Death Comes to the Ballets Russes

4

George Walker was there. He was a docker. Albert Smith was there. He worked on the railways. The brothers William and Thomas Baker were there. They were porters at Euston Station. Arthur Cooper was there. He drove a bus. Henry Farmer was there. He too worked in the docks. Frederick and Alfred Butcher were there. They were miners from Kent. Joseph Turner was there. He was a schoolteacher. John Jones was there. He too was a docker. Walter Shepherd also worked on the railways. Herbert Thatcher was there. He drove a train.

These men were the twelve principal disciples of Lenin’s revolutionary movement in London. The Bolsheviks weren’t the only revolutionary group represented at the private meeting room in the Fox and Hounds in Rotherhithe. There were Syndicalists and Social Revolutionaries and Mensheviks, all united by extreme hatred of the capitalism that employed them at what they saw as minimal wages, maximum hours and very little concern for safety. For much of 1911 and 1912 they had been on strike or on the verge of a strike all over the country. Some of them wanted a minimum wage. Others, like the supporters of Lenin, wanted the complete overthrow of the capitalist system, an end to the power of the House of Lords, universal suffrage and the replacement of the monarchy by a Republic. Preferably all at once. Just as Christian Evangelicals believe personal salvation has to be experienced before true entry into the Church, so the Bolsheviks believed that conversion to the thinking of Karl Marx, principal saint in the Bolshevik religion, was a key part of being a true revolutionary.

Arthur Cooper, the bus driver and active trade unionist, called the meeting to order.

‘Comrades,’ he began, ‘let me begin by thanking you all for coming to this meeting, especially when I didn’t feel able to tell you what it was about.’ He paused and took a long draught of his pint of mild and bitter. ‘Now I can give you the full story. Very soon now we are all going to take part in a major assault on the capitalist system. We are going into enemy territory. We’re going into the banks.

‘Let me explain. Several years ago our colleagues in Russia organized what the capitalist Press would call a bank robbery in the Georgian city of Tiflis. You and I would say it was setting the people’s money free. So tight-fisted were those bankers that they kept notes of all the numbers on the five-hundred-rouble notes. Five-hundred-rouble notes, comrades, are for so large a sum that no worker could possibly have owned one, let alone seen one. Those notes were indeed the fruits of the oppressing and exploiting class. Comrade Lenin and Comrade Stalin couldn’t change these notes in Russia. They tried to change them abroad but were foiled by counter-revolutionary forces. Now it is our turn. We will have a series of bundles of notes, one for each man present, ready for distribution shortly. We will have prepared individual street maps with bank addresses so that you will all be going to different banks. This revolutionary action should start at precisely eleven o’clock. The reason for the coordination is to stop the capitalist bankers ringing up their collaborators and raising doubts about our plan. If the lackeys at the counter ask where the large note came from, you are to say that it was sent to you by the lawyers looking after the will of a rich relation in Moscow. Please ask to change the money into pounds. Please be polite. Revolutions are not won by guns alone. You are asked by Comrade Lenin to bring the money back here. We will organize its transfer to Lenin’s current location to further the work of the revolution. I will try to answer any questions but I feel that revolutionary discipline should prevail. The less you know the better.’

Cooper looked round his little audience. Nobody asked any questions.

‘Inside a week we shall further the cause of progress. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity! Let us close our meeting with “The Internationale”.’ The song had been used by socialists, communists, anarchists, democratic socialists, all the different varieties of revolutionary factions.

This is the final struggle

Let us group together and tomorrow

The Internationale

Will be the human race.

Powerscourt had suspected for some time that his wife Lucy slipped bad news into the conversation at times when he could not complain very loudly. They were just about to go to the theatre in a taxi when she announced that her Great Aunt Theodosia was coming to stay for a few days. She was a Stratton, this Theodosia, related to Lady Lucy on her mother’s side, and very rich. Her family lived in a vast house with more servants than rooms on top of one of the largest and richest coal seams in the country. This aunt was extremely old, extremely deaf and extremely difficult. Powerscourt had once claimed that in any contest to find the most reactionary person in Britain, Great Aunt Theodosia would win at a canter.

‘Why is she coming to stay with us, Lucy? Why can’t she take a room at the Ritz or book a suite at the Savoy?’

‘Honestly, Francis, she’s a relation. People don’t want to stay in strange hotels when they’re as old as she is. They want to be in the bosom of their family.’

‘What happens if the bosom of the family don’t want them?’

‘You’re being unreasonable, Francis, you know you are. Anyway, she has to come up to town on business. That’s what she said, anyway.’

‘What sort of business? Doctors? Wills? Solicitors? That sort of business?’

‘You’ll just have to wait and find out.’

Powerscourt remembered a previous conversation with Great Aunt Theodosia in the drawing room at Stratton Hall in Yorkshire. They may have been sitting on top of thousands and thousands of tons of coal up there, but the rooms were always freezing. The old lady would raise a topic and then use her victim’s reaction to reveal the strength and depth of her prejudices.

‘What about these women going about the place smashing things up?’ she demanded after dinner. ‘Suffragettes they call themselves, I believe. They’d certainly suffer if I were in charge, I can tell you. I suppose you approve of these monsters pretending to be proper women, Lord Powerscourt? It’s the sort of thing fashionable people are said to agree with nowadays. Isn’t that so?’

‘Well,’ said Powerscourt, realizing all too well that these waters were treacherous, ‘I don’t support their methods, Great Aunt Theodosia, but I do support their objectives. I think women should have universal suffrage. Wouldn’t you like to have the vote yourself?’

‘I most certainly would not, young man. Two of my relations sat in the 1832 Parliament when the Great Reform Act was passed and let some of the rabble vote. They sat for those splendid rotten boroughs which have, unfortunately, been abolished. But they voted against the changes every time they could. A great uncle of mine was in the 1867 House of Commons and he opposed the later reforms to let even more of the rabble vote. And I had three relations who voted with the Diehards last year when the House of Lords had to agree to a ridiculous Act cooked up by that wicked Asquith to rip up the constitution and limit the powers of the House of Lords. One of them wrote the closing speech for Lord Selborne: “The question is, shall we perish in the dark, slain by our hand, or in the light, killed by our enemies?”’

Great Aunt Theodosia stared at Powerscourt as if he were one of the ringleaders of this ongoing treachery over the voting system. He could still remember her final blast up there in the cold of Yorkshire.

‘And another thing. They’re not educated, most of the women in this country. I fancy some of the suffragette people may have learnt to read, but even those who can read don’t spend their time following the passage of Bills through Parliament or the twists and turns of foreign policy. They read those dreadful magazines full of foolish gossip about film stars and people in the music hall. These women won’t vote on the issues. They will vote on the looks of the candidates. Do you call that democracy?’

‘Do you want to see the body? Some people don’t.’ Dr Thomas Harrison, the doctor who had conducted the autopsy was a small, sunburned man who looked as if he spent a lot of his life outdoors. Sergeant Jenkins was to tell Powerscourt later that the doctor loved walking in the Alps in spring and summer, returning with a fine tan and further specimens for his collection of wild flowers. He was in a small office next to the Middlesex Hospital morgue.

‘Yes please.’ Sergeant Jenkins sounded confident. This, in fact, would be the first corpse he had ever seen on duty. The doctor led the way. He nodded to the attendant to pull a body out of the trays on the wall.

Alexander Taneyev looked very peaceful and absurdly young.

‘I’ve heard about you from my colleagues, Lord Powerscourt,’ said Dr Harrison. ‘They say you like complicated cases. Well, let me tell you, this is one of the most straightforward murders I have ever seen.’

‘Really?’ said Powerscourt.

‘I’ll show you the wound that killed him, if you like. Our estimated time for his death, based on the rigor mortis and so on, coincides with the timetable of the ballet. End of Thamar, down he leaps, the murderer is waiting, stabs him with one of those evil knives, that’s the end of poor Alexander.’

‘Have you seen the murder weapon, doctor?’

‘I have indeed. The ballet people offered to let me hang on to one until all the formalities were complete. I said no. I didn’t want one of those lethal instruments knocking about on my premises. I sent it straight back.’

‘Could you describe it for us?’ Sergeant Jenkins was keeping his eyes well away from the sight of the gaping wound.

‘Of course. They told me it is a Cossack knife. It’s very slim and incredibly sharp at the end. They’re cleaned and sharpened regularly, I understand. The murderer knew enough about human anatomy to strike upwards from below rather downwards from above. The boy would have died immediately. It would have been very sudden.’

‘Could you hazard a guess as to whether the murderer was a man or a woman, Doctor?’

Dr Harrison winced. ‘Normally we associate death by knife wound with men. But we don’t know much about the culture of these ballet people. It could have been a man or a woman. That dagger is so sharp, a child of twelve could have done it.’

Natasha Shaporova had hired a suite in the Fielding Hotel for interviews with the Ballets Russes. The girls wouldn’t have to travel across an unknown city to a police station. They wouldn’t have to change out of their costumes if they were in rehearsal. They would come in groups of three so they wouldn’t feel too frightened or too alone. A samovar and a couple of miserable-looking icons had been imported from Chelsea Square.

The party for the corps de ballet in the Shaporova house the day before had been a great success. The Ambassador had turned up and made a splendid speech about the importance of proper behaviour and cooperation with the local police. It was, he assured them, rather like being invited to the country house of a rich relation you hadn’t met before. You want to be asked back. This had gone down very well with the girls. The local priest had managed to enlist not one but two metropolitans. Powerscourt felt sure they must have heard about the quality of Mikhail’s wines, which all came from the most prestigious vineyards in Burgundy and the Rhone valley. The holy men had glided about the room, crucifixes swaying by their waists, blessing the girls and reminding them of the church services in the cathedral. They led the gathering in singing traditional Russian hymns and folk songs at the end. Powerscourt had dressed the set, as he put it to himself, smiling at the corps de ballet like a benevolent uncle. Sergeant Jenkins had been bowled over by the beauty and the sheer numbers of the Ballets Russes dancers.

Powerscourt and Natasha had worked out a rough pattern for the interviews. She had borrowed a bilingual secretary with excellent shorthand from Mikhail’s bank. Olga Penovsky was going to take notes in Russian and then type them up in English. Sergeant Jenkins was particularly pleased to be relieved of his note-taking duties.

Where were you when Alexander Taneyev jumped to his death? Did you hear anything unusual? Had you seen any strangers wandering round the backstage and the dressing rooms? When did you hear that there had been a murder? This was what Powerscourt called the first round. But, he had emphasized to Natasha, it was the second round that he was really interested in. For, as Natasha pointed out, it would have been virtually impossible for any of these girls to have carried out the murder. They were on stage at the time.

Do you have any particular friends in the corps de ballet? Do you like Mr Diaghilev? Do you like Michel Fokine? Do you like Nijinsky? What do you make of Alfred Bolm? Did he have any particular enemies? Did Alexander Taneyev? Why does Michel Fokine shout at you so much? Were there any feuds in the company that you were aware of? Is there anything you think the police ought to know?

After the first three interviews, Natasha gave Powerscourt a summary of what she had heard so far. The girls had been sent to another room for coffee and chocolate cake and could be brought back if necessary before they returned to the Royal Opera House.

‘It’s more or less what you would expect, Lord Powerscourt,’ she said, ‘but there are one or two interesting bits. They’re all frightened of Diaghilev. He seems very big to them. They were nearly all on stage at the time of the murder and heard or saw nothing unusual. Fokine shouts at them so much because he is such a good dancer himself and he thinks they are very slow to understand what he wants them to do. Deep down, I think they’re quite fond of him. Alexander Taneyev was the same age as a lot of the girls. He didn’t seem very interested in them. One of them wondered if Diaghilev fancied him. They all mentioned Diaghilev’s affair with Nijinsky. ‘He thinks we don’t know, but he’s wrong,’ one of them told me. ‘Everybody knows all about it.’ The really interesting thing is this: they don’t like Alfred Bolm at all. One of them blushed scarlet when his name was mentioned. Another looked down at the ground. Maybe he’s tried to make love to them.’

Natasha stopped to drink her tea. ‘One other thing, Lord Powerscourt, I nearly forgot. I think I can see now why Diaghilev was so quick to have the death chamber repainted and cleaned up. They all got hysterical when they heard about the murder the next morning. They didn’t actually use those words, but that in effect is what they told me. One or two hysterical girls would be bad enough, don’t you think, Lord Powerscourt? A whole crowd of them doesn’t bear thinking about.’

By half past three the last dancer had left. The samovar was empty. Olga, the shorthand expert, had departed to her bank and her typewriters.

‘Well,’ said Natasha, looking at the notes she had scribbled down in the gaps between one group of three corps members leaving and the next trio arriving. ‘Almost all of them are frightened of Diaghilev. One of them said she just gives him a big hug whenever she thinks he might be going to get cross with her. Apparently he’s so taken aback he just laughs. But they are all worried that he will run out of money. One of the older ones remembers it happening before. There was a gap of a couple of months with no pay, which wasn’t very pleasant for them. On the whole they’re fond of Fokine. He usually apologizes after he’s shouted at them, apparently. More black marks for Alfred Bolm. Nobody had a good word to say about him. I don’t know what he has done. I’m certain that they could have told me but chose not to.’

‘Do you think they would say more if they were on their own with you in your own house?’

‘I don’t know, I’m just not sure, Lord Powerscourt. Maybe some of the technical people will know more. They’re usually aware of everything that’s going on.’

‘Even if all the girls hate Bolm, I’m not sure that takes us any further forward. Even if they did wish him harm, they couldn’t have done it themselves. And I can’t imagine any of them knowing enough about London to pop out and pick up a hired killer to stab him to death. We still don’t know who the real victim was meant to be, for heaven’s sake. Anything else, Natasha?’

She laughed. ‘Well, there is one thing that will amuse you, Lord Powerscourt, as it doesn’t reflect very well on London. Three of them complained about the market being so close to the opera house. That, they said, could never happen in St Petersburg. Imagine having to thread your way to the Mariinsky Theatre through rows and rows of beetroot and tomatoes and red cabbages.’

There was a very loud knock on the door. It was thrown open before anybody had a chance to say anything. The figure was wearing a dark coat with an astrakhan collar and a homburg hat. He was carrying a cane in his right hand and a sheaf of notes in his left.

‘Sergei Diaghilev,’ he announced himself in flawless French. ‘I found I have a couple of moments to spare so I thought I would present myself. I gather you wish to speak to me. You, I presume,’ he said, shaking his cane at Powerscourt’s face in rather an alarming fashion, ‘must be the man called Powerscourt.’

‘I am indeed,’ Powerscourt replied in French. ‘Allow me to introduce Natasha Shaporova, wife of the banker Mikhail Shaporov, the head of the family bank in London.’

‘Good,’ said Diaghilev, bowing slightly to Natasha, ‘bankers can be useful sometimes. They can also be very disagreeable at other times.’ This was said with some menace.

‘Won’t you sit down, Mr Diaghilev? Would you like some tea?’

‘I prefer to stand, thank you. I don’t want any tea. I shan’t be staying long. Perhaps you could give me some indication of what you wish to ask me?’

‘What was your reaction, Mr Diaghilev, to the murder of one of your dancers at the Royal Opera House?’ Powerscourt opened the batting.

‘I regret it very much. My work goes on. I am an artist and a collector and conductor of artists. Everything else is secondary to that.’

‘Did you know the victim at all?’

‘Of course I knew him. I hired him, you fool.’

‘Do you know anybody who might wish to see understudy Alexander Taneyev dead? Or did you know anybody who might wish to see the man meant to dance the role that night, Alfred Bolm, dead?’

‘These are ridiculous questions. I have no wish to make life difficult for the authorities here. But I am not prepared to speculate about members of my Ballets Russes. I am its artistic director. We have a reputation across Europe. I am not a policeman.’

‘Mr Diaghilev,’ Natasha was at her most charming, smiling at her visitor, ‘is it true that you are going bankrupt? People are saying it all over London. Are they right?’

‘This is preposterous!’ shouted Diaghilev, banging his cane on the back of the nearest chair. ‘I am not staying here to be insulted!’

With that, he turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him. They could hear him shouting in Russian as he made his way downstairs.

‘Pity he didn’t bother to say goodbye,’ Powerscourt shook his head sadly.

‘Rather a hasty exit,’ agreed Natasha. ‘Do you know, something tells me he won’t be coming back to see us any time soon.’