Murder At The Masque by Amy Myers Read Free Book Online

he cried. ‘A luncheon for His Royal Highness at the cricket match cannot serve meatballs.’
    ‘Cricket,’ remarked Rose disgustedly. ‘I come all the way to France and hear about nothing but cricket. What’s it all about?
What
match?’
    ‘The Gentlemen versus the Players. There is coffee, then there is luncheon, then there is tea, then there is apeŕitifs. In between there is cricket,’ Auguste explained simply. ‘Everyone will be there.’
    ‘Including my cat burglar perhaps?’
    ‘The Grand Duke thinks someone will take Misha?’ (This was not the original Misha naturally, but Imperial Grand Cat Misha IV to give her full title.)
    Rose grinned. ‘No, Auguste. The sort of burglar that runs up drainpipes.’
    ‘And this is your case?’
    ‘I’m blowed if I know
what
my case is,’ said Rose.
    ‘Then you may help me solve mine,’ said Auguste generously. ‘Mine is The Mystery of the Man in the Iron Mask.’
    ‘I thought they solved that long ago,’ said Rose. He’d been reading about it in his guidebook on the railway train. ‘Not the brother of Louis the fourteenth, but an Italian gentleman by name of Matthioli, sort of messenger between the French ambassador to Venice and some Italian duke, while the ambassador was trying to get on the good side of Louis the fourteenth. Friend Matthioli was stupid enough to sell out to Louis’s enemies and landed up over there—’ He nodded towards the Ile Ste Marguerite lying peacefully in the blue sea.
    ‘And you are right. There is his prison – you see. He was kept in a room overlooking the sea, forced to wear an iron mask all the time, even to
eat
, his face never to be seen by anybody. There are many stories as to who he was, the English Duke of Monmouth some said, others a Dutchman who planned to kill
le roi
Louis the fourteenth, some say even the great Molière. Recently a new one – Eustache Dauger. Oh, there are many. But what
I
want to know is: why does his
ghost
still walk?’ Auguste paused impressively.
    ‘Ghost?’ Rose started to laugh. ‘You a ghost-hunter, Auguste? That’s your case, is it?’
    ‘It is all very well to laugh, Egbert. But I have
seen
this ghost.’
    ‘Too much fish soup,’ chortled Rose, unable to control his mirth.
    ‘Fish soup. Do not speak slightingly of fish soup,’ Auguste replied indignantly, ghosts forgotten. ‘Ah, Egbert, now you are here, I will cook for you the
real
fish soup.’
    ‘No, you won’t,’ said Rose hastily. ‘I’ve had quiteenough of fish soup, thank you,’ and related his gastronomic experience.
    It was Auguste’s turn to laugh. ‘Ah, Egbert, I will woo your appetite back. I will take you to the Faisan Dorè in the Rue d’Antibes where I was apprenticed to
le maître
Escoffier, you will taste of the wild hillsides and perfumes of Provence, dishes that are a song of which the troubadours would have been proud, you will feast as the gods. The honour of Provence is at stake here.’
    ‘And mine too, if I don’t crack my case.’ Rose turned to the matter in hand. He related the story of the Fabergé eggs, concluding with the Petrov Diamond. ‘Whatever that may have to do with it, if anything.
Wearing it
! I ask you,’ he added glumly. ‘Now you just tell me, Auguste, why anyone should want to steal
just
Fabergé eggs? And should I warn the Princess of Wales to keep hers locked up? Is he going to make for Sandringham next? Her egg came from the Tsar, of course,’ he added hastily, suddenly aware of his own implied
lèse majesté
.
    ‘Perhaps he steals for blackmail?’ offered Auguste diffidently. ‘If all these ladies are worried about their husbands knowing.’
    Rose considered this. ‘It’s a thought,’ he said at last. ‘But why just the Grand Duke’s ladies? Why not any jewels from any former lovers?’
    ‘Because,’ Auguste thought carefully, ‘these are the ones he
knows
about. He has heard gossip . . . perhaps he will move on to other things.’
    ‘Perhaps,’ said