Death Comes to the Ballets Russes

11

Second position of the arm — raises your arms to the side. Keep your arms slightly rounded. Lower your elbows slightly below your shoulders. Make sure your wrists are lower than your elbows. Keep your shoulders down, your neck long and your chin up.

Captain Yuri Gorodetsky was very worried about what his master in Paris would say when he heard the news. The call was booked for four o’clock on the afternoon of the great gathering at the Royal Opera House. As ever, the call came through on time. The General did not. As usual he was in the building but nobody knew precisely where he was. Messengers would be sent to search for the missing leader. Gorodetsky always wondered what it was that caused the delay. Did the General pop down to his basement to check the ordered ranks of his files? Did he nip into the library to catch up on the latest newspapers from Moscow and St Petersburg? The answer was none of these. The General merely felt that his presence would carry more weight if people had to wait around to talk to him. Being wanted, as it were, he would be more wondered at.

‘Gorodetsky!’ he boomed at last. ‘What news of the Bolsheviks?’

‘Good news, General, in one sense.’

‘What do you mean “in one sense”? Give us a clear message, man, for God’s sake!’

‘They have changed the money, all of it. Our English colleagues, I have to say, were appalled at the way their fellow countrymen treated the revolutionaries. They all gave them a terrible rate of exchange, about two-thirds of what it should have been according to the published rates in the English papers.’

‘There can’t be that many people wandering round London wanting to buy that amount of roubles in large denomination notes, can there?’

‘You’re probably right there, General.’

‘Is that the good news in the sense you referred to earlier, Gorodetsky?’

‘No, it is not, General.’

‘What is it then?’

‘It’s this. They’ve put all the money into an English bank account. The Central Provincial, Ludgate Circus branch, now holds tens and tens of thousands of English pounds. The chief Bolshevik, Arthur Cooper, had opened the account a few days before. He arranged for all his colleagues to meet him there. This caused a certain amusement among our English colleagues, General, but each Bolshevik had to watch as the chief cashier, operating from a private office, counted all the money and made the appropriate entry in his ledger.’

For once the General saw the joke. ‘One load of money stolen from a bank in Tigris, being watched as it is counted into the vaults of another bank in the City of London, eh? What was the point? I’ve heard of robbing Peter to pay Paul, but this is robbing Peter only to put the money into a different Peter in another country. God help us all!’

‘You don’t think they’ve changed sides, do you, General? Seen the light?’

‘I bloody well do not think that for a moment, Captain, and if you make that suggestion again you’ll be counting the damned daffodils in some isolated Siberian hovel before I’ve finished with you!’

‘Yes, sir, sorry, sir. Perhaps they want to buy something? Something to further the cause of world revolution, sir?’

‘Ludgate Circus sounds a pretty odd place to me to be starting the world revolution. But come, let’s think. He’s a crafty bugger, that Lenin. He knows that if he transfers the money to Cracow or anywhere else in Russia there’ll be more secret police waiting for him to come out of the bank than he has supporters. So what’s his game? It has to be something he can buy in England and he must know how on earth he’s going to get it out of England. Isn’t that so?’

‘Guns? Some kind of armaments, sir?’

‘I can’t see those boys going round buying guns. They enlist some poor soldiers or sailors in their cause and then use theirs. It’s not weapons they’re after.’

‘Maybe Lenin’s going to retire, sir? This is the golden egg for himself and Mrs Lenin to change direction. Perhaps they’re going to go to America to start a new life.’

‘New life be damned! The only new life that bastard wants is in Russia, and would lead to you and me being confined in the St Peter and Paul Fortress for the rest of our lives, or in that bloody daffodil village in Siberia. He’s good for the employment prospects of counterintelligence officers like you and me, Gorodetsky, I’ll say that for him. Where would we be without Lenin, for God’s sake?’

‘Where indeed, sir? Our English colleagues are going to ask around the Russian community in a general sort of way about what Lenin might want to do with the money.’

‘Good. We’ve got to find an answer to this one, Captain. I can feel the pressure coming from St Petersburg when I send in my next report. We’re going to have bloody Lenin for breakfast, lunch, tea and supper for a long time to come.’

It might have been Lady Ripon’s random fire into the ranks of the authorities that produced the Inspector. It might have been Lord Rosebery’s more discreet applications of pressure in a world he knew so well. But when Powerscourt returned to Markham Square early that afternoon, there was a visitor waiting in his drawing room, twirling his hat in his hands.

‘Good afternoon, my lord. Dutfield at your service; Inspector Matthew Dutfield of the Metropolitan Police. Also on the case is my interpreter Anna, transferred to my care by some Anglo-Russian banking house, currently reading up on the details of the case. Red hair, my lord, English by birth, loves everything Russian.’

‘Are you the reinforcements, Inspector?’

‘I suppose you could say I am. I was pulled off a nasty case of armed robbery to join your team, my lord. I’ve been doing my homework with Sergeant Jenkins.’

Matthew Dutfield was a tall thin young man with a mop of unruly brown hair and a winning smile.

‘And I have news for the case, sir. The Commissioner’s assistant received news from his colleagues that the Duke intends to give in to Diaghilev’s commands for money. The great ballet performances at Blenheim Palace can go ahead.’

‘That’s good news indeed. Excellent news. I look forward to it. But isn’t there one piece of police work that we could use to our advantage?’

‘What’s that, my lord?’

‘Well, if my memory serves me right, don’t the local police force have to give permission? There has to be adequate transport, no risks to public order, sufficient police available on the day to make sure things progress smoothly, that sort of thing?’

‘You’re right, sir, you’re absolutely right.’

‘I don’t see why we can’t use that to our advantage,’ said Powerscourt. ‘If the Ballets Russes don’t behave at this end, then we block the performance at the other end. This could be the key to unlock Diaghilev’s ban on our talking to his senior people. That has been the major block in this investigation. Until now we’ve made little bits of progress here and there, but until we can talk to those people we’re operating largely in the dark.’

‘I see what you mean, my lord. Begging your pardon, but could I use your telephone? It’s just that the Assistant Commissioner seemed to have some sort of instant connection to Diaghilev’s people — maybe it’s this Lady Ripon woman — but if I can talk to him right now, he might be able to press a few buttons for us.’

‘You carry on, Inspector, down the stairs and first door on the left.’

Powerscourt wondered if it was the shame of putting a Sergeant on the case that forced the Metropolitan Police to produce an Inspector. Maybe the thought of all those conferences at the opera house had forced their hand. It wouldn’t take long for one of the journalists to ask if it was normal to put police sergeants onto murder cases involving distinguished artistic people from foreign countries. That, he said to himself, was probably the answer.

Inspector Dutfield was back in a few moments. ‘Whoever got hold of that key into Diaghilev’s inner circle has done us a great favour, my lord. Maybe they warned him that police cooperation at both ends of the Oxford Road was necessary. They’re all going to speak to us, preferably after the event at Blenheim; all of his top people, and that’s official. Even Diaghilev himself, apparently.’

‘I wonder if I might leave that one to you, Inspector. The man stormed out of a meeting with Natasha Shaporova and myself earlier in this inquiry and stomped off down the stairs.’

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but aren’t you forgetting something? I’ve been reading up as much as I can about these ballet characters, and from what I can see they’re all pretty volatile, liable to have a tantrum and threaten to leave in the morning, and then be best friends at lunchtime. And they’re Russian as well. They’re a pretty emotional lot. Can you tell me, my lord, of a successful English novel where the heroine throws herself under a train at the end? Dorothea Brooke? Elizabeth Bennet? Fleur Forsyte?’

‘Do you know,’ said Powerscourt, ‘that thought had never occurred to me. How interesting.’

‘Let me tell you, my lord, how I intend to proceed. I’ve earmarked a couple of pages in my new notebook here for each one: Benois, Bakst, Stravinsky and so on. I’m not just going to ask them about where they were on the night in question, I’m going to ask them what they knew of the whereabouts of the others. That way, if they’re telling the truth, we can check all their alibis. Is there anything you’d like me to ask them, my lord, while I’ve got them in the witness box, as it were?’

‘Well, you should remember that Monsieur Fokine, the choreographer, is sort of on our side. He volunteered his help a few days ago and he’s most useful. Get him to give you an impression of Diaghilev at the Palladian bridge in Blenheim Palace. He may need a cane or a poker to make it work, but it’s very entertaining. Now then, I think you should include Alfred Bolm, the man who was supposed to have been dancing that evening.

‘And the reserves, if you like — the girls and the men who were not down to dance that evening, but were presumably acting as understudies in case somebody got ill. Sergeant Jenkins is working his way through the stagehands and so on.

‘You ask, Inspector, if I have any special question I would like to ask these top men from the Ballets Russes. Well, there is. It may seem way outside the scope of our inquiry, but I would like you to ask it anyway. Who were the next great stars going to be? Who were the next people to become as well known as Nijinsky and Anna Pavlova?’

George Smythe, trainee art dealer by day, part-time jewel broker for Anastasia from the corps de ballet and party-goer by night, hated being disturbed early in the morning. The fact that it was a telegram did not register with him at all at eight fifteen in the morning. His long and expensive education had included no training in the question of telegrams. The place of origin, Berlin Central, did not rouse him either. It was only when he saw the figure halfway down the form that he woke up. In excess of forty thousand English pounds. George ran a hand through his hair and sat down in his living room, strewn with abandoned shoes and neckties from the night before, to read the thing properly.

For the attention of: George Smythe, 74 Albemarle Street, London.

From: Elias Killick, of Johnston Killick jewel brokers, Imperial Hotel, Berlin.

‘Delighted to inform you all jewels disposed of at respectable prices. Total of forty-thousand pounds. Would you wish monies sent direct to Moscow Bank or brought back to London? Direct transfer by far the safest option. Please advise by three o’clock this afternoon. Regards. Elias Killick.’

George Smythe hadn’t dressed as fast as this since he overslept in Oxford and almost missed the last paper in his finals. A cab swept him to the Royal Opera House in less than ten minutes. He found Anastasia waiting to rehearse in an hour’s time and dragged her off to a quiet corner of the Fielding Hotel.

‘Look, Anastasia,’ he began, ‘that jewel man Killick has sold the lot. They’re worth about forty thousand pounds. Can you believe it? It’s marvellous news, don’t you think?’

Anastasia shook her head, as if she too had been out late the night before. ‘Tell me if I’ve got this right. The man Killick has sold the jewels? Is that true? For forty thousand pounds? Holy Mary, Mother of God!’

‘That’s right. It’s fantastic!’

‘Where is he now, the man Killick?’

‘He’s in Berlin. The thing is, Anastasia, we’ve got to decide how to get the money. Killick says they can transfer it direct to that Moscow bank you told me about. Nobody will know. You won’t have to hide it in your luggage going back to St Petersburg or whatever you were going to do with it.’

‘We’re not going straight home — we’ve got engagements in a couple of other places before we get back to St Petersburg.’

‘But can’t you see, this is the safest way to get the money back to Russia.’

‘I promised Prince Felix that I would bring him the money myself. It’ll make him love me more, don’t you see? He can’t fall in love with a length of telegraph cable! I promised him!’

‘That’s all very fine,’ said George, feeling that a man might indeed have strong emotions when a beautiful girl arrived on his doorstep with a fortune in her hand, ‘but how are you going to get it back?’

‘I’ll find a way. I promised, didn’t I? What would Felix think if I got back to St Petersburg without the money? I’d be in the doghouse with no supper for days.’

‘We have to give an answer very soon. By first thing this afternoon at the latest. Can’t you see, Anastasia, that the wire is the safest way to do it? I promised the Prince to do all I could to look after his interests and to keep you safe. Won’t you see sense?’

‘I refuse to have the money sent by wire, George. I could ruin my prospects with the Prince. How can I hope to keep him faithful in the meantime if I do not return with the money?’

George Smythe thought that the chances of Prince Felix Peshkov remaining faithful to his beautiful ballerina were slim at the best of times, but he said nothing of that.

‘You’re being absurd!’

‘So are you!’

‘No, I’m not!’

One or two concerned glances were now being made at this young couple arguing so vehemently in French early in the morning. Well, they were known to be excitable people. One elderly Dowager began looking about her for a bell.

‘For the last time, Anastasia, will you let me send word to Mr Elias Killick that he’s to wire the money to the bank in Moscow? Yes or no?’

‘No.’

‘Is that your last word?’

‘Yes.’

‘Damn it all, Anastasia, can’t you see that you’re doing the wrong thing?’ George looked really depressed. His latest possible time for arrival at the picture gallery was but fifteen minutes away. Maybe he could send a telephone message about a relation in distress. Then he remembered that he’d done that at least once already. He began wringing his hands. His sorrow and his concern seemed to touch something in Anastasia. She leant forward and held one of his hands briefly.

‘George,’ she said, ‘there’s something I haven’t told you. Something I promised not to tell anybody.’

‘What’s that?’ asked George petulantly.

‘It’s this. That money,’ she was whispering now and the dowager returned her attention to the coffee and biscuits, ‘it can’t go near any banks. Not under any circumstances. This is what I promised not to tell. Oh, George, I wish I didn’t have to break my promise. But I do, don’t I?’

‘I don’t understand,’ said George. ‘What is it about a bank, for heaven’s sake? One lot of depositors, one lot of borrowers, a lot of people running round in frock coats pretending to be more important than they really are. That’s all there is, isn’t it?’

Even the whispers were getting lower now.

‘No, it’s not.’ The young man had to lean forward now to catch her words. ‘It’s a question of who owns the banks, isn’t it?’

‘I still don’t understand,’ said George, checking his watch again. ‘Who owns the bloody banks anyway?’

‘It’s not the banks plural, George, it’s bank singular.’

‘Singular?’

‘Why is this so difficult? The bank whose details we have, the one we gave to Mr Killick, is owned or part-owned by my friend Prince Felix’s father. He has cut my Felix and his colleague out of all contact with the banks. Any transactions will be brought to his attention within the hour. Felix gave me the details of the bank before he realized how completely he and his friend had been cut off.’

‘So,’ said George, ‘the father hears about the money coming in? He won’t know how it got there.’

‘He has drawn up a contract or something in banker language which states that any money going to that bank must be used to pay off some of the son’s debts.’

‘And is forty thousand pounds not enough to pay off the debts and leave some change?’

‘I don’t know. Prince Felix doesn’t talk to me about money, only that bit.’

‘I suppose he could find out where the money came from, diamond merchants out of Antwerp and London. You don’t have to be a genius to work out what’s been going on. Dear God, what a mess.’

‘But do you see now that the money must not go to that bank? It must come here to me.’

‘I do and I must go. I’ll send the wire later this morning. And then, Anastasia. .’

‘Then what, George?’

‘Then we’ll have to begin all over again.’

Natasha Shaporova still kept open house for the corps de ballet. They were expected any minute now, for their timetables made them as punctual as clockwork. The girls still came, in the same numbers, some now refusing, very politely, to eat cakes or biscuits because of their weight. But Natasha, for the moment, was engaged in her correspondence.

She had decided, when l’affaire Taneyev, as she referred to it, began, that she would make enquiries at the other end, the Russian end. She did not have the resources of a police force, or even a determined newspaper reporter, but Natasha had something better than that, a host of relations who would know, or who would know who knew, any interesting details of the Taneyev family background. There weren’t that many families in St Petersburg in which the mother was English — always a source of malice and gossip about Russian manners not being properly understood. She had written to her mother and her grandmother, and to two of her aunts and to the only one of her brothers she considered reliable. After that she had further cohorts of friends from school and cousins of every description. The replies were now arriving at regular intervals at her house in Chelsea. Gossip knows no boundaries.

The picture she was forming was orthodox (if you didn’t count the English mother who had a habit of reading to some of her younger children in bed before they went to sleep, which was considered barbaric on the Nevskii Prospekt and the Fontanka Quay). Natasha had only two letters left when she found the hidden secret of the family Taneyev. It came in a long letter from her aunt, who prided herself on her knowledge of St Petersburg family history. After pages and pages of successful Taneyevs, soldier Taneyevs, banker Taneyevs, Admiral Taneyevs, drunken Taneyevs — far too many in Natasha’s view, for she was growing rather fond of this family with a background rather like her own — Aunt Marie eventually came to the dead boy’s grandfather, Josef Ilyich Taneyev, a middle-ranking Guards officer with a very beautiful wife.

This Taneyev was rather old when he married Anna Bulgakov, who was said to be one of the prettiest girls in St Petersburg. She had two sons when they lived in peaceful seclusion in Perm with the Guards Regiment, but very little society to speak of. ‘And then, my dear, it all started to go wrong,’ Natasha’s aunt wrote. ‘The husband was posted to St Petersburg. The duties weren’t very serious so he wanted to live quietly in the country when he wasn’t needed on military duties. His rank, however — for his was one of those fashionable regiments that are expected to appear at social functions in our capital — meant that he had to spend more time than he would have liked attending the great balls and soirees and parties of every sort. And he hated dancing, Josef Ilyich Taneyev — one of my closest friends had predicted that this would cause great trouble even before they were married — while Anna loved it.

She became reckless, dancing with the same partner all night sometimes, and causing great pain to the older man in the sitting-out area, who loved her and had married her. Eventually Anna became besotted with an artistic young man called Pyotr Solkonsky, who wrote a lot of poetry and whose interests and instincts were the opposite of Josef Ilyich’s. You just had to see them together to see that they were having an affair — and they seemed not to care who knew it. She was, or she seemed to be, in love. But she forgot that she had married into a military family. The husband’s fellow officers had been talking to him for weeks about challenging the poet-lover to a duel. Eventually he gave in, and the fateful day finally came: the meeting in a glade in a forest outside the city; the seconds in attendance; the carriages waiting to take the living and the dead back to their homes.’

Natasha was wondering at this point if her aunt hadn’t missed out on a second career as a novelist. She read on.

‘The result was a surprise, but perhaps a tribute to our military training. The poet fired first and missed. Perhaps he intended to miss, who knows? Josef Taneyev did not miss. His bullet struck the poet in the chest and did terrible damage to his lungs. They say the blood was pouring out of him in his carriage all the way back to his home. He died two days later. But, wait, Natasha, here is the point of this terrible story. The poet gathered his three brothers round his deathbed before he passed away. ‘Revenge,’ he whispered, coughing yet more blood onto the sheets, ‘revenge, not in this generation but the next. Take my revenge on the generation after ours.’ He died that evening. It took some time before the family Solkonsky realized what he meant. Any revenge in this generation would mean the death of one who might be the son or daughter of his lover. That was why the Solkonskys had to wait. Even in death he was trying to protect his Anna from unhappiness.’

Natasha knew from her other letters that Alexander Taneyev’s siblings consisted of one older brother, Ivan, and three younger sisters: Marie, Elizabetta and Olga.