by Myers, Amy
‘You have guards on all the gates?’ he inquired anxiously.
‘Two on the main entrance, two on the tradesmen’s and one on the side gate. And two on every entrance into the house itself, including the cellar and the chimney. Everybody entering will have to display an invitation card and all the servants are being given identity cards.’ Chesnais waited for praise of his efficiency. The honour of the French Police Force had been impugned by Rose, but would quickly be redeemed. If possible, by the re-arrest of the Comte de Bonifacio.
‘And no one can enter unobserved?’ Igor asked anxiously. ‘Over a wall perhaps?’
‘To escape our men, they’d have to get one of these flying machines working,’ Chesnais said confidently.
‘And what if he is here already?’ demanded Igor. ‘One of my guests here, or a servant?’
‘I’ll be at your side, sir, throughout. And Inspector Fouchard will have guards on all the rooms.’
‘At my side?’ The Grand Duke looked startled.
‘Inspector Rose believes that you may well have been right, that Lord Westbourne was killed in mistake for you,’ announced Chesnais cheerfully. Tact was not his strong point. ‘That being so, today offers a wonderful opportunity – pardon,’ hastily recalling his audience, ‘a tragic opportunity for another attempt. But nothing will happen, rest assured.’
The Grand Duke’s face was panic-stricken. He had shouted wolf so often that he had come to disbelieve in his own assertions. The fact that the police were taking them seriously was a most alarming innovation.
‘The Nihilists,’ he breathed. He thought over the implications. Then: ‘No, you are wrong,’ he announced more cheerfully. ‘There would be no Nihilists at a cricket match. The English would not tolerate it. It is thieves you must expect tonight,’ he continued fiercely. ‘They want the Petrov Diamond. They shall not have it.’
Rose coughed apologetically. ‘There may be other people who have reason to dislike you, sir, besides the Nihilists.’
‘Nonsense,’ cried Igor, hurt. ‘I am kind to everyone. Why should anyone wish to hurt me?’
Rose plunged in. ‘There’s the matter of the ladies who received the eggs, sir.’
‘The eggs?’ The Duke’s eyes grew glassy. ‘You think—’ He broke off. ‘Ah,’ he said, delighted, ‘I see. You think because they are no longer my mistresses, they wish to kill me. No, they lof me,’ he explained loftily.
‘La Belle Mimosa doesn’t seem to love you, sir. She hasn’t love Lord Westbourne either.’
The Grand Duke lost a little of his confidence. ‘You keep her out of here,’ he said firmly.
‘She has an invitation, sir. It would be difficult—’
The Grand Duke’s eyes bulged. ‘Not from me, she hasn’t. Or from the Grand Duchess,’ he muttered as an afterthought. ‘It was a mistake,’ he added rather plaintively and somewhat obscurely to Rose. ‘Used to be able to tell: if a woman wore jewels in the daytime, she was a demi-mondaine – nowadays everything’s going down the drain. Why, I even saw—’
‘And we have to assume,’ Rose cut across a possibly interesting reminiscence firmly, ‘that she will be wearing her egg to the ball tonight.’
The Grand Duke’s eyes blinked nervously. ‘Will she?’ he muttered.
‘We’ll be guarding her, but our priority must be the Petrov Diamond. Will the Grand Duchess be wearing it?’
‘No. It’s with the other jewels. Under your guard,’ the Grand Duke pointed out.
Rose frowned. He’d just come round to the Grand Duchess’s way of thinking that a bosom was as good a place as anywhere to keep it safe.
‘Sir, I don’t like it.’ Rose hesitated. ‘There’s your new chauffeur.’
‘Higgins. Good fellow. What about him?’
‘He’s a publican, sir, from the East End of London.’
‘I know that, he’s on holiday here.’
‘He’s also the biggest receiver of stolen jewels in London.’
The Grand Duke frowned. ‘Nonsense, he’s a good chap.’
‘He may be a good chap, sir, he’s also a good fence.’
‘Then that just serves to prove my point, doesn’t it?’ said the Grand Duke with irrefutable logic. ‘His presence means that damned burglar is going to be here tonight. Now look, I can’t waste time here discussing the servants. The jewels are in the Petite Bibliothèque and as many of your fellows as you like can guard them there. It’s more sensible than following Anna round the whole evening. I’ll show you.’
He led the way up the marble and gilt staircase now smothered with lilies and roses, their purity given material elegance by the diamond-studded holders which secured them to the balustrades. The small library, on the second floor, was combined with a study for the convenience of guests.
‘There.’ The Grand Duke pointed to the desk which bore an ancient and somewhat scruffy wooden chest about eighteen inches by twelve. ‘Look at this,’ he said proudly, opening the box with his key. In the bottom, on a bed of opals, Siam rubies, Persian turquoises, garnets, chrysoberyls and topaz lay the Petrov Diamond.
‘The Orlov Diamond’s bigger, of course,’ ruminated the Grand Duke, ‘not to mention the Great Mogul. Women are never satisfied,’ he brooded. ‘Got her eye on the Tiffany yellow now. She thinks I’m made of money.’
‘You’ve no safe, sir?’
‘What do I need a safe for? There’s enough safebreakers in the world without me putting in a safe to attract them. If they want it, they’ll get it anyway.’
Again, such was his overpowering personality that Rose could not think offhand of a rebuttal to this argument.
‘The chest is supposed to have belonged to my ancestor, Tsar Peter. Used it when he went to London. Before he was Tsar of course. Some kind of tradesman, wasn’t he? Anna was going to throw it out. But I said no. Might come in handy. And it did. Who’d expect the Romanov jewels to be in there?’ he asked proudly.
‘Who indeed? thought Rose. Only all the world and his wife, if I know Igor. He looked out of the windows down to the garden beneath. ‘I don’t see anyone in evening clothes shinning up this pipe unnoticed,’ he said. ‘But we’ll post someone at the bottom in case. And a couple of guards up here. You’ve told no one?’ he said routinely.
‘No one,’ said the Duke vigorously. ‘Anna of course knows.’ He smiled brightly.
By a natural progression of thought Rose next tracked down James Higgins. He found him in the stables polishing the lamp holders on the horseless carriage and vigorously whistling ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. He was taking no notice of the obvious hatred emanating from the French coachman lovingly polishing his spurned carriage wheels.
‘Certainly I’ll be ’ere tonight, Inspector. It’s my duty. The old Hayebox might be needed.’ He patted it virtuously. ‘We got to know each other, this old ’orse and me. Days it took to bring ’er down, and I wouldn’t leave ’er now if you offered me the Crown Jewels and no questions asked.’
‘Forget about jewels, Higgins. We don’t want the Stepney swell mob in here, do we? Remember I’ll be watching. You and Muriel.’
‘I’m sure Muriel will appreciate that, Inspector. A soft spot for you, she ’as.’
He lightly ran his chamois over the gleaming radiator.
‘And remember, Higgins, there’ll be someone at your side, all day.’
‘That will be very pleasant, Inspector. I always enjoy ’aving someone to chat to.’
A toothy grin and he resumed his whistling. He had switched to ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’.
Boris had at last galvanised himself into some kind of action, impressed by the imminence of the event. He rushed around after Auguste reiterating then countermanding his orders, and tasting his own concoctions, since Auguste showed no inclination to do so. Madame Didier, glancing at her son, detailed herself to restrain Boris’s peregrinations, so that Auguste could continue his eleventh-hour rescue without hindrance.
So much remained to do, and he had so litt
le time in which to do it. The ices were to be stirred in the refrigerators, the galantines to be garnished, the salades to be supervised. And the fish! It was all very well this fish menu, but it posed difficulties as most dishes had to be prepared today. At six in the morning the tradesmen’s entrance had been chock-a-block with fishermen, and the kitchen resembled Billingsgate. Lobsters, crabs, crawfish, scallops, oysters and turbots lay in baskets, and the smell of the salt combining with the heat of the stoves made the kitchen almost unendurable, even for Auguste. Now the turbots reposed in their fish kettles, salmon fastened unseeing eyes upon their chef, boiled écrevisses waited pink and fat, ready to be peeled by the kitchenmaids, the crawfish were ready for Auguste’s preparation of the dish of dishes, crawfish à la provençale, the recipe with which the Maître Escoffier had made his name in 1869 at the Favre in Nice.
Thank heavens, thought Auguste in despair, that he had had the sense to moderate the fish menu with some entremets of egg and cheese dishes, some souffles d’épinards aux anchois, and naturally, also, aux truffes. He recalled making the latter dish at Stockbery Towers in Kent with Kentish truffles, and the difficulty with which he had persuaded the Duke that Kentish truffles, although naturally not like those of Provence, had a distinguishing flavour of their own. Unconvinced, the Duke had sampled the dish, and had afterwards waxed so lyrical about Kentish truffles that he promptly purchased his own trained dog to hunt them out.
Auguste was in the middle of a discussion with himself on the perennially interesting subject of whether crawfish à la provençale was or was not superior to homard à l’américaine, when he was jerked back to the present as a pageboy shot in, piping:
‘Monsieur Didier and menu to the Grand Duchess.’
She treated him as if he were their cook, he fumed. Did she think he was their servant? Then, recalling the standards that had to be maintained at this ball, and the stories of the balls at the Winter Palace, he could not find it in his heart to blame her for wanting the best – himself.
The Grand Duchess had replaced Igor in the morning room and was in the process of taking morning chocolate with a guest, as Auguste ran feverishly upstairs watched suspiciously by one of Fouchard’s men. This Sergeant Didier was an impostor in his view. Some policeman, he was. The soi-disant sergeant’s head was still spinning with dishes and plans and receipts, as he entered the room.
‘The menu, Votre Altesse Imperiale.’
A head turned slightly at the movement, and Auguste’s life changed for ever.
The morning room became at once a paradise and a hell; his heart held him captive as the world kaleidoscoped around him. For one moment he looked into her eyes, then calmly she set down her cup upon the silver trolley, and with a murmur to the Grand Duchess rose to her feet. The Princess Tatiana did not look back as she walked towards the far door, but had Auguste not been so swept away on glory and misery he would have seen a certain tenseness about her shoulders, a slight hesitation on the threshold. Then she was gone, the flunkeys closing the door behind her.
‘Monsieur Didier.’ There was a note of impatience. The Grand Duchess was not used to her servants gazing spellbound at other people while she was addressing them, and she was forced to repeat his name somewhat sharply before he came to his senses.
‘My apologies, madame.’ Auguste stumbled over the words, head still reeling. Tatiana here? ‘May I suggest we serve the turbot with a lobster sauce rather than with mayonnaise—’ She is related to the Romanovs, why should I not have considered that she might be here? ‘The langoustines will make a blaze of colour, so they should not be next to the sturgeon, whose glaze is mixed with lobster coral—’ She has not changed. Was it a dream? ‘The cod and the caviar, madame—’ She looked at me and walked on. She cares no more. ‘The cod will have a sauce of grief—’
‘Une sauce de grive? Thrushes, Monsieur Didier?’ Her tones were cold, since Auguste’s abstraction was obvious. She then recalled that her ball was tonight, and even though this cook seemed as mad as Boris, he had to stay. Auguste was therefore reprieved from instant dismissal from a post he had no idea he was occupying.
Auguste walked trembling back to the kitchen, all interest in food leaving him. Tatiana in Paris was bearable. But Tatiana in this very house – ah, that was different. Suppose she was married? The torment. How could he endure the next twelve hours? He might see her again; he could not bear the exquisite torture of that thought. He must throw himself into his work, forget her. Forget that his dream of life was centred on the floor above.
He took a deep breath full of resolve, and erupted into the kitchen. ‘Petite Marie, what do you do with that salamander? You think it is a warming pan? Jean-Paul, you call that a garnish? Alors, Monsieur Boris—’
Equally elaborate preparations were going on in villas and hotels all over Cannes. A masked fancy dress ball in Cannes, especially at the Villa Russe, was an event. Madame Verrier had been swamped with work. Balls were as hard work in the dressing room as in the kitchens. Ideas had been ruthlessly stolen from the Nice masked ball at Mardi Gras. Thus there were several Mesdames de la Lune, dressed in ivory satin and diamonds, and at least three lady devils, tastefully arrayed with golden horns and black dresses heavily encrusted with rubies.
Rachel Tucker at the Villa Sardou discovered that her Phèdre dress, a copy of that worn by the great Rachel herself, required an entirely different corset, and mourned that she had not bought the one with the Pompadour embroidery and suspenders that had looked so versatile.
Emmeline Vanderville impatiently tugged at her new pink spider-web tulle dress and twisted and turned to look at the effect of the lace butterfly decorated with diamonds that her maid had just placed in her hair. But she was not concentrating on them. She was looking at the posy of Neapolitan violets that had just arrived from Alfred. What a sweet romantic gesture. She’d pin it on her dress so that he would see them. They didn’t last as long as amethysts, but they were so pretty and she could always press them between the pages of her very private diary. The orchids supplied by Bastide remained in their box.
Dora, Lady Westbourne, was in a quandary. As a widow she should not attend a ball, yet she could not miss it. She would ensure that if she could not dance, Harry would not either. Such a pity she had to wear black. She had briefly considered going as a lady devil. Such interesting costumes at the Nice ball. But she had decided in favour of Mary Queen of Scots . . . She too had lost a husband by murder, and she, too, had a lover. Yes, she should look as regally fragile as Mary.
Natalia Kallinkova had arrived early at the Villa Russe and was taking tea with her acquaintance Princess Tatiana. Not hampered by having to consider a change of corset, she had simply brought her costume with her, and its satin folds were even now being lovingly hung out by Marie in an upstairs bedroom.
‘I shall go as the Queen of Hearts,’ she confided to Tatiana. ‘It is an old English rhyme. She stole some tarts. So I shall wear some real tarts which mon cher ami Monsieur Didier will supply from the kitchens. Ah, he is a knave indeed, that one. It is not tarts but hearts he steals, all on a summer’s day,’ she laughed.
Tatiana continued to sip her tea, her face impassive.
The newest scullerymaid had barely finished washing the marble steps for the fifth time that day before the first carriage arrived. Showing invitations at the gates was a novelty, and speculation was intense. The Grand Duke, standing at the entrance to the ballroom to greet his guests with the Grand Duchess, was not yet masked, and was arrayed as an opulent Turkish Sultan, his splendid red turban encrusted with emerald bands; his Grand Duchess, who had not wished to be taken for a common lady of the harem, had chosen Scheherazade. Both roles displayed their jewels in quantity. Six seamstresses had worked for a week to sew them on to the costumes. Peter the Great’s box, however, still contained the largest items of the collection, including of course the Petrov Diamond, the Grand Duke assured Rose.
Rose fidgeted by his side. No fancy dress for him; he even felt
uncomfortable in his faithful old tailcoat and old-fashioned collared waistcoat. The Duke, once accustomed to the idea that he might indeed be a target, now refused to let Rose out of his sight, and he had been enjoined to share the grand-ducal luncheon. He looked forward to telling Edith all about it. From Highbury to Grand Dukes! From bangers to bisques.
Cannes society, or rather its top echelons, was now flocking into the ballroom, and Rose’s unease grw. How on earth to feel master of this situation, when in theory anybody might be carrying a dagger in his costume. Indeed, one was. The Grand Duke. As Rose’s eyes took in the Grand Duke’s costume, he became painfully aware of a familiar sight sticking out of one of the Turkish Sultan’s boots. A jewelled dagger. It gave him a nasty jolt, for a moment thinking it the very same dagger used to kill Lord Westbourne.
The Grand Duke had followed his eye. ‘Ah,’ he said, pleased. ‘I take notice of what you say. I protect myself. This is the Dagger of Prince Tanarov. He displeased one of my ancestors.’ He did not go on to elaborate, and Rose did not press the point. He was too busy thinking of the possible ramifications of a jumpy Grand Duke imagining every bush a Nihilist bear.
The ballroom was huge by Cannes standards, even if not by those of the Winter Palace, and as if to provide a reminder of this fact, the main decorations consisted of a huge representation of the Winter Palace, twenty feet high and thirty feet long, constructed from lilies and decorated with greenery, with small diamond clusters composing the windows. The Grand Duke believed in having birthdays in style. By its side and tastefully hidden behind a tall screen of palms was the orchestra.
‘Are they checked?’ frowned Rose, glancing at Fouchard.
‘Oui. Local men,’ said Fouchard loftily. ‘No danger. Do not worry so, Inspector Rose. No stranger can enter the grounds of the Villa Russe tonight.’
He spoke too soon. One of his men came rushing through the crush of people. ‘We have him, sir!’ he cried excitedly.
‘Who?’ asked Fouchard sharply.
