She frowned. “Are you seriously suggesting that we should obstruct the police in their inquiries?”

  “I wouldn’t obstruct them,” I said in a shocked tone. “I’m merely proposing to pursue an independent investigation, sub­ject, of course, to Jules’s permission, and if you and I succeed in unmasking the murderer, the outcome must be more satis­factory from every point of view.”

  “But the murderer is almost certainly one of the family.”

  “Exactly. And the family is one of the oldest in France. They can deal with it in their own way. They won’t want their name besmirched in the courts.”

  “Bertie, I don’t think the police will approve of this at all.”

  “I’m not seeking their approval, my dear.”

  For this, she treated me to a lecture on the French system of justice that I won’t bore you with, the gist of which was that an examining magistrate wouldn’t take any more kindly to interference than the police. I listened with restraint, finished my fish course, called for the next wine, a Saint-Estèphe, and repeated that we would definitely make a second visit to Montroger in the morning.

  She said, “You haven’t listened to a word I said.”

  “Every word, my dear,” said I. “Call me old-fashioned if you wish, but I put loyalty to an old chum above kowtowing to magistrates and policemen.”

  “Loyalty to an old chum! It’s not a matter of sentiment. It’s dangerous,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Well, if one of them is a murderer . . .”

  “Oh, that won’t arise,” I reassured her. “No, no, the great advantage we have over the police is that we can go into the house as friends of the family. I’ve done this before, Sarah. I’m an expert at lulling the guilty into a sense of security. Now, I think the waiter is approaching with your pheasant and truffles. Let us enjoy the meal. Do you know, I’m beginning to get an appetite?”

  And, my word, Magny’s excelled themselves. The bird was roasted to perfection, those truffles looking like ebony apples. There’s much to be said for the skills of a French chef, as I con­ceded to my companion, deftly moving the conversation into a different area of controversy. “But of all the cooks I have known, I award the palm to Rosa Ovenden, an Englishwoman of Cockney descent. Delightful creature. She is cook to Lady Randolph Churchill.”

  “And before that, she was kitchen maid to the Duc d’Aumale at Chantilly,” Bernhardt said in a way calculated to under­mine my claim. “Then she joined the staff of the Comte de Paris. She learned everything she knows from French chefs.”

  Warily I said, “You know the lovely Rosa, then?”

  “I have sampled her cooking.”

  “Weren’t you enslaved?”

  “I wouldn’t put it in quite those terms. She is an adequate cook of simple meals.”

  I would not be downed. Bernhardt is no more generous to her own sex than she is to foreigners, so I relished telling the story I had been leading up to. “The first time I met Rosa, I had no idea of her occupation. I was attending a shooting party at Chieveley Park and happened to slip into the dining room sometime before dinner in search of something to keep me going. I was not the first. At the sideboard was a stunning crea­ture dressed in a white gown and sipping champagne. We chat­ted agreeably and I found her so charming that I couldn’t resist planting a kiss on her cheek before leaving. But later when we all sat down to dinner, this vision in white wasn’t at the table. Somewhat disappointed, I made inquiries of my hostess and it was revealed to one and all that I must have kissed the cook. After a moment’s embarrassment, I laughed and then everyone else laughed, too, though a little uneasily. Then my hostess charmingly declared that I must have guaranteed them an excellent dinner.”

  Bernhardt forced herself to smile. The French sense of humor leaves much to be desired.

  However, Monsieur Magny judged it a suitable moment to approach the table and ask if we were enjoying our meal. I assured him that the fare was delicious and Bernhardt added waspishly, “Incomparable.”

  I told Magny that we would appreciate a few words with his headwaiter and his sommelier over coffee.

  Before that, I enjoyed a savory dish of quails garnished with peeled grapes, accompanied by Chambertin 1884, followed by some splendid rum babas and chocolate patisseries. Bernhardt had long since placed her napkin on the table, but she joined me in coffee and a small chasse café in the form of a cognac.

  Having verified that the headwaiter remembered meeting the Agincourt party on the evening of the murder, I asked him whether he had been able to observe their demeanor toward one another.

  He said, “Your Royal Highness, I noticed nothing unto­ward.”

  I said, “You don’t have to be discreet just because you’re talking to me, my good man. Be candid. Were any harsh words spoken between them?”

  The fellow was a typical stuffed shirt. You could tell straight away that he was going to say nothing of substance whatsoever. “I was not in a position to hear very much of what was said, even if I had been disposed to listen, sir.”

  “Of course, but you must have sensed the atmosphere at the table. Were they convivial?”

  “Cordial would be closer to it, sir.”

  “Cordial? They were celebrating a betrothal. ‘Cordial’ sounds like a funeral. No high spirits? Toasts to the happy cou­ple?”

  “None that I noticed, sir.”

  “Do you recollect who was in the party?”

  He described the four Agincourts and Letissier.

  “At least we’re talking about the same people,” said I in some frustration. “No one joined them, I suppose?”

  “I believe not, sir.”

  “Did you sense any unease at the table?”

  “Unease, sir?”

  He was a washout. A headwaiter should be as vigilant as a bride’s father. This one’s daughter could have married the sweep and he wouldn’t have noticed.

  “Be so good as to ask the sommelier to step over, will you?”

  I suppose it is in the nature of their work, but sommeliers in general are more forthcoming than headwaiters. This one was not much taller than Toulouse-Lautrec, Oriental in feature and indeterminate in age, but with a disarming grin that dis­played some wide gaps in his teeth. Yes, he had attended the Agincourts’ table and brought them champagne. To his eye, they were going through the motions of an engagement party without the expressions of joy normal on such occasions. “Madame la comtesse had much to say, very much, and it seemed to discourage the others.”

  “What was she talking about?”

  “Whenever I approached the table, the subject of her dis­course was the impossibility of finding reliable servants.”

  “They were discussing the servant problem at an engage­ment party?” said Bernhardt in disbelief.

  “The comtesse was expounding her views, madame. It was not a discussion. She held forth from the hors d’oeuvres to the savories and no one seemed willing to change the subject.”

  “Perhaps she was giving advice to the young couple,” said Bernhardt.

  “No doubt you are right, madame.”

  “There must have been some breaks in this monologue,” said I.

  “Once started, the comtesse is like—” He stopped himself.

  “A steam engine? We know the lady,” said I. “However, one of the party was murdered later in the evening, as I’m sure you know. Are you able to tell us anything at all about the oth­ers at the table? The daughter, for instance?”

  He put a hand to the silver corkscrew that he wore on a chain suspended from his neck and stroked it thoughtfully. “May I be frank, sir? She is a stunningly beautiful young girl, but that evening she was not so radiant as others I have seen on similar occasions. Her eyes should have flashed like the chande­liers. They were almost opaque.”

  “How extraordinary! And her manner?”

  “Demure and dignified.”

  Sarah exchanged a glance with me that said I had better take seriously her theory about a lover.

  “Tell us about the others,” I urged the man. “About Letissier. How was his behavior?”

  “My impression was that he was not displeased. Slightly ill at ease, perhaps, but no more than one would expect when his new fiancée was looking so wan. Yes, I would say that he was acting normally under the circumstances. And the comte, too, was doing his best to raise the spirits of the party by ordering some excellent wines. He knows the great years and he is gen­erous enough to order them.”

  “But he wasn’t interrupting his wife?”

  “You mentioned that you know the comtesse, sir?”

  “Point taken. That leaves the son, young Tristan. How was he holding up under Mamans dissertation?”

  “When he wasn’t actually eating, his eyes were on his sis­ter, sir.”

  “Interesting. He was sensitive to her mood, I take it?”

  “That is difficult for me to say, sir.”

  I nodded. The sommelier had more than compensated for the headwaiter’s blandness and I thanked him warmly and put something into his hand.

  I gestured to Magny and called him to the table. “We have had an excellent evening, patron, so I shall let you into a secret about one of your confrères. It was some years ago in another restaurant and the Swiss waiter was making pancakes for me beside the table on one of those contraptions.”

  “Flambé?”

  “Exactly. Unfortunately, the poor fellow betrayed some nerves and it was quite obvious that he was burning the first one. It was thin as lace. I told him not to be dismayed but to baste it immediately with curaçao and brandy, which he did. The result was delicious. That evening, we had discovered a new delicacy. He asked me if I would permit him to name it after his sweetheart. I suppose I could have insisted that he name it after me, but I am magnanimous about such matters. Instead of crêpes bertie, we gave the world crêpes suzette.”

  “Magnifique, Your Royal Highness!”

  “Is this true?” said Bernhardt.

  “You can ask the waiter concerned. He has an establish­ment not far from here. His name is Cesar Ritz.”

  Magny held up his hands, bereft of speech.

  “All of which leads me to add,” I continued, “that a few crêpes suzette and a little more champagne would not come amiss at the conclusion of this excellent meal. What do you say, Sarah?”

  CHAPTER 6

  Knollys, my private secretary, was fussing as usual when I called at the Bristol next morning to walk my dog.

  “We had no idea where to look for you, sir.”

  “Splendid,” I said.

  “But your bed wasn’t slept in.”

  “Francis, this is Paris, not Balmoral,” I told him good-naturedly. “The city wakes up at night. You should get out and see for yourself. Meet a charming mademoiselle and take her to a show and dinner afterward. It’ll do you no end of good and you’ll very soon understand why my bed wasn’t slept in.”

  He said, “I’m fifty-three years old, sir.”

  I said, “Well, I hope if I’m spared to live so long I won’t consider it an impediment to pleasure. Oh, I appreciate your concern, Francis, really I do, but it isn’t necessary.”

  As it happens, I was a little tetchy from having spent another innocent night with Bernhardt. After Magny’s, the lady had insisted on visiting an extraordinary entertainment in the boulevard de Rochechouart, with a notice outside that pro­claimed: Le Mirliton, for Audiences that Enjoy Being Insulted. A vulgar man called Bruant, dressed in velvet and a wide-brimmed hat, had fulfilled the promise with a series of unre­peatable songs and repartee that Sarah found enchanting but that I didn’t particularly care for. I put up with it manfully until dawn was breaking, seeing that she was so enraptured, and then took her for an early breakfast, but afterward I fell asleep in the cab on the way back to her apartment. It was the driver who wakened me in front of the Bristol, acting, he said, on Madame Bernhardt’s instruction, she having left the cab and paid our fare.

  “What do you have for me this morning?” I asked Knollys. “Any post?”

  There was a letter from Fredensborg—at last.

  Fredensborg Castle

  Beloved Bertie,

  I am writing this at once in response to your letter, which has just arrived. What dreadful tidings for the Agincourts! Such a kind, devoted family. I remember Rosine as a pretty child in ringlets and I can scarcely believe that she is old enough to have become engaged—but then our own darling boys grew up too fast. Life moves on so rapidly and so much that one has to face is cruel. God knows, we have had our share of heartbreak, but nothing so violent as this tragedy that the Agincourts must endure. When you send our con­dolences to Jules and Juliette (and Rosine, of course), be sure to mention that they are in my prayers.

  And now, my dearest, I venture to say something that you may find difficult to accept. I have never sought actively to curtail your freedom, nor would I, but these are difficult times—you said to me yourself that we are walking on eggs until that disagreeable business about the game of baccarat at Tranby Croft is resolved in the courts—and I have a strange presentiment that out of your generous nature you run the risk of becoming involved in the unhappy event that has befallen the Agincourts. You declare confidently that the Sûreté will make an arrest shortly, but what if they do not?

  Bertie dearest, we both know that from time to time you have interested yourself in an active way in cases of murder, and yes, I admit, the guilty parties were eventually appre­hended. This time, if the opportunity arose, you would be in no position to usurp the role of the detective police, and even if you were, the risks of being misunderstood are too appalling to contemplate. Paris may seem like a second home, but you are still in a foreign country. Their methods are not ours. With Tranby Croft hanging over us, we cannot afford more misunderstanding and the scandal that always comes in its wake. So I implore you most earnestly not to involve yourself in the Agincourts’ tragedy, however much your chivalrous feelings may prompt you.

  Now to other matters. If Paris is so cold—and I can believe it, for we have twelve degrees of frost in Copenhagen today—why don’t you travel immediately to the Riviera? I am sure Francis Knollys would make the arrangements speedily. He never seems entirely relaxed in Paris. And I do not like to think of you in a state of boredom.

  For me, here in the castle, life is tolerable, though I do wish they would serve something besides currant jelly for dessert. It is a great consolation to have Toria and Maud with me and we play loo every evening, but I think constantly of Louise, praying that she will not deliver prematurely. I am determined to be home in good time.

  Write again soon, my dearest. Remember I shall look first at the postmark to see where you are.

  Ever your devoted Alix

  Poor Alix! She is utterly loyal to her aged parents, but in truth, every hour she spends in Fredensborg is like a prison sen­tence. Part of the problem, I think (though she never admits it), is the difficulty of communication, for the old couple are both very deaf and so is Alix. A family conversation sounds like the Trooping of the Color.

  The rest of the letter was predictable, and of course matters had moved on so rapidly since it was written that Alix couldn’t possibly expect me to follow her advice in every particular. What a good thing her thoughts were so taken up with Louise’s pregnancy and the forthcoming arrival of our first grandchild.

  I stuffed the letter into my pocket, called for my terrier, Jack, and went for a stroll in the Champs-Elysees. The sun was out at last.

  For the rest of the morning, I was forced to take a nap.

  Jules d’Agincourt was surprised to see Bernhardt and me on his doorstep a second time, but he took it in good part. Having invited us inside and poured us cognacs, he said, “I need not ask why you are here. The police are getting nowhere.”

  “Have they been back?” I asked.

  “The chef de la Sûreté himself had long interviews yester­day with Juliette and Rosine. But he should be making his inquiries in Montmartre, not here.”

  I gently disabused him of this opinion. “Jules, the police may not be so far astray as you believe. They do not know it yet, but this was found hidden at the Moulin Rouge on the evening of the murder.” I handed him the revolver with the Agincourt coat of arms.

  He let it rest on his hands and stared at it in silence for a long time.

  Finally he said in a voice tremulous with emotion, “Found at the Moulin Rouge?”

  “And recovered later by Sarah and me.”

  I watched him keenly. After all, no investigator worthy of the name can permit friendship to get in the way of the truth. Those patrician features and the pale blue eyes and the lines around them that formed into an expression of absolute genial­ity when he smiled (and you always expected him to) had to be treated as suspicious. I had always taken his intelligence to be a force for good and never known any cause to doubt that assumption, but I understand enough about human nature to know that in extremis a clever mind may be artful in deceit.

  His lips formed a word and then closed as if his voice was unable to function. He made another try. “You said the police are not informed yet?”

  “That is so.”

  “It means . . .” He was unable to go on.

  I said, “We believe the truth is to be found in this house, Jules.”

  He lowered his head. I can’t begin to tell you how dis­tressing it was to see my old friend in such a state of shock, but I had to be firm with him.

  I lifted the revolver from his open palms. “We have a choice. We can hand this to the police. Or we can conduct our own investigation here, in the family and among friends.”

 

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