“I know just what you mean. One knows full well that she has a thousand ‘intimate friends,’ but still, it feels such an honour to be considered one of them.”
“I don’t suppose you happened to be around when Elsa and Cole and Linda all came face-to-face?”
“Oh yes, I certainly was.”
“Aha—sounds like a story there! Tell all.”
All was precisely what I had no intention of telling, since it would involve political back-stabbing, international relations, something perilously near to blackmail, and the true identity of “Sheldon Russell”—but I could tell some, and tack decorations on it. So I did.
Even in its sanitised version, the story of how we dragooned Cole Porter into an act of mild, but highly satisfactory revenge not only entertained his friend Sara, but definitively placed me on the side of the angels in her eyes.
With that tale, I became family.
Still, affectionate though Sara Murphy was, she was also a born mother, fiercely protective of those close to her. Any wrong step—any perceived betrayal of her trust, once given—would be instant cause for dismissal from the inner circle. That lovely smile would go polite, invitations would cease to flow, and information would be shut off at the source.
Thus, I let a good half-hour of lazing and chatter go by before I casually worked the conversation around to Mrs Hudson. Or, as she was here, Miss.
“Tell me, Sara, other than lying about in the sun, what should I try to do while I’m on the Riviera? Antibes looked like a nice place to spend a morning. What about Cannes? Or maybe Monte Carlo—is it worth a visit?”
“We tend to pop over to Juan-les-Pins instead. Just nearby, nice places for dinner, good bands for dancing—you must come along.”
“But not Monte Carlo?”
“I’m not keen on casinos, but if that’s what you’re looking for, the one at Juan-les-Pins is loads more fun. To my mind, the nicest thing about Monaco is all the gardens. And the children enjoyed the aquarium, when we took them. Still, people seem to like the place.”
“Your friend Miss Hudson, for one.”
“Well, she’s old enough to remember it as a wild and naughty place. Which it may have been once, back in the days when ladies wore crinolines.”
“You sounded more enthusiastic yesterday, when you were talking about her consulting for the Princess.”
“I didn’t want to be rude to her face. If she can find a way to make a few francs out of the crooks who run the country, I wish her the best.”
“Are there crooks?”
“Oh, I s’pose any city has crooks. But some of those in Monte Carlo…not sure I’d want to eat with them at the next table.” Her voice had gone surprisingly cold.
“The Casino does attract all sorts, I suppose,” I mused, trailing bait in the water. She did not take it, but merely pressed her lips together, so I let it go for the time being. “And I’ll admit the idea of a tiny principality that’s carved a niche in the world of high finance has piqued my curiosity. I may wander over, just to see what the fuss is about. Do you suppose I could talk Miss Hudson into showing me around?”
“I’m sure she’d be happy to. I’ll scribble her a note and let her know you’re interested—I don’t know when she’ll be back on the Cap.” So saying, she twisted around to retrieve the note-book that I had seen her writing in from time to time, and added Write Miss H as a reminder to herself.
“Thank you,” I said, although I’d have preferred a telephone number. Then, before she could think about my continued interest in a grey-haired child-minder, I continued with a question about her Russian guests the night before. That led us into Bolshevik revolutions and the fragility of inherited money and how she’d heard that among the Casino’s greeters were a Duke, a Grand Duke, and a Prince who’d spent their pre-War years merrily losing their family fortunes.
“Actually, they’re sort of sad,” she commented. “I mean, it’s nice of the Casino to hire the old relics so they don’t starve, but having them propped up in the corners doesn’t exactly stir up a gay old time among the customers.”
“Well, some of the Russians must have got away with their purses intact. Count Vasilev certainly doesn’t appear to be counting his every ruble and kopek.”
“He does live nicely. He has a fabulous villa in Monte Carlo, and he’s commissioned a whole series of bronzes from Rafe. And he has this gigantic sailing yacht for parties—although come to think of it, that might belong to a friend. We had a perfect day on board earlier in the summer, and I’m afraid Gerald now finds our own little Picaflor small beans by comparison. That was when Gerald started talking to our friend Vladimir—Vladimir Orloff, he’s the Count’s cousin, did I mention?—who trained as a boat designer before the War, and ended up painting sets for the Ballets Russes, then came to work for Gerald stretching canvases and things and tutoring the children, who adore him—anyway, Vlad’s promised to build us a proper schooner.”
I took a moment to sort out the free-ranging thoughts and the Russian shipbuilder from the Russian Count. I could understand Count Vasilev’s wanting to live in Monaco, and being a patron of the arts was a customary hobby for the aristocracy, but sailing? “I have to say, the Count doesn’t look much like a sailor.”
“Oh, I’d say it’s more or less required for his class, wouldn’t you? Those gleaming white naval uniforms all the Russians seem to be photographed in? Though in his case, it’s sitting with guests on a shaded deck while the scenery goes by. Come to think of it, that day Gerald and I went out with him may be when we met Miss Hudson.”
“On a sailing yacht, how fine.” I kicked myself—if I’d been aware that Mrs Hudson knew the Count before she met the Murphys, I’d have cornered him at the party. “So if Rafe is doing a series of pieces, does that mean Count Vasilev will be a regular around Villa America?”
“I don’t think so—they’re not portrait busts, so far as I know.”
“Pity,” I said. “I’d like to see that interesting beard of his rendered in bronze.”
She flashed me a look of such impish mischief, she might have been her daughter’s age. “Oh, isn’t it fabulous? How long do you suppose he spends on the thing every morning? I find myself staring to see if it’s plucked or shaved.”
“Quite a contrast with Mr Ainsley.”
She laughed. “In all ways.”
“What about Rafe? Is he an old friend?”
“No. He is one of the Paris crowd, but we only met him this past winter. We were supposed to have someone else in the guest house, but the poor man developed lung problems and had to go to Switzerland. When Rafe heard, he sort of invited himself as a replacement. It’s fine—and anyway, he’s leaving soon, going to spend a few months in the States. Rafe’s great fun. If he’s not too drunk. And he is talented, in a masculine sort of way.”
Masculine meaning rough, I thought. “He told me he’s working while he’s here. And it sounded as if he casts his own bronzes. Don’t tell me you have a foundry on the grounds?”
“Good Lord, no—he sculpts here, but found a place in Antibes to do the actual pouring, where they let him help. Though you’re right, Gerald was thinking about setting one up in an out-building, until Rafe invited us all for what he called a demonstration pour. We made the mistake of thinking of it as a party, and about a dozen of us went—but oh my goodness. I had this pretty silk dress that I planned to wear for Easter and it was spoiled completely. But I guess Rafe likes doing them, and they are interesting, no doubt about that. He has another one coming up soon. Tuesday, I think?”
“I’m surprised he has the patience for demonstrations to hoi polloi,” I remarked. “He seems a bit dismissive of people who aren’t artists.”
“He can be a little abrupt, can’t he? And secretive—he goes off to the foundry at all hours, won’t show even Gerald what he’s done until he’s all finishe
d. But he likes to lecture, as you’ll have noticed, and he does enjoy the manly showmanship, stripping down to his under-vest—which, I was amused to see, the other workers don’t do. He had a pour one scorching day in June, just before Gerald and I set off for Venice, and most of the group left early to go find a drink. The only ones who stuck it out were me and Gerald and a couple of the Russians, who seemed bizarrely fascinated. Though I’m not sure if the fascination was in the process of pouring molten bronze into a mould, or watching the muscles of the young man doing it.”
We thought it over, and agreed that there was no accounting for the tastes of the aristocratic mind.
The sun climbed in the sky. Sara and I talked and the children played. Others came wandering in to take up positions on mats and join in what appeared a morning ritual of sherry-and-sweet-biscuits. Mrs Hudson was not among them. Gerald had come back from his swim and helped the children into a canoe to paddle about. I decided to go for a swim, using the Murphys’ striped tent to change. I wrapped myself in a concealing towel before I emerged, and paused to ask Gerald’s advice about local hazards. Sharks, jellyfish, jagged rocks? Speed-boats? But he assured me that the little Baie de la Garoupe was friendly and unafflicted, so I thanked him and continued down to where the tiny waves broke, tossing my towel and spectacles onto dry ground before wading in.
The water passed over my skin like silk, not as warm as the Venice lagoon but far cleaner. Up and down I swam, back and forth, blissfully thoughtless. By the time I returned to the beach, the encampment’s population had grown. I recognised Terry and Luca even without my glasses, but when it came to the others, I was glad I had left my possessions down the beach a way. I may have grown less sensitive over the years about my various scars, but I still find the questions intrusive.
It being near to midday now, Sara and Mademoiselle Geron took the children off for lunch and a rest. Gerald began to gather the adults, drawing us into his orbit with a promise of a grown-up lunch under the lime tree on Villa America’s terrace. We climbed the slope through the odour of hot leaves and the drone of cicadas, but when we came to the main road, I turned to follow the tram-tracks while the others continued on. I had gone some distance before Terry noticed and called a protest at my back.
I turned to give him a reassuring wave and called, “I have some things to do, Terry. Have fun, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
At the hotel, I scrubbed my salt-permeated body, ate a hearty lunch, and stretched out under the mosquito net for a couple of hours.
When the sun was lower in the sky, I dressed carefully, tucking a compact, lipstick, and necklace into my handbag, and set off in the hotel car for Monte Carlo.
The road narrowed after Nice, then rose, becoming a cliff-top track so precarious that I was tempted to leap out and walk the rest of the way. I’d thought it would be simpler to motor than take the train to Monaco, but I would re-think that for the return trip.
When we crossed into Monte Carlo, my finger-nails stopped digging into my palms and I started anticipating a drink.
But first, I wanted an overview of this place that had claimed Mrs Hudson’s heart. I told the driver to leave me off not at the Casino, but on the boulevard along the harbour-front. He glanced back at what I was wearing, which did not look suitable for a sailing cruise, then gave one of those eloquent French shrugs and continued without further comment through the old town to the waterfront.
The ancient harbour of Port Hercule was the reason for Monaco’s existence, but it was no longer the realm of fishermen and smugglers. These boats gleamed with polish and fresh paint. Some were low and sleek and built for speed, their bodies too streamlined for bunks and galleys. Others were intended for comfort, including one or two vessels so large they could have housed an English village. Grandest of all was the Bella Ragazza, some seventy metres of yacht so magnificent it would have been the envy of King George himself. I instantly coveted its lines.
Yes: even I, a person for whom sailing was a mixed gift, felt a stir of acquisitive lust at the glossy teak and polished brass before me. Didn’t I need a beautiful boat, really? True, sailing made my stomach heave, and even a placid outing left me aware that the sea was an unforgiving place of infinite danger—but just look at the loveliness of those lines, listen to the cheerful jangle of the rigging…
I caught my thoughts and deliberately turned my back on the water, to survey the Principality itself. To my left, at the top of a steep peninsula dotted with scrub and trees, was Monaco-Ville, the country’s oldest section. The palace was there, and around it, according to the guide-book, the primary offices of government. Locals called it The Rock, a blunt spit of land some two hundred feet high at its ridge. The Prince must have a spectacular view.
To my right lay the newer quarter of Monte Carlo, on another rocky plateau above the sea. According to the map, the Casino and opera house were at the top of the wide promenade rising from the harbour. Behind Monte Carlo, one could see the trailing end of the Maritime Alps.
Between these two high sections of Monaco was the district called La Condamine. Con- and dominium—“shared ownership”—referred to ground worked by the cliff-dwellers perched on both sides. Not that much agriculture went on in La Condamine these days. So far as I could see, the main crop of Monaco today was harvested from the wallets of visitors. However, the area did appear to be a place of gardens, with palms and other trees around a pleasing mosaic of villas in many sizes and styles, set into the rising slopes.
Behind it all lay the high, thinly-wooded ridge line of France. A single sniper up there could cover the entire Principality.
But what an odd thought. Why would France want to lay siege to Monaco? If this place did not exist, this social pressure-valve of casinos and opera houses, this shelter for riches and place to avoid taxation, its neighbours would have had to invent it.
I strolled along the seafront, the harbour to my right. Following the promenade would take me from boats and gardens to a land of hotels and expensive entertainments, musical or financial. Flowers rioted along the path. Cars putted busily down and slowly up. The air smelt of salt water and jasmine, although I could see none of it growing in these cliff-side public gardens. Birds sang, a train puffed across the bridge joining the plateaus, palms whispered in the breeze, the music of sailboat rigging came from below. A Siren song, I thought, luring the unwary onto the cliffs.
Though to be fair, with France and Italy crowding in, the options open to such a tiny country were limited. And like any watering place, Monaco required a lovely and compelling face in order to keep a roof over the heads of its actual residents.
Halfway up the promenade, I paused to look over the harbour and town. The Rock across from me, the harbour below, its breakwater sheltering the gleaming hulls. There was even, moored among the sea-craft, an exotic cousin to their polished hulls: one of the sea-going biplanes that so thrilled Terry, lightly perched on its pontoons, brilliant white.
What was it about this place that appealed to Mrs Hudson? For twenty years, her rooms had looked onto a small, but private bit of garden—her quiet retreat, where a housekeeper might sit undisturbed on a pleasant afternoon. On the times I’d been invited in, I found nothing special about it, no elaborate design or exotic plants. Still, it was a place of tranquillity, and moreover, a place that was hers.
For a person whose entire life, as I learned this spring, had been rooted in danger and upheaval, I was beginning to see the appeal of a tranquil retirement.
The turmoil in Mrs Hudson’s life began when she was still in the womb. In 1855, when Victoria sat on the throne and war raged in the Crimea, her father fled England to avoid prosecution for his crimes, leaving behind a pregnant young wife.
In that same year, a merchant banker named Jack Prendergast was arrested for embezzling a quarter million pounds from his clients. He was convicted, sentenced to transportation, and taken in chains onto the Gloria
Scott, a ship bound for Australia.
One of the sailors on that ship was James Hudson.
Once away from England, off the coast of Africa, Prendergast bribed the crew to mutiny. But the mutiny went wrong and the ship sank. Prendergast died with his confederates. A mere handful of survivors got away. One of them was James Hudson.
From then on, Hudson lived as a confidence man, joined by his clever daughter, Clarissa. From the time she was eleven years old, the two fleeced the gullible from Sydney to London—until, at the age of twenty-one, she fell in love. Hudson lost his meal ticket, and in desperation, turned to blackmail.
That was when the situation came to the attention of a curious young undergraduate by the name of Sherlock Holmes. The case of Hudson’s blackmail was the first in Holmes’ long and illustrious career. It brought him to Mrs Hudson, to Dr Watson, and to the world.
But he never found Prendergast’s stolen money.
£250,000 was a mythic sum in the 1850s. Impossible to believe a fortune that huge might simply be swallowed by the waves—particularly once it came to light that Prendergast had bragged to his shipmates about having the balance of the money “right between my finger and thumb.”
It was assumed that Prendergast meant it was being held by one of his onboard confederates. But surely not in the cumbersome form of coin or bullion? Even the ship’s captain would have found it difficult to conceal that much gold on the small, crowded Gloria Scott.
Only much later did Holmes discover that Jack Prendergast, in his final days before the police net closed around him, had been to see a man named Bishop, a ruler in London’s criminal underworld. Bishop’s son, who later inherited the family business, had not been privy to the transaction, but he remained convinced that the old man had helped Prendergast convert his stolen fortune into something small and portable. Something that might indeed be held between finger and thumb.
But what? A deed? A banker’s cheque? A diamond to rival the Koh-i-Noor?
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