Death Comes to the Ballets Russes

2

‘Lady Ripon, my lord.’ Rhys, the Powerscourt butler, coughed apologetically before his announcement. He always did. Powerscourt’s wife, Lady Lucy, had a private theory that Rhys must have North American blood. The cough, she maintained, was the modern English equivalent of the Indians up in the hills sending smoke signals to their colleagues down on the plains.

It was three o’clock in the afternoon the day after Lady Ripon’s conversation with Natasha Shaporova. The staff at the Royal Opera House had telephoned early that morning to make the appointment.

‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Lord Powerscourt. I don’t think we’ve met. Mind you, I’m sure I have come across your charming wife about the town from time to time.’

Powerscourt thought she made it sound as if it was his fault they had not met before.

‘And how may I be of assistance to you, Lady Ripon?’

Lady Ripon was tall with luscious brown hair, a very superior air and a lorgnette. ‘I trust this conversation may be regarded as private, Lord Powerscourt. I have come in my dual role as Patron of the Ballets Russes and Patron of the Royal Opera House.’ Powerscourt felt sure she would have accepted the patronage of any other organizations that bothered to approach her. She made it sound like a royal command.

‘Of course.’

She told him the details of the murder at the ballet. ‘It’s important to us that the matter is sorted out as soon as possible. I and my people would like the matter cleared up in a week. Can you give me your word on that?’

‘I beg your pardon, Lady Ripon. If you are asking me to give my word that I could solve this case inside a week, the answer is no. Definitely no. It’s just not possible to say how long it will take to clear up a matter like this. I’m sorry.’

‘My people will be disappointed, Lord Powerscourt. We had heard such good things about you. We had high hopes.’

Powerscourt wondered who ‘my people’ were and who she had been talking to. He decided that if she didn’t want to tell him the names of her associates, he would just have to find out.

‘Have the police been informed?’ Powerscourt asked. ‘And the newspapers? Publicity often helps in cases like this. People remember they may have seen something which could be useful.’

Lady Ripon snorted. ‘The last thing we want, Lord Powerscourt, is for the common people to be reading sensational stories in the vulgar press and gossiping about them in the public houses. The Times and the other principal papers have been spoken to this morning. They will do as they’re told. I felt we had no choice but to inform the police. The victim may be a foreigner of whom we know little or nothing but the reputation of British justice must be maintained. The police are under orders to be as discreet as possible.’

‘I see.’

‘Can I take it then that you will take on the investigation? I can tell my people that you will start work this afternoon?’

Lady Ripon rose as if to go.

‘No, you can’t do that, Lady Ripon. I suspect there will be great difficulties, certainly about the language. I don’t know how many of the Ballets Russes people speak English. I need time to think about it. I need to talk it over with my wife.’

‘I thought you agreed that our conversation was confidential, off the record. We can’t have you discussing the matter with anybody you like.’

‘My wife is not anybody, Lady Ripon. Nor is your husband. I shall let you have my answer first thing in the morning.’ Powerscourt rang the bell for Rhys to take Lady Ripon away.

Lady Lucy was fascinated to hear of her husband’s meeting with the world of opera and ballet.

‘Was she really frightful, Francis?’

‘Do you know, I rather think she was. Somewhere between Lady Bracknell and the current Queen Mary with a hint of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.’

‘I wonder if that isn’t the key to her whole attitude.’

‘You’re way ahead of me, Lucy. What might this key be?’

‘Well, I’m sure she is much less important now than she was under the previous regime. I never had anything to do with them, but Lady Ripon was a key player in that fast set around the late King, bed-hopping in the night, little cards left on every bedroom door with the name of the guest so people knew who they were going to visit, gentlemen expected to be back in their quarters by four thirty in the morning when the servants began moving about. Enormous meals. Expensive chefs from Paris. No expense spared to entertain a King. Some people are thought to have almost bankrupted themselves serving in the royal progress. Mrs Keppel was everywhere, always keen to have the last word and nobody daring to argue with her. Now I come to think about it, Lady Ripon was famous for a while for her role in the Duchess of Devonshire’s costume ball back at the time of the Diamond Jubilee.’

‘How did she become famous for dressing up?’

‘That’s the thing, Francis. Mary Queen of Scots was there and Queen Zenobia from Persia and a couple of Nelsons. Lady Ripon was one of three Cleopatras. But she was the only one who took her slave girl with her at all times.’

‘I see,’ said Powerscourt. ‘And that’s all gone now. The King is dead. Long live the King. Lady Ripon and her set must feel rather like Bardolph and Poins and Falstaff after Prince Hal gives up his naughty past and turns into a warrior prince. Edward the Seventh was the opposite of his mother. George the Fifth is very different from his father. Respectability, not dissipation and luxury, is the new order of the day. Rosebery told me at the time of the Coronation that the new King had spent most of the past seventeen years sticking stamps into his album in that dreary York Cottage up at Sandringham. God help us all.’

‘Did you see her as a grande horizontale, Francis?’

‘I’m not sure about that. Grande certainly. I can’t quite bring myself to imagine Lady Ripon horizontale. I’ve always thought it referred to aristocratic mistresses in Versailles with loads of perfume and cupboards full of suggestive lingerie. Madame de Pompadour, Madame du Barry before she was sent to the guillotine, those sort of people.’

‘So Lady Ripon might feel the need to put on airs, to throw her weight about now, precisely because she is much less important than she was before?’

‘Exactly so, Lucy, exactly so. But I wonder who she meant by “her people”. She referred to them more than once.’

‘I’m sure she knows a lot of very rich men, Francis, like those financiers who bailed out Edward the Seventh. The only other thing I know about her is that she was one of the first society ladies to have a motor car and to install a telephone. She claimed, so I was told, that the telephone was much more discreet. No billet-doux left lying around for the servants to blackmail you with later on. Anyway, Francis, are you going to take on the case?’

‘Well,’ said her husband, ‘I must admit that I was very tempted to tell Her Ladyship to go to hell. But I don’t think I can refuse. Think of that poor dead dancer — he can’t have been much older than our Thomas is now. Think of his family back in St Petersburg or Kiev or Moscow or wherever they live. I shall send a note round to the Royal Opera House, accepting the case and requesting an interview with Diaghilev in the morning. Maybe he’s one of “her people”. But I look forward to meeting him. I wonder what he’s like. I do have one major problem with this case though.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I really don’t like ballet, Lucy. I never have and I never will. I can’t stand it.’

The stage at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden was a hive of activity. A couple of carpenters were high on their ladders adjusting the scenery. A make-up artist was putting the finishing touches to the complexion of one of the prima ballerinas. The girls of the corps de ballet seemed frozen in mid-pirouette, waiting for guidance. The choreographer, Michel Fokine, a young man, probably in his early thirties, looked as if he was, quite literally, tearing his hair out. He was swearing violently in what Powerscourt presumed to be Russian. Powerscourt learnt later that Fokine had one complaint, repeated over and over again: why in God’s name did I leave St Petersburg with these stupid girls?

Another young man was staring hard at the scene. Powerscourt thought he must be a policeman. He had that slightly uncomfortable look people often have when they are transferred out of the uniformed branch.

‘Excuse me,’ said Powerscourt, ‘are you connected with the opera or the Ballets Russes?’

‘No, I’m not, sir. I’m a policeman. Sergeant Rufus Jenkins, at your service.’ The young man bowed politely. ‘And who might you be, sir, if I might make so bold?’

‘My name is Powerscourt, Francis Powerscourt. I happen to be Lord Powerscourt but that isn’t important. I have been asked to investigate a rather shocking murder that happened here a couple of days ago.’

‘Why, my lord, that’s why I’m here too. I’m the officer in charge of the police inquiry, so I am.’

‘Forgive me if I sound rude, but are you the only officer on the case? In my experience Scotland Yard usually send an inspector to look into murder cases.’

‘That’s right, my lord. But that’s what happens if you’re English. English corpses get inspectors, so they do. Foreign dead get sergeants.’

‘What would happen if you didn’t come from Europe? Suppose you were a New Zealander or an African?’

‘Empire dead would get a sergeant like me. Africans, I’m not sure what would happen to them. They might be lucky to get a detective constable, and that’s a fact.’

‘Have you been able to talk to anybody at all? Any of the witnesses?’

‘This is bad, my lord, I know it’s bad. Fact is, I don’t speak a word of Russian. That lot on the stage, they don’t speak a word of English. One of them, the bloke who seems to be in charge, tried to talk to me in what I thought might be French, but I don’t speak bloody French either. The office are busy hunting for fluent Russian speakers in the schools and over at the university, but they haven’t found anybody yet.’

‘Well, I can get by in French. I’ll see if I can have a word with that man in charge when he’s calmed down and they’re not so busy with their rehearsal. You haven’t come across a fellow called Diaghilev, by any chance? He’s the head man of the whole thing. Big fellow. Astrakhan collar on his coat. Oiled hair. Monocle. Ring any bells?’

‘I’ve not seen him at all this morning, my lord.’

‘Lord Powerscourt! Lord Powerscourt! How very good to see you again!’

Natasha Shaporova was skipping down the aisle of the auditorium of the Royal Opera House. She was wearing a pale-blue coat and a rather raffish hat. Her feet, Powerscourt remembered from his time in St Petersburg, were clad in the usual high Russian boots. She looked as though she might be on her way to Ascot or Henley.

‘Natasha, you look prettier than ever!’ said Powerscourt. ‘May I introduce my companion in arms, Sergeant Rufus Jenkins of the Metropolitan Police?’

Natasha Shaporova smiled at the young man. He was hers for life now.

‘I heard about all this from Lady Ripon yesterday, about the murder and so on. I called at your house just now and Lady Powerscourt said I’d find you here. I’ve come to offer my services, Lord Powerscourt!’

‘How nice to have you on board, Natasha. I feel happier about this investigation already.’

‘I’ve come to help, Lord Powerscourt. When I was talking to Lady Ripon yesterday, I suddenly realized that there are going to be problems with the languages, Russians and ballet people not speaking English, and the English not speaking Russian. Well, I didn’t know much English when we met before in St Petersburg, but I’m nearly fluent now. I will be able to translate Russian into English or French as you wish. I’ve lived here for a few years now. The last time we worked together, you had Mikhail as a translator. This time you can have me. I might not be so fluent but I like to think I’m better looking!’

‘Thank you so much,’ said Powerscourt. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘Now then, Lord Powerscourt, why don’t you wait here a moment and I’ll go and speak to that fellow onstage. I think he’s called Michel Fokine. He’s quite a celebrity back home. Is there anybody in particular you’d like to speak to?’

‘Well, yes, there is. I’d like to speak to Mr Diaghilev as soon as possible. I don’t think I should talk to anybody else until I’ve spoken to him.’

‘Very good. Hold on. I’m just going to set my brain to Russian — do you know, I don’t think I’ve spoken it for a couple of months now. Mikhail makes me speak English at home. Says it’ll be good for me. I’ll be back in a moment.’

Natasha tripped forward to the edge of the stage. Powerscourt and Sergeant Jenkins stared in wonder as the corps de ballet began to move about the stage. It looked as if they were one single person, not fifteen.

The ballerina who had transported the jewels from the Fontanka Quay was not the only Russian with a mission in London that summer. Members of the Bolshevik Party, an extreme revolutionary sect, planning to take power and bring socialism to Mother Russia, had two reasons for sending a man to England. They were still sitting on the proceeds of a bank robbery they had organized in Tiflis several years before. A number of people had been killed in the shoot-out, but the haul had been enormous: 341,000 roubles. The only problem for those advocating the final liquidation of the capitalist system was that most of the money was in 500-rouble notes. And the authorities had the numbers. They could not be used or exchanged in Russia. Lenin, the leader of the Bolsheviks, and his follower Joseph Stalin had both been involved in the organization of the robbery. One of Lenin’s disciples had a close friend in the Ballets Russes. So the notes were to go to London, where the disciple was instructed to contact as many revolutionaries as he could — Lenin had all the names and addresses — and enlist them in his mission. Between eleven and twelve o’clock one weekday morning, a guerrilla band of ten comrades were to take many thousands of roubles each into a series of different banks and change them into pounds. The day chosen was some days after the corpse was discovered beneath the trapdoor of the Royal Opera House. Lenin’s friend was to make contact with his fellow revolutionaries, most of whom lived in working-class districts in the East End.

Lenin’s disciple had a further mission. As well as the notes, concealed in the false bottoms of a trunk and a couple of suitcases, he was entrusted with another of Lenin’s revolutionary tracts, proclaiming the inevitability of world revolution and describing the vanguard role to be played by the Bolsheviks. Cracow, Lenin’s latest bolt-hole, was so infested with agents of the Russian Secret Service, the Okhrana, or local policemen hired to work on their behalf, that it was impossible to have anything printed in the city. Lenin’s man was to have five hundred copies printed in each language and sent back to St Petersburg in the Ballets Russes luggage. The money to pay the printers was to come from the proceeds of the bank robbery.

Natasha was looking grave when she came back from the stage. Michel Fokine was shouting at the corps de ballet again.

‘This isn’t a very promising start, I’m afraid, Lord Powerscourt, Sergeant Jenkins. Fokine says that Diaghilev is in a terrible temper. It’s not just the murder, apparently. His inner circle suspect he’s run out of money and can’t pay the bills. It’s happened before, they say. Somehow or other he always manages to pull the squirrel out of the hat.’ She stopped suddenly. ‘Is that right? Squirrel, I mean? Something tells me it’s not the squirrel.’

‘Rabbit,’ said Powerscourt with a smile. ‘It’s a rabbit out of the hat. But I’m sure it might have been a squirrel.’

Natasha laughed. ‘One of the ballerinas said Diaghilev was going to see Lady Ripon. He got a lot of money out of her last year, apparently. He promises to bring Nijinsky down to her house to dance in front of her friends. She’s built a little stage at the edge of her ballroom, they tell me. After Nijinsky has danced for his tea or his supper, she coughs up.’

‘I suppose that makes sense,’ said Powerscourt.

‘Anyway,’ Natasha went on, ‘Fokine says we’ll just have to wait. He’s going to ring me when he’s got some news. Nobody will speak until Diaghilev gives the all-clear. They won’t even let you visit the scene of the murder without his say-so. Maybe we should all go and have a cup of coffee round the corner?’

Natasha took them to the Fielding Hotel near the Royal Opera House, where she and Mikhail often had supper after the performances. Sergeant Jenkins looked ruefully at Bow Street Magistrates Court across the way, as if he would have felt more at home giving evidence in court rather than consorting with prima ballerinas and temperamental impresarios.

‘Natasha,’ said Powerscourt, ‘can you tell us about the ballet? I don’t mean the composers or the choreographers or the artists, but the world of the dancers. What’s that like?’

‘Well, I don’t know a great deal about the ballet, I’m afraid. I have a brother back in St Petersburg who knows all about it. He’s a great ballet lover, what they call a balletomane. I can always ask him for more information. Let me see. .’ Natasha paused to help herself to a piece of chocolate cake.

‘I think the ballet and the opera people all get trained at the Imperial Theatre School in Theatre Street in St Petersburg. I think they can go there as boarders when they’re still quite young. They get a proper education, as well as being trained in their particular speciality, dancing or singing. Nijinsky was a pupil there — I remember my brother telling us that he was going to be the most famous ballet dancer in the world.’

‘Do they get on with each other? The ballerinas?’

‘You should try some of this cake, Sergeant,’ said Natasha with a smile. ‘It’s really good. There’s a bakery round the corner that’s one of the best in London. In answer to your question, Lord Powerscourt, I don’t think the world of ballet is an advertisement for brotherly love. Or sisterly love either. I don’t think they have regular readings of the Sermon of the Mount at mealtimes.’

‘Do they not get on with each other at all?’

‘I think there is one word that explains so much about their behaviour. Jealousy. Just imagine, Lord Powerscourt. You’ve been friends with this boy or girl for a number of years. You’re in the same class. You’re sharing your schooldays. Then, one day, out of the blue, your friend is promoted. He or she is made up a grade. They can see their way right up to the top now, premier danseur or prima ballerina, the summit of your profession, the chance to make dramatic leaps all over the stage and heaps and heaps of money off it. But you, the one not promoted, may spend years stuck in the corps de ballet. You could be there until you take your pension. People are sometimes so possessed with jealousy that they do terrible things.’

‘Stabbing each other to death with Cossack knives just used in a performance, perhaps?’ said Powerscourt.

‘I’ve never heard of anything that bad, but there are some terrible stories. One female dancer, who thought she was the one people came to see, was dancing with Nijinsky not long ago. At the end it was clear that the applause and the standing ovations that rang round and round were for him, not her. She’s never danced with Nijinsky again.’

‘God bless my soul,’ said Powerscourt.

‘Then there was another prima ballerina who found that her roles were drying up. She was cast in fewer and fewer ballets and her parts were getting smaller. She only found out the reason by accident. Another prima ballerina had gone to the choreographer Fokine we saw just now and told him that he, Fokine, must not put her rival in too many roles. She was consumptive. Too much dancing would be very bad for her health. Smaller roles, not too many performances, that was the secret.’

‘It all sounds a bit like London gangsters to me — why don’t we knife the boss of the gang next door?’ Sergeant Jenkins was brushing chocolate crumbs off his jacket. ‘I’m obliged to you, Mrs Shaporova, for the coffee and the cake. You were right about that. It’s delicious. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to the station. My inspector may have found somebody who speaks Russian for me by now. I wish you both a very good day.’

Natasha Shaporova was also preparing to leave. ‘I will let you know the minute I hear from Fokine, Lord Powerscourt. Do you have any plans in the meantime?’

‘I do, as a matter of fact. I’m going to find out all I can about the gentleman Alexander Taneyev was staying with, Mr Richard Wagstaff Gilbert. In my rather disagreeable profession, Natasha, we learn a number of disagreeable truths. Jealousy may be one motive for murder. Money, especially money to be inherited, is undoubtedly another.’