Free Murder At The Masque by Amy Myers

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 hadpromptly 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