Murder At The Masque

by Myers, Amy

  Rachel was very cautious where the mistral was concerned. She had once come to stay at the Grand Hotel in March, ignorant of the wind’s frequency in that month, and sallied out to an unaccountably deserted Boulevard de la Croisette in rose-pink chiffon. She had ended up looking as if she were auditioning for a mad Ophelia, and spent the following week with an audience consisting solely of Dr Gordon Sanders of the Villa Nina, and a nose as pink as the chiffon she had so unwisely donned. After that, she had followed the guidebooks’ advice, eschewed the simulating and bracing air of the seafront and repaired to climes more suited to her supposedly fragile health in the village of Le Cannet. Where better than the Villa Sardou where she had come to die? Not that Rachel Gray had any intention of dying. Life was far too interesting. Soon she would see him, and tomorrow at the match he would undoubtedly require an answer to his ultimatum. Would she or would she not yield to his embraces? Really, he was becoming uncomfortably persistent.

  The Honourable Harry Washington, gentleman cricketer and man-about-town, gazed into a gilt-framed mirror in the Villa Esterel, to ensure that thanks to Rowland’s Macassar Oil not a hair was out of place. He was right to have rented this villa. It might not be so grand as those of his neighbours, but it was on the right side of town, and suited his purpose admirably. It was good to be in Cannes for the season before returning to the new cricket season at Lord’s and his comfortable bachelor flat in Albany. It promised to be an exciting year. Grace’s fiftieth birthday. Surely not even the great W. G. could go on much longer? And when he retired the field, so to speak, would be open. This upstart Ranjitsinhji would disappear as quickly as he’d arrived. All the more reason for him to enjoy this last break here. In the match tomorrow he would be playing in the same team as the Prince of Wales. That would permanently ensure his social right to play with the Gentlemen at Lord’s, without delving too far into his background. He’d arrange to be batting with him, to ensure the Prince faced the easy bowling and not that madman Bonifacio, for example. Yes, he flicked at his cuffs, tomorrow would be beneficial in many, many ways. A smile came to his lips.

  ‘Basty.’

  Miss Emmeline Vanderville bounced joyously through the doors of the salon in the family suite in the Hotel du Parc. She’d much rather have been down on the seafront in the Grand Hotel but her parents had insisted on the Hôtel du Parc. She might meet a real live prince here, they reasoned. But it looked so like something built by the Pilgrim Fathers. All these towers, and dull old folk. That is, until he had appeared.

  Bastide, Comte de Bonifacio, twenty-five-year-old pretender to the throne of France by virtue of his descent, via Napoleon, from the Man in the Iron Mask, upholder of the Honour of France, particularly where the English were concerned, flinched. American heiresses were all very well and desirable in his present impecunious state, useful to The Cause, but they had no grace, no mystique.

  Emmeline flung her arms round her wild-eyed hero. This was romance. True Love. A real live French prince – well, almost French and almost a prince. True, he had little money, but what a pedigree. Napoleon, the Man in the Iron Mask, Louis XIV, so Basty had told her (whoever they were). Surely her parents would approve.

  ‘Mon petit chou—’

  ‘I love it when you call me that,’ she sighed. ‘Kiss me, Basty.’

  He obliged without undue difficulty, for Emmeline was eighteen years old and a very pretty girl, in the full vigour of American youth. ‘Do let’s go,’ she pleaded. ‘I’ve never seen a real prince,’ she explained tactlessly.

  ‘Non,’ decreed Bastide, in the true French manner when faced with an Anglo-Saxon problem. ‘It is enough I have to play in this ’orrible cricket match tomorrow. I do not wish to stand and cheer le Prince de Galles this morning. Moi, I am the rightful king of France and you expect me to cheer Wales?’ he asked rhetorically.

  ‘You don’t have to cheer. Besides, I’m going anyway.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Bastide through gritted teeth. ‘To please you, ma chère, I go. But do not blame me if – if anything happens.’

  ‘Oooh, Basty, you aren’t going to throw a bomb, are you? Like those Anarchists?’

  ‘Never forget, chérie, that I am a dangerous man.’

  With his wild look and romantic profile, Emmeline was impressed. She hadn’t met a dangerous man since Buffalo Bill brought round his Red Indians Wild West Show. And now she had one all of her own.

  ‘One day my countrymen will rise up against the aggressor. Perhaps soon. And I, I will lead them.’ He paced the room, hands clasped behind his back. ‘The English. Imperialists, all of them. Only France can stop their greed for land. Now. We must make a stand in Africa. All this talk in Paris at the conference gets nowhere. It is action that is needed. This Lord Westbourne, he thinks he is so clever, the English diplomatist. He stands in my path. But I, the Comte of Bonifacio, will show him. I shall rise, like Napoleon—’

  Emmeline giggled.

  He stopped in his tracks, and glared. ‘You laugh. You doubt me. See if you doubt me after this.’

  He swooped on her, as with a delighted giggle she threw her arms round his neck and they tumbled together in a flurry of skirts and arms and legs on to a nearby sofa. Only the arrival of an astonished Mr and Mrs Vanderville, back from their visit to the English chemist in the Rue d’Antibes in search of a remedy for the griping pains that had so mysteriously seized Mr Vanderville after his third helping of civet de porcelet, prevented the full honour of La France from being pursued.

  Count Nicholas Trepolov of the Russian Chevalier Guards, member of one of the oldest boyar families in Russia, adjusted his uniform. Descended from one of the conspirators in the December mutiny, a follower of the Grand Duke Constantin, his family had spent much of the century living it down; they had succeeded, although one or two murmurs had been heard at the time of the assassination of the Tsar in 1881, and Nicholas now had the honour to guard the Tsar himself. He was therefore conscious of the need to prove his loyalty and adherence to the Romanovs at every opportunity.

  Tomorrow’s match would certainly be one. The honour of the Romanovs had to be upheld against these English gentlemen. The Dowager Tsarina might be the sister of the future Queen of England, but that did not make the English any more enticing. Today he must salute this Prince of Wales, but tomorrow the blood of Mother Russia would metaphorically be spilled in defence of her honour at the cricket match.

  A young man of thirty, his blood was fiery and his path clear. Tomorrow would be a fight to the death between the two sides.

  Meanwhile he was on leave in his family’s villa, for two reasons: firstly at the behest of his lady. Not the true object of his desire who was in Paris, but the one who served to pass the time. Like the troubadours of old Provence, it was as necessary to pay court to a lady as it was to sing and to eat. He began to sing an old Russian ballad of love and death until tears of emotion filled his eyes.

  There were two passions in his life. One was the Romanovs; the other was—

  ‘The bees, the bees.’ A distraught manservant rushed in, after the manner of Mr Irving in The Bells.

  ‘I come.’ The Prince of Wales could wait. So could love and death. Seizing his bee hat and veil, donning leather gauntlets, as fully armed as against a Saracen mob, he rushed eagerly into the garden of the Villa Melliflora where his beloved hives were placed. Bees in Cannes made the best honey, the food of the gods, and he pitied everyone who did not understand what absorbing playmates they made. It took his mind off other matters.

  ‘It’s a change not to be on duty,’ Rose remarked to Inspector Fouchard. His English was not good, but he understood. Scotland Yard was taking no responsibility if the Prince of Wales should be shot.

  In fact this hadn’t been what Rose intended at all. He was simply pleased that he had a morning ‘off’; that shortly Auguste would be joining him with news of La Belle Mimosa, whose whereabouts were apparently a closely guarded secret from all except the favoured few, and a secret to which the Pr
éfecture de Police in particular was not a party, and that until then he had nothing to do but await the arrival of the Prince of Wales on this fortunately warm March morning. He couldn’t count the number of foundation stones he’d watched the Prince lay, in almost as many variations of weather. Fishing boats and pleasure boats crowded the sea, adorned with flags. Yes, it was a nice place for a holiday all right, even if they did all speak French. He was aware that Fouchard was trying to speak to him, but his eyes were suddenly riveted by a couple at the back of the gathered crowd clinging to the statue of Lord Brougham for a good view. ‘Well I’ll be blowed,’ he said slowly. ‘Just fancy.’

  Rose moved purposefully across the Allées de la Liberté towards the two familiar figures.

  ‘If it ain’t Inspector Rose,’ said James Higgins jovially. ‘Look ’oo’s ’ere, Muriel.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you again, I’m sure,’ murmured Muriel, appearing from behind a parasol and holding on to her beribboned boater.

  ‘What are you up to, Higgins,’ inquired Rose resignedly.

  ‘Doing the season, Inspector. What else? ’Eard that the POW was dropping in ’ere and I turned to Muriel and said, “What’s good enough for Albert Edward, God bless ’im, is good enough for us.” Didn’t I say that?’

  ‘Yes,’ affirmed Muriel demurely. They exchanged pleased glances.

  ‘If it so be that on this holiday of yours you bump into anything resembling a Fabergé egg,’ said Rose meaningfully, ‘I’ll hear from you, no doubt.’

  ‘No doubt at all, Inspector,’ Higgins offered cheerily.

  ‘I’m at the Hôtel Paradis, by the railway station. Where can I find you?’

  Higgins jerked his umbrella nonchalantly in the vague direction of Italy. ‘Villa Russe will find us, Inspector.’

  Rose goggled. ‘And what are you doing there, Higgins?’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Higgins looked pained. ‘Quite a nice little place, the villa.’

  ‘I’ll nab you one day, Higgins, one day,’ Rose warned him.

  Higgins smiled blandly. ‘Looks as if it’ll keep fine for the match, don’t it?’

  At the villa under discussion the Grand Duchess descended the central staircase with the easy grace of a panther. Her husband stopped pacing round the vast entrance hall and with complete disregard of their presence announced:

  ‘The froggie police have turned up.’

  The Grand Duchess bestowed a hostess’s smile on the three gendarmes standing somewhat nervously under the portico. Rumours abounded about the Villa Russe and its inhabitants.

  ‘But the cow hasn’t,’ went on the Grand Duke, disgruntled.

  The Duchess replied patiently: ‘The cow is for tomorrow, Igor. We cannot take a cow to an official opening ceremony. Nor to the Cercle Nautique for luncheon.’

  ‘I am not,’ the Grand Duke’s face turned the colour of Bortsch, ‘drinking any froggie milk.’

  ‘Today we drink only champagne,’ soothed the Grand Duchess.

  ‘Ah,’ said the Grand Duke, mollified. Then he scowled. ‘They can poison champagne, perhaps.’

  ‘Who, Igor?’

  ‘Nihilists, of course.’

  ‘Igor, don’t be ridiculous. There will be no Nihilists there today.’

  ‘With all of us there in one place? They are everywhere. Did not my mother, the Empress Marie Alexandrovna, demand a full police guard when she visited Cannes? Was not my father assassinated? Were there not bombs in Paris from morning till night?’

  ‘That was Anarchists,’ the Grand Duchess pointed out.

  ‘They are the same.’

  ‘No,’ said the Grand Duchess, who was of an exact turn of mind. ‘Actually they are not. Nihilists believe in nothing, not even in society which is based on lies. Government and society must therefore be disobeyed so that truth may be exposed. Anarchists hold to the general principle that government is evil and has corrupted society and should therefore be abolished.’ She smiled sweetly.

  The Grand Duke understood not a word, but if Anna said so, he was prepared to consider it.

  Nevertheless he announced with pride: ‘At the match tomorrow, I shall have Scotland Yard. They will come if only to guard the Petrov Diamond,’ he added realistically, darting a look at her. ‘Nothing must spoil tomorrow. It is a great occasion. For the first time the English here have allowed us to challenge them at their national game, and moreover they acknowledge the superiority of the Romanovs. It is a great thing – and unusual,’ he admitted. ‘I am told we have the privilege of being named the Players, the supreme artists of the game. I had not realised we were so good,’ he added ingenuously.

  ‘No, Igor. The Gentlemen are the privileged team in this game of cricket. In England the Players are the peasants who play only for money?’

  ‘What?’ His face went white. ‘They do not mean a compliment—?’

  ‘No, Igor. So it is necessary that you win.’

  The full horror of the situation hit the Grand Duke. The three gendarmes shrank back as the heavy Romanov charged in frustration round the marbled columns of the Villa Russe, bellowing, ‘I shall kill them all. And the Prince of Wales. The English are dogs, dogs. Gentlemen? They do not know the meaning of the word. They do not play fair. They do not play cricket. And—’ He stopped, still in mid-flow, then continued, moaning faintly, ‘And they have Harry Washington on their side. I shall be ill. I shall avoid battle. I shall send in the servants to bat. This is an insult to Russia.’

  The Grand Duchess smiled grimly. ‘There are ways for revenge, Igor. Do not distress yourself.’

  A short while before and a few hundred yards away, a poet had feebly raised himself from his couch and looked depressedly at the scene outside. Blue skies, sun, mountains and sea. There was nothing, but nothing that could honourably prevent his attending the laying of the inaugural stone of the new jetty by His Royal Highness Prince Albert Edward. He tried an experimental cough. Nothing. There was no doubt about it. Alfred Hathaway was getting better.

  This was alarming. She would never, but never look on him with favour again if he recovered his health.

  He had told her – and the world – that he had come to Cannes as a last attempt to save his life. Death was a necessary step in the aesthetic life of a poet which would give him a claim to be numbered amongst the greats. Keats, Dowson, Beardsley – seeing himself already immortal, he announced he would seek the sun in a vain attempt at life. The moment he did so, Smith and Elder, his publishers, told him to his pleasure that his sales had suddenly shot up. Alfred had found rooms, as instructed by doctors and guidebooks, in the gentler air at the back of the town. The improvement in his health proved far too rapid, so he had promptly found lodgings near the unhealthy seashore, with its air so charged with dangerous electricity, and retired to await the end. But it refused to come.

  Near to tears and extremely cross, Alfred left the house. Now he might even have to play in that wretched cricket match tomorrow instead of watching with the ladies from the Pavilion terrace with a rug over his knees. That pink in his cheeks could not be disguised as a feverish flush; it was all too obviously good health. All his plans would have to be changed. She would have been all solicitude and concern, and now it was all spoiled. Pettishly he changed his mind about riding the steed hired from Mr Grenier’s livery stables. Perhaps if he walked to the port, he would be sufficiently out of breath to arouse concern . . .

  In the kitchens of the Villa Russe, Boris Bashevksy thumped the dough for the piroshki. The news had travelled by means of the gendarmes to the footman, from the footman to the parlourmaid, from the parlourmaid to the housekeeper and then to Boris. Tomorrow the honour of Mother Russia would be at stake. The English must be beaten. The Romanovs ruled Russia, and their honour must be supported at all costs. Soon, very soon, the people would come into their own, but until then the Romanovs were Mother Russia’s honour. Thump. He reached for the vodka.

  Madame Didier watched with horror as his hand went perilously near Auguste�
�s sanglier in aspic. Thump. The boar’s head’s eyes jumped out in protest, and lodged halfway down its nose.

  Thump. The broad sweep of his hand caught the unfortunate sanglier which flew through the air and landed upside down in its squashed and mutilated aspic.

  Boris regarded Madame Didier guiltily. ‘Is all right,’ he assured her, seeing her appalled face, and hurrying to the scene of the tragedy. ‘Is all right,’ he repeated, rearing up from the floor some minutes later.

  Madame Didier grimly regarded the results.

  ‘Is all right,’ said Boris again doubtfully, regarding the catastrophe on the plate. He reached for the vodka bottle.

  Auguste carefully handed Natalia Kallinkova down from the carriage, full of pride to be seen doing so, and escorted her to their seats. Egbert Rose rose to his feet to greet them.

  Her eyes danced. ‘Ah, Inspector, you are here, you see. Just as I said. All the players are gathered; we await only the Prince . . .’

  A disturbance in the crowd, and a sibilant hush ran through its ranks. Someone was coming. But it wasn’t the Prince of Wales. This was an open carriage. Auguste craned his neck to see . . . In the carriage, dressed in a bright yellow silk dress with a matching pleated lace hat and parasol, and rouge on her face, was a pretty, doll-like figure, so dainty in form she could have been Japanese save for the tawny eyes and hair as golden as the Empress Eugenie’s, knotted in curls high on the back of her head. All eyes were on her as she sat without moving, accepting the homage to her beauty.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kallinkova matter-of-factly. ‘That is La Belle Mimosa.’

  One other person in the reserved seats reacted strongly. Lord Westbourne shrank back, hoping to pass unnoticed. As the lady gracefully unfurled herself and descended from the carriage, slowly she turned her gaze and stared right at him. No smile passed her lips.