tradesman.’
‘Ah, but I do not tell Marie about my egg. I tell no one. So it must be Igor who talks.
Voilà
, someone in society.’ She paused. ‘Someone here
now
.’
‘And there is the Seventh Egg also. You can tell me where La Belle Mimosa lives?’ he asked eagerly.
She laughed. ‘Better than that,
mon chéri
, I will show you the lady herself. She will be there at the ceremony, of course. I will introduce you.’
‘You
know
her?’ Auguste was scandalised, using the word with its full social import.
‘Of course,’ she laughed. ‘She and I, we are alike – we are in society, but not of it. She is exquisite, La Belle Mimosa. There is a fountain here, erected last year; it is sculpted into interesting and beautiful shapes – mostlythose of La Belle Mimosa; I will introduce you, but I will watch you carefully, Auguste.’
‘You need not fear,’ he replied devotedly. He hesitated as she stepped gracefully into the carriage. ‘You are sure you wish me to ride at your side?’ he inquired awkwardly.
She reached out her hand. ‘Yes,’ she answered simply. ‘Why not?’
Why not? Auguste thought of the complex laws of society, of her reputation as one of the greatest ballerinas of the day, and his respect for her grew. He climbed up beside her.
‘And now,
chéri
,’ she announced happily, ‘you will tell me of your other case.’
‘Ah, the ghost.’
Ghost? A smile came to her lips. ‘You are a
ghost
-hunter. Bravo,
mon héro
.’
‘I have
seen
it,’ retorted Auguste huffily. ‘It is the Man in the Iron Mask.’
‘Ah, my friend, you read too many romances. I let you hunt your ghost, while I dance, I think.’
‘You may laugh,
chérie
,’ said Auguste with dignity. ‘But until I have laid this ghost to rest, I shall not rest. No matter where the quest might lead me,’ he perorated in a manner of which Rachel Gray would have approved.
Rachel Gray waved a languid hand towards her husband, a cold compress clutched to her brow with the other.
Cyril Tucker sighed. He supposed he should have expected trouble, renting the Villa Sardou where her namesake, the famous tragedienne Rachel, had died. He should have foreseen his wife would metamorphose herself. Really, it was much easier to live with her on her occasional forays into comedy.
‘Fetch me—’ Rachel paused. What could she ask for? Nothing came to mind, ‘Ah, it is too much,’ she said, defeated. ‘I cannot go. I lack the strength.’
She did not look as if she lacked strength, her Junoesquefigure stretched out on the chaise longue, black hair floating round her.
‘My dear,’ murmured Tucker on cue, but coming in with the wrong line. ‘It is the Prince of Wales we are to honour after all.’
A savage look was his reward. ‘What have I to do with princes?’ Rachel demanded feebly. ‘Art is my only mistress.’
Belatedly Cyril remembered the correct line, privately thinking a mistress of any kind might not be a bad idea. ‘My dear,’ he cried obediently, ‘you have a duty to the public.’
‘True.’
Rachel rose briskly to her feet, suddenly all practicality. ‘Have you summoned the carriage? Is the
mistral
blowing? Shall I wear this’ – putting an ornate confection of blue on her head – ‘or this?’ The blue was replaced by an even more elaborate red hat. ‘And where is Mephistopheles?’
‘Here, my angel.’ Tucker was on cue this time, handing over the sullen bulldog gladly. It had been acquired nearly four years previously, not out of a great love for dogs, but in a bid to even up the score with her rival Mrs Patrick Campbell, and partly in a bid to pay tribute to Mr Jones’s poetic drama
Saints and Sinners
in the hope of a summons for his next play. Both bids had failed, and Mephistopheles returned with relief to the servants’ room where he now remained except on state occasions. This was one.
Rachel was very cautious where the
mistral
was concerned. She had once come to stay at the Grand Hotel in
‘Ah, but I do not tell Marie about my egg. I tell no one. So it must be Igor who talks.
Voilà
, someone in society.’ She paused. ‘Someone here
now
.’
‘And there is the Seventh Egg also. You can tell me where La Belle Mimosa lives?’ he asked eagerly.
She laughed. ‘Better than that,
mon chéri
, I will show you the lady herself. She will be there at the ceremony, of course. I will introduce you.’
‘You
know
her?’ Auguste was scandalised, using the word with its full social import.
‘Of course,’ she laughed. ‘She and I, we are alike – we are in society, but not of it. She is exquisite, La Belle Mimosa. There is a fountain here, erected last year; it is sculpted into interesting and beautiful shapes – mostlythose of La Belle Mimosa; I will introduce you, but I will watch you carefully, Auguste.’
‘You need not fear,’ he replied devotedly. He hesitated as she stepped gracefully into the carriage. ‘You are sure you wish me to ride at your side?’ he inquired awkwardly.
She reached out her hand. ‘Yes,’ she answered simply. ‘Why not?’
Why not? Auguste thought of the complex laws of society, of her reputation as one of the greatest ballerinas of the day, and his respect for her grew. He climbed up beside her.
‘And now,
chéri
,’ she announced happily, ‘you will tell me of your other case.’
‘Ah, the ghost.’
Ghost? A smile came to her lips. ‘You are a
ghost
-hunter. Bravo,
mon héro
.’
‘I have
seen
it,’ retorted Auguste huffily. ‘It is the Man in the Iron Mask.’
‘Ah, my friend, you read too many romances. I let you hunt your ghost, while I dance, I think.’
‘You may laugh,
chérie
,’ said Auguste with dignity. ‘But until I have laid this ghost to rest, I shall not rest. No matter where the quest might lead me,’ he perorated in a manner of which Rachel Gray would have approved.
Rachel Gray waved a languid hand towards her husband, a cold compress clutched to her brow with the other.
Cyril Tucker sighed. He supposed he should have expected trouble, renting the Villa Sardou where her namesake, the famous tragedienne Rachel, had died. He should have foreseen his wife would metamorphose herself. Really, it was much easier to live with her on her occasional forays into comedy.
‘Fetch me—’ Rachel paused. What could she ask for? Nothing came to mind, ‘Ah, it is too much,’ she said, defeated. ‘I cannot go. I lack the strength.’
She did not look as if she lacked strength, her Junoesquefigure stretched out on the chaise longue, black hair floating round her.
‘My dear,’ murmured Tucker on cue, but coming in with the wrong line. ‘It is the Prince of Wales we are to honour after all.’
A savage look was his reward. ‘What have I to do with princes?’ Rachel demanded feebly. ‘Art is my only mistress.’
Belatedly Cyril remembered the correct line, privately thinking a mistress of any kind might not be a bad idea. ‘My dear,’ he cried obediently, ‘you have a duty to the public.’
‘True.’
Rachel rose briskly to her feet, suddenly all practicality. ‘Have you summoned the carriage? Is the
mistral
blowing? Shall I wear this’ – putting an ornate confection of blue on her head – ‘or this?’ The blue was replaced by an even more elaborate red hat. ‘And where is Mephistopheles?’
‘Here, my angel.’ Tucker was on cue this time, handing over the sullen bulldog gladly. It had been acquired nearly four years previously, not out of a great love for dogs, but in a bid to even up the score with her rival Mrs Patrick Campbell, and partly in a bid to pay tribute to Mr Jones’s poetic drama
Saints and Sinners
in the hope of a summons for his next play. Both bids had failed, and Mephistopheles returned with relief to the servants’ room where he now remained except on state occasions. This was one.
Rachel was very cautious where the
mistral
was concerned. She had once come to stay at the Grand Hotel in
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