Free Murder At The Masque by Amy Myers Page B

days,
monsieur
? You have heard of the Man in the Iron Mask?’
    ‘
Mais oui, mon fils
, and I remember you. The small boy of Monsieur Didier—’
    ‘Yes,
monsieur
. But tell me, have you heard of the ghost?’
    ‘Ah yes,
monsieur
. Rumour has it that when he walks, there is danger.’
    ‘For whom?’
    ‘For those who see it – or for Cannes herself.’
    ‘But I have seen it,’ cried Auguste in alarm.
    The old man shook his head regretfully. ‘Then,
monsieur
, beware. Old Madame Briard saw it and the next day she was dead.
Murdered
,’ he said with gusto. ‘And Monsieur Pintard, too, and’ – remembering his grievance – ‘many people saw him the day before Lord Broogam arrived, and see what happened to our beautiful village! Pah –
les hiverneurs
.’
    Danger . . . Auguste frowned. There were no such things as ghosts. He would prove it, wouldn’t he?
    The portly man in late middle age with a splendid moustache and beard stood to attention as ‘God Save the Queen’ was played. He was duly presented with a silver trowel, far from the first in his long career, and duly cemented in stone the never-ending love-hate relationship of the French and English. He composed his features into the correct expression for the long flowery speech in his honour by the Mayor, only to find the agony extended into an equally long and flowery one by the Prefect. He then recited his own diplomatic hope that France might long enjoy the benefits of the Government of the Republic, and that cordial relations between France and Great Britain (so necessary for his own future enjoyment of the delights of Paris) ‘may long continue for the good of humanity’. He meant it. To him this stone was a symbol, an
entente cordiale
. . . Now that wasn’t a bad idea . . . When he was king . . .

Chapter Four
    The Cannes Cricket Club had begun enthusiastically at the end of the 1880s, but had had an existence as bumpy as its pitch. The Mediterranean climate simply did not understand the demands of cricket. Nevertheless the English pressed on doggedly. Golf was all very well, ran their thinking, but cricket was England. The French remained unconvinced. Perhaps as a result of their lack of enthusiasm, the pitch’s site had one or two disadvantages, the main one being the ostrich farm next door whose occupants took all too much interest in their neighbour’s movements. In the tradition of good sportsmen, the English put up with it.
    The same tradition led them to erect a pavilion as reminiscent of Lord’s as they could manage handicapped by French workmen. It was somewhat more squat, and the balconies became one covered verandah, but the results satisfied them that they had done their duty by England, and the British flag flew proudly from the roof.
    The symbol of the flag was mainly responsible for the club receiving the ultimate accolade this year – the presence (albeit unwilling) of the Prince of Wales. No lover of cricketing politics, he had successfully evaded the club in his previous private annual visits to Cannes. This year, with yesterday’s ceremony, the club had taken the mean advantage of assuming he was here officially, and requested him to bat for the honour of England, appointing him honorary captain. Trapped, he had reluctantly agreed on condition that he bat No. 11, and on no account would he be calledupon to field, let alone to bowl. This compromise (since the Prince’s girth made his presence on the field more of a liability than an asset) suited everyone.
    However, a harassed Auguste was far from appreciating the enormous advantage the presence of the Prince bestowed upon the proceedings.
    ‘Monsieur Boris, you cannot put the
ballotine
on the hot kitchener,’ shouted Auguste, agonised beyond endurance as he rushed round the small kitchen in the Pavilion, normally designed to provide only gateaux, ices and sandwiches.
    ‘Yis. Yis, Diddiums.’
    Auguste flinched at this Ukrainian crassness.
    ‘Here, I put it on the