Murder At The Masque by Amy Myers

table.’ Boris was unusually anxious to please. Auguste had not yet noticed the non-appearance of his
sanglier
. Boris rushed from the kitchen into the luncheon tent erected by the side of the Pavilion, hotly pursued by Auguste, determined that no Russian should mar the perfection of a table which he had himself approved.
    Left to himself, he would have served a Provencal feast of tapenades and fresh crusty bread, small succulent sardines and anchovies, oysters and langoustines, thick slices of country ham,
petites cailles
, a
salade de mesclun
, and the red sweet tomatoes of Provence. But such simple fare he knew full well would be disdained. For all the Prince of Wales’s love of plain food, it had to be English. So now they had a mixture of Russian dishes, including meatballs, mixed with over-sauced, rich fare. This meal would be a disaster, and he,
maître
chef Auguste Didier, was associated with it. Only the
sanglier
would save his reputation. The
sanglier
! A sudden fear gripped him.
    ‘Monsieur Boris,’ in awe-filled tones, ‘where is the
sanglier
?’
    Boris looked innocently puzzled. ‘The
sanglier
. Ah, Monsieur Didier—’ broad hand smote brow. ‘It is left behind. What catastrophe,’ he said, beaming.
    Auguste regarded him. ‘Left behind?’ he repeated, unable to believe it. Suspicion began to grow on him. ‘We will send for it,’ he said firmly.
    ‘It is gone,’ admitted Boris unhappily, edging back towards the kitchen.
    ‘Gone?’ repeated Auguste, neatly positioning himself between Boris and the door. ‘Gone? Eaten?’
    ‘Melted.’
    ‘No aspic of mine
melts
,’ Auguste pointed out. ‘
Where
is it?’
    ‘It is dropped.’ Then seeing Auguste’s face, Boris added encouragingly: ‘You not worry, Diddiums. I, Boris, guard the honour of Mother Russia. Do not fear. They will remember today
always
.’
    Here, he was entirely correct. Auguste, however, was in no mood to consider the future when the present seemed to hold only disaster.
    ‘They grind the faces of the poor and leave us only this,’ Boris continued morosely in a cunning bid for sympathy, picking up the vodka bottle.
    ‘
Non
,’ Auguste shouted. The affair of the
sanglier
must wait. A worse catastrophe stared at him in the shape of a bottle. ‘Not until after the meal,
monsieur. I
plead with you.’ He wondered anew what possible standard dinners could reach at the Villa Russe, when they were not able to import the services of an Auguste Didier.
    Reluctantly, the bottle was replaced on the cupboard, Boris’s hand lingering lovingly on it. ‘Come,’ said Auguste, overcoming his desire to pummel this wretched idiot with as little respect as he had treated his masterpiece of a
sanglier
, ‘we will check the coffee arrangements, yes?’
    Taking a reluctant Boris by the arm, he led him through the door into the salon where the participants and guests would shortly be gathering for the match. Refreshments would be served in the salon, while the combatants donned their battle gear for the fray in the changing room.
    Four footmen from the Villa Russe were busily and efficiently at work in the salon to Auguste’s surprise, but nevertheless he steered Boris bemusedly round the tables, checking the Harlequin decorations and the napkins folded cornucopia style.
    The salon was decorated with Phil May cricketing cartoons from
Punch
, photographs of past XIs, banqueting menus and old bats, all of which Inspector Fouchard, standing in one corner of the room, looking as out of place as W.G. Grace at a game of
boules
, regarded suspiciously as though just to spite him Nihilists or burglars might lurk behind this peaceful scene.
    The object he guarded lay on a velvet cushion on a silver salver – a sheathed dagger, hilt and sheath jewel-encrusted with diamonds, emeralds and rubies.
    ‘What,’ inquired Auguste, amazed at the incongruity, ‘is
that
?’ He expected Fouchard to reply. Instead, Boris suddenly became animated.
    ‘This,’