‘You see,’ muttered the man in the dull gold mask to the man beside him, ‘I told you it would be all right. Damned annoying, I know, but no real harm done.’ He turned his gaze on Cedric and addressed the earl in a courteous voice. ‘I ask that you forgive this intrusion, my lord. We shall, of course, leave immediately. Come, my friend,’ he added, looking at his companion. ‘It is time for us to go. We have taken up too much of Lord Belvedere’s time and hospitality as it is …’
The speech, which had begun so confidently, suddenly wavered. All the time his companion had been speaking, the little man had been looking about him regarding the tops of bookcases and tables and even scouring each inch of the floor. He had then commenced feeling in the insides of the pockets of his waistcoat and jacket as if searching for something. As his companion’s speech had progressed, his actions had become ever more frantic and desperate until the man in the gold mask became aware of the growing air of urgency and alarm that pervaded the room like a thick miasma.
‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded.
‘It is gone,’ wailed the little man in a foreign accent. ‘Someone, they have taken it!’
The figure edged its way slowly down the garden, keeping, where possible, to the outside perimeter. Here it was afforded shadows, cast by the high, grey stone wall which enclosed the garden. It hoped, in such a way, not to attract the attention of any of the guests who happened to take it upon themselves to venture out on to the terrace.
It was a pity, the figure reflected ruefully, that the garden was such a very plain and formal affair, consisting as it did of little more than stone slab paths that framed a large rectangle of golden gravel. There were few bushes or hedges behind which a person might conceal themselves. The odd specimens there were, either were very low yew hedges or rigidly clipped boxwood topiaries. In the middle of the gravel there was a small, circular flowerbed, the surround of which was trimmed with a neat yew hedge. A little further down the garden was what could justly be regarded as the centrepiece. It was a circular fountain, considerably larger than the flowerbed, but similarly encased by a yew hedge. Placed around it, as if in attendance, were three tiny bushes, also clipped in the topiary fashion.
Almost before the figure realised it, it had reached the end of the garden. It had skirted the wooden gardener’s shed, giving it a cursory glance as it passed, and now it felt its way gently across the wall with nervous fingers, walking gingerly, hoping it was still concealed by the shadows. It was aware that, half way across, the path would cut away sharply to form a set of stone steps, which led down to an old wooden gate. This had been sunken into the wall and backed onto the lane which ran behind all the houses in the terrace.
It was of this gate that the figure was most afraid. From a distance it had seemed rather insignificant and barely worth notice. Up close, it looked ancient and rather shabbily kept, in stark contrast with the well-manicured garden it guarded. That it might be covered in cobwebs, or peeling paint, did not worry the figure overmuch. Of far more importance were the bolts and, in particular, the possibility they were rusted. The figure pondered for a moment what action it should take if it could not pull back the bolts. What should it do if it were to find itself stranded in this garden, escape so tantalisingly close, but denied it because of a couple of decrepit bolts?
The figure took a deep breath beneath its mask. It didn’t dare thinking about and really, it didn’t do any good if it did. Far better to determine the situation. With this in mind, it almost took the steps at a run, so anxious was it to address the bolts. With trembling fingers it investigated the first bolt, taking the knob firmly in its hand and hauling it to the side. The bolt slid back so smoothly that the figure was taken unawares and almost fell. The second bolt acted similarly, and the third. The gate was no longer bolted. Instinctively the figure glanced back into the garden as if afraid its actions were being observed. All seemed quiet, the garden and the terrace both empty and only the faintest sound of music drifting through the air.
The figure breathed a sigh of relief. Instead of disappearing through the gate into the lane beyond, as might reasonably have been supposed was its intention, it rapidly retraced its steps. A moment later and it had once more disappeared into the shadows afforded by the garden’s walls.
Lavinia was standing on the terrace overlooking the courtyard garden. As she was fully aware, in repose she made a striking picture. One of her hands was resting nonchalantly on the stone balustrade, the other holding a white goose feather fan. With this, she was fanning herself gently. She let the night air do the rest in cooling her glowing cheeks, flushed from extensive dancing. In her mind’s eye she presented to the world a beautiful, but rueful, figure, which seemed to carry the ghost of Marie Antoinette on her shoulders.
The masquerade ball, Lavinia reflected, as she breathed deeply in these few snatched moments of solitude, was a tremendous success. She had not only the evidence of her own eyes for this belief, but also the reassurance of having overheard one or two muttered words spoken to that effect from guests whom she had encountered in the ballroom. Everyone, she concluded, was enjoying themselves unreservedly.
‘And really,’ she said to herself, ‘the masks and costumes are quite spectacular. Everyone has made a splendid effort.’
Really, she knew, she could hardly have asked for any more. The Belvederes’ masquerade ball would be the talk of the season and yet …
She sighed, conscious that she ought to be quite content and at the same time painfully aware that she was not. Something was lacking. She didn’t know quite what it was, only that it was not there.
‘The fairy tale element,’ she muttered to herself suddenly, tapping the stone railing rapidly with the fingers of her lace-gloved hand. ‘It ought to be here but it isn’t.’
If Rose were there with her now, she would no doubt tell her that she was being unreasonable by expecting too much. Lavinia wondered if she was. She supposed, rather grudgingly, that it was not really the fault of the young men with whom she danced if they felt compelled to speak to her. They were not to know that by so doing they destroyed the mysterious illusion created by their elaborate disguises. With one swift blow they dispelled the layer of intrigue and thrill that surrounded them. Were they to blame for not realising that it was their very anonymity that had held her in their thrall? For, no matter how intricate a mask and costume, there was very little clandestine or illicit about dancing with a young man in disguise if his identity was fully known to one.
The band struck up a particularly jaunty tune. The notes drifted out to Lavinia invitingly through the partially opened French windows. The music had the effect of lifting her spirits and putting an end to her musings. If nothing else, she was recalled to the present and reminded that she should return to the ballroom if she wished to dance at any length before the ball drew to its inevitable close. Indeed, there was less than an hour to go before the unveiling of the masks was due to take place.
It was then that she heard a noise behind her. She gave an involuntary start, for she had thought herself alone on the terrace, her companions having returned to the ballroom a few minutes earlier. The sound she had heard was footsteps, quiet but distinct, hurrying across the terrace. Her pulse quickened. There was something rather furtive about the steps which made her remain where she was, leaning on the balustrade, her back towards the house. She listened, acutely aware that the footsteps had stopped abruptly a few feet from where she was standing. She turned around, almost with bated breath, though she was expecting to see one of her beaux come to find her, or at least someone she had glimpsed at the ball.
It therefore came as something of a shock to discover that both the mask and the costume of the person, though both highly distinctive in their way, were quite foreign to her. For she was quite certain that she had never laid eyes on the figure that stood before her, nor seen the mask which so effectively concealed the face of its wearer as to hide every distinguishing feature. The colour of old bones, t
he mask gleamed in the light, which had seeped out on to the terrace from the ballroom. Thus illuminated, the mask was shown quite vividly to be without expression.
Lavinia gave a startled cry and the figure rushed forward. In something of an exaggerated gesture, it put a gloved finger up to the lips of its mask, imploring her to keep quiet. Lavinia, who had initially, and quite reasonably, been rather frightened, or at the very least taken aback, was at once intrigued. For it seemed to her that she had almost conjured up this figure from her imagination, that this man who stood before her had sprung from the shadows that bathed the garden, in response to her summons. The very thought made her gasp again.
The man stepped forward and took her hand in his gloved one. Lavinia did not recoil from him, nor did she try to withdraw her hand. Instead she merely remained motionless and stared enthralled at what seemed to her a phantom in tangible form.
Chapter Twelve
‘Gone?’ said the man in the gold Bauta mask. ‘You must be mistaken.’ He spoke firmly, though those who heard him detected a faint note of panic in his voice. ‘You probably put them down on the desk. I daresay they’re under all those papers,’ He strolled over to Cedric’s desk and proceeded to pick up a pile of correspondence.
‘Now, look here,’ Cedric said, stepping forward, considerably riled. ‘How dare –’
‘Or else it must be in your pockets,’ continued the large man, as if the earl had not spoken. Certainly he did not trouble to give the young man a second glance.
‘I tell you it is gone,’ said the man with the foreign accent. ‘Someone, they have taken it.’ He turned to address Cedric with a hint of disdain. ‘It is one of your guests. They do not know how to behave. They came into this room like a herd of … what is it you English say? Ah, yes, elephants. Well, I am not as stupid as you think. I know it is an act. They pretend, yes? They want to steal my papers and –’
‘That’s enough,’ bellowed the man in the gold mask. His voice was so loud that they all gave a start. ‘You,’ he said, addressing his companion, ‘will not utter another word. If you do, it will be the worse for you. And you, my lord,’ he said, turning towards Cedric, ‘are owed an explanation which I regret I am not at liberty to provide in as much detail as I might have wished.’ He held up his hand as Cedric made to protest. ‘Tell me, my lord, does the name Commander Wrenfield mean anything to you?’
‘The Head of the Secret Service?’ exclaimed Cedric. ‘Surely you’re not the –?’
‘I am he,’ replied Commander Wrenfield. ‘And much as I should love to stay and parley with you, my lord, I fear I cannot. I do not exaggerate when I say the very safety of our great nation calls for desperate action and that the steps I take now may well determine the outcome. As you may have gathered, the papers to which my … my friend, here,’ he had paused a moment, as if he’d been wondering how best to describe his insipid companion, ‘alludes, are missing. It is quite possible that they have been stolen. Indeed, if they are not discovered here in this room there can be no other explanation for their disappearance. If they were to fall into the wrong hands … No, I can say no more. But we must act quickly, without delay, and to this effect I ask for your unquestioning assistance.’
‘What would you have me do?’ said Cedric, deeply affected by the sense of urgency which exuded from the man and caused him to put aside his own feelings of indignation at the man’s recent behaviour.
‘I ask that you instruct your servants not to let anyone leave this house without first obtaining my permission.’
‘Very well, that is easily enough done. The only doors leading on to the street are the front door and a couple of servants’ doors leading out of the basement.’
Cedric pulled an old fashioned bell pull and proceeded to give hurried instructions to the footman who answered his summons. The servant left the room hastily.
‘And the back of the house?’ demanded the commander.
‘Well, there’s the French windows, of course,’ said Cedric. ‘they lead out on to the terrace. There are quite of few of them, I’m afraid. A door also leads out of the dining room into the garden. And there are quite a few other doors that do the same, which are used by the servants.’
‘This garden of yours, a walled, courtyard affair, is it?’
Cedric nodded. ‘I say,’ he added with a flash of excitement as the commander’s train of thought dawned on him, ‘you’re wondering how easy it is to get out of the garden and into the lane?’
‘I am,’ agreed Commander Wrenfield. ‘I’m hoping you’ll tell me there is only one gate that leads out of the garden.’
‘There is, unless our thief has it in mind to jump over the railings into the servants’ courtyard, though I’d not advise that he did,’ said Cedric. ‘For one thing, it wouldn’t be at all easy and for another, he’d have to use the basement steps in order to escape. He’d invariably encounter some of the servants if he tried, and I don’t doubt they’d apprehend him.’
‘The servants keeping an eye on the front door can keep an eye on those steps too. Now, let’s come to this gate in the garden. Would you mind telling me where it is, my lord?’
‘Not at all. It’s at the very far end of the garden. Your fellow would just need to go down a few stone steps to reach it.’
‘I don’t suppose there’s any hope that you keep it locked?’ enquired Commander Wrenfield, though he spoke with little optimism.
‘I’m afraid not,’ replied Cedric. ‘I believe there was a key once, but it has been lost. The gate is kept bolted instead.’
‘I take it by that you mean there’s nothing to stop our thief drawing back the bolts and disappearing out into the lane?’
‘Nothing at all, Commander. You see the idea has always been to prevent anyone from getting into the garden. It’s never occurred to any one of us that we might ever want to stop anyone from getting out.’
‘Atherton,’ said the commander,‘ addressing Hallam in a voice that seemed to those present to boom around the room. ‘Go out into that garden as fast as you can and make for the gate. If our thief has chosen to leave the house that way, there’s just the faintest chance you might be able to apprehend him as he wrestles with the bolts. Well, my friend,’ he said, turning to address his companion, whom he appeared at pains not to refer to by name, ‘have you found those missing papers?’
The little man who had been making an extensive search of the room all the while the larger man had been speaking to Cedric, shook his head in a mournful fashion.
‘No. They have vanished. The thief, he has taken them.’
‘Who … who are you?’ whispered Lavinia.
She was vaguely aware that her voice sounded a little breathless, rather as if she had been running, which was quite ludicrous for she had been doing nothing of the sort. In fact, if anything, she had been holding herself deathly still, hardly daring to breathe lest the phantom be inclined to vanish. Reason told her, of course, that he was a mortal man. If nothing else, she could touch the smooth leather of the glove that held her hand and feel the solid flesh beneath it. Lavinia’s nature, however, was of a highly romantic and imaginative sort and, for the moment at least, the fanciful part of her being remained spellbound.
Gradually she regained something of her senses, emerging from her trance as if an animal from its hibernation. It dawned on her that she had been standing motionless on the terrace regarding a masked face, the owner of which she was quite certain was a stranger to her. Cautiously, and rather self-consciously, she withdrew her hand. She repeated her question, her eyes straying from contemplating the mask to regarding the hood which so effectively hid the head of the man who wore it; indeed, she couldn’t tell whether he was pale or dark of complexion, nor did she have any inkling as to the colour of his hair. She had boasted flippantly that she could distinguish the age of a man from his voice. This ability was, however, denied her in this instance, for the man had remained resolutely silent.
She put up her hand to pull aside
the man’s hood and shivered, for the notion that he was a ghoul still lingered on the fringes of her mind. Indeed, in her vivid imagination the cloak took on the guise of a dark shroud. The thought made her hesitate a moment, before her fingers sought to clutch the fabric of the hood. The pause, though fleeting, was sufficient for the man to determine her intentions. He stepped back abruptly so that he was beyond her reach.
Lavinia stared up at him feeling slightly foolish. That he was now wary of her she did not doubt. Indeed, it seemed to her that the fairy tale she had conjured up so convincingly in her imagination was fast crumbling beneath her feet. A horrid, uneasy gulf had sprung up between the two of them, and the worst of it was that it was of her own making. She admonished herself severely. Had she been of a less sentimental and fanciful disposition, it might have occurred to her to wonder why the man who stood before her should be so very anxious to conceal his identity from her by insisting on maintaining his elaborate disguise.
As was frequently the case, what happened next was not to be determined by the immediate participants. For into the silence came the shrill sound of voices, immediately followed by an odd shriek of laughter which had the effect of penetrating Lavinia’s strange reverie. The noise startled her, piercing the silence as it did, causing her to tear her attention away from looking at the man in front of her to regarding the French windows, through which a party of some five or six guests were making their way rather unsteadily out on to the terrace. Some carried drinks in their hands, others held delicately painted fans or huge-brimmed hats with ostrich feathers that their owners had tired of wearing on their heads. They made something of a colourful and rather bewitching spectacle which held Lavinia’s gaze for a few moments.
Murder at the Masquerade Ball Page 11