by Myers, Amy
‘A Nihilist, sir.’ They had been well indoctrinated in the art of Villa Russe protection. ‘He doesn’t deny it.’
Fouchard rushed off, filled with horror, and Rose’s unease grew. Where there was one . . . But his fears were misplaced on this occasion. He recognised him at once as Fouchard returned, trophy firmly in his grasp. It was the old Cannois.
Auguste had other things on his mind than the capture of Nihilists. Food. Only food. He must concentrate and not think of Tatiana. Now was the important time when the kitchens disgorged their masterpieces and the plats were laid in the supper room and garnishes were added; when the maître must stand back to criticise his handiwork, to bring it one step nearer perfection. There stood his creations, pristine, untouched, gifts from heaven. The hot plats were in their chafing dishes, the salads arranged to delight the eye. Liveried servants stood proudly by their charges. Ah, this was the supreme moment for a chef. Afterwards there was a different kind of satisfaction for a maître, when dirty, messy plates bore a testimony of their own.
Auguste went to superintend the tables in the supper room while Boris floundered around below. The food was to be served from golden and silver dishes, on to Sevres china plates. Even the Villa Russe could not run to 400 golden plates, but to make up for it, each table groaned not only with food but with huge living green plants, carried on silver pergolas up to the ceiling, with fresh orchids and roses peeping between the leaves. Auguste regarded these almost disparagingly, lest their splendour detract from the glory of his food. The eye was so important. Not all important, but certainly a part of it. He would not go so far as to insist on the theatrical displays of Monsieur Grimod de La Reynière, who heralded the arrival of each dish with flutes and trumpets; there was a need, it was true, to create a sense of anticipation, but not to overwhelm the food itself. His food, at least, did not require this.
He was still lost in anxious admiration of his achievements when Natalia came in, recognisable only by her Queen of Hearts costume, in white satin with red satin hearts. Few jewels for Kallinkova. She mischievously placed a kiss on his cheek, seeing he was in the midst of his professional checking. She felt only a slight reaction.
‘So,’ she said softly. ‘The lover thinks of other things. Of detection perhaps?’
‘I feel we are pawns on a chessboard,’ he said apologetically, gratefully leaping to this excuse. Because he had seen Tatiana, that was no reason to slight Natalia.
‘Then think like a knight, mon ami.’ She laid her hand gently on his cheek. ‘Eh bien, where are my tarts?’
Think like a knight, forward and along. Round sharp corners – like the Ghost of the Man in the Iron Mask. It had disappeared. But if one accepted there were no such things as ghosts then it had to go somewhere. Absentmindedly he changed the order of two plats, refixed a white Piedmontese truffle on the glaze of a sturgeon. Always before, the method and routine of cooking had helped his detection; perhaps this time also it might. Suppose each plat here represented a person present at the cricket match: this sturgeon was the Grand Duke, the centrepiece, and perhaps the intended victim. This turbot, Lord Westbourne. These pink salmon, the ladies. His eye went round the tables. All round the edges were the lesser plats, the entremets, the vegetables, there to supplement, to serve . . . the kitchenmaid . . . A wild idea came into his head, so extraordinary he sat down, head in hands. His dream returned to him. Ah yes, now he remembered. The idea grew. He thought it over. But how? Why?
‘Natalia,’ he said slowly. ‘I have been blind. It is maybe so simple, just at right angles to the line we followed. Like chess, as you say. They told us themselves, and we did not listen. We have been so busy thinking of everyone’s motives, first to kill Lord Westbourne, then to kill the Grand Duke. But I of all people have been guilty of thinking the vegetables were there to supplement. They are the plat. We took no notice of the servants. We thought of them as witnesses, but not players in the game. Why not? Why not?’ He waved a decorative crab claw around in growing triumph. ‘Why am I here myself?’ he demanded.
‘To cook.’
‘And why?’
‘Because Boris is not capable.’
‘And why is that? What is different after the cricket match than before?’
‘Lord Westbourne is dead.’ She considered, following his thoughts. ‘But why should Boris wish to kill Lord Westbourne?’
‘He didn’t – he intended to kill the Grand Duke.’
She stared, then laughed. ‘What? Ah, non, mon ami, that is pas possible. Everyone knows that Boris is devoted to the Grand Duke. He has served him for twenty years.’
‘Yes, and perhaps that is why he was not killed sooner.’
‘Oh, Auguste, you’re being ridiculous. Simple? You’re making things complicated.’
‘Am I? Suppose he is a Nihilist. He was in Paris when that group was discovered some years ago. His task is to kill the Grand Duke. He waits his time. You Russians are patient people, and it is the Nihilists’ way to lie low. Some day he will do it, he reasons, but only when the honour of Russia, safeguarded by the Romanovs, is at stake. And at the cricket match, what happens?’
Natalia opened her mouth, but Auguste swept on.
‘The Grand Duke made an idiot of himself. He threw away the chance of victory for the Players and fell over the stumps on the first ball instead of scoring magnificently as he had boasted earlier. He laughed, but Boris did not. I heard him, Natalia. The honour of Russia, he kept saying. And then see his horror when he discovered Lord Westbourne was the victim. He was drunk, he is short-sighted, he saw the Grand Duke enter the study but not come out. Don’t you remember I told you he blamed the cow? He went out to milk the cow and did not see the Grand Duke leave. So he enters and there is a broad blazered back. He took his chance to avenge Russian honour. But he killed the wrong man, and in his distress, his answers to me came out oddly. I thought he was drunk, but he was following his own reasoning.’
‘The honour of the Romanovs is the honour of Russia,’ she repeated thoughtfully.
‘And he loves Mother Russia.’
‘If you are right,’ said Natalia doubtfully, ‘you should tell the inspector.’ Then as Auguste promptly began to rush out, she remembered something.
‘Eh, Monsieur le chef, you forget my tarts.’
Auguste rushed back. Natalia could have anything, everything she desired.
Seeing Rose was easier said than done. When he eventually succeeded in reaching the inspector, it was impossible to talk to him alone, and the Grand Duke insisted on listening in.
‘Boris?’ He roared with laughter. ‘Anna,’ he shouted, ‘this cook thinks Boris tried to kill me.’
‘Poor man, he is mad,’ said the Grand Duchess kindly. ‘Just send him back to the kitchen.’
It took some time to convince the Grand Duke of Auguste’s right to be heard on the matter, and his annoyance began to grow. For all his fear of Nihilists, he knew Boris all right. The idea was ridiculous. Nihilists weren’t to be found in kitchens, but gathered together in dark corners, plotting. If Boris were a Nihilist, he’d have poisoned him years ago.
Auguste himself began to lose confidence in it as a theory. Theory was all right, but was it practicable? He had to admit it seemed unlikely. He wasn’t seeing things clearly. It was Tatiana preying on his mind. She might be here now, masked, and he not recognise her. He must return to the kitchens, where he belonged. No detective, no lover.
‘You’ve done it this time, Auguste,’ said Rose gleefully. ‘I don’t say you’re wrong, mind. In any case, I’ll stick to Igor like glue. Afterwards I’ll speak to Chesnais and get him to make inquiries. He was in on all that bombing business in Paris. The important thing is to make sure nothing happens this evening. It’s the jewels we must watch. No one’s likely to try a murder on with me standing here.’
Bastide, Comte de Bonifacio, was almost crying. He might as well have stayed in prison for all the attention he was receiving. Emmeline was behaving most strangely.
She had arrived with her parents some time ago but seemed to be dancing with a matador. She must be under the impression it was him. Moreover, there was a Musketeer here, trying to share in his glory. He was the descendant of the true Man in the Iron Mask. These tales of Dumas were mere fiction. To have a Musketeer present detracted from the true Bonifacio heritage. He sulked, grateful only that he had not insisted on the iron mask, but had chosen the velvet one. The historical facts on this point might be disputed but it was so much easier to eat this way. Moreover, it looked somewhat more romantic. But now someone else was similarly clad. He was used to there being two or three Napoleons at every ball he went to, but competition here hurt him sorely.
That reminded him. Surely Emmeline would have discovered by now that he was not the matador? It was time to disillusion her. As the dance ended, he walked up to her.
‘Dearest,’ he began in the accent that would announce his identity immediately to her. ‘Your dance card,’ he requested. ‘I am here now,’ waiting for her tones of thrilled surprise.
‘Oh, hello, Basty,’ she said in tones of no surprise at all.
He stiffened. Did this mean she was aware that it was not he dancing with her but another?
‘Who,’ he demanded of the matador, much as the Caterpillar of Alice, ‘are you?’
Alfred Hathaway had absolutely no desire to slink away from an inherently unpleasant situation, as two weeks earlier he might have done. Now a new boldness came over him. ‘Alfred Hathaway, sir, at your service.’
‘An Englishman,’ Bastide sneered. ‘My dove, come.’
His dove showed no desire to come, and clung to her matador, but she thrust her dance card at Bastide. ‘You can have the polka,’ she said generously. She did not want to hurt him.
‘But the supper dance?’ he asked in horror. ‘Surely I may escort you to supper?’ This was persecution.
‘No, Alfred’s taking me in to supper, Basty,’ she announced brightly.
Bastide was unwise enough to show Alfred an unromantic fist, and was promptly rewarded by Alfred rapping out unthinkingly: ‘Sir, name your seconds.’
The Comte, with scarcely a moment of hesitation, grandly named two gentlemen in the manner of Napoleon designating Marshals Masséna and Soult for the honour.
‘Pistols?’ It sounded good.
‘Fists,’ glared Bastide. He was going to get this over.
Alfred beamed, remembering the lessons he’d taken as a boy at his local Tunbridge Wells boxing school.
‘Fists?’ shrieked Rachel Gray, coming into the fray with finely judged technique. ‘He is a poet. He is not well. He is dying.’
‘Don’t be foolish, Rachel,’ said Alfred impatiently, throwing off her restraining hand. ‘I’m not dying.’
‘We shall meet again, sir,’ said Bastide grandly, turning on his heel to stalk away, an effect somewhat marred by his tripping over the Iron Mask’s cloak.
‘You foolish child.’ Rachel turned vehemently on Emmeline. ‘You will be responsible for the death of England’s greatest poet.’
‘He might win,’ pointed out Emmeline practically. ‘Anyway, you don’t die of fists.’
‘Rachel.’ Cyril, dressed as a rather slimmer W. G. Grace, complete with false beard, hurried up and put a firm hand on her arm. ‘Recollect, I pray you.’
They looked at each other. ‘Very well, Cyril,’ she said slowly.
Nicolai Trepolov was suffering from the pangs of disprized love. At the last moment his jewel had been snatched away. His beloved had refused him. He could not believe she could mean it. It was too cruel. Moreover, it was a slight to his honour. Not only had the Princess Tatiana refused him, but for her to have told him she could never marry for she was in love with the cook! A Romanov, albeit a distant one, to be in love with a cook! The disgrace. To what levels had the standards of the world fallen! These upstarts, with their talk of revolution. There must be something that would change her mind. Perhaps if he invited her to his villa, suitably chaperoned of course, and offered her his honey-sweet mead, an elixir guaranteed to induce love . . . Were not sacrifices of mead made in olden days to the god Priapus? He hastily put aside this improper thought. They would both drink deep of the divine potion and then she would return his love. He would show her the hives, he would tell her he would be as faithful as a bee, and life should be of the sweetest honey. He might even give her his recipe.
Lady Westbourne was taking advantage of her mask to escape some of the censure that she might incur. But even she dared not dance, an inconvenience since Harry was plainly bored with this inactivity. How handsome he looked in his d’Artagnan costume. So brave, so dashing when he swirled that long cloak around him.
Harry was indeed bored. He wanted to dance, but could see no opportunity of so doing. Then Phèdre’s eye fell upon him. Balked of Alfred, she would find Harry Washington a more than acceptable alternative. How fortunate that, as everyone was in theory in disguise, convention demanded that Dora could in no way blame her for what she was about to do. Taking advantage of Cyril’s temporary absence, she laid her hand on Harry’s arm.
‘Dear d’Artagnan,’ she cooed, ‘it was your name on my dance card, was it not? Or was it Danton?’ she inquired innocently.
She had hardly escaped to the floor with her prey, however, than a ripple ran through the room. Upon the steps, pushing by a stupefied Grand Duke and Duchess, stood a radiant figure. La Belle Mimosa had no need to kowtow to Lent. Dressed in her usual colour, she looked ready for Easter, and in her bosom resided once again the Seventh Egg.
Inspector Rose was beginning to relax, though it was hard work following the Grand Duke as he talked to his guests. He had enough to tell Edith to keep him busy till Christmas. He could hardly dance round with him too, so he had allowed the Duke one stately dance and then reclaimed him. However there were no reports of trouble on the gate, apart from the old Cannois, who, it transpired, had merely been endeavouring to see his granddaughter, the newest scullerymaid. There had been no attempts on the jewels, which remained unmolested in their wooden chest. Auguste reported that Boris was still charging around in the kitchen and showed no desire to show his head above stairs. Hard to believe Boris was a murderer. A Nihilist required a developed political intelligence and that did not fit Boris. Was he a dupe? Was there anyone here who could have put him up to it? Now, that was a thought. Trepolov? No, an Englishman? His brow furrowed. The supper dance was in progress now. In the supper room Auguste would be running around like a scalded cat, metaphorically if not literally. Rose grinned. He’d seen it a dozen times now, and it never failed to amuse him.
In the supper room Auguste lined up his troops for the fray. The guests would drift in in ones and twos, then groups, then suddenly all 400 would be demanding to be served at once. Then just as suddenly – or so it would seem to him – it would all be over.
Here they came now. Was that not Lady Westbourne looking very cross? It was. She demanded caviar and champagne. The first plate was prepared.
The candles in the gardens illuminated their paths, showing the huge ‘48’, and at its apex the eagles of light from the belvedere. Now that the supper interval had arrived, the belvedere presented the perfect place for little uninterrupted intellectual discussions.
‘Alfie,’ breathed Emmeline, transported on a wave of romance in the arms of her poet.
‘Emmeline,’ breathed Alfie, swept away by her closeness, by the touch of her lips, so eager, so warm. This then was love. For once he felt no need of words, no poems rushed into his head as he devoted himself to the sensuous joys of physical encounter.
‘You have betrayed me, Delilah.’ A white-faced Bastide stood at the entrance to the pergola.
Alfred advanced eagerly to defend his lady’s honour. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Withdraw.’
Bastide had no intention of withdrawing. Advance was more in his mind. Advance with a swift right hook.
Unfortunately for him, Alfred had been well trained and Bastide staggered back, clut
ching a bloody nose. But he was made of no mean stuff and came at Alfred again, catching him in the midst of squeezing Emmeline’s hand in triumph and meanly taking advantage of it. As Alfred received the full force of Bastide’s fist on his chin, a solid figure in white rushed between them, arms flung wide. About to let fly, Alfred pulled back unsteadily and collapsed on the floor.
‘He is dead,’ moaned Rachel.
Close behind Rachel was Washington. This at least was more interesting than standing at Dora’s side . . .
The crawfish were popular, Auguste noted with approval. And the sturgeon. Alas, the turbot was less well regarded. Perhaps the lobster sauce had been a misjudgement, Auguste thought anxiously, determined to keep his thoughts on the table less he be tempted to wander the room in search of his beloved.
Dora, waiting in vain for Harry, realised that he must have followed Rachel Gray in that ridiculous white costume. She promptly set down her plate of lobster salad and set off in hot pursuit. She had seen Rachel going into the candlelit avenue of the straight side of the ‘4’, and no doubt that ridiculous boy had followed. They might be alone in the belvedere even now . . . She set off, but when she reached the belvedere they were not alone. There was animated discussion going on between them, Cyril Tucker, that young American girl and two young men. She decided to join in, with force.
‘Harry,’ she began, meaningfully.
Moodily circling round the loops of the ‘8’ was another figure crossed in love. He had wished to show the stars to Tatiana. She had declined. He must think about his course of action. The matter would not rest here. He arrived, attracted by the noise of argument, at the belvedere. Dora’s eye fell on him. Any port in a storm. ‘Darling Nicolai,’ she shrieked, ‘please come here.’
‘I have the zakuski,’ said Boris, looming up unexpectedly at Auguste’s shoulder. ‘Where you want them?’
‘You’re too late,’ said Auguste through gritted teeth. ‘They are having their dessert. They do not want hors d’oeuvres now.’
‘What? You mean they will not eat my zakuski?’ Boris looked threatening, and Auguste uneasily recalled that this was his suspected murderer, and Boris was carrying a kitchen knife for cutting his beloved zakuski. Balked of serving his zakuski, who knew what Boris might do? He looked round. There was no way he could allow Boris to wander round unguarded with plates of zakuski. Or with a knife. Nor could he abandon his post for the moment to ensure that Boris returned below.
