Murder At The Masque

by Myers, Amy

  Chesnais refused to release the Comte, so Fouchard told him. It was natural in his view that sweethearts should wish to protect their lovers, even at the expense of their own reputations. Chesnais stood firm. He had his man, and Bastide continued to languish in jail. Auguste had spent much time since Rose had departed conscientiously sifting evidence; since he had been banished from Natalia’s bed for a while so that she might prepare for performances in Monte Carlo and tonight’s in Cannes, it had been no great hardship.

  But since Emmeline had told him of the old Cannois, he had vanished as surely as the Ghost of the Iron Mask.

  Auguste sat in the small balcony with his mother and father, for once not noticing the unaccustomedness of their best clothes, so excited were they. Did Auguste go to the ballet every evening in London? they inquired.

  Auguste had seen Natalia dance in London several times, but here it seemed different. They were closer now; he felt every movement she made on stage, every emotion she shared with the audience. The complete mistress of technique, she abandoned herself to the sensuousness of the music, sweeping him into a land of heady romance and delight. Even her audience, fashionable though it was, with the Prince of Wales present, paid close attention. From the balcony Auguste looked down upon row after row of deeply cut décolletée evening dresses, jewels, fans and opera hats. Had this anything to do with Kallinkova’s art? She would dance as happily and as well to an audience of two chimney sweeps as to this splendid gathering. Natalia . . . the supreme artiste. Did he love her? Could you love a will o’ the wisp? An enchantment, a dream . . . It was a precious butterfly, something to cherish, to adore and then to see fly free with the summer air.

  Later, as he lay restlessly at her side as she slept, his mind still whirled with the music, the light, entrancing figure on stage and the enchantment of the evening. Cannes itself had enchantment, nothing was quite real. He did not belong to this world of princes, nor did his parents. Yet such was the spell of the place, you could dwell in a world of enchantment like The Sleeping Beauty. He turned to look at Natalia, her peaceful face, her classical beauty, her dark hair spread out around her; thought of the gaiety that danced around him, enmeshing him in its toils, thought of her warmth in his arms, and began to drift into sleep. This case too was an enchantment – no, he would not think of murder. Perhaps he would awake and find it solved. Yet characters in his drama paraded relentlessly in front of him, the courtiers in Aurora’s palace springing back to life around him, Florizel kissing Aurora awake and finally—

  He sat up abruptly. It was crystal clear. ‘I have been asleep,’ he cried out loud.

  ‘Bon,’ murmured his Aurora sleepily. ‘I too try.’

  ‘Why did we not see the truth? Not who, but why?’

  Chapter Eight

  A glowing red sun was thrusting up over the horizon of the sea as Auguste walked home along the Quai St Pierre through the early pink light. He had chosen a long route home, in order to have time to think. Normally it was hard enough to leave a sleeping Natalia, to force himself into a chilly dawn, but today he did not mind so much. There was much to think about, and walking along the quayside where the fishing boats were landing their catches, gazing at that pink-grey morning light over the Croisette peninsula, seeing the red glow of the rising sun light up the sky, feeling the sharp chill of the air – this was the Cannes he loved. The Cannes that belonged to its people, not the hiverneurs. In another three or four hours this world would be swept aside, still there to be found in the flower market, in the shops, but serving as a background to the fashionable hiverneurs. In the morning it came into its own once more.

  Here it was possible to see things clearly, to try to recall the flash of inspiration that had come to him so vividly last night, only to vanish with his dreams. He had been so convinced that Inspector Chesnais was wrong, that Lord Westbourne had not been murdered for political reasons. That seemed too much like – like – he sought to express the thought completely and fully – a recipe by Soyer. The ingredients were right, the method was right, the inspiration was right. And yet the final dish failed somehow to satisfy, to glue together like isinglass in a jelly. So, what must he do? He must dissect the jelly once more; melt it down, lay out the ingredients and study them, go back to that basic concept that had come to him in the night. But what was it? It had seemed so clear, yet when he slept again, Morpheus had snatched it from him. Seek it as he would, it had vanished.

  Sometimes in a recipe this indicated that the idea was of no value, that the night-time inspiration to make a sauce for gibier from fruit was wiped from memory for very good reason. Daylight would show that were the two to be united in a plat catastrophe would follow. Somehow he did not think that would be the case now, but strive as he would, it would not return.

  Instead, sitting down by the sea wall, he turned his thoughts to Natalia, yesterday’s night of magic enchantment and the unexpected bounty that this holiday had bestowed on him – until it evened the score by sending murder also. Yet enchantment it was, he knew, by the cold light of dawn. A kiss of heaven to bless him for a few weeks, a few months, who knew? Soon she would vanish, as she had done before, as she warned him would happen again. In their story it was not Cupid but Psyche who would vanish with the light of day. How much would he mind? As much as when dear Maisie married? As much as when—

  He sighed. Was he doomed for love always to treat him so? For the woman he loved always to be a dream, beyond his reach? Did he always seek out Tatianas? She was in Paris, further away than he was to her in London, but it seemed closer.

  Firmly, he put such thoughts behind him. This battle he had already won in his mind. He had much to be thankful for, he had a future, and for the moment at least there was Natalia. The New Woman. He began to laugh as he thought of the checked bloomers, of Egbert’s face, and irreverent thoughts of dear Edith, Egbert’s wife, clad in the same unbecoming garments, passed through his mind. But the twentieth century beckoned. Who knew what lay on its horizon?

  When he crept into his home quietly in order not to disturb his sleeping parents, he found his father already up, cleaning the kitchen stove, and preparing the vegetables for the day. He shot his son a reproachful look.

  ‘You had better change those clothes, my son. It might occasion comment.’

  Auguste reddened, having forgotten that he was still clad in evening dress and opera hat. How glad he was Maman was still asleep. He quickly ran to change his clothes for more informal wear.

  Even these did not pass muster, for when he returned his mother was bustling around preparing chocolate in the chocolatière. She eyed his Joinville scarf and ring critically. ‘It’s high time you got married, my son. Why do you not?’

  How could he explain?

  ‘Because there is no one like you, Maman.’ He planted a kiss on her cheek and she bridled.

  ‘You dally with ladies’ affections,’ she accused him. ‘I see it now. You are a Gilles de Rais.’

  ‘Maman,’ he protested, ‘ce n’est pas vrai.’ If only she knew he was a victim, not a sadist.

  ‘I want some grandchildren,’ she announced. ‘If only to teach them the secret of my brandade. It is obvious that you will never learn it correctly. But for all that, you are not bad. I am told that you did quite well at the buffet.’

  ‘Merci, Maman,’ he said meekly.

  ‘What she wishes to ask you, my son,’ his father interpreted this high praise, ‘is whether you will assist Monsieur Boris in the preparations for the ball on Saturday?’

  ‘What?’ Auguste yelped, the chocolate leaping out of his bowl in his agitation. ‘Ah, non, Saturday, and today is Wednesday. What can I do? It is impossible.’

  ‘There. I said he could not do it,’ said his mother triumphantly.

  ‘Naturellement,’ Auguste said quickly. ‘I could do it. I am a maître.’ He looked at their doubtful faces and began to doubt it himself. ‘But it is my holiday,’ he explained pathetically, ‘and Monsieur Boris—’

&nbs
p; He left the sentence unfinished. He did not need to complete it. They nodded sympathetically. ‘Monsieur Boris is a good cook, but he has his failings,’ agreed his mother. ‘And just at the moment he has many failings.’

  Auguste groaned. Even so, a little part of his mind was gripped by a familiar excitement. A grand ball, and what a problem for a maître chef. In Lent the food must be just so; not too ostentatious but good enough to celebrate a Grand Duke’s birthday without making his guests wonder if they were breaking the Lenten abstentions too greatly. Light dishes would be the answer? Perhaps eggs? No. He could not trust a strange kitchen and staff with souffles. Perhaps he would just go along to give some advice, and not stay to help. Yes, that could be achieved without difficulty. Besides, he reasoned, he might even get closer to solving the crime this way. And, if he were present at the ball, as Egbert would be, perhaps he might see something that would help. Even prevent robberies. Fish, of course. An all-fish menu. And what better place than Cannes to serve it with the sweet fruits of the Mediterranean so plentifully at hand. He would go to speak to the fishermen on his way to the Villa Russe . . . He might even see the old Cannois.

  Fate, which had thrown him in Auguste’s path so often before, seemed resolute in its refusal to lend a hand. He was to be found neither on the Croisette nor by the port, in none of the cafés. Auguste had hung around the flower and food markets, but there was no sign of him. He had vanished as completely as the ghost of Masque de Fer.

  This was a kitchen in despair. Auguste stood in the doorway of the kitchen entrance at the Villa Russe, aghast. You could smell despair in the air. This was not a humming, thriving unit marching forward with a purpose, as a kitchen should be, but a shell in which sporadic bursts of activity might or might not take place to produce what might or might not be edible meals. The kitchenmaids had lifeless eyes; they drifted, they did not dance in foot or mind. The assistant cooks toyed with salamanders and spits without interest. Even the roasting food on the spit seemed to be floating aimlessly as though it had no will to turn itself into succulent delicacies for the palate.

  In the centre, seated at a table, a long list on a board in front of him, was Boris; but compared with the Boris Auguste had first met, this was a shrunken, defeated man. He looked up listlessly as Auguste entered, greeting him merely with a perfunctory hug, overwhelmed with the enormity of the occasion.

  ‘You come to help, yes?’ There was no doubt in his voice.

  In the midst of this desolation, Auguste was clearly descending as katushki from above.

  ‘What,’ Auguste inquired grimly, ‘is your menu for the ball supper? Let me see it.’ The man must have catered for hundreds of balls before, surely? What was he worrying about?

  Boris looked at him blankly.

  ‘Zakuski,’ he offered.

  ‘What?’ Auguste howled. ‘No meatballs, no, no meatballs.’

  ‘No, no. Zakuski, pas de katushki. Hors d’oeuvres,’ Boris added. ‘With vodka,’ he explained.

  Auguste cast his eyes to the heaven from which in Boris’s view he had descended, and set grimly to work. He examined larders, order books, pantries, still-room, refrigerators, and then toured them again. Then he sat down with a reluctant Boris, edging the bottle away inch by inch in the hope that the Russian would not observe his movements.

  ‘Eh bien, fish,’ he said. ‘We need fish. For three hundred and fifty people. We have twenty-four turbots with sauce homard, twenty-four salmon, forty plates of lobster salad, thirty-six salads of fillet of soles and salmon—’

  ‘Kamchatka – crabs,’ interrupted Boris, suddenly inspired.

  ‘Crabs, certainly,’ agreed Auguste cautiously, ‘but how—’

  ‘With wine, cook with wine,’ explained Boris eagerly.

  ‘Very well. Crabs.’

  ‘And trout with kasha.’

  ‘What is kasha?’ asked Auguste suspiciously.

  ‘It is kasha.’ Boris waved his hands, and a kitchenmaid brought some for inspection.

  ‘Non,’ said Auguste firmly in disgust, looking at the buckwheat and imagining trout stuffed with this abomination. ‘Non.’

  ‘Is my kitchen,’ Boris pointed out.

  ‘Is my holiday,’ stated Auguste, rising to his feet. Principles were principles.

  A large greasy hand clasped his prized Norfolk jacket. ‘You stay. No kasha.’

  Mollified, Auguste sat down again.

  ‘Écrevisses à la provençale, coquilles de St Pierre au gratin. So much undervalued this fish and yet St Peter himself has blessed it with his thumb-mark. Though some say the mark is that of St Christopher who picked it up to amuse le bébé Jésus as he carried Him across the sea. In England we call it the John Dory. And you know why? Because St Peter is the gate-keeper of heaven, the janitore in Italian. Voilà, John Dory. Language is interesting, my friend,’ as he wrote dishes down busily on the list of calculated quantities. ‘There was an English actor who travelled great distances to eat this fish and always with one sauce. The marriage of Miss Ann Chovy to Mr John Dory was made in heaven, he said. This is English humour. I myself feel anchovy—’ He broke off.

  Boris was asleep. He shook him none too gently with no result but a low rumble.

  ‘And the pièces montées,’ went on Auguste with his list through gritted teeth, ‘six grosses meringues à la Chantilly, nougat, pies, and groups of truffles in between.’

  ‘It’s time for him to see the Grand Duchess, Auguste,’ Madame Didier interrupted anxiously. Mother and son regarded the recumbent Boris.

  ‘I shall have to go,’ said Auguste finally. It might not be a bad thing, he was thinking. It would be sensible to be acquainted with the Villa Russe; such knowledge could come in useful on the night of the ball. Servants could go where guests might not.

  The Grand Duke and his Duchess were in the ballroom, superintending the installation of the decorations. The ball would overspill in the orangery beyond, and a candlelit path led to the belvedere, for any wishing to admire the stars and the Bay of Cannes by night. Refreshments, for any not satiated by the buffets in the salon, would be placed in the belvedere. Although it was Lent, the Grand Duke was relying on the Almighty to overlook this sin and provide a warm day for the event. The Grand Duchess sat in a Louis Quinze chair and considered the effect of her decor for the ball, while workmen ran about at her beck and call. The Grand Duke appeared to be one of them, countermanding orders as fast as they were given. The decorations took a suitably Lenten tone in including many hundreds of branches of palm, but upheld the honour of the Romanovs in that they stood in emerald-encrusted pots.

  Perhaps like the great restaurateur in the Siege of Paris, thought Auguste irreverently, noticing the palms, he should have provided stuffed donkey’s head, and promptly offered a silent prayer of apology to le Bon Seigneur.

  A slight frown crossed the Grand Duchess’s face as Auguste bowed before her.

  ‘Monsieur Boris is not well, Votre Altesse Imperiale. I am – ah – the temporary cook, Auguste Didier.’

  ‘Yes, I recognise you. You were the chef at Stockbery Towers, were you not?’

  Auguste admitted this honour.

  ‘The Duchess spoke highly of you. Have you come to join our staff?’

  ‘No, madame, I merely assist Monsieur Boris.’

  ‘Let me see the menu.’ She studied it intently. ‘It is excellent, Mr Didier. But please—’

  Auguste gulped. At least she had accorded him the Monsieur. These Russians were correct. Except Boris of course. He was not a correct cook, pas du tout. Perhaps he was correct for a Russian cook, but not in any civilised country.

  ‘Not quite so much herring,’ she continued. ‘Despite what Boris might tell you, not all our guests wish to dine mentally in St Petersburg.’

  Auguste was charmed. They understood each other. All might have been well save for the sudden irruption of the Grand Duke into their midst.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked querulously, in tones that reminded Auguste of th
e Duke of Stockbery querying crayfish from the River Len.

  ‘Plum’s blackberry fool,’ said Auguste. ‘My own recipe.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said the Grand Duke.

  ‘But our guests, Igor, may,’ pointed out the Grand Duchess. ‘We must please them.’

  ‘Why can’t we just keep things simple? Either plums or blackberries, not both. Look at this. A la soubise. I like to see what I eat, not have it smothered in some froggie sauce – especially if it’s made from their milk.’

  ‘No milk, sir – I start my sauces from the basic concept of a well-flavoured stock. Too many sauces go wrong from the beginning because of ingredients . . .’ He stopped in mid-sentence. The thought had come back, and this time he would remember it.

  By the time the hansom cab drew up at Kallinkova’s villa on the route de Fréjus Auguste was bursting with impatience to tell Natalia what had happened.

  A little light luncheon, she had said. ‘I am a dancer, not the fat lady at the circus.’ All the same Auguste was glad to notice that it wasn’t that light – the coquilles were cooked to perfection, and the salade adorned with a dressing that the Chevalier d’ Albignac himself would envy.

  ‘Your maid does all this?’ he inquired incredulously. Devoted though he was to the ancient Marie, who he was quite sure was perfectly well aware of his comings and goings, he could not see her producing such fare.

  ‘Non, it is mine,’ said Natalia nonchalantly.

  ‘Yours?’ he breathed. This was indeed an angel descended from the heavens. ‘With all your gifts, your genius of dancing, you cook as well?’

  She laughed. ‘Perhaps it should be the other way round for you, mon cher. I cook – and I manage to dance a little in between. So now, chéri, tell me this great idea of yours. You have solved the murder?’