Murder At The Masque

by Myers, Amy

  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.

  ‘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?