Death Comes to the Ballets Russes

15

Colonel Olivier Brouzet, the man in charge of the French Secret Service, had the original of Fragonard’s The Swing on loan from the Louvre on the wall behind his desk. Colonel Brouzet had never been a violent man. One has to admit that the artillery of which he was a noted exponent could cause frightful carnage and terrible wounds, but Olivier Brouzet never saw the damage his cannons created. Artillery men have to be methodical and ruthless: methodical in ensuring that their troop has sufficient time to reload properly according to the rule book; ruthless in pressing home the advantage, even though there may be a bloodstained slaughter of their enemies on the receiving end of their salvoes.

His guest this morning was in civilian clothes, a black frock coat, a linen shirt in pale blue, and an elaborate cravat that seemed to be based on a Japanese design. Colonel Maurice Martel Argaud was a star member of a fashionable cavalry regiment. He was serving a six-month attachment to the General Staff. He moved in avant-garde circles in the capital, consorting with Proust and being painted by Renoir with his friend Charles Ephrussi as guests at boating parties on the Seine.

And it was this link to the General Staff that had brought him to the attention of Monsieur, as he now was in his Secret Service role, Brouzet and his Fragonard on the Place des Vosges.

The prevailing military theory in the French Army at that time was that attack at all costs was the best policy. Its chief proponent was an officer called Grandmaison, who believed with all the passion of the convert that it was the only way to win wars. L’attaque à l’outrance, extreme attack, was the order of the day. It was the order of the revolutionary leader Danton to the French defenders at Verdun back in 1792: il nous faut de l’audace, encore de l’audace, toujours de l’audace (we must be bold, we must be bolder still, we must always be bold).

Colonel Argaud disagreed. He was a great believer in reading military history, a subject regarded as irrelevant and unnecessary by his opponents, who believed that truth was on their side and that this time things would be different. Wide reading in nineteenth-century battles convinced the Colonel that in the last century key battles, particularly those of Waterloo and Gettysburg, had been won by defence. And Colonel Argaud was convinced that mass slaughter of his fellow countrymen would result if a policy of all-out attack at any cost was pursued. He firmly believed that wholesale destruction of the French armies would take place on the battlefields of the next war if the military authorities followed the doctrine of ‘l’audace’. In French military circles, this was heresy.

Powerscourt was contemplating a piece of cheese with some interest when he noticed a commotion at the door of the hotel restaurant in Woodstock, the evening of the day of the ballet. A tall young man, wearing a dark grey suit and twirling his hat in his hands, was apparently asking a series of urgent questions of the nearest waiter, questions the waiter didn’t seem capable of answering. He, in his turn, was gesturing towards the head waiter, who was advising an elderly couple about the wine list to accompany the sweet course.

‘Hold on, Lucy,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I don’t like the look of this one bit.’

Shortly the head waiter himself made his way over to the Powerscourt table. ‘Lord Powerscourt? Please forgive me. The young man at the door wishes to speak to you. He says it is a matter of some urgency.’

‘I’m sorry, Lucy. I’d better see what this is all about.’

Only in the street, when they were well clear of the hotel and its staff, did the young man — Sergeant Fuller — reveal his purpose. ‘It’s Inspector Jackson, my guv’nor, my lord. He wants to see you up at the big house at once. Inspector Dutfield told him you were here.’

‘What’s happened?’ said Powerscourt, and something in the young man’s demeanour implied that something terrible had come to spoil the day.

‘There’s another dead one, my lord. Dead ballet person, I mean, my lord, apart from the one you already have down there in London.’

‘What sort of ballet person? Male or Female? Age?’

‘Female, my lord, aged about twenty to twenty-five, my lord. My Inspector said I was to fill you in along the way.’

‘You want me to come back to Blenheim Palace with you? Very good. I’ll just tell my wife.’

It was only a short walk to the back gates. ‘The time now is just after ten, my lord. We don’t know yet when exactly it happened — some time after eight thirty at the earliest and nine forty-five at the latest. The girl was found by one of the footmen, my lord. She was lying in a pool of her own blood and stuff underneath the balcony in the Great Hall, my lord. The doctors say she’d have been killed instantly. We gather she was called Vera, Vera Belitsky, my lord.’

‘Suicide on a day like this? With all that glory for the Ballets Russes? It seems unlikely.’

‘My Inspector says he’s had a case like this once before, in one of the colleges, my lord. High building: did he fall or was he pushed, that sort of thing. Only in this case it was a she.’

Powerscourt was thinking along similar lines. One case with a double possibility, dancer or understudy. Now a second. They did, however, have one thing in common.

‘There’s an old lady up there, my lord. Wants to speak to you as a matter of some urgency, she says.’

‘Would you want this old lady as your grandmother, Sergeant?’

‘No I wouldn’t, my lord. Not at any price. You’ve caught me out there, my lord. We’re not supposed to have opinions about members of the public, dead or alive, as you well know.’

They were now mounting the steps towards the Great Hall. A couple of constables waved them inside. Inspector Jackson, who looked even younger than his sergeant, came to greet them. One whole corner of the Great Hall was shrouded in sheets. The Inspector pointed up to the gallery.

‘That’s where she came from, right in the middle of that balcony. And that,’ he pointed in the direction of the sheeted section, ‘is where she ended up. The fall killed her. We’re waiting for the undertakers to take her away. Some fool began babbling on about where on earth she is going to receive an Orthodox funeral and an Orthodox burial in the middle of Oxfordshire. I ask you.’

Inspector Jackson shook his head.

‘Sorry, my lord. Let me tell you what we know. The ballet people danced here in the Great Hall, audience draped all the way up the stairs. The musicians were crammed in like mice on the balcony and the area behind, the dancers in the Great Hall down below. After the performance, the guests take a drink in the garden with the fountains out the back. Then they go in to eat in the State Dining Room with a few overspilling in the big room behind. They’re all still there. The butler, a former military man, I understand, realized that they all had to be kept in the same place. That went down well, as you can imagine. My men are now working their way through them: invitation cards, please, name and address, where were you at the time of the murder?’

‘Who found the body?’

‘Sorry, my lord. One of the footmen found her. Thank God he had the good sense to go straight to the butler.’

An angry Lady Ripon was advancing towards them, brushing aside a couple of constables as if they were flies in her drawing room. She carried an enormous bag in her right hand — clutching it, Powerscourt thought, like a weapon of war.

’Good evening, Inspector,’ she boomed, making the word ‘Inspector’ sound like an inferior sort of servant, somewhere between a sous chef and an under footman.

‘My name is Lady Ripon, Patron of the Royal Ballet, I wish to speak to your companion, Inspector,’ she carried on, ‘the man called Powerscourt.’

Inspector Jackson showed that he might have met her type before.

‘That won’t be possible in here, Lady Ripon. This area is closed off. Perhaps you’d care to have your conversation outside. Our constables will be able to keep an eye on you out there.’

‘Well, Powerscourt,’ she began as they reached the bottom of the great steps that led into Blenheim Palace, ‘I thought I had forbidden you entrance here this evening. But you turn up nonetheless. We’ll let that pass for a moment. My people and I employed you to find out who killed that understudy down in London.’

She made the word ‘understudy’ sound like a packet of tea you might have to pick up at the grocer’s when the Fortnum and Mason delivery hadn’t arrived on time.

‘You have failed. And now your prowess has led to a second murder, one you were powerless to prevent. What do you have to say for yourself? If you were one of my servants or my staff, I should dismiss you on the spot. But I would have to consult with the board of the Royal Opera House who are, alas, not here at the moment.’

‘I am truly sorry about the second murder, if murder it was-’ Powerscourt began.

‘Don’t give me this if it was murder nonsense, Powerscourt. Everyone can see it was a murder. That’s why all these policemen are charging about all over the place, making marks on the floors where they shouldn’t, knocking over valuable pieces of porcelain, no doubt. You couldn’t survive a fall like that onto a marble floor. It’s not possible. Don’t tell me all this would be going on for a mere suicide of a junior member of the corps de ballet.’

Powerscourt told her precisely that. ‘And, let me tell you Lady Ripon, it is only right and proper that a young girl should receive the same attention if she was a suicide or a murder victim.’

‘Your observations are outrageous, Powerscourt. Your performance is pathetic. Your record as an investigator is in ruins. Your future employment prospects are zero. Have no doubt that I shall tell all the society members — a select band in which you are not included — of your failures and your incompetence.’

With that Lady Ripon drew her cloak around her and swept back into the hall. Powerscourt had to admit that he was not sorry to see her go.

The French Secret Service believed that Argaud and his small band of confederates were passing their views on to a hostile power. Quite who this hostile power was, they were not entirely sure, but they felt it was unlikely it was to England, and possible but unlikely it was to Russia. Germany was the obvious place. If the German High Command knew that wave after wave of Frenchmen were going to pour out of their trenches in their ridiculous coloured uniforms and charge the German trenches, then victory would be assured. For a German victory, it would just be a matter of making sure there was enough ammunition for the machine guns.

Olivier Brouzet was certain that his visitor was passing secret information to the enemy. He did not know how or through whom the intelligence was transmitted. He intended to find out with his own very special form of torture.

‘Come, mon Colonel,’ he began, ‘we both know that the French Army is always conducting manoeuvres, is that not so? Well, I have for you today details of a slightly unusual form of manoeuvre that could be repeated any time on those officers whose wives and daughters are living in the country. Plans have been laid, you understand.’

Brouzet knew that Colonel Argaud had a beautiful wife and two equally beautiful daughters. A slight look of alarm passed across his face.

Olivier Brouzet reached into a drawer on his desk and produced a large envelope. It contained a series of photographs, face down, all with a number written on the back in large letters. He brought out the first one. This showed an elegant maison de maître in peaceful rolling countryside. The proportions, with the double staircase and the large windows, were clearly those of the late eighteenth century.

‘Look at this, my friend. It is a beautiful house with gardens and the odd statue on guard at the front of the house. But today there are visitors.’

He produced photograph number two, which showed a group of about twenty French soldiers marching along the road outside. They were not yet quite level with the entrance.

‘Now we see, mon Colonel, who these visitors might be. It looks as if the men are on marching practice, but who knows what may happen? I wonder if the wife or either of the young ladies are on the lookout for visitors.’

Out came photograph number three, which showed that the little column had turned left and were now almost up to the front door.

‘What can this be?’ asked Brouzet, ‘the soldiers have come to call. What on earth do they want?’

Photograph number four showed the men, still standing in line, listening now to an officer who seemed to be addressing them from the top of the steps. A sergeant and a private had been sent inside. ‘See,’ Brouzet purred, looking carefully at his victim, ‘the Captain brings good news, a rare event for anybody to hear good news from their officers!’

Photograph number five showed the first detachment of soldiers making their way up the stairs. Those at the front had begun taking off their greatcoats; it looked to be a warm day.

Colonel Argaud was clasping his hands together and rocking slowly in his chair. The next picture was taken higher up and showed that the first four had taken their greatcoats off and were busy unbuttoning their trousers. To their left was a madame, traditional keeper of the rules in French Army establishments of this sort. She was knitting vigorously as she kept watch on her charges.

Photograph number six showed the men outside, chatting and laughing and punching their fists in the air. Half of them were making obscene signs with their hands and fingers.

Photograph number seven was not one of the clearest. It appeared to show a woman’s knees, very indistinct, a couple of rough ropes they might have used to tie her feet to the bedposts at the bottom, and a second madame, also knitting happily in the corner.

‘See how our French photographers take care not to show what should not be seen,’ cried Olivier Brouzet. ‘This photograph is not at all clear. I should have told you before that the men were told that this is a set menu here today: first the wife, then the beautiful daughters, with the youngest one last, if the poilus have any fire left in their bellies. It is customary, I believe, in these cases, to afford a pillow to the women to make life more comfortable and to drown out any screams. Even French privates can be squeamish at times. But the madame is keeping watch at all times.’

Colonel Argaud was sweating now, wiping his face with his monogrammed handkerchief.

Photograph number eight showed the first soldiers on their way out. They were laughing and joshing. One or two waved their rather limp equipment in the air, as if they had won a major victory. Photograph number nine showed the queue still waiting at the bottom of the steps.

‘See, Colonel, the parade of the satisfied is now making its way down the stairs. But look!’

Photograph number ten showed the last group of soldiers kicking their heels outside, grinning and joking.

‘There is more to come, Colonel, there is indeed more to come. The sport is only just beginning.’

The Colonel was turning pale. Brouzet moved in for the kill.

‘We know where you live, Colonel Argaud. We know your son is away at St Cyr. How sad he will be to have missed all the fun this afternoon. We know the times the daughters are in the house and when they are away.’

Photograph number eleven showed a long queue coming down the stairs and only a few unfulfilled ones waiting at the bottom.

‘Come, Colonel, this is only the first course. The men will receive some refreshment when have finished the hors d’oeuvres. Then it is time for the eldest daughter! She will be put in the same bed, of course. No point causing a lot of dirty washing for the staff, who are currently locked up in the basement. And then the youngest for pudding! What a feast!’

Colonel Argaud was not to know it, but Brouzet’s photographs were beginning to lose their power. There were only a limited number of shots available on such an occasion, and most of them had been pressed into service.

‘Photograph number eleven,’ Brouzet began, but photograph number eleven never saw the light of day that afternoon. Colonel Argaud cracked.

‘All right, Brouzet, all right. I give in. You really would carry out that awful ritual against my family, wouldn’t you?’

‘Of course,’ Brouzet lied. ‘We are all in the service of France.’

‘If I tell you exactly what you want to know, will you promise never to interfere with my family in any way?’

Brouzet looked him coolly in the eye. ‘I will.’

There was a pause while the two Colonels looked at each other, the girl in Fragonard’s swing rising gracefully to the top of her arc on the wall behind Brouzet.

‘These questions can be very painful,’ said Brouzet finally. ‘I apologize for that to a man of your military distinction.’

‘There won’t be much of that left after this afternoon,’ Argaud said sadly. ‘But carry on. You must do your duty.’

‘Were you passing information about French military tactics to another power?’

‘I was.’

‘I am compelled to ask to whom you were sending this information, mon Colonel? To the Germans?’

Argaud was scornful. ‘To the Germans? Me, an officer in the French Army? After Sedan? After their ludicrous Emperor had himself crowned in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles? After Alsace-Lorraine? I thought you would have thought better of me than to ask that question.’

‘Not to the English, surely? They probably know it already after all these joint exercises.’

‘Not to the English, no.’

‘The Russians? Surely not.’

‘Surely so, Colonel Brouzet. They are not fools, these Russians. They know the problem facing Germany of fighting on two fronts. And it takes ages for the Russians to mobilize their forces across the vast space of the Russian interior with their ignorant peasants and their inefficient railroads. The Russian generals want to know how long they have got before the full might of the German Army comes to fight them. If the French hold out and win, as our generals are always telling the Russians they will every time they meet, then they may never face the full might of the German military machine at all. But if the French look like losing, it is a different matter. That is what I told the Russians, that the French would not win an immediate victory in the West.’

‘The Russians are not stupid,’ said Brouzet. ‘This knowledge could impact on their military planning.’

‘Such as it is,’ said Colonel Argaud. ‘One general told me the entire country would be paralysed by the effort of getting the troops to the front, wherever that might be.’

‘I see. And how was your information sent on to St Petersburg, might I ask?’

‘You will laugh when I tell you.’

‘Tell me.’

‘It was sent to St Petersburg through the Ballets Russes.’

‘The Ballets Russes! When they were here in Paris?’ Brouzet could see it all, the limitless possibilities of sending messages as they travelled from the Russian capital to Monte Carlo, to Paris, to London, now perhaps on to some cultural city in Germany. They travelled through and across the possible combatants in any future European war with their vast entourage and mountains of paraphernalia. This knowledge could occupy weeks and weeks of time for the customs men of Europe. There was somebody he knew in England to whom this information would be pure gold. He would send it on at once.

‘That’s a very imaginative choice, those ballet people; you could send anything down that route and not get caught.’

‘Tell me, Monsieur Brouzet, what is to happen to me?’

‘Well, I shall have to write a report, Colonel Argaud. Whether I ever send it anywhere is another matter. It seems to me, you see, that your sending this information to the Russians might work in France’s favour. If they think the French are going to collapse early in the war, they will have to be ready sooner than they might have planned, and that could only work in France’s favour if the Germans have to move divisions from the west to the east, if you follow me. I shall let you know what I decide. If I were you, mon Colonel, I wouldn’t lose too much sleep over it, but I wouldn’t do it again.’

‘Thank you.’

As the elegant Colonel made his way downstairs, Olivier Brouzet put away his photographs. It was the fourth time he’d used them and they hadn’t failed him yet. Not bad for an afternoon’s work with some actors, a director, an experienced photographer and some props from the Comedie Française at his mother’s house in the country.