by Rhys Bowen
“This is very strange,” Lafite said, looking from one face to the next as if we were the ones concealing something from him. “Sir Toby sets out on a yacht and yet is found dead in his own swimming pool. If he came back, where is now the yacht?”
“I can answer that,” Johnson said. “I saw it moored in the old port in Nice.”
“Then how did this Sir Toby arrive here if his car is in Nice, his yacht is in Nice? If he had come from his yacht, would his launch not be at the jetty, when I see it clearly tied to the buoy out there?”
“He could have taken a taxi, I suppose,” Vera suggested.
“Certainly, but why? He owns a car. He owns a yacht.”
“I have no idea,” Vera said. “We know nothing of this man. We did not mix with him socially.”
“But he was an English milord, like the rest of you, was he not?”
“He was a baronet,” Vera said, “but he was essentially a self-made man.”
“A what?” Lafite asked. “He made himself? He is God?”
“I mean he came from the lower classes. His family made a fortune in industry. Therefore he was not one of us and never would be.”
The inspector laughed. “You English. I shall never understand your snobbery.”
“Your own French aristocrats are just as bad,” Vera said.
“Even more snobbish.”
The inspector nodded as if he had to agree this was true. He stepped back into the house, looking around the room. “This man was very rich, I think. He had a lot of fine things,” he said. “Antiques, paintings. I believe I recognize a Matisse, no?”
“Van Gogh,” Vera said.
“Ah, yes, of course. They all look the same, don’t they? Me, I do not appreciate this ugly modern art, but I understand it is worth a lot of money,” Lafite said. “But these old things”—he ran his hand over a sideboard topped with some lovely silver—“they are very nice. Worth a lot to a thief. Like these silver candlesticks, for example.” He pointed at one of them. “Heavy silver. This murder was committed during a robbery, I assure you. And Lafite is rarely wrong. Sir Toby swims in his pool. The thief does not know anyone is home. Sir Toby surprises him, and the thief, he hits him over the head with something like this candlestick.”
He lifted his arm up triumphantly but his finger was somehow stuck in the candlestick. It came flying up with his hand. He looked at the dangling object in surprise, then scowled as we grinned. “They had narrow candles in those days,” he said and tried to shake it loose. The candlestick went flying across the room, struck the little glass-topped table and shattered the glass, which went flying everywhere.
“Sacre bleu,” he muttered.
“I think you have rather disturbed the crime scene,” Vera said with a note of triumph in her voice. “Let’s hope you haven’t done any damage to the priceless contents of the table.”
Johnson gave a cry of horror and moved toward the table, but I got there first. The candlestick was now lying amid the shards of glass on top of the snuffboxes.
“I think you’re in luck,” I said, lifting it out carefully and handing it to Johnson, who put it back in its place with a look of disgust at Lafite. I was not going to let a perfect opportunity slip away. The snuffboxes lay there, exposed, covered in shards of glass. “The objects in here all seem to be metal, not porcelain or glass. No real damage done.” I started to pick out shards of glass and then the snuffboxes, one by one, dusting them off, then replacing them, with a show of great concern. The queen’s box was next. My fingers moved toward it, wishing I had a pocket in my skirt—
“Do not derange those things,” Lafite said sharply. “My men will take care of it. There may be telltale fingerprints. This manservant shall come with me on a tour of the villa and he may be able to see if anything has been taken.” He spun to face Johnson. “You weeell observe if any objects are missing,” he said.
“If it was a thief, he left without taking anything, as far as I can see,” Johnson said.
“He lost his nerve after he had killed Sir Toby,” Lafite commented in French. “Or perhaps he had only come for an especially valuable item. A jewel, perhaps?” And he looked at me, long and hard.
“Perhaps,” Coco said. “We already know there is a clever jewel thief in the area. Now let us hope your men will double their efforts to catch him and retrieve our missing necklace.”
“Of course there are many reasons for murder,” Lafite went on. “A rich powerful man makes enemies, does he not?” He turned back to Johnson. “Who wish harm to your master?”
It came out more like “’Oo weesh’arm.”
Johnson looked puzzled. “Wee charm?” he said. “What wee charm?”
Lafite scowled. “What is zee matter? Do you not spick your muzzer tong?”
“He wants to know who might have wished your master harm,” Vera said.
“I hadn’t been with him long,” Johnson said. “And I wasn’t privy to his business dealings.”
I was about to suggest that Sir Toby had mentioned a threat from a foreigner when I first arrived at his house, but I realized that would place me at the scene of the crime that morning. My feeling was that Sir Toby probably had upset quite a few people recently, including Olga and his wife. It wasn’t up to me to help sort out which of them did the dirty deed.
Snuffbox or no snuffbox, all I wanted to do was to be away from there.
“If you will excuse me, Inspector,” I said. “I’m not feeling well. The sight of that body—you don’t need us any longer, do you?”
“For the moment, no,” he said. “First I make my investigation of the house. But later I may ask you more questions. You English, you stick together. You may well know things that you have not told me. But do not worry. I shall find out the truth. So if you know something, it would be wise to tell me now.”
“Sorry, but we can’t help,” Vera said. “I’ve told you, we had no social contact with the man. Now we’d better take Lady Georgiana home. She looks quite white.”
And she bustled me out of the room.
Chapter 22
Still January 26, 1933
Life becoming more complicated by the second.
I tried to push the whole nasty business to one side as I prepared for my date with Jean-Paul that evening. Mummy was reluctant to let me go.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” she demanded, sounding for the first time in her life like a mother.
“I told you, he was a perfect gentleman this afternoon,” I said. “I was only wearing a silk dressing gown and he could easily have tried to seduce me then.” The memory of that kiss flashed into my mind—actually, he was probably in the first stages of trying to seduce me.
“He may have behaved like a proper gentleman this afternoon, but that doesn’t guarantee that he’ll behave himself once he has you alone in the back of his motorcar,” she said. “He may have been making sure you let your guard down with him.” She actually came over and put a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve lived a sheltered life, Georgie, and I blame myself for not being a mother to you. Actually, it wasn’t entirely my fault—the Rannoch crowd made it clear that I was to stay away from my child in case I corrupted you with my wild ways. Still, I should have insisted.” A frown passed briefly over that perfect face. “But that’s all water under the bridge, isn’t it? It’s just that—well, I have met plenty of men like Jean-Paul de Ronchard and they only want one thing. He probably sees it as tremendous sport to seduce a virgin—I take it you still are a virgin? Of course you are. One look and one can see. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
I looked at her almost fondly. It was the closest I remember being to her. “I’m a big girl now, Mummy,” I said. “And I’m not as entirely naïve as you think. If I go with Jean-Paul, it will be because I choose to.” I saw her face then I laughed. “Don’t worry, I probably won’t do anything. That good old Rannoch sense of honor will kick in.”
She pulled my face down and kissed me on the cheek.
“In which case go and have a lovely time. And if you decide to do it with him, I expect the sex will be glorious.”
It was rather a strange conversation to be having with one’s mother, but if anyone knew about glorious sex, it was she. I went upstairs to get ready, only to find that Queenie had disappeared down to the kitchen to have her supper, having laid out the strangest assortment of garments for me to wear—a frilly white number that one might wear to a garden party, a full cotton petticoat and a cardigan, in case I got cold, I presume.
“Honestly,” I muttered, “it would be less trouble to do it oneself.” And I found a shantung evening dress that had miraculously escaped being melted by Queenie’s iron. The neck was rather high and the whole thing shapeless, dating back to the waistless days of the twenties, but I added a long string of pearls and anyway it was the best I could do. Oh, how I longed for bright red silk pajamas, preferably backless like the women were wearing at the casino last night. I wished I was small enough to fit into my mother’s clothes. I wished Chanel had already had the promised dress made for me. I’d have loved to see Jean-Paul’s face if I appeared looking divine. As it was, the best I could say for my appearance was that it was neat and respectable.
Jean-Paul showed no sign that he found me dull and dowdy, however. He gave me that enchanting smile as I came down the stairs to find him waiting in the front hall.
“You look ravishing, my lady,” he said.
“He means worth ravishing,” I thought I heard my mother mutter from the shadows. But out loud she said, “Have fun, my children. Take good care of her, Jean-Paul. She is under the protection of three formidable women, you know.”
“Don’t worry,” Jean-Paul said. “I shall treat her as if she were your own daughter.” And he gave me a wink that hinted that he had guessed the truth. Then he took my arm and helped me into the Voisin, which still had the top up. I wondered whether to mention the death of Sir Toby to him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so. All I wanted was to put it from my mind.
“I thought we should go somewhere more private than Nice tonight,” he said. “I know this delightful little place at Beaulieu-sur-Mer. The chef cooks like an angel.”
It was a heady experience to arrive at L’Etoile Restaurant, perched on rocks right over the Med. Lights from moored yachts sparkled on the water, making a fairyland. Jean-Paul was received with the reverence of a royal visit.
“What an honor, Marquis. We have reserved your favorite table.” We were escorted to a table up some steps in an alcove off the main dining room. It was built out right over the water with windows all around. The lapping of waves came up to us, together with the fresh, slightly salty smell of the Mediterranean. Out across the bay, music was playing and the sound floated to us on a gentle breeze. I felt as if I were in a dream—exactly how Cinderella must have felt when she arrived at the ball in the glass slippers and the prince chose her out of all the girls in the room.
A bucket of champagne appeared as we sat down. Two glasses were poured. Jean-Paul raised his to me. “To the next step on the road to discovery,” he said, his eyes holding mine in that smoldering stare. I felt a strange surge of warmth at the pit of my stomach and recognized it as desire. I had a suspicion that the Rannoch code of honor would not last out the evening, and I wondered how I felt about that.
“Drink up,” Jean-Paul said. “Plenty more where that came from.” He turned to the maitre d’. “Now, what do you suggest for such a lovely young lady this evening, Henri?”
“We have acquired some very fine lobsters, so may I suggest one for the fish course? And I presume you wish to begin with caviar as usual? We have had a new batch brought in from Siberia only yesterday. And then a melon filled with port? And for soup—our consommé or would you prefer something more robust?”
“The consommé. One needs a clear palate for the lobster,” Jean-Paul said.
“Naturally. The marquis’ taste is flawless as always. And for the main course—breast of duck cooked the way you like it, with orange and ginger? And to finish? I know you like our baba au rhum but maybe a crème brûlée for the young lady. She does not want the heavy dessert.”
“Bring both. We’ll decide later,” Jean-Paul said. “And then your fine cheese board and a cognac and we will be content.” He looked up to see if I approved. I, who until recently had suffered Fig’s austerities, was so overwhelmed by the thought of all this food that I could only nod dumbly.
“Excellent, mon vieux,” Jean-Paul said. “And I can trust you to select the appropriate wines to accompany each, can I not?”
“Have I ever let you down, Marquis?”
“Never.”
It was a terribly French exchange. I half expected them to leap up and embrace each other. Henri went away and returned almost instantly with a plate with different types of caviar sitting in tiny dishes on a bed of ice.
“Ah,” Jean-Paul said, giving a delighted smile like a child who has been given a present. He scooped some pink caviar onto a piece of melba toast, then repeated the gesture from lunch, reaching across the table to pop it into my mouth. I remembered what he had said about seducing a woman gradually, so in the end it is she who is begging to be made love to. Having dug into the caviar, Jean-Paul appeared relaxed and enjoying himself and started asking me questions about my family and home. I described Castle Rannoch and he shuddered. “Me, I do not think it sounds very comfortable,” he said.
“It isn’t. It’s quite spartan and cold.”
“Then I do not think you would find it disagreeable to spend your winters on the Riviera in future?”
“I think it might be very nice,” I said, wondering where this was leading. I remembered Vera saying that he’d have to settle down and produce the heir eventually. Had he decided I would make a suitable marquise?
“Your dear papa—he did not visit his family home very often, I think. He too enjoyed the delights of the Riviera.”
“He might have enjoyed them, but they didn’t do him any good,” I said. “He got through all the family money. He must have been a rotten gambler.”
“Drinking and gambling together are not wise,” Jean-Paul said. “Your papa—he liked the champagne too much. And the ladies too.”
It was almost a slap in the face to hear that he’d liked the ladies. But then I suppose he was free to do what he liked after my mother had left him. When I was growing up, I’d always pictured him as a lonely man, wandering alone on foreign beaches, and I’d felt sorry for him. Now I thought of Binky, struggling to keep Castle Rannoch going after Father had spent the family money on gambling and the ladies, and I was suddenly angry.
“I hardly knew my father,” I said. “So I really can’t judge him.”
“Very wise,” Jean-Paul said. “I knew him a little and I think you can say that he was a kind man, but not a wise one.” He leaned closer to me. “Rather like your cousin the Prince of Wales. He has shown concern for the poor people of your country, he wants to do some good, but he has not demonstrated wisdom in his affairs. I wonder if he will make a good king.”
“I really don’t know,” I said. “I take it you’re referring to Mrs. Simpson. She certainly seems to have a hold over him, almost as if he’s bewitched. One hopes that when his father dies, he’ll shape up and do the right thing. We were certainly all brought up to put duty before anything else.”
“Maybe he will,” Jean-Paul said, “but let us not speak of him or of duty. I thumb my nose at duty. It is boring. Talk to me about amusing things.”
“I’m afraid I don’t lead a frightfully amusing life,” I said.
“But you must know some delicious scandals. You are sharing a house with three notorious women, no? What of their love lives? Who goes to bed with whom?”
I felt myself blushing under his frank gaze. “I know little about such things. Since I’ve been staying there, there have been no gentlemen in evidence.”
“What of the terrible Sir Toby? He lives next door, doesn’t he? Does he neve
r come to call? And the delectably exotic Olga? One hears such delicious gossip about their tempestuous life together.”
I felt a great sob like a hiccup coming up in my throat. “What is it, ma petite? He really upset you this afternoon with his boorish behavior?”
“No, it’s more than that,” I said. “He’s dead. After you brought me home, I looked over the terrace and there he was, facedown in his swimming pool.”
“He drowned?”
“Worse than that,” I said. “It looks as if someone killed him. I shouldn’t say any more, but it will probably be in the papers tomorrow.”
“How extraordinary,” Jean-Paul said. “Frankly I’m not surprised that somebody killed him. Such a man makes many enemies. And one wouldn’t be surprised if Olga flashed a knife at him in the heat of passion one day.”
“Olga walked out, I believe.”
“And returned for vengeance? How fascinating. I will follow the case with interest. Quite the thing to lift me from my boredom.”
“You? How can you be bored? You have a wonderful life.” Jean-Paul sighed. “I always crave the excitement. And most people I find frightfully boring. Except you—you are a delightful breath of fresh air. But now eat up. We cannot waste good caviar.”
This banquet should have been the ultimate treat for me, but I found that the events of the day had left me so shocked that I could hardly swallow. The rock melon filled with port slipped down easily enough and the effects of the port, mingled with the champagne, gradually started to unwind my tension. I knew I should put Sir Toby from my thoughts. I hardly knew the man and I certainly had no cause to like him. Still, it’s always a shock when any human being’s life is taken from him.
After we had eaten the lobster and duck, each of them exquisite beyond belief, and a sorbet had been brought to clear the palate, I excused myself and went to the ladies’ room. As I entered, the first person I saw, powdering her nose, was Belinda. Her eyes lit up when she saw me.
“Darling, fancy bumping into you here of all places. I didn’t see you. Are you with your mama?”