by Rhys Bowen
I shrugged. “Things became a little crazy around here. First a stolen necklace, and then the murders. She’s probably forgotten.”
“Then we must remind her again.” He looked around, then spotted Belinda hovering just behind me.
“Hello,” he said, his eyes traveling over her. “I believe we’ve met before, but I’m afraid I can’t remember your name.”
“It’s Belinda. Belinda Warburton-Stoke,” she said.
“Delightful. Another English rose.”
“In full bloom,” Belinda said in a way that only Belinda or my mother could say it.
“And are you enjoying all the delights the Riviera has to offer?”
“I’ve yet to experience all the delights,” she said, with an emphasis on the word “all.”
“I’m sure you will experience them all, given time.”
I watched this exchange, feeling uneasy and angry. Were they flirting, or was this normal fashionable society talk? Jean-Paul turned back to me. “You two are friends?”
“We were best friends at school,” I said.
“Ah. But I think that this young lady has led a more adventurous life than you since leaving school, ma petite.”
“Oh, absolutely,” I agreed. “My life has been rather dull.”
“Until now,” Jean-Paul said. “At the moment you must agree it is far from dull.” And he smiled at me, removing some of those fears. Neville joined Belinda, putting a protective arm around her shoulder and thus making sure that the flirtation with Jean-Paul didn’t continue.
“Awfully glad to see you here,” he said to me. “The last time we met you’d just fallen off a stage and been robbed. I was frightfully worried about you.”
“I’m fully recovered, as you can see,” I said. “I wish I could say the same for the necklace.”
“Lots of thieves and crooks on the Riviera,” Neville said. “Damned foreigners don’t have the same moral code as we do at home.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I should greet our hostess,” Jean-Paul said and melted away.
I was about to follow him, but a thought had been nagging at the back of my consciousness. I remembered Neville saying that he’d seen me before. And Coco and Vera thought they’d seen me too. Even Belinda. I needed to locate this mysterious double who had been seen entering Sir Toby’s house.
“‘Remember you said you’d seen me before?” I asked Neville.
“Riding your bike up near our villa,” he said.
“Where exactly is that?”
“Up in Cimiez, very near where Queen Victoria used to stay when she came here.”
I had never known that my austere great-grandmother enjoyed the delights of the Riviera. “She came here?”
“Every winter during the 1890s, I believe. Rented a whole wing of the hotel. They even changed the name to Regina to make her feel at home.”
“Goodness,” I said. “She must have been awfully old then.”
“Oh, she was. She thought sea bathing was good for her rheumatism.”
This went against the picture I had of the spartan life she led and the palace more freezing even than Castle Rannoch.
“So how does one get to Cimiez?” I asked.
“There’s a little bus that takes you up the hill from the Place Massena—you know, the big square in the middle of town? There are Roman ruins at Cimiez, and the view is delightful, so people take picnics up there.”
“I must go and see for myself,” I said.
“Do come up and visit anytime,” Neville said. “We’re on the Boulevard Edouard VII. Villa Victoria—aptly named, what? I’m sure my aunt would be glad to receive you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I hope to.”
“And thank you for hitching me up with Belinda,” he said, squeezing her shoulder as if testing a ripe melon. “She’s a corking girl. Absolutely spiffing. Even my aunt likes her.”
Oh, goodness, I thought. He sees Belinda as a future wife. I didn’t see her staying with him beyond the end of the week. In fact, I noticed she was watching Jean-Paul’s back as he joked with Coco and my mother. This time she’s not going to get him, I thought, and I was just moving to join him when a stir went through the crowd. It parted as if Moses had just arrived at the Red Sea, and there was Mrs. Simpson, with—miraculously—Mr. Simpson in tow and no sign of the Prince of Wales. I watched, absolutely bewitched, as Mummy came forward to greet her. As these two had been involved in mutual loathing since they had met, I couldn’t imagine what might happen next.
But Mummy, ever the actress, held out her hands. “Wallis, how simply sweet of you to come.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, honey,” Mrs. Simpson said and the two ladies kissed, about four inches from each other’s cheeks.
“How nice to see you, Mr. Simpson,” Mummy said, holding out her hand to him. “Do help yourself to a drink.”
This suggestion was met with a grunt, which was about all I had ever heard Mr. Simpson say. As he moved off, Mummy asked, “So might we be expecting a visit from a special friend later this evening?”
Mrs. Simpson gave an annoyed little shrug. “One never knows which friends will turn up,” she said. “I have so many friends.”
“You know the friend I am referring to,” Mummy said. “I just wondered . . .”
“Was summoned home to England unexpectedly,” Mrs. Simpson snapped. “Apparently his daddy wasn’t happy that he was enjoying himself on the Med while his subjects were suffering. I told him it was nonsense. His subjects would still be suffering whether he’s in England or not. But he said his father’s health hasn’t been the best lately, so he felt he should be a good little boy and run home.” She smoothed back her hair, which was not out of place to start with. “And how about you? I don’t see any burly Germans in evidence.”
“Making money back in Germany,” Mummy said. “Germany’s simply too depressing, so I escaped.”
“Things should be looking up there soon,” Mrs. Simpson said. “I understand this new guy, this Hitler, is a little firecracker. David says he’s got lots of splendid ideas to put Germany back on its feet.”
“I’m not so sure I want it back on its feet,” Mummy said. “I’m fond of Max, but it’s hard to forget that Germany was the enemy and all the awful things they did . . .”
“That was just the old Kaiser,” Wallis said. “This new regime will be more forward-looking. David thinks we’ll get on splendidly.” She looked around expectantly. I thought she might have been seeking out a particular person, but then she said, “So I understand you can actually see the swimming pool where the dead man was found.”
“Yes, from our terrace,” Mummy said.
So it was only morbid curiosity that had made her sink to attending Mummy’s party. How screamingly funny. I couldn’t wait to tell Belinda.
“I must take a look for myself,” Mrs. Simpson said. “Dying of curiosity. Such a strange murder, don’t you think? Personally I’d put money on his wife. A sour-faced creature if ever there was one. These English aristocrats are so repressed—all that bottled-up tension and not enough sex. It’s not healthy.” She smirked as she looked at my mother. “I suppose you should be glad you’re lower class.”
“Ditto,” Mummy said. “Although I was a duchess, which is more than you can say.”
“Ah, but who can say what the future may bring?” Mrs. Simpson replied with an enigmatic smile. “Come and show me the murder scene. I find murders most fascinating, don’t you?”
Others followed them out to the terrace, talking excitedly about murder. I stayed behind. I had no wish to be reminded. In fact, I wondered if I would be missed if I slipped away. So the Prince of Wales had left Mrs. Simpson to return to England. It was encouraging to know that he did still feel the call of duty and she didn’t have a complete hold over him. But for me it meant that I didn’t have a royal relative in the vicinity should Inspector Lafite decide to proceed with prosecuting me. I wondered if the Duke of Westminster would appear a
t the party and whether I was actually related to him.
I jumped when I heard what sounded like gunshots from outside the open French doors, until I realized that the guests were already letting off fireworks. I happen to love fireworks, so I went outside and watched rockets and Roman candles shooting up into the night sky to fall sparkling over the dark sea, while the sophisticated crowd greeted each firing with oohs and aahs.
The fireworks obviously put everyone in a party mood. They started playing parlor games, harmless ones at first, but then progressively more risqué.
“Let’s play statues,” someone suggested. There were giggles as ladies were selected to stand as statues in the middle of the room. A male volunteer was called for and Foggy Farquar stepped forward. He was blindfolded, spun around and then put among the statues. The object of the game was then revealed—he had to feel the statues and guess the womens’ identities. What followed was a lot of groping and bawdy comments. I was so glad I hadn’t been picked as a statue; I’d have died of embarrassment. But the women actually seemed to enjoy it. I noticed Jean-Paul standing in the doorway, chuckling. His eyes met mine and he winked at me.
Then the band arrived and the activity turned to dancing. After a few dances, Jean-Paul claimed me and held me close as we drifted around the floor in a slow fox-trot. “I want to say something to you,” he muttered, steering me toward the edge of the crowd. My pulse rate quickened. Was this a proposal?
“I think you should go home,” he said, eyeing me seriously. “As soon as the police give you permission, go home. This place is not right for you. You do not belong here.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“You’re a nice girl. A decent person. You don’t belong with a crowd like this.”
I didn’t know what to say, because I knew that what he was saying was true. I didn’t feel comfortable with them. “So you don’t care if I go?” I dared to ask.
“Of course I shall be sad, but I care about you more. I don’t wish you to wind up like them. There have been many women in my life and most of their names I have forgotten by the morning. But your name, I do not think I shall forget.” He put a finger under my chin and lifted it up toward him. “If things had been different . . .” he said and didn’t finish the sentence. But he pulled me toward him and kissed me gently. “I have to go,” he said.
A little later Neville came up to me. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and he was frowning. “I say, you haven’t seen Belinda, have you?”
“No, I can’t say that I have recently.”
“Damned rum do. She seems to have hopped it.” He scanned the room hopefully as he spoke.
My stomach lurched. It wasn’t long since Jean-Paul had whispered, “I have to go.” It didn’t take too much imagination to suggest that Belinda had gone with him. I felt sick and angry and more than a little confused.
Midnight passed and people started to drift away. The die-hard few had become mellow. Large amounts of liquor had been consumed. The air was hazy with cigarette smoke. The band had stopped playing.
“How about dustman’s knock?” someone said, laughing.
“What’s dustman’s knock?” I asked.
“Like postman’s knock, only dirtier,” he replied. Everyone was chuckling now. I wasn’t sure if I was having my leg pulled or not.
“Capital idea. Do you have keys, Claire?” one of the men said.
“I never lock anything,” my mother said. “We’ll have to write numbers on slips of paper. We can put them in this bowl.”
I knew what postman’s knock was, as I’d played it at parties. A boy was chosen to be the postman and was then sent outside the door while the girls drew their numbers from a bowl. He’d knock, then announce that he had a package for, say, number twenty-one. That particular girl would go outside to receive the parcel, and she’d get a kiss. It was a fun way of pairing up. Fun, but harmless. So I could imagine what this version might entail and I had no intention of being part of it. Maybe if Jean-Paul had stayed . . . I was still perplexed about his behavior to me. Perplexed and more than a little disappointed. When nobody was looking, I slunk away and went to my bedroom.
I shut the door behind me with a sigh of relief.
“I’m glad to see you’re alone,” said a voice and there was Darcy, sitting on the end of my bed.
Chapter 29
Villa Marguerite
January 28, 1933—early next morning
Darcy was sitting on my bed, wearing an open-necked shirt. His dark curls were unrulier than ever and those alarming eyes flashed dangerously when he saw me. I felt my heart give a giant lurch. If I had thought I was getting over him, I was hopelessly wrong.
“What are you doing here?” I asked shakily.
“Keeping an eye on you,” he said. “I just heard what happened last night. You’ve got yourself into a bit of a pickle, haven’t you?”
“I’m sure it will all be sorted out soon. The police will realize they’ve made a stupid mistake. And Jean-Paul has found me a first-class lawyer.”
He got up and came over to me. “That’s another thing,” he said. “Your marquis. I want to warn you about him. He’s a dangerous man, Georgie. I can see why you’re attracted to him, but he’s not to be trusted. I’m afraid there are things you might not like to know about him.”
“Oh, that’s rich, coming from a man like you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“That there are so many things you’ve conveniently forgotten to tell me. Important things.”
He shrugged. “As for the secrets, I admit that there have been things I can’t tell you. But I have always cared about you. I care about you now—that’s why I’m warning you to steer clear of the marquis.”
“Are you jealous?” I asked. “Or are you upset that I got over you so quickly?”
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt, that’s all.”
“Funny, but Jean-Paul said the same thing to me, about an hour ago.”
“Then perhaps he is finally developing a conscience, at least about some things,” Darcy said, “although I doubt it. All I can tell you is that you’ll find yourself in even deeper trouble if you stay with him.”
“I’m a big girl now, Darcy.” I faced him defiantly, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “I can make my own decisions and take care of myself.”
“Hardly.” He looked at me angrily. “You go out alone on Toby Groper’s yacht? You hitch up with one of the most notorious men in Europe? You’re arrested for murder? That doesn’t sound much like taking care of yourself, Lady Georgiana.” He grabbed my shoulders. “Georgie, what are you doing? What has happened to you?”
I wished he hadn’t touched me. I fought to stay calm. “Nothing has happened to me, except that I’ve discovered the real reason you’re here.”
“Oh, you have, have you?” He was staring hard at me.
I nodded, biting my lip. I waited for him to say something, to apologize for deceiving me. Instead he said, “In that case, all I can say is that you shouldn’t spread it around too much in certain circles. Not if you’re wise, that is.”
“I don’t know why I’d want to spread it around.” I shook myself free from him, bumped against the bed and sat down heavily.
“Careful,” Darcy said, grabbing at me. “You don’t want to sit on your pearls.”
“My what?” I stood up as my hand touched something sharp. There, lying on my bed, was the missing pearl and diamond necklace.
I stood staring at it as if it had been magically produced by a genie and might vanish again at any moment. “How did it get here?” I asked. “Did you put it there?”
“Me? Of course not. What would I be doing with a necklace like that? Is it yours?”
“It belongs to the queen,” I said. “It was stolen when I fell off the stage at the fashion show.”
“Fell off the stage?” He looked as if he might grin.
“You didn’t hear about it?”
“I�
�ve been rather occupied with—other things,” he said. “So it was stolen and then returned?”
“It’s amazing,” I said. “Someone at the party must have taken it, then their conscience got the better of them and they returned it.”
“Really?” He was frowning, staring at the door.
“I must tell the others. They’ll be thrilled.” I made a move toward the door.
Darcy grabbed my arm. “Maybe it might be wise to say nothing at this point.”
“You don’t understand. They’ve been worried sick,” I said. “At least I must tell Vera and Madame Chanel.” I opened the door and stepped out onto the landing. It was unnaturally quiet after the loud noises of the past few hours. I looked around and at that moment Vera walked across the foyer below. Obviously she wasn’t one of those playing naughty games. I ran to the railing and leaned over.
“Vera. Look! It’s been returned. The necklace has come back!” I shouted. I suppose I had been drinking rather too much champagne all evening because I know a lady never raises her voice. The effect was instantaneous. Bedroom doors opened and people in various stages of undress looked out.
I waved the necklace. “It’s come back. It was on my bed.”
Vera’s face lit up. “Thank God,” she said. “It’s a bloody miracle.”
“Yes, isn’t it?”
“How on earth did it get there?” she demanded.
“Someone must have deliberately put it there, knowing I’d find it when I went to bed.” As I said this it did cross my mind that Darcy might somehow have been involved. Had he in fact known about the stolen necklace and managed to recover it for us from the thief? Had he done this for me—as a peace offering? I glanced back at my bedroom, expecting him to come out and reveal himself, but there was no sign of him.
I started to come down the stairs toward the small crowd that was now gathering in the foyer. Halfway down I caught my heel somehow and grabbed at the banister to stop myself from falling. The pearls slid from my hand and fell to the marble floor below. Vera and several others darted forward to grab them. But they were too late. The necklace hit the ground with a light, high, tinkling crash.