by Myers, Amy
‘Monsieur Didier,’ The waiter deferentially called him back to the matter in hand.
‘Alors – to begin, huitres marines – that is, oysters marinated with a little sauce ravigote—’
‘I rather fancy these coquilles à la provençale,’ said Rose, making a bid for independence. Mrs Rose was doubtful about scallops.
‘As you wish, cher Egbert,’ said Auguste, looking anxious. ‘I cannot help but feel, however—’
‘Never have them at Highbury,’ Rose said firmly.
Auguste yielded, against his better judgement. Another ten minutes ensued while the agonising choice of wines was made, and the wine waiter departed. Even then Auguste was clearly pondering whether the right choice had been made.
‘I think it’s a mistake.’ Rose was determined to get back to the case before food arrived to distract Auguste yet again.
‘You think I should have chosen the Chäteauneuf?’ asked Auguste anxiously.
‘The Comte de Bonifacio, Auguste,’ Rose reminded Auguste patiently. ‘My guess is that as soon as my telegram reaches the Yard with news of his arrest, they’ll be sending another one ordering me back, burglar or no burglar. I might get back again for the ball, but in the meantime it’s up to you.’
Auguste heaved a sigh. ‘But I am on holiday, Egbert.’
‘Good, so you’ve plenty of time,’ Rose said hard-heartedly.
‘I have been advised to avoid detection, for my health.’ A slight Gallic exaggeration.
‘The day you do that will be the day you hang up your saucepans for good.’ Rose paused over a mouthful of rich sauce provençale. Delicious, but . . . ‘Chesnais has no proof against the Comte. He’ll have to release him, and then the case will be wide open again.’
‘He does not need proof, my friend. Bastide must prove his innocence, and he only says he accompanied Trepolov on the field. Yet he and Trepolov were the last to appear. He gave the excuse that before they went out he was seeking the ball in the changing room, but no one saw him there.’
‘Nor have we any evidence against anyone else. Far as I can see anyone could have done it. I’ll show you the notes Fouchard slipped to me. I don’t think he’s too happy about Bastide’s guilt, but he’s not going to get involved.’ He stopped as the silver covers were whipped triumphantly off the faisan truffé and eyed them with misgivings.
‘Truffles and pork stuffing you say?’
‘Indeed, mon ami. La truffe, the food so dear to the Romans, was forgotten by mankind until early this century. Some, like Kettner, say it was no great loss. But he is no true gourmet, that man,’ Auguste added heatedly. ‘Or else he has never tasted truffles in France. Taste now,’ he waved a lordly hand, as though he had personally snuffled the tubers out from under the ground. ‘Can you wonder a pig that can hunt these down is so highly prized? When they arouse thoughts of love in women and men alike, and their aroma transports them, like love itself, to paradise?’
‘You don’t seem to need help of that sort, Auguste.’
Auguste went faintly pink, and laughed.
‘I still think,’ said Rose, ‘that this burglar business is linked in somehow. And someone must know something about it. Get in amongst them. As Miss Kallinkova’s – ah – friend, they’ll accept you here. Someone must know something.’
‘I will do what I can.’ The idea of escorting Natalia was an appealing way of working at detection. ‘At the funeral they will all be gathered together. And now, my friend, some’ – enthusiasm restored his voice as he whispered to the waiter – ‘Charlotte Hélène. Ah, no one can resist this, it is made with crystallised violets. Monsieur Negre himself, who has originated the idea of sweetmeats of crystallised flowers – you have seen his shop in this very street – has supplied the violets.’
Some hour or so later, Rose, released from his pleasurable torment, almost staggered as they walked out into the sunshine. In the Allées de la Liberté, a band was playing and he sank down in front of the bandstand gratefully.
‘It was that liqueur did for me,’ Rose said forcefully. ‘What the devil is in it?’
‘That is known only to God, not the devil,’ replied Auguste. ‘The liqueur de Lérina is made by the Cistercian monks at the monastery of St Honorat, one of the Iles de Lérins. But it is good for you – made from local flowers and herbs.’
The band was playing loudly, and he had to shout to make himself heard.
‘Maybe,’ said Rose. ‘But if they drink it themselves it must be a merry old monastery. Let us look at these notes Fouchard has produced.’ It was an effort.
Auguste studied the lists for some while. ‘Lady Westbourne claims she went to the ladies’ retiring room after tea, so does Mrs Tucker, but they do not admit to seeing each other. Miss Kallinkova went straight on to the balcony, verified by several people. La Belle Mimosa has no alibi since no one would sit with her, and no one claims to have seen her. Miss Vanderville says she was in the salon with Bastide, but Bastide says he was getting the ball from the locker room where no one says he saw him. Not good, mon ami. Cyril Tucker went out on to the balcony, Trepolov claims, and Washington confirms it, that he was in the gentlemen’s cloakroom, and then went on to the field with Bastide. Alfred Hathaway says he escorted Mrs Tucker out to the balcony, after her return from the retiring room but this contradicts what Mrs Tucker told us. There it is. Some of them are obviously lying. But who?’ Auguste finished. True, he did not expect to receive a definite answer, but when there was no comment at all he glanced at his colleague. Despite the climax of the 1812 Overture being rendered with verve, Inspector Rose was fast asleep.
Auguste smiled. It was a fitting tribute to Monsieur Escoffier’s former restaurant.
‘Pah,’ said a voice. Painfully sitting down on his other side was the old Cannois.
‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ said Auguste cheerily.
His good cheer was not returned.
‘A French bandstand under the eye of that salaud—’ The old man spat in the general direction of Lord Brougham’s statue, gazing down beneficently on the town he had created. ‘Have you found him yet?’ he inquired abruptly of Auguste.
‘They have arrested him, mon ami.’
The Cannois thought this over. ‘This is not possible,’ he pronounced.
‘You have evidence to prove he is innocent?’ Auguste asked eagerly, recollecting his presence at the ground.
‘Non. But how will they keep him?’ the Cannois asked in interest.
‘They have charged him with murder.’
‘Ah. He is in the Bastille again?’
‘Again.’ Auguste was jolted. Then, ‘The Bastille, monsieur?’ he queried doubtfully. ‘Who?’
‘Masque de Fer, mon fils. How today’s youngsters are obtuse! It is very clever to arrest a ghost, n’est ce pas?’
Now this was more like a holiday. True, he had promised Egbert, who as Auguste predicted had been summoned back to Scotland Yard a week ago with a ‘now it’s up to you, Auguste’, to continue the investigation; and the sight of Emmeline in the carriage in front pricked at his conscience. But he had done his best with little to show for it. The funeral had come and gone, and all his painstaking and subtle questions had led nowhere either as regards Lord Westbourne’s death or the burglaries.
The funeral might have gone, but Lady Westbourne had not. Clearly determined not to waste a villa paid for in advance, she had remained and had reached the stage when she had decided it would be permissible to take an outing with a suitable escort – such as Harry Washington. Today’s carriage visit to Grasse provided a most suitable opportunity.
Auguste was rejoicing too, seated next to Natalia, with Emmeline opposite them as the carriage wound its way along the Grasse road. He recalled all these villages from his youth, trundling up through Mougins in an old farm cart at harvest time, tasting the grapes on the hillsides. Grasse had seemed a long way away in those days, a place of magic and wonderful smells, from the flowers grown all around for the perfume factories. T
he smells lingered faintly to enchant the air even at this time of year, but the mystery of childhood had vanished. Still, there was much to enjoy, particularly at Natalia’s side.
He was particularly amused to see that Emmeline’s neck in its high-necked frilly blouse was almost permanently turned towards the carriage in front, where Alfred Hathaway’s, riding in the Tuckers’ carriage, was almost permanently turned towards their own. A pleasant game of lawn tennis at the Hôtel du Parc last Monday afternoon, hastily suggested by Alfred as a palliative to the shock of her beloved’s arrest, had proved such an unexpectedly exhilarating experience, especially after his bathing exercise, that it had been followed by several more meetings. Alfred was a little disconcerted to find that Emmeline was such an active young lady and was reluctant to lie on sofas so that he could hold her hand and commiserate. However, once he had accepted this aberration on her part, he found himself positively enjoying the croquet, walks and visits in which this energetic young lady sought solace, and rejoicing that his health permitted him to take this excursion to Grasse, he had accepted a ride in the Tuckers’ carriage with unwonted enthusiasm, which Rachel had taken to be a tribute to herself.
A sensitive young man, however, Alfred had not lost sight of the fact that dear Emmeline – matters had progressed quickly by English standards – was in need of his assistance only in order to free her beloved Bastide.
As trains and coaches and carriage excursions organised by Thomas Cook were deemed to be for the hoi polloi, the party had decided to take their own carriages, which could usefully be left at the Hôtel Muraour et de la Poste to await their return. Doubts however were aroused when it was discovered that the coachmen awaiting their return would have recourse to the proprietress’s excellent wine, home-made from her own vineyard.
Ah, this was the true France, decided Auguste, as they sipped a glass of wine in Madame’s garden. Soon it would be summer and the English would be gone, fearing the effects of the vicious sun. Did they ever wonder how the French endured this torment? he pondered, laughing at yet another oddity of the British. Or was it fashion, not nationality, that demanded this need to empty the Riviera during the summer months?
Emmeline was chattering to Alfred who had somehow managed to join them, since Rachel had unwisely attached herself to Lady Westbourne, and was now sorely regretting this good nature.
Auguste leaned forward. ‘Mademoiselle, forgive me, but if we are to secure the release of the Comte de Bonifacio, I must ask you this. You say that after tea on the day of the murder you were with the Count in the salon and then went to the balcony.’
Emmeline went pink. ‘Yes,’ she muttered, with a sidelong look at Alfred. The latter began to make half-hearted movements to go, but recalling his new role as protector, grasped the excuse to stay.
‘That’s not what he says,’ Auguste pointed out.
‘Oh. Then he’s protecting me, you see,’ said Emmeline, in a rush. ‘My reputation.’
‘You mean you—’
‘Oh no. I didn’t stab Lord Westbourne, but Bastide and I were – well, we were alone – just for a few minutes,’ she added hastily. ‘In the Pavilion office. You don’t mind, do you?’ For some reason she felt the need to ask Alfred.
‘Ah,’ said Auguste. ‘But of course.’
The thought that such an angel might be willing to share her beauty somewhat more positively than Rachel filled Alfred with a happiness it was hard to justify considering she was in love with someone else. For a moment he battled with the ignoble thought that he’d rather like Bastide to remain in custody, but decided this was dishonourable.
‘And did anybody see you, mademoiselle?’ Auguste asked hopefully.
‘No,’ said Emmeline, downcast. ‘That was the idea,’ she pointed out. Then she brightened. ‘There was that old man, of course.’
‘An old man,’ Auguste repeated resignedly. At Emmeline’s age who knows what she might define as an old man. Even – no, such a thought was not to be considered.
‘Yes,’ she continued, ‘he was peering through the windows, spitting at us.’
‘Spitting?’ cried Auguste, trying to imagine the Gentlemen or the Players peering through windows and spitting.
‘I don’t think he was English. Or Russian. He was rather – well—’
Could it be – an idea was presenting itself to Auguste, just as Rachel descended on them.
‘Dearest Alfred,’ she announced somewhat forcefully, ‘shall we depart for the parfumerie?’
Auguste soon wearied of hearing how it took 45 pounds of rose leaves to make 1 gramme of Otto of Roses and 2¾ pounds troy of orange petals for 1 gramme of Néroly, but regained a certain interest to hear that Néroly Bigarrade was made from the flowers of the bitter-orange tree. He contemplated a sauce bigarrade used not for duck but for game. How would it taste? he wondered. For himself, the bigarrade was too heavy for duck. He watched violets and jasmine laid between sheet after sheet of glass for extracts for pocket handkerchiefs in the factory of Messrs Jean Giraud, heard how they were used in pomade. But how foolish. There were better uses. It was so wasteful when one could eat these delights. They could be crystallised in sugar, as in the Charlotte Helene. And other flowers, flowers for colour, flowers for taste – how important was the eye in achieving the subtlest effects. One day perhaps he would run his own school in London – not like Mrs Marshall to teach everyday cooking, but la vrai cuisine so that the old arts should not die out . . . The history of cooking too. So much was known in mediaeval times that had been lost in today’s practical fast-moving world. He was snapped out of his reverie by Rachel Gray, cooing mellifluously at his side. ‘Dear Alfred, you may buy me some perfume. Roses, I think.’
Alfred obediently did so, but as it also struck him as a good idea to buy some for Emmeline, the gift lost its effect and Rachel turned very pale.
After the exertions of the parfumerie, Natalia managed to get permission from the owner, Monsieur Malvillan, to tour the home of Fragonard to view his paintings. All her charm was needed. Auguste was admiring the famous series of paintings intended for Madame du Barry. The Four Ages of Love. Ah, how easy love seemed then. What games. What innocent pleasure. Emmeline looked wistful and Alfred moved a little closer, merely to comfort. His action did not go unnoticed by Rachel Gray. It was the last straw.
‘Alfred, do come here and admire this with me.’
‘One moment, Mrs Tucker,’ he said absentmindedly. ‘We will come.’
We? ‘You said you would do anything for me,’ Rachel cried, hand to heart. ‘Is it so much to ask?’ Her voice rose, attracting attention.
Emmeline looked at Alfred in surprise. Why did he want to do anything at all for this woman old enough to be his mother? She looked too old to play tennis.
‘And so I would,’ Alfred said nervously, keeping his voice low, aware of all ears upon them, however studied the turned backs.
‘Rachel, dearest,’ intervened Cyril, seeing danger signs on Rachel’s face, ‘I feel—’
‘And you, at the cricket match, Alfred. So brave, so foolishly impulsive, just to save my honour.’
‘What?’ Alfred was confused, staring at this virago as if hypnotised.
‘I see you now, dagger in hand—’ she cried, arm outflung as in her lauded rendering of Lady Macbeth.
‘Oh, I say,’ squeaked Alfred. Cyril’s ‘Rachel’, Emmeline’s ‘Oh’, Natalia’s ‘Stuff and nonsense’, and Lady Westbourne’s timely faint all combined to make this a most interesting tour for the owner. It was not often that his philanthropy in opening the house was so rewarded. Nor was it over. Natalia’s clear voice rang out. ‘Perhaps it was fearing yet being impelled to see what he had done that sent you into the study after him?’
‘Me?’ Rachel’s face took on the air of one caught without her lines. ‘You lie!’
‘You were the only woman in white, madame,’ pointed out Auguste. ‘The footman saw a woman in white enter the study just after tea.’
The part
y had gathered round in a group, far too interested to pay attention to Lady Westbourne, who scrambled to her feet alone and very cross. Why hadn’t Harry come? It was his job to comfort her.
Cyril could not help Rachel now. She opened her mouth and shut it. Then opened it again. ‘It was an error.’ She rolled her r’s in a manner that the divine Sarah would envy.
‘An error for what?’ inquired Auguste politely.
There was a short pause.
‘I was under the impression,’ replied Rachel Gray with what dignity she could muster, ‘that it was the lavatory.’
The Casino des Fleurs was not a thriving concern. It had little competition in Cannes, for there were many who could not afford the prices of the Cercle Nautique, but somehow despite the attractions of its petits chevaux, lawn tennis, reading room, theatre and restaurant, it had not captured the hearts of the Cannois, nor, more importantly, of the hiverneurs. This evening, however, its fortunes looked fair to change. Although its reading room did not carry the same cachet as that of Mr John Taylor, tonight its theatre, despite the fact that on Tuesdays the band played at the Cercle Nautique, was about to transform its hitherto unremarkable achievements. Even the Prince of Wales had abandoned the Cercle Nautique in order to see Natalia Kallinkova dance in The Sleeping Beauty.
Lord Westbourne was now interred in the new cemetery by the side of Lord Brougham, but his murderer was as yet undiscovered. Soon Rose would return for the ball and Auguste had nothing further for him except that Rachel Gray had possibly entered the study with evil intent. But for what reason? It seemed hardly likely she would go to such lengths to prevent her husband from discovering about the Grand Duke Igor. Perhaps there might be some other reason? After all, her husband was in the Colonial Office and Westbourne an emissary of the Queen. He must mention this to Egbert.
Moreover Bastide still remained in custody. This irked Auguste. He now had a witness whose evidence could free Bastide – if only he could find him again. But for once the old Cannois – for it must have been he – had disappeared as surely as the ghost of Masque de Fer. Agog with his information, but without the old Cannois in person, Auguste had rushed to Fouchard.