Riviera Gold

by Laurie R. King

  Fortunately, Holmes knew how to sweep aside nuance. “You know why we’re here.”

  “I trust you did not imagine I killed that poor boy.”

  She was addressing Holmes, but I was the one to reply. “Of course not! But what on earth happened?”

  She merely waited, calmly meeting the eyes of her long-time employer.

  Who did not issue any blanket reassurance as to his own faith in her innocence. He pulled out a rickety chair and sat down. I took the one beside him. When she was also seated, he barked out a command.

  “Tell us what you know.”

  “Why?”

  Holmes bounced off that placid monosyllable as if it were a glass wall across a pathway. I imagine my face wore the same startled expression. An old woman in a stone cell—surely she’d be abjectly grateful for any friendly face, any faint promise of help?

  Apparently not.

  We both sat back, literally, to study the person across the table from us. The dress she wore showed no sign of having been slept in. Her new hair style was similarly neat, her nail varnish intact, her lips tinted with the same lipstick I’d seen on the beach the other day—though her face, bare of makeup, betrayed every one of her near-seventy years.

  Nonetheless, she also looked as indomitable, and unflappable, as ever.

  “What do you mean, ‘why’? Holmes demanded. “Are you perhaps enjoying this time behind bars?”

  “Prison appears to be my fate, either here or in England. I imagine the food here is better than Holloway. And my cell does have a magnificent view. They seem to have put me in an office, rather than in the usual bowels of the place.”

  The two of them locked gazes across the splintered table-top, glowering on one side and seemingly indifferent on the other. I was just thinking that I wanted the trick to her composure when I felt Holmes shift—and before he could rise and stalk out, I blurted the first thing that came to mind.

  “Doesn’t the boy’s death deserve an investigation?”

  Only then did it come to me that her phrase—“that poor boy”—had been more than an impersonal category. She knew the victim, and felt some affection, or responsibility, or both, for his welfare. She’d inadvertently handed me the way to prise her open.

  Her impervious look took on a tinge of remonstration—et tu, Brute?—but I did not retract the question. Holmes remained seated. After a moment, she sighed.

  “You’re right, Mary. I am of limited good inside this place, and the lad deserves better. But first, what are you two doing here? Mary, I understand—you and your friend passing through on a sailing yacht from Venice—but you, Mr Holmes? You don’t appear to have spent the past weeks under the sun going a fashionable brown, but this only happened yesterday. Or did you come here because your brother reported that I was seeing the wrong sorts of people?”

  “Were you?”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Monaco is the size of Hyde Park with half the population of Eastbourne. A person can’t help coming into contact with everyone from trash-man to prince, merely walking down the street.”

  Her reply was the merest fraction too pat, her face a little too smooth: there was a lie there somewhere. But then, why not? Our very presence here intruded on her privacy. I could not blame her for resisting where she could.

  Besides which, I had to ask: “Is she right, Holmes? Have you had Mycroft spying on her?”

  “I have not.”

  I was going to press him—just because Holmes did not ask his spymaster brother to watch her didn’t mean Mycroft wasn’t doing just that—but he cut me off.

  “Mrs Hudson, kindly proceed, as succinctly as possible. Visiting times may be lim—”

  The door behind us clattered open. We turned to see the guard negotiate the doorway bearing the French version of a tea-tray, with three cups, a small coffee pot, and a jug of heated milk. But I noticed the colour of the liquid coming from the spout, then the absence of aroma, and a wary sip confirmed my suspicions: not good French coffee, but an attempt at tea, using old leaves, under-boiled water, and a pot that had not been scrubbed after it last bore coffee.

  Mrs Hudson, proud wielder of teapots and baking trays, looked askance at the offering. So much for her claims of the prison’s superior kitchen.

  “They may need some time to learn the subtleties of English tea,” she admitted, and apologetically nudged the hot milk in my direction.

  All three of us added a lot of sugar and milk, stirred hopefully, and took sips. Then all three of us set our cups back on the tray.

  Still, the interruption did indicate both that Mrs Hudson would not suffer from neglect while she was here, and that our visit would not be cut short by her gaoler’s petty authority.

  Mrs Hudson cleared her throat, then resumed.

  “I have been coming to Monte Carlo since 1877,” Mrs Hudson said. “It was the Christmas season, I was twenty-one, and the place was magical.

  “As both of you know, my father and I…lived by means that were not entirely above board. And I will admit, our weeks here were lucrative. However, that was the only time he and I came, since the following year I was busy elsewhere, and then I had a child and…well, you know the story after that.

  “I have come back several times over the years, but each of those was an actual holiday, with my only transgressions the small sins any person would indulge in around a Casino table. I may have presented myself as someone other than a housekeeper. As I may have permitted you to think I was visiting family in Australia, or my friend Ivy, when in fact I was here. With other friends.

  “I enjoy Monaco, and not just for the Casino. After so many English winters, I relish the warmth and the gardens, to say nothing of the setting—why, even those who live in cliff-side hovels may have a millionaire’s view. And I find the community here invigorating: the excitement of risking all seems to permeate the very air, even for those who never set foot inside the Casino itself.

  “When I came here in May, I was not looking for a holiday, but a home. I used some of my savings to buy clothing as I passed through Paris, so that I didn’t step down from the train looking like a housekeeper. My friend here introduced me to her friends, one of whom had a small house I liked and could afford. I established myself at the local bank, with an eye to building my claim to a year’s residency, after which any income—including the pension you so kindly arranged for me—would be free of taxation.

  “Still, Monaco is not an easy place to live on a limited budget. I knew I would need a source of income. Nothing,” she said firmly, “against the law. This place has learned a great deal about catching criminals since the 1870s. If I wanted to live here, I needed to stay absolutely above the board.”

  She cast an oddly demure look down at her hands. “Nonetheless, even legitimacy can open some interesting doors. And being a tiny place, Monaco brings one into some interesting circles. Occasionally those provide opportunities for a future.”

  Holmes was radiating impatience. She picked up the pace. “I met Niko through my old friend. Whose name, before you ask, I will not give you. She doesn’t need you at her door asking impertinent—”

  “Wait,” I interrupted. “You said Niko?”

  “Yes, Niko Cassavetes.”

  “You mean—wasn’t he that beautiful young man who came to the beach the other day? Oh dear. Is that who died?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  That animated Hellenistic sculpture with the green eyes. “No. We only heard the vaguest of news this morning, and the newspaper thought he was French. Then at the police station, we thought it simpler to stick to the main point. Which was finding you.”

  “I see. Yes, his name is—his name was Niko Cassavetes, and although he didn’t look particularly Greek, with those eyes, I did hear him talking to one of Gerald Murphy’s friends about the fighting in Thessaloniki.”

&nb
sp; Wait—had this “boy” been a child soldier? The figure on the beach could have been too far away to reveal his age. “How old was he?”

  “In his early thirties, I should say. Small, though, and with delicate features. I suppose one thought of him as younger.”

  I revised my picture of “that poor boy” up a decade or two, and nodded for her to continue.

  “He’s a—he was—a handsome lad. And clever. A good ear for languages, which was more or less how he made a living. As I understand it, he turned up in Monaco three or four years ago, a sailor left ashore after an injury. He scraped a living doing odd jobs until the expatriate community discovered his knack for tongues. Greek, and naturally French, but also Russian, Italian, something that might have been Turkish, and a bit of German. His English was basic but clear, with a charming accent. He could drive a motorcar, and had lovely manners. Word got around, and people hired him as a valet, a secretary, a local guide—anything, really—especially during the busy winter season.

  “He was not, let me be clear, a gigolo. Some assumed he was, and I imagine he could have done quite well for himself, had he decided to branch out.” Before I could decide how I felt about Mrs Hudson talking so easily about male escorts, she went on. “And so far as I know, he was no confidence-trickster. He was…not overly concerned about legality, and no doubt he accepted gifts of cash or nice clothing, but I never heard of him actively stealing anything.”

  “He was a pet,” Holmes said.

  “A useful one. He knew everyone—I met him my first week here. And Niko was the reason I was on the Murphys’ beach the other day.

  “As you know, between the heat and the mosquitos, summer is not an attractive time on the Riviera. Most winter residents close up their houses in May, which leaves year-round workers with sparse income. However, in recent years, a number of hotels and cafés along the coast have seen a trickle of visitors, particularly Americans, who find an appeal in baking themselves to a crisp on sweltering beaches. And, when the sun goes down, in drinking and making mischief. This year, the trend has become startlingly obvious—and these people are not here because they can’t afford the Riviera in winter.

  “Niko first encountered the Murphys and their…‘set’ I suppose one would call it, two years ago. No doubt he found their taste in off-season holidays a boon to his bank account. And they were happy to pay for his assistance in all sorts of things, from finding a house to hiring a boat to tracking down a favourite kind of sketching pad. If one wants Bastille Day fireworks or a metal foundry for an artist’s bronze sculptures, Niko is your man. Although I cannot imagine the heat of a foundry in August.”

  “That sculptor would be Rafe Ainsley?”

  “None other.” Was that a faint air of disapproval?

  “Bit of an upstart,” I commented.

  “I understand that he is a respected artist of the modern sort.”

  “There was a Russian count talking to him at the Murphys’ party the other night. Sara said he has commissioned some pieces. They were an odd pair, but thick as thieves.”

  “Count Vasilev.” Or was it distaste?

  “If you dislike these men, why consort with them?” Holmes said.

  “Because they are people who pay generously for help in smoothing their time here, whether by locating a yacht or entertaining children. A kind of smoothing, I might note, that I spent much of my life doing for you.”

  I felt like cheering at this sign of tart resistance—and I must have betrayed some small reaction, because she shot me a quick glance before returning to Holmes. “At any rate, Niko introduced me to the Murphys in early June, as they were preparing to leave for Venice. We had a most interesting conversation on their lovely terrace, and two weeks later, I had the basis for a proposal to the Société des Bains de Mer—you know who they are?”

  “We do.”

  “The SBM have begun to worry about the decreasing popularity of Monte Carlo with the younger generation. The Casino has always strived for an air of dignity and exclusivity, and the Jazz Age threatens to leave it behind. After I met the Murphys and their friends—people who struck me as representative of the modern age—I came up with some ideas on how that might be avoided. How the SBM might regain a sense of wholesomeness and fresh air while preserving the piquant fun.”

  “Ideas for whom?”

  “The directors of the SBM in general, and the Princess Charlotte in particular.”

  This caught Holmes’ attention. “You have met her?”

  “I did point out the intimacy of the community here, did I not? Yes, we were introduced by a friend.”

  “The same nameless one?”

  The grey head nodded. “They agreed to my shaping a more detailed proposal, which could lead to a contractual agreement. Until…this.” Her gaze swept the dingy room, ending up on the milk-scummed liquid in the cups before her.

  “And young Monsieur Cassavetes. How did he come to die in your front room?”

  She winced. “Poor Niko. And poor Madame Crovetti, who will be faced with scrubbing the floor-boards. That’s my landlady. Although I fear that after this, she will have my things taken down to the street. At the least, I shall need to write her a substantial cheque.”

  “Mrs Hudson,” Holmes warned.

  “I don’t know how Niko came to die in my house. I was not at home. I was there earlier—I even saw him, briefly, when he knocked on the door—but I had an engagement so I told him I would see him in the morning.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Three, half-past, maybe? Around then. He spotted me coming home and wanted to talk, but I needed to bathe and dress so I told him it would have to be in the morning.” She gave us a sad smile. “One more regret to add to a life.”

  “How did he happen to see you coming home? Was he waiting for you?”

  “Not necessarily. Niko lived next door to me.”

  “I see. Was Madame Crovetti his landlady, as well?”

  “That was how I met her. My friend here introduced me to Niko, who told me that his landlady was looking for someone quiet to rent a small house.”

  “And you left for your…appointment when?”

  “A few minutes after four.”

  “What time did you return home?”

  “After eleven. I hadn’t planned on staying out for dinner, but my friend urged me, and it being informal and in a private home, what I was wearing did not matter. We dined, the others left, I had a last drink, and walked home. When I turned on the light…there he was.”

  “Who is your solicitor?”

  “My—oh. Well, let us see if I’m still here tomorrow. Perhaps I shan’t need one.”

  Holmes did not grace that with a reply. “And the policeman who is assigned your case. Do you know his name?”

  “The man I spoke with last night was named Jourdain. A grim sort of individual, but he seemed thorough.”

  The little window in the door behind us slid back on its tracks, as it had done twice before. This time, Mrs Hudson gave a small wave of the hand. “I believe my gaolers may be attempting to deliver luncheon.”

  “Well, we mustn’t delay that,” Holmes snapped. I realised abruptly that I was exhausted. Holmes, too, seemed to be fraying a bit. And yet, the prisoner—a sixty-nine-year-old woman who had discovered a dead friend, been arrested, spent the night in prison, and been interrogated first by the police and then by Sherlock Holmes—sat as straight-backed and self-possessed as ever.

  Holmes shoved back his chair, which cracked but did not completely fall to pieces. “We will either return or send a message, when we have news.”

  She rose, too. “I would appreciate that. Niko really was a lovely young man. I…I hope I am out of here in time for his funeral.” For the first time that morning, she showed signs of distress.

  “I shouldn’t count on it
,” Holmes said flatly, and turned to the door.

  I stopped to give Mrs Hudson another quick hug, then hurried after him, not catching up until he was across the public gardens.

  “Holmes, you didn’t have to be so brutal. You can tell she’s mourning her friend.”

  “Even if she was the one to shoot him?”

  “You don’t believe that.” When he did not answer, I grabbed his sleeve and forced him to stop. “You cannot believe Mrs Hudson killed that young man.”

  He raised his head to study the blue horizon, then at last let out a breath. “I do not see why she would. But I have been blind to that woman in the past. I will not trust my instincts now. Nor yours.”

  I could see there was little point in argument. Even less point in asking if we planned on investigating. “Where do you suggest we begin?”

  “The police,” he said. “I need to see how much of a mess they’ve made of it so far.”

  We retraced our steps to the Palais de Justice, and then to the local police station down in the town, but at neither of them did we find Inspector Jourdain. However, we did locate the foot-patrol officer who had been first on the scene: a squat, swarthy man in his fifties with suspiciously black hair beneath his cap. His French had a faint Italian accent, which I would learn was that of the native Monégasque.

  To my surprise, he did not hesitate to tell us where Mrs Hudson lived, and seemed willing to answer our questions, so long as we let him continue his patrol of the narrow streets. With Holmes beside him and me on their heels, he confirmed that the young man, having been found on the floor of Madame Hudson’s house, had been shot in the chest.

  “Was the gun found?”

  “It was not.”

  “Who notified the police?”

  “The lady herself, from her landlady’s telephone.”

  “What time would that have been?”

  “Well before midnight. Eleven twenty, perhaps?”

  “Who was in the house when you got there?”