Murder At The Masque

by Myers, Amy

  A frantic search by Inspector Fouchard, recollecting his original duty, revealed that the Prince of Wales was not lying dead anywhere in the vicinity, and brief interrogation revealed that he had departed of his own free will and not under restraint by some Balkan Moriarty. He had merely summoned his carriage, shot a murderous look at the Delahaye horseless carriage awaiting the Grand Duke, and gone. For this Fouchard was immensely grateful; he had no wish whatsoever to be involved in an investigation in which the Prince of Wales figured among the suspects, a sentiment with which Rose wholeheartedly agreed. He then departed with the unhappy task of breaking the news to Lady Westbourne.

  Left alone in the waiting room, Rose and Auguste contemplated the corpse sprawled over the desk, noting that it faced the window with its back to the door.

  ‘Looks like he meant it when he said he was writing a report,’ said Rose. ‘It’s still there, all right.’ There was half a page covered with confident copperplate.

  ‘So he was killed soon after tea,’ said Auguste. ‘It does not take long to write two paragraphs.’

  ‘Depends on how long he thought about it, and he was thinking hard enough about it not to turn round when someone came through the door,’ Rose pointed out, ‘and there are no signs of anyone coming through the window.’

  ‘Or it meant he knew his killer well enough to turn his back on him during a discussion. Someone he knew very well.’

  ‘Like his wife,’ was the unspoken thought in both their minds.

  ‘It must have been a murder on the spur of the moment, for the dagger was guarded all day. Only at the end of the tea break did it reappear again without a guard. Provided the Grand Duke speaks the truth when he says he left it there,’ Auguste added.

  Rose groaned. Fouchard would never get involved if the Grand Duke were a suspect and even he, Rose, quailed at the thought. ‘There’ll be witnesses,’ Rose said hopefully. ‘Even if the guests didn’t notice, the servants would be clearing the tea after all. They’d have seen it there. Even Higgins—’ The awful truth jolted him. Jewels and Higgins went together like safe and cracksman. And Auguste had blithely dispatched him to hunt down a doctor. But he couldn’t see Higgins going as far as murder. Or could he?

  ‘If this were one of those Sherlock Holmes mysteries, the villain would have left clues a mile high,’ said Rose disgustedly. ‘I never seem to have his luck,’ eyeing the desk and floor completely free of such things as telltale hairpins and cuff-links.

  ‘’Ere’s the bloke you wanted,’ cried Higgins cheerily, ushering in Dr Earl from the Villa Beatrice, who bustled in eagerly. This was a change from the griping pains of new arrivals. Moreover, although titles were two a penny in Cannes, Lord Westbourne was different. His death would undoubtedly be fully reported in the English newspapers, perhaps even Her Majesty might take an interest. With luck Archibald Earl might well make the columns of The Times.

  ‘Going out in style, eh?’ he remarked jovially, observing the jewelled hilt, as though he attended murders in Cannes every day. ‘Cherchez la femme, eh?’ He began his examination as Rose paled at the thought of La Belle Mimosa. It wasn’t a pleasant one.

  ‘I’d say he’s been dead two and a half hours at the most, perhaps less. Is his wife here? Need attention, does she?’

  ‘She’s being told now. Two and a half hours – that brings it to just after tea, as we thought,’ Rose said to Auguste. ‘The dagger must have been taken almost immediately.’

  ‘But surely some people would still be in the salon, and then there’d be servants around?’ objected Auguste.

  ‘Any later and we could eliminate the Russian side, because they were on the field.’

  ‘Could have run in for a trip to the toilet,’ said Rose doggedly, if unrealistically. No way was he going to eliminate the foreigners at this stage, and leave the burden on the English side.

  There was a commotion outside as Fouchard returned, followed apparently by half the Cannes police force and Lady Westbourne pushing her way through, Natalia trying in vain to prevent her.

  ‘I demand to see him. He’s my husband.’

  ‘Madam.’ Rose fielded her expertly before she could enter.

  ‘Don’t you dare stop me, you common little man!’ she shrieked.

  But the shriek was cut off as he reluctantly stood aside and she viewed her husband’s body and the dagger. ‘How odd,’ she remarked conversationally, ‘he never liked rubies.’ Then her eyes glazed. ‘How could he do it?’ she moaned, and collapsed gracefully on the floor.

  With an ‘I told you so’ look Dr Earl cleared his throat and advanced in professional manner, but Natalia forestalled him, shooting him an indignant look as though he were responsible.

  ‘Camomile tea,’ cried Auguste. ‘I will obtain some camomile tea. There is some in the store . . .’ He rushed into the kitchen, expecting to find preparations for refreshments in full flood. But the kitchen was empty save for Boris, and there were no signs of any sustenance at all. And Boris was sprawled insensible over the small working table.

  ‘What are you doing, you foolish man?’ howled Auguste, shaking him violently. ‘Food, we need food, and tea. Monsieur Boris, rouse yourself.’

  Boris opened a bleary eye. Tears began to pour out of it unheeded into the remains of Auguste’s galantine. Unsympathetically Auguste shook him again.

  ‘Get up, get up,’ he cried, pulling at his arms. ‘We need tea, and food. There is much to organise.’

  ‘The Englishman,’ cried Boris. ‘The poor Englishman. He is dead.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but it’s not your job to worry about that. You must look after the living.’

  ‘But we lose the match,’ said Boris anxiously. ‘The honour of Mother Russia is lost. Why the Grand Duke no win match? Why he fall over? He is wonderful man. The Tsar is wonderful man. But the people—’

  ‘Yes, yes, food,’ yelled Auguste, cutting across this diatribe.

  ‘Piroshki?’ murmured Boris lovingly, beginning to motivate himself.

  ‘Au diable, your piroshki,’ muttered Auguste, rushing out with a tray of camomile tea for Lady Westbourne.

  He handed the tea to Natalia, who proceeded to coax Dora back to life, while the men stood awkwardly by. Inspector Fouchard took advantage of the pause, having now ascertained from Rose that Auguste’s qualification for his presence ran deeper than camomile tea.

  ‘May I say what a privilege it is to meet Monsieur Escoffier’s favourite apprentice? Ah, how I recall the civet de lièvre you prepared at the Faisan Dorè. Why, it must be over fifteen years ago?’

  ‘Alors,’ said Auguste with pride. ‘That was my first named dish. The year was 1881 and the Maître Escoffier permitted me the honour of putting my name to the dish, civet de lièvre à la façon Didier. It was a small thing, but all the difference to the taste when I added the – ah, non, I keep my secrets. But tell me, Monsieur l’Inspecteur, did you also taste my loup de roche aux herbes?’

  ‘No,’ Fouchard said with interest. ‘Tell me your method.’

  Egbert Rose coughed, and guiltily Auguste returned his thoughts to murder, as Natalia, averting her eyes from the corpse, rose to her feet, raising Lady Westbourne who clung to her, a dead weight.

  ‘Shall I take Lady Westbourne to her home, Inspector?’ She looked from Rose to Fouchard. ‘I fear she will answer no questions today.’

  ‘We will call upon madame tomorrow,’ said the inspector, determined where he could safely be so.

  ‘Merci, monsieur,’ said Natalia meekly, winking at Auguste, who pretended not to notice, conscious of his status as specially co-opted detective. ‘And, if she inquires, the body?’

  ‘Remains with the police, madame, for the moment.’

  ‘And now,’ said Fouchard firmly after they had gone, ‘we will go to tell everyone what has happened. And you,’ pointing amicably at Rose, ‘will do the telling.’

  ‘But—’ Rose began.

  ‘First, they must have apéritifs,’ broke in Auguste anxiously. ‘
I hear them now. Give me five minutes, I beg.’

  He slipped out as a small army of servants carried by all sorts of carts and carriages scurried up to the Pavilion with emergency rations organised by Maman, with Papa’s enthusiastic support. Thank goodness Maman was in one of her English moods. Today she could have organised the British Empire, had she been called upon to do so. Tea for a hundred or so people presented no true challenge. Papa was agog with curiosity. If the Grand Duke had been assassinated there would be no surprise, for Grand Dukes tended to come and go. But an English milord was something else. Every charcuterie in town had been ransacked in order to provide something palatable. More tea appeared, champagne hardly seemed fitting, however desirable. Boris was now completely hors de combat, eyes glazed, lurching hopelessly around, oblivious of Auguste’s rushing hither and thither. Auguste was endeavouring to be both detective and maître d’hôtel for the matter of tea, torn as usual by twin loves. In despair he wondered what on earth he was doing. He was supposed to be having a holiday. And now here he was not only serving and cooking food, but involved in a murder once again. What the secretary of Plum’s was going to say to him, he shuddered to think. He hoped The Times never heard of this affair. On the other hand, there was nothing like detective work for clearing the brain, a loving assembling of ingredients, and the fitting of the pieces together to make a whole plat.

  Chivvying the staff of the Villa Russe into the tea room with refreshments, Auguste brought up the rear. He attracted no attention. Fifty pairs of eyes saw him and turned away; he was only the chef. But to his alert eyes, it was clear that the company had divided itself into groups. The Gentlemen had banded together with their womenfolk, the Players were together with their ladies, and the others, outsiders to their coterie, remained apart, including La Belle Mimosa, who accepted and drank from her teacup, declining stronger beverage, as though nothing more potent than this delicate liquid had ever passed her lips. As Auguste returned to the study he saw the gendarmes at the door struggling to keep out yet another element; the news was clearly all round Cannes, and the newspapers, including one strident English voice announcing himself as the Cannes Gazette, were determined to make full use of this unexpected variety for their pages, resigned usually to who was in town and who was not. Now they had an event of a most exciting nature.

  ‘They grow impatient, Inspector.’ Auguste was careful to preserve the proprieties in public, despite his friendship with Egbert Rose.

  Rose turned to Fouchard who nodded fervently. ‘Let’s go,’ he said in the manner of one setting out to St Giles’ rookery.

  ‘And you speak to them,’ Fouchard reiterated nervously. ‘Then we think,’ he added somewhat ingenuously. He was not accustomed to violent crime, and felt obscurely indignant that fate had once again singled him out. Only last year the Grand Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin had thrown himself from the balcony of the Villa Wenden; this, however, was infinitely worse. Murder! And one of the English community. How pleasant it would be if they should have their own police force . . . a permanent detective from Scotland Yard for such unfortunate eventualities among the hiverneurs. He eyed Rose speculatively.

  As the three men entered the room there were several heated discussions in progress. The most spirited came from the raised voices of the Gentlemen. Once again they were thrashing over the vital question that had held all right-thinking Englishmen’s attention for the last three years: was the bottle of champagne brought on to the pitch to celebrate the great W. G.’s achievement of scoring his hundredth hundred at Bristol in May ’95 a magnum or a jeroboam. The Russian concern was of less magnitude. They were merely arguing about the ostrich (not having understood the English challenge), and whether neck before boundary meant something like leg before wicket to the Gentlemen. The women were discussing the question of whether the forthcoming Russian royal wedding was really worth the penalty of remaining in Cannes unfashionably late in the season.

  Into this maelstrom plunged Inspector Fouchard: ‘Vos Altesses Imperiales, mon ami Inspector Rose of Scotland Yard wishes to speak with you.’ He sat down, congratulating himself that he had handled the situation rather neatly.

  Rose, with the confidence of not being on his home territory, decided on the bold approach: ‘I’m sorry to say, ladies and gentlemen, we’ve had an unfortunate occurrence. Lord Westbourne’s been murdered, and’ – waiting for the murmurs of satisfaction at this confirmation of their guesses to die down – ‘it’s for certain that someone here knows something about it.’

  It took a moment for this to sink in, then they realised the impertinence of the suggestion, and the gasps were even louder.

  ‘Surely, Inspector,’ said Washington, ‘some tramp must have entered through the window, bent on burglary, stabbed him and left the same way.’

  ‘’Fraid not, sir. Why leave the dagger behind?’

  ‘He was surprised by someone,’ said Washington nonchalantly.

  ‘Window not disturbed, sir,’ said Rose, scotching this firmly on the head.

  ‘Then it was a servant,’ said Washington, impatiently now. ‘You don’t seriously imagine a cricketer – one of us – would stab a man in the back?’

  There was a general murmur of approval at this conclusive evidence.

  ‘I don’t imagine, sir. I look for facts,’ Rose countered stolidly.

  Count Trepolov stood up, drawing his full six foot two inches erect. ‘At least the Players can have nothing to do with this unfortunate business. I trust we may retire. We were all on the field—’

  ‘Do you know when he was killed, sir?’ inquired Rose mildly.

  The Count flushed and thought quickly. ‘The lord retired to the writing room at the end of the tea interval and the Players were all on the field after that. No one on our side would wish to kill Lord Westbourne. The idea is ridiculous.’

  ‘I disagree. He stood for English imperialism,’ shouted Bastide, eyes flashing. ‘Africa is French.’ He stood up, carried away with a chance for fervour. ‘To us the glory.’ Remembering an old print of Napoleon in his youth, he pushed his sharp-featured profile forward, his fist upraised, and held the pose.

  ‘Oh, Basty, you are wonderful,’ breathed Emmeline, her cheeks flushed pink, then she uneasily thought perhaps it was not so wonderful of him in view of the fact that they were looking for motives for murder.

  ‘Maybe, sir. Someone didn’t like his politics. Now, if you’ll sit down.’

  Somewhat deflated, since his announcement had caused no great stir, Bastide did so, but was rewarded by a comforting squeeze of Emmeline’s hand.

  ‘But it’s more likely,’ Rose continued, ‘that this burglar I’m after killed him and that he’s here today. As you all heard, Lord Westbourne thought he knew who it was. It seems to us that his lordship had to be got out of the way before my lad could get to his victim.’ Two bosoms swelled, and there was a strident female laugh.

  ‘C’est ridicule, ça. If it is this burglar, and he is here, why do I have thees still?’ La Belle Mimosa pointed dramatically to the egg. ‘Unless it is ’im – he gave it to me.’ The finger now pointed straight and devastatingly at the Grand Duke.

  At this outrage to all rules of society, consternation broke out. The Duke cowered, the Grand Duchess’s eyes glittered, though whether at La Belle Mimosa or her husband was not clear. Or wasn’t until she rose composedly to her feet, not to address the gathering, but to depart.

  ‘If,’ announced the Grand Duchess Anna in dulcet tones to Inspector Rose, ‘you wish to find this murderer, it is here. You heard it threaten to kill Lord Westbourne and now Lord Westbourne is dead.’

  La Belle Mimosa was on her feet with the dexterity that World Champion Jem Mace would envy in the ring and confronted the Grand Duchess bosom to bosom, hands on her hips.

  ‘It is your husband’s, thees,’ she jeered, thrusting out her breasts and patting the egg.

  The Grand Duchess hardly hesitated. ‘Vraiment? Bien!’ An apparently languid white hand darted ou
t like a snake’s tongue, wresting the egg away from its moorings, and the Grand Duchess passed on leaving La Belle Mimosa shrieking impotently with rage, only held back from physically attacking the Grand Duchess by her guards. She took refuge in words. ‘But he sleeps with me,’ she jeered.

  The shapely head did not turn or pause, but a cool voice was heard to remark: ‘Pauvre homme. And to have to pay too.’ Only then did she look carefully at the egg and with a slight sneer on her face turned and deposited it with a gesture of disgust in a nearby aspidistra pot.

  There was a silent round of applause for the departing Grand Duchess, broken by a rich, full, female voice: ‘Cyril, am I suspected?’ Rachel Gray had ceded the limelight long enough.

  ‘No, Rachel,’ said Cyril Tucker. ‘Not you in particular. Everyone.’ He was going to have a difficult time this evening, he could see that. He took temporary refuge in his own nirvana. He knew every cricket score since the Lion of Kent scored his first century. He mentally selected Gloucestershire versus Surrey in 1880 and replayed the finish, in the hope that such excitement would shore him up to face the journey home with his wife.

  The Grand Duke also suffered from forebodings about the evening ahead and seemed anxious not to follow his wife. Being a possible suspect for murder seemed a reasonable alternative at the moment.

  ‘Even me?’ he inquired. ‘You suspect me?’

  Rose had learned much from his case at Stockbery Towers. ‘Only a formality, sir,’ he said smoothly.

  The grand-ducal brow remained furrowed.

  The Grand Duchess’s carriage, fluttering its white ribbons and with the coachman’s hat turned sideways to denote its grand-ducal occupant, drew off, and the company, dismissed by the police, gradually made their way to their belated dinner engagements. La Belle Mimosa was carrying the egg, somewhat less ostentatiously than previously. The Grand Duke inconveniently remained, despite being obviously in the way of the police who were now removing the body. He gazed at the departing ex-Lord Westbourne uneasily. ‘Are you sure,’ he inquired of Rose anxiously, ‘that it isn’t the Nihilists?’