reluctantly ceded its prey but the Grand Duke was lbw next ball. The announcement of luncheon coincided with the end of the Players’ innings for 79 runs. The Gentlemen were aghast. Dammit, cricket was their game –
something had to be done
.

Swelling visibly with pride, the Russians swept into lunch like a troop of Cossacks, Bastide sandwiched triumphantly between them. As if bolstered by their at least creditable showing, they proceeded to do equal justice to luncheon,
katushki
included. Even the Prince of Wales, depressed at the thought of the ordeal to come, cheered up at the sight of the food. These Russians didn’t do themselves badly, did they? That salted herring salad looked good.

‘How goes the ghost hunt?’ whispered Natalia as she passed by Auguste who was anxiously superintending the tables. ‘I heard he has appeared several times in the old
town and the Cannois say it is not a good sign. It is said,’ she lowered her voice dramatically, ‘that he only appears to his own countrymen, so alas I cannot see him. And that death or misfortune comes in his wake.’

‘But what countrymen? It depends,’ said Auguste gulping, determined not to be thrown off track as a detective, ‘on who you believe he is. If Louis the fourteenth’s brother, or Molière, French, if Colonel Barclay or the Duke of Monmouth, English, or if Matthioli, Italian. And if this new contender Eustache Dauger—’ He broke off. ‘Ah, you laugh at me,’ he said indignantly.

‘Just a little,’ she admitted. ‘I like to see your eyes flash. So deep, so dark.’ She patted his hand and moved on.

Auguste blushed involuntarily. There was something about Russian women, particularly those that sweetened life in Europe. Natalia – and Tatiana. For a moment melancholy overtook him, then he dispelled it. He was on holiday. Egbert was here, and everything was splendid. Except for the
sanglier
.

The sound of raised voices made him realise that in fact things were far from splendid so far as this party was concerned. He was a connoisseur of the atmosphere of parties and this was not right. Was it the food? There had been no complaints
yet
, but surely they must come? Or was it the rivalry of cricket? There was certainly a simmering tension somewhere . . . He decided to take round a tray of savouries – that abomination so beloved of the English – to try to discover what the trouble was. He did not have long to wait.

The
soi-disant
descendant of the Man in the Iron Mask, Bastide, was locked in conversation – if that was the word – with Lord Westbourne. ‘I tell you the French flag will hang above Borea,’ he shouted. ‘
Au diable
with your Royal Niger Company. Our flag will hang in Guinea; it will hang in
Australia
. All your empire will crumble.’ He paused to take a mouthful of
caviar d’aubergines
from Auguste’s
proffered tray. It really was delicious. ‘As I said . . .’

Lord Westbourne was listening stolidly as he had listened to similar speeches in Paris for the last six months. This latest crisis was nothing. Pretty soon some kind of compromise would be reached, the flags would be hung out to celebrate and they could all go home and watch some decent cricket. Watch, not play. He’d better make sure these Frenchies toed the line before W. G.’s Jubilee on his fiftieth birthday in July. Good God, what a thought. Better make it a June settlement – provided it didn’t conflict with the Derby or Ascot. Get the work over before then, sign it later. He’d have a word with Tucker. He was at the Whitehall end. Excusing himself, he moved across to join Cyril Tucker. He was in the Colonial Office and could pull a string or two.

Bastide fumed at Westbourne’s lack of reaction. These English were so superior. He must do something for his ancestors. Napoleon would strike. And so would he, Bastide!

Westbourne’s wife meanwhile had once more tracked down her less than enthusiastic potential lover. ‘Harry darling, I don’t think we’d better be seen too much together,’ Dora hissed in the corridor as they passed. That suited Harry Washington. ‘But tomorrow he returns to Paris. Call for me at eleven.’ It was an order.

Harry sighed to himself. Dora Westbourne was a catch in one way, but in the cricket season a decided liability. He only permitted himself to fall in love from September to May. Look what she’d done to his form this morning. If only something drastic would happen.

He walked sullenly away, watched with interest by Auguste who had not missed Dora Westbourne’s pursuit.

Alfred Hathaway too looked under tension. He was. It was hard work struggling to appear pale and interesting. He had not relayed to anyone the information that he was a bowler, so he’d avoided that problem. And he proposed to
bat very feebly indeed this afternoon. Perhaps he could retire injured so that Rachel would rush to his rescue.

He lovingly carried his goddess a plateful of food.

‘
Katushki
!’ The tragic note in Rachel’s voice suggested Lady Audley’s secret had just been revealed. ‘Oh no,
French
please. I feel French today. Not Russian.’

Cyril, overhearing this, sighed. French days usually meant a performance of which he would scarcely feel capable after a day’s cricket.

‘Alfred, do not strain yourself. You must take care.’ The remarks were a ritual now, as Rachel ran a doubtful eye over her beloved. There was altogether a more robust approach about him recently; indeed he was increasingly persistent in his desire to join her on the chaise longue. And now he had issued an ultimatum. How annoying. After all, she had carefully explained their relationship at the very outset. ‘I see you as a troubadour of old, Alfred. I see you writing poems to me. I am your lady, and you shall wear my favours.’

The only favour she had actually given him, Alfred had thought, unusually mutinous, was cuff-links decorated with tiny cameos of herself, hardly the sort of thing he could wear to the Café Royal. Instantly he was repentant.

Now, if there were not so many people about, he wanted to kneel at her feet, kiss the hem of her gown. However, her husband was nearby and might misunderstand this noble gesture. So he contented himself by saying to her in a low voice and passionately: ‘I am your slave, Rachel. You know that I will do anything for you,
anything
.’ The effect was somewhat ruined when he looked up to find himself staring at a tray of canapes blandly held by Auguste.

‘Some sardines, sir?’ Auguste offered.

Count Trepolov also was keeping an eagle eye alternately on Lord Westbourne and his lady, not on savouries. It had not escaped his notice that Harry Washington seemed to be
on the way in to Dora’s favour just as he, Trepolov, was on the way out. Truly, women were like bees, creatures of the wild and untameable. No matter how strong the hive, they would go their own way. Yet they provided the honey of life. Tears of dark self-pity welled up. He wondered if this were an insult to his honour and decided it was. Moreover it was an insult to Russia, and therefore to Romanov honour, which he held very dear.

His lady in Paris was a distant Romanov, a fact much in her favour so far as he was concerned, increasing his passion tenfold. He had just won her gracious consent to attend the Grand Duke Igor’s masked ball in two weeks’ time. It might therefore be convenient not to be hampered with a mistress at that moment, but nevertheless it was still an insult – and especially from an Englishwoman. He brooded. There must be some way of avenging his honour.

‘A
pyraniki
, sir?’ It went much against the grain for Auguste to offer these abominations as dessert, but Boris had pre-empted his objections by removing most of Auguste’s alternatives from the trays.

Trepolov absentmindedly bit viciously into the peppermint honey cake. He was immediately charmed. Was this not Narbonne honey? In his opinion Cannes honey was preferable but nevertheless the cook showed true worth. Perhaps he could be suborned.