by Myers, Amy
‘He was not killed in mistake? After all, the lights were out.’
‘Not in the belvedere. The candles gave sufficient light. Whoever killed him knew it was Boris. The murderer was either present when he arrived, or saw him setting off down the gardens, or’ – he admitted – ‘he heard me ordering him to go.’ That memory again.
‘But nobody would be in the belvedere alone?’ objected Natalia. ‘They would go with someone.’
‘Many people,’ said Auguste gloomily, ‘seem to have been in the belvedere, and by the time the lights went out most claim to have been back at the villa, either with other people or having gone back alone. Except,’ he paused, ‘for Mr Hathaway and La Belle Mimosa.’
‘Pah,’ said Natalia vigorously. ‘Why should La Belle Mimosa kill Boris? She makes a fool of you, perhaps.’
The old Cannois – you are a peis d’Avril, my son, Auguste thought fleetingly.
‘Mais non,’ he said. ‘One must not think that because she shouted to the world that she would kill Westbourne, that she told us she was walking to the belvedere when Boris was there, that she is not the person who committed these crimes. We are not playing games here.’
‘Why should she wish to kill Boris?’ Natalia demanded, still scornful.
‘Because he knew who killed Lord Westbourne,’ said Auguste simply. ‘Because he knew who the thief was.’
‘Knew who – Ah, mon ami. You have robberies on the brain, you and the good Inspector Rose. Now I tell you, Auguste. I said I would help you in this affair so I have been talking. I have talked to more ladies of society, and some not in society, in the last ten days than ever before, and I tell you, Auguste, much goes on. You know already that Lady Westbourne had a lover, that she now has another lover, but you do not know that the day before the cricket match Lord Westbourne had discovered this fact and said he was going to put an end to it. She was scared. She did not know what to do. Suppose she decided what to do? Much happened at the cricket match, and not all on the field. Suppose when Lord Westbourne stamped off to make his report, she went with him? Think back.’
Auguste thought. He remembered La Belle Mimosa shouting, he remembered Lord Westbourne, deep in discussions on Africa, disappearing to write his report, and an idea came to him. Just suppose— He was recalled abruptly to the present by Natalia’s voice finishing triumphantly: ‘. . . Trepolov.’
Auguste thought savagely of the pleasure it would give him to see Count Trepolov arrested. ‘He was with Bastide,’ Auguste muttered unwillingly. ‘They went out to the field.’
‘Oui, c’est vrai, but what did he do while Bastide was kissing the lovely Emmeline?’
Auguste brightened. ‘Natalia, you are a pearl of great price. A white truffle in the midst of mere mushrooms.’ Then his face clouded. ‘Non.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘It is not possible. Washington saw him in the gentlemen’s cloakroom. We must go on thinking if we are to free Bastide—’
‘Bastide? Comment? But he is released.’ she cried in surprise.
‘Inspector Chesnais arrested him again, this time for being the robber. He was dressed as the Man in the Iron Mask, and so the Great Detective believes that because the robbery was done by the Man in the Iron Mask, it must be Bastide. No matter that the thief glowed in the dark. The identification is complete. He would like to pin the murders too on Bastide but at the moment cannot prove this.’
‘C’est ridicule, ça,’ said Natalia slowly. ‘Something must be done. La pauvre Emmeline.’
What would Mrs Rose say if she could see him now, driving along the Boulevard de la Croisette in the carriage filled with flowers, next to one of the world’s leading ballerinas, and wearing a fashionable new boater he’d bought at Folkett-Browne’s in the Rue d’Antibes at the urging of Miss Kallinkova. Egbert grinned at Auguste. What would she say about this French haircut, come to that? Yet underneath this fairy-tale life he was well aware of the darker side, the side that spoke of murder and passions. And how easy it was to forget that to keep all this going there was a whole army of poorly paid French servants, who barely scraped a living. He supposed it was no different anywhere else; it became more noticeable in a place where foreigners were the meringue and the native population only the sponge beneath. He smiled. Auguste had got him at it now – giving everything a cooking analogy.
The Cannes Battle of Flowers organised by the Fetes Committee was a special event. The Croisette was jammed with carriages smothered under flowers, many people in fancy dress and people throwing flowers at each other with much merriment. Rose had drawn the line at fancy dress but Natalia had fastened round his neck a garland of jonquils. He hoped this did not get back to the Yard, that no one was around to record this fact for the social columns of the Illustrated London News or even the Cannes Gazette. Lord Westbourne’s murderer still remained at large, the murder of Boris too was unsolved, and the thief still remained elusive. The Grand Duke and Duchess passed their carriage in the Delahaye. Apart from the absence of the horse, it was indistinguishable from a carriage, since the vehicle was almost buried in flowers, the Grand Duchess seated in their midst like a fountain arising from a pool.
‘There’s that police inspector,’ said Rachel suddenly to Cyril and the dog – once more in favour as she found herself bereft of outside male attention.
‘True, my dear.’
‘Why’s he still here?’
‘They haven’t solved the murders yet. He cannot return until Lord Westbourne’s murder is solved.’
‘But they had the murderer! That Count.’ Rachel’s voice almost squeaked in most unactresslike tones.
‘Apparently not.’
‘You don’t think he’ll go on investigating, do you? Not us?’ Rachel asked carefully.
Cyril did not answer.
She did not persist but flung a piece of heliotrope, not at Dora Westbourne’s face, but at her hat, knocking it askew, which was far more devastating. In return she received a red rose in her lap. Not from dear Dora. From Harry Washington.
Was it lèse majesté to throw flowers at a Grand Duke during the Battle of the Flowers? thought Auguste hazily and decided it wasn’t. Unfortunately the orange flowers caught the Duke behind the ear. Auguste hastily ducked. Only Kallinkova was looking Igor’s way, and his eye met hers meaningfully. She laughed, and tossed a geranium in his direction.
Now Count Trepolov was passing them. How dare he? thought Auguste furiously. He was riding in the Battle of Flowers with another woman when he was betrothed to Tatiana. Auguste had hardly recognised him. He was dressed as a bee, his companion clearly representing honeysuckle (the only reason for her presence had Auguste but known).
‘He has murderer written all over him,’ Auguste said viciously to Rose. He flung a particularly solid sprig of orange-blossom at him, and had the pleasure of hitting his target. ‘He looks so like a murderer,’ he continued wistfully. ‘He had much time to kill Lord Westbourne and—’
‘Now, Auguste, Trepolov’s out. You know that.’
I still think he’s a villain, Auguste thought, mutinously. Tatiana, to think that anyone but he, Auguste, should marry Tatiana. This holiday was turning into misery . . . save for seeing dear Maman and Papa. Almost he wished to give up this detection, yet he knew he had to stay to the bitter end if Bastide were to stand any chance of freedom. Yet now he knew who the villain was despite his wistful leanings to Trepolov. And very shortly now he would tell Egbert and Natalia. He had had time to think.
The Prince of Wales already was a free spirit. Riding in the carriage of his American friends, the Goelets, he was enjoying pelting as many bosoms as he could manage under the pretext of his fancy dress costume of a masked Don Juan. He fooled nobody.
He was congratulating himself that he’d had the sense to bow out of Igor’s masquerade ball. He went hot and cold at the thought he could have been involved in a second murder.
Emmeline sat next to Alfred, her parents facing them. Alfred was enjoying himself. He gaily pelted Rachel with a he
liotrope as her carriage passed by, not noticing the look on her face that resulted. True, Emmeline had been just a little quiet since Bastide’s abrupt reappearance and rearrest but nevertheless Alfred was happy. Her parents, clearly thinking a penniless English poet was one step up on a murderer and thief, were smiling on his suit. Oddly, Emmeline, once her parents had given their blessing, didn’t seem quite so ardent when he kissed her, but she would come to herself again. Greatly daring, with her parents watching indulgently, he took her hand and was rewarded by a faint smile.
‘You’d never think,’ said Rose, amazed, looking at the flowers arcing through the air between carriages, ‘that they were all suspects in a double murder case, would you?’
The day was sunny, the air was perfumed, all the glory of Cannes surrounded them, lulling them into its sensuous embrace.
‘Non,’ said Auguste absentmindedly. ‘I would not.’ He would not speak now. The dish required just a little more cooking before he presented it.
‘’Ello, Wales,’ shouted a throaty voice to Don Juan. A true gentleman, he did not, like the occupants of many other carriages, ignore the greeting, crude though it was, but cheerfully tossed a rose at the Chinese Empress. La Belle Mimosa was riding in solitary state, her carriage smothered in sweet-smelling mimosa. Her thoughts were not as sweet.
Save for the Prince of Wales, only Kallinkova bowed towards her as their carriages passed. ‘Bonjour, madame,’ she greeted her. A grin crossed La Belle Mimosa’s face as she took in her companions.
‘Eh, Natalia, you throw me a rose, huh? That one—’ She pointed to a red-faced Egbert.
From the beach, the old Cannois stood watching disgustedly. The Battle of the Flowers was for the hiverneurs nowadays. Now in the old days it had really been something. It had been part of the old Cannes. It was part of the old Provence. The Greeks had brought the floral games. His eyes lit up. Races by naked girls. Now that had been something . . . Not so long ago, only two hundred years or so, in his great-great-grandfather’s time, they’d still run them in Grasse on every Thursday in Lent. Then the bishops had put their foot down. He sighed. Spoilsports. No individuality anywhere any more. It had come to this – hiverneurs throwing flowers at each other. He noticed Auguste and shuffled forward purposefully to the carriage. ‘It’s Friday, mon fils,’ he cackled. ‘You’ll be out tonight, yes?’
‘Why?’ Auguste looked at him suspiciously.
‘Good hunting, my son. I reckon he’ll walk tonight, that ghost of yours. He likes Fridays, he does. ’Specially this one.’
‘Don’t you ever tell Edith about this,’ said Rose forcefully as, fortified by a feast of Papa’s bourride and Maman’s Pond Pudding, they set out that evening. ‘A whiff of a suspicion about me going ghost-hunting and I’d never hear the last of it.’
‘And moreover it is the day of April fools,’ Auguste joked. ‘Nevertheless, I think there is something deeper than a jest here.’ He shivered. The evening was cool. There was not a soul about. This was not La Croisette where the grand hotels ensured a flow of people whatever the time of day; this was the old town where people went to bed early and rose early, and at night there was no distraction comparable with the pleasures of eating a meal behind closed shutters, and retiring replete to bed.
They walked out of the Rue du Barri and climbed into the Rue de Mont Chevalier, leading up to the church and the old fortress.
‘It was here that he walked before, Egbert. Just there he vanished.’
‘Into thin air? I don’t believe in ghosts, Auguste. And I don’t believe in this one. What I do believe is that if we track him down, it may help us persuade friend Chesnais to let that boy go.’
‘I think,’ said Auguste excitedly, ‘that we can do that without a ghost, mon ami. I feel the truth stares us in the face, and we have ignored it.’
‘What – cripes, look at that!’
Rose grabbed Auguste’s arm, and pointed. High above them by the battlements of the old fortress was a shrouded figure, glowing dimly in the dark.
‘It’s him.’
‘Well,’ said Auguste grimly, ‘if he’s glowing he is our thief and no ghost. Courage, mon ami—’ as much to convince himself as Egbert.
‘Sure?’ gulped Rose, as they ran up the slope of the pathway. Below the fortress the path divided, one way leading round to the far side, the other, the quicker way, to the postern-gate drawbridge leading into the Place de la Castre surrounded by the battlement wall.
‘You go that way, it’s easier,’ panted Auguste, speeding round the far side and up the connecting steps. His heart was thumping by the time he arrived at the old fortress. Pelting round to the front into the Place de la Castre, he joined Rose by the battlement wall overlooking the hillside.
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing,’ Rose confirmed.
‘But there must be some sign. There’s no other way he could have gone. The church?’
‘Locked.’
‘The old church?’
‘Locked. And so’s the tower.’
They gazed out over the dark Suquet hill, below them the Bay of Cannes, the Croisette and the new town glowing with lights.
‘That was no ghost,’ said Rose flatly. ‘Was it?’ he asked, suddenly uncertain.
They looked around them but neither the old disused twelfth-century church of St Anne behind them nor the new church of Notre Dame bore any sign of possible routes of escape for human ghosts.
‘I tell you what, Auguste, this is an April fool and no mistake. If that was a ghost, I’ll eat my new boater.’
‘I think I can find you a dish more palatable than that, Egbert,’ said Auguste thoughtfully. ‘The dish that stares us in the face.’
‘Let’s hear it.’
‘It seems to me that we all overlooked one thing,’ said Auguste. Here in the cool air it seemed so clear, so obvious, he wondered at their blindness. ‘Lord Westbourne announced he was going into the writing room to prepare his report for the Niger Conference. He never did so – he was murdered before he had written more than a few lines. Suppose that was the intention? Suppose someone wanted to stop his report?’
‘Bastide?’ said Rose doubtfully.
‘No. Westbourne was a peacemaker. Had Bastide stopped to think – as he rarely does – he would realise that Westbourne was France’s best hope – that’s unless Bastide actually wanted a war, of course,’ said Auguste, sidetracked. ‘In which case it does give him a motive if Westbourne was about to suggest a compromise. But others too perhaps. Now think, who would know Westbourne’s views? Who is in the Colonial Office?’
‘Cyril Tucker,’ said Rose thoughtfully. ‘Of course.’
‘Suppose it was in his personal interests to stop Lord Westbourne’s arranging a compromise? Just suppose. And he could have done it,’ said Auguste eagerly, ‘if he’d followed Westbourne out almost immediately.’
‘I’ll make inquiries,’ said Rose. ‘It’s a thought. It’s definitely a thought. I’m going to Paris tomorrow to see Chesnais and I’ll go back to the Yard to see what I can find out. I’ll let you know when I’ll be back.’ He paused. ‘While we’ve a moment, Auguste, that Princess Tatiana – was she your Tatiana by any chance?’ he asked awkwardly.
‘Yes.’ Auguste stared out over the bay, trying to stem the wave of misery that flowed over him.
‘Did she know you were here?’
‘She saw me when I took the menu to the Grand Duchess. She left and we did not speak.’
‘Ah.’ There was a silence, then: ‘It’s a funny old case, isn’t it?’ Rose tactfully changed the subject. ‘Like that maze at Stockberry Towers. And that play of Shakespeare’s.’ An idea occurred to him, but before he had time to pursue it:
‘Look!’ Auguste hissed and pointed downwards. There in the gardens below them was a ghostly glowing figure, beckoning. ‘This way. We watch him this time.’ Auguste was already running.
Rose followed him through the postern and on to the pathway, but the ghost had already vani
shed.
‘You take the top road, Egbert. I will go down the hill.’
Auguste ran down the pathway. This was ridiculous, he was thinking. He was in search of a ghost that wanted to be seen, that was clear. Was that it ahead? He turned the corner. The figure didn’t seem to glow now, but there was undoubtedly a misty shape in the gloom beyond the single gas light. A shape that had nothing to do with imagination. He ran towards it as it disappeared round the corner. No matter. He would catch it up, there was nowhere for it to go. No doors that might open for it provided Auguste was quick. Yet by the time he reached the old watchtower, misty and dank-smelling, the road held nothing but himself. He was alone.
‘Here!’ he heard Rose’s voice shouting, high above, just as he himself shouted, ‘Egbert! A moi!’
Impossible that the ghost could still be up there! Rose had made a mistake. Yet Auguste turned and panted back up the pathway. No human could have run quicker. By the time he reached Rose his breath was coming in uneven jolts.
‘I nearly got him,’ cursed Rose. ‘Round there, going down to the old town behind the hill.’
‘He wasn’t,’ said Auguste. ‘He was my side of the hill, by the old watchtower.’
‘No, here – look!’ Rose pointed to the foot of the pathway leading off the hill, where a black-cloaked figure had halted, its hand briefly raised in farewell, before disappearing into the gloom.
‘The fellow seems to fly. And he wasn’t glowing either. There’s no ghost. He’s human, and using phosphorus. But it can only be on one side of the cloak. He turns it inside out. That’s how he wasn’t noticed going into the room by the gendarme. Ghosts! Rubbish. Our man went along the corridor or down the drainpipe and in his black and all the confusion wasn’t seen.’
‘Then why,’ asked Auguste, not wholly convinced, ‘did he bother with the phosphorus at all?’
‘Had to persuade them he was a ghost, so as they would panic and run outside, and he could pinch the jewels.’
‘But that—’ Auguste stopped, then looked at Rose who nodded and completed the sentence.
