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The Case of the Missing Madonna

A Patrick de Courvoisier Mystery

Severn House Publishers Ltd

On their approach to Heathrow the captain had informed his passengers that the weather in London was cloudy, with a temperature ten degrees cooler than Patrick de Courvoisier had left behind in Nice. Adding for good measure that there was a strong possibility of rain. The resulting groan from his fellow passengers had mirrored Patrick's own thoughts exactly.

Now, emerging from Victoria underground station, he was met by a chilly wind and a few drops of the forecasted rain. Not quite the right weather for a Buckingham Palace garden party. The Queen of England could invite her subjects to attend, what she couldn't do was guarantee them good weather, even in June.

Patrick exited the shelter of the underground station and headed for Grosvenor Gardens, intending to deposit his overnight bag at the hotel. After which, he would have a stiff drink and make his final decision. He was still being tempted by the idea of not turning up as requested (ordered), although he suspected the Foreign Office already knew he'd booked an airline ticket from Nice and a hotel room near the palace for tonight.

His former bosses, despite recent cuts to their budget, could still do what they deemed was in their best interests. They also disliked rogue employees, as much as they disliked rogue states. So although he could tell himself he no longer worked for Her Majesty's government, his position was rather like becoming a lord. Once you were in, only death could put you out.

Having left his bag at the hotel reception, Patrick declined the opportunity to view his room and headed back out, intent on having his drink a little closer to his destination.

The bar he finally selected was peopled by a number of couples who Patrick suspected were headed in the same direction as himself, mainly because of their mode of dress. Not many men wear a top hat and tails to work on a Thursday afternoon. Nor do women wear tiny net hats and impossibly high heels unless going to a wedding.

Patrick ordered an Islay malt at the bar, added a little water, then carried it and a bowl of savoury nibbles downstairs. From his memory there was rather poor fare on the food front at a royal garden party, particularly for commoners, and definitely no alcohol, hence the gathering of attendees in the bar prior to their royal engagement.

The diplomatic tent would no doubt produce better offerings. As for what was served in the royal tent, Patrick had no idea, although he was amused at the idea of Her Majesty eating little square chocolate cakes with her initials stamped on them.

Apart from a similarly dressed couple at the foot of the stairs, the lower area was empty. Patrick located the most secluded alcove and bagged himself a table. It was difficult to believe that a little more than four hours ago he'd been breakfasting on board Les Trois Soeurs in the old harbour at Cannes, with Oscar, his French bulldog, spread out frog-like at his feet. It already seemed a world and a lifetime away. Or had his eighteen-month sojourn in Cannes on board his beloved gunboat been merely a break in his career? That's what London chose to think, and by coming back to order he would appear to be endorsing such an idea.

Patrick let his anger settle a little before sampling the whisky, then sat back in the chair to contemplate his plan. The royal invitation had arrived in the midst of a rather delicate and complex job, which had involved finding a missing starlet and a black pearl during the Cannes film festival. Angered at the none too subtle order to return to the London fold, Patrick had torn the gold-rimmed card in two and thrown it in the bin. He'd hoped ignoring the summons might be the end of the matter, but unfortunately he'd been proved wrong.

It was partly his own fault it had come to this. Had he kept his head down more, he might have escaped notice a while longer. However, his actions during the case of the black pearl had served to expose him to his former bosses and thus put his 'retirement' in jeopardy.

Although he wasn't entirely the one at fault.

Lieutenant Martin Moreaux of the French Police Nationale had played a part in his summons to London. Patrick was certain of that. Thinking of the detective now brought a clear picture of him to mind: short and lean, with iron-grey hair. Patrick could almost smell the cheroots Moreaux favoured. Moreaux, he was sure, would have welcomed the possibility of his departure from Cannes, and had therefore disclosed rather more about Le Limier's activities to his former employers than Patrick would have liked.

His French nickname, which translated as 'the Fixer', had been bestowed on Patrick by the residents of Le Suquet, the medieval district of Cannes in which he now lived. Born and bred in Le Suquet, Lieutenant Moreaux considered Patrick an irritating incomer who interfered in business best left to himself. The two men had worked together in the past, particularly during the case of the black pearl, but the arrangement was definitely not a marriage made in heaven. And given an opportunity of divorce, it seemed Moreaux had jumped at the chance.

Patrick drank down the malt as a waiter approached, and ordered another one, then set about consuming the nibbles. He would make his visit to the diplomatic tent as short as possible. He would listen to whatever they had in mind for him, then politely decline. They could pressure him to work for them, but they couldn't make him. They knew things about him they could make public, but then again he knew things about them, too. And in this new internet age it had become easier to expose those in power, for the manner in which they handled that power.

Patrick didn't fancy a fight. He just wanted to live the life he'd chosen in Cannes. One that suited him very well. There, he was his own boss. He decided when he would use his skills, how much he would charge, and best of all exactly who he would work for. In his previous employment there had been no choice, and duty had been cited as the only explanation for doing it. Patrick had seen how empty such a term was, especially when it played havoc with ordinary people's lives. So he'd switched his allegiance to ordinary people, and was glad that he had.

The second malt arrived with a small jug of water, just as two hatted women clattered down the stairs, heading for the Ladies. They reminded Patrick of exotic butterflies, their head attire like colourful wings. Patrick didn't envy their chances in a windswept garden with little cover apart from the tea tent, in which there would be no room to sit.

Queuing in the rain for a cup of tea, a cucumber-and-mint sandwich and a tiny chocolate square, with EIIR on it, didn't seem worth the effort. Still, the garden parties did wonders for dress and hat sales in the more exclusive London shops, and suggested to those who attended that they had at least reached the bottom rung of the ladder that led to the royals.

It was also good PR for the House of Windsor and gave a semblance that we were 'all in it together'. When the Romans had worried about the allegiance of those they'd conquered, they'd simply made them Roman citizens. Better to keep your enemy in the tent pissing out, than outside pissing in.

Which was no doubt exactly what his former employers were thinking about him.

Cynicism gave the next mouthful of whisky a bitter taste. Patrick resolved not to think in a scathing manner any more, but to enjoy the remainder of his drink then head for the gate and get things over with.

The nibbles had done little to assuage his hunger, but he had no desire to eat a proper meal between the flight from Nice and the garden party, knowing that he wouldn't enjoy the food, however good it might be.

So he had thus made up his mind to wait until after the proceedings then head for a little French restaurant he knew close to his hotel, where he could pretend he was already back in Cannes. Between then and now he would just have to fill the gap with miniature sandwiches, cakes and a pot of Earl Grey.

As he walked briskly towards the garden entrance, Patrick considered who would be there to greet him. Forsyth was the obvious choice, but unlikely to get the result they wanted. If intelligence prevailed, they would send a more diplomatic diplomat. An image of one came to mind, causing him a little dismay. Should it be Charles Carruthers, that might prove a problem. Patrick had a great deal of respect and time for Charles.

They would know that, of course, so the odds were on Carruthers, but only if he agreed. Patrick recalled their last meeting at Carruthers' club, when over drinks Patrick had informed him he was resigning. There had been a short silence while Carruthers considered this. No bluster or arrogant dismissal of Patrick's supposed stupidity, as would have occurred with Forsyth. Charles had eventually given a wry smile and said 'What about your pension?'

'I don't care about it,' Patrick had answered.

Charles had nodded, accepting that. 'It's not usual, you know, to leave us,' he'd said, thoughtfully.

Patrick had shrugged, past caring about what was usual or acceptable. 'Will they try to stop me?' he'd asked.

Charles had savoured his brandy before answering. 'I think they'll watch you go and await your return' had been his reply.

'I won't come back.' Patrick had been adamant.

And yet, here he was.

A queue had formed at the garden entrance. Patrick went directly to the front, where two smartly dressed gentlemen were examining invitations similar to the one he'd torn up. As he approached, one of the men appeared to be listening to a voice in his earplug. He looked up at Patrick.

'You're to go straight through, Mr Courvoisier. They're waiting for you in the diplomatic tent.'

Patrick nodded, unsurprised. No doubt every entrance had been watched for his arrival. Either that or he'd been tailed on his way here – something he hadn't noticed, which suggested he was out of practice.

Stepping through the gate in the tall wall that encircled the palace and its grounds was a bit like falling down the rabbit hole. The reaction of those who'd entered in front of him convinced Patrick of that view. Outside was a busy London. In here was an entirely different and extremely privileged world, which a few hundred people would catch a glimpse of today. The sight of a group of four marching yeomen, the Queen's bodyguard, with their spears and red-tapestry tabards, further enforced the image. The only things missing, were Alice, a knave painting the roses, and the Queen herself.

Patrick glanced at his watch. By his reckoning, the royal party would be arriving shortly. They would appear at the rear entrance of Buckingham Palace, then make their way fairly swiftly on a predestined route through the crowds to the royal tent for tea. Whichever family members had been chosen to speak to a few selected dignitaries would pose for photos, then head for the tent, too.

The weather had brightened a bit, the rain had held off, although there was still a stiff breeze to ruffle the waters of the lake. The queues at the tea tent were long and there were a few pinched faces. The low temperature was proving too much for the flimsy female outfits. The suited men, on the other hand, were faring better.

Patrick had chosen to be as casual as was permitted and since national dress was allowed – witnessed by colourful saris and Nigerian robes – had decided to don a kilt and a smart jacket, plus a shirt and tie. The outfit had seen him greeted by smiles, from Cannes, through Nice airport, to Heathrow, particularly when he'd produced his passport from his sporran.

The tartan, a McInnes, came from his mother's side of the family, who'd hailed from Speyside, in the Highlands. Her childhood home had been in the village of Carrbridge, a McInnes stronghold.

He spotted two more kilts on his walk across the grass, but their wearers had gone for more military jackets and one of them was sporting an impressive row of medals, suggesting he'd been at war most of his life.

Having reached the diplomatic tent, Patrick paused at the red-carpeted entrance and listened to the low buzz of voices from the interior. Whoever was waiting for him would be aware he'd be arriving shortly. Patrick had always made a point of being first at similar meetings. He preferred to be the one watching the other participant arriving. In this case, that wasn't possible. Unless?

Patrick skirted the tent, which was set close to the lake, and made his way to the back, where from memory there would be a discreetly placed set of upmarket toilets. There would also be an exit point from the tent, for those who wished to use them.

Patrick approached the toilets and went inside.

A brigadier whom he didn't recognize emerged from a cubicle as Patrick rinsed his hands. Patrick let him leave, then followed, entering the back door of the tent close on his heels. The tent was busy. The waft of expensive male cologne mingled with equally costly female perfume. There were no queues in here for the food, the expanse of which definitely exceeded the number of guests who would sample it. However, as in the commoners' tent, only tea or a cold non-alcoholic drink was being served.

For a moment Patrick stood surveying the room, looking for a familiar face and seeing none. He did, however, observe a tall, striking woman with long dark hair who was studying him. She was wearing a beautifully cut green dress, with a silk scarf draped round her neck. The eyes that surveyed him with candour were also undoubtedly green. Having studied the details of his face, her eyes now descended to his kilt, and Patrick saw a small smile play on her lips. Yet another positive aspect of wearing a kilt was the way in which it encouraged strangers to ask about it or make some wry remark.

From this intriguing woman, Patrick decided, either would be welcome.

However, having satisfied herself as to his face and attire, she turned away and headed for the food table. Patrick contemplated following her, but thought he might save that until after his meeting. Just as he made that decision, a hand touched his arm. He turned to find the man he was hoping they wouldn't send.

'Courvoisier,' Charles Carruthers said, 'it really is good to see you again.' His broad face broke into a grin as his large hand encased Patrick's.

Patrick saw a smile in his friend's eyes and knew that he meant those words.

'It's good to see you too, Charles.'

'You look well.' Charles glanced at the kilt. 'I see you came dressed for battle.'

'As did you.' Patrick indicated Charles's tails and top hat.

'The auld enemy?'

Patrick laughed. 'Not you and I.'

'Are you ready for some Earl Grey?' There was a twinkle in Carruthers' eye.

'Only if it's very strong,' Patrick said.

'I'll have a pot sent outside. There's a table awaiting us under a particularly beautiful weeping willow.'

They exited the way Patrick had entered and, as Carruthers described, found a willow and under it a table enclosed by an awning.

Charles looked up at the threatening sky. 'We don't want to be rained on.'

'Heaven forbid,' Patrick said.

Carruthers indicated he should take a seat. There was a few moments' silence as a silver tray arrived complete with a selection of tiny square-cut sandwiches and equally small cakes. At the sight of them, Patrick experienced a sudden desire for a large Bridie or a Scots pie.

Carruthers waited while the waiter poured tea into the delicate china cups, then declared that was all they needed and let him depart. Before Patrick spoke, Carruthers pulled out a silver hip flask from a trouser pocket, poured the Earl Grey on the grass, and filled the cups with a pale-brown liquid.

'They serve the beer in a teapot in Kano now. Sharia law,' he added by way of explanation. 'This, of course, is a fine Speyside malt.'

Patrick tasted it. Speyside malts were essentially 'sweet' with little peatiness, though a little 'smoke'. He recognized this one right away.

'Macallan?' he said.

Carruthers nodded. 'I was up there recently. Did the tour.'

'Not all forty-six distilleries?'

Carruthers gave a big belly laugh that seemed strange coming from someone wearing a top hat. 'No, just half a dozen. But I made a point of sampling them all.'

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Excerpted from The Case of the Missing Madonna by Lin Anderson. Copyright © 2015 Lin Anderson. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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