Death Comes to the Ballets Russes (28 page)

‘What’s that?’ said Powerscourt, looking closely at the pages and pages of notes the Inspector had brought with him, all apparently useless.

‘It’s this, my lord. The whole place was wide open. Bits of the stage downstairs were being taken away. Bits of the stage from the open-air show were being brought back into the house for storage round the back. It’s quicker if you go straight through the house rather than going round the back. There were carpenters and scene shifters and the like everywhere. A complete stranger could have walked in – a whole team of complete strangers could have walked in – and nobody would have been any the wiser. And all the while the guests were tucking into their caviar and whatever they had for the other courses.’

‘Presumably,’ said Lady Lucy, ‘the Blenheim Palace people would have thought they were Ballets Russes and the Ballets Russes would have thought they were Blenheim Palace people.’

‘You’re absolutely right, my lady. Inspector Jackson is asking round about if people remember seeing any strangers on the day. Even he admitted it was a very long shot. The whole bloody place was full of strangers. So that’s it, my lord, my lady. One last thing – Inspector Jackson, who is, I must say, a very capable officer, thinks that the answer lies inside the Ballets Russes. Like me, and, I suspect, the two of us, he believes the murders are linked. Is there a connection between Alexander Taneyev and Alfred Bolm and Vera, the poor
dead girl in Oxfordshire? We shall do our damnedest to find out. And we still haven’t had that interview with Monsieur Diaghilev that he promised us up there at Blenheim.’

‘I shall have to leave you,’ said Powerscourt. ‘There is another complication in our relations with the Russians and the French and even, God help us, the Germans. French bonds have now taken a bow centre stage and I must go and talk to my brother-in-law.’

‘You said you wanted to talk to me about the recent upswing in sales of French government bonds, Francis,’ said his banker brother-in-law William Burke, now a mighty power in the City of London. Burke was sitting behind an enormous desk, operational headquarters of his financial activities. ‘If it were serious, it could cause a financial crisis across Europe.’

‘I do want to talk to you about French bonds, William. Thank you. Family well?’

‘All well, even the eldest, wasting my substance at Oxford. Now then, the answer to your question lies not in the machinations of politicians or diplomats, the answer lies in the horses. I’ve got my principal witness right here somewhere in this building.

‘I’ll get our head porter,’ said Burke, ringing a bell for service. ‘Man by the name of Welby, Jack Welby. Former RSM in some bloody regiment to do with horses. Our friend Welby runs the most sophisticated betting syndicate in these islands.’

‘Does he run the whole thing from here?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘Porter one minute, gambler extraordinaire the next? Your hat, sir, your coat. Put a tenner on
Island Queen in the three thirty at Doncaster, that sort of thing?’

‘To the best of my knowledge, Francis,’ said his brother-in-law, ‘he never gives tips to any of the staff here. He’s got contacts in all the major stables in Newmarket and Lambourn, the twin headquarters of English racing, and in the stables near the big meetings like Epsom for the Derby and Doncaster for the St Leger.’

‘And is it all legal? Surely the Jockey Club and the other old relics who run racing must have been onto him?’

William Burke laughed. ‘Two years ago a group of disgruntled bookmakers complained formally to the Jockey Club and the police. The Police Inspector told me afterwards that the Welby organization was like an old-fashioned friendly society, run for the benefit of its members. He said that if the gentlemen of the Square Mile here behaved like Welby’s people’ – Burke waved an arm at his window, which commanded a good view of the financial centre at the heart of London – ‘the world would be a better place. He said he ended up congratulating our friend Welby for what he does, rather than leading him away to the cells. First time he’d ever done that in an investigation into the City and its activities, he said. If you’re ill, Welby’s outfit’ll pay the bills. If your house is falling down, they pay for the repairs. The same if you’re sick. If you’re young and promising in the brains department, they’ll see you get proper qualifications. He’s devoted to the accounting profession, friend Welby. He’s got two of his relations in the top stables in Newmarket now.’

‘What’s the secret?’ asked Powerscourt.

‘He doesn’t cheat. He deals, he says, in the same kind of information any sensible man could pick up drinking with the stable lads. Which horse is off its food, which one is going well, which one looks like a winner this week. He’s not fond of the jumps, Head Porter Welby. There’s too much of the unpredictable about them, he says – stray horses, random collisions, that sort of thing. He punts a few pounds on the Grand National and the Cheltenham Gold Cup to keep up appearances, but his heart’s not in it. He’s a man for the flat. That’s where he places most of his bets.’

‘And what on earth has he to do with French government bonds, William?’

A pair of boots approached Burke’s door; they heard a firm but polite knock.

‘Come in, Mr Welby, this is my brother-in-law, Lord Francis Powerscourt.’

The two men shook hands. ‘I want you to show off a bit, Mr Welby, if you would. I want you to run through the main flat winners this season. We’ll leave the jumps out of it, as you’re not that keen.’

‘Just the major races, sir? I’m not sure I could manage the two forty at Salisbury last month if you follow me.’

‘Just the big ones, here and in France.’

‘Do you want me to start now? With our own ones here in this country?’

‘Yes please.’

‘In time order, sir, Two Thousand Guineas at Newmarket, early in the season, going’s often a bit soft if you follow me, won by Sweeper II, jockey Danny Maher, trained by Atty Persse; One Thousand Guineas, also at Newmarket, won by Tagalie – strange name for a horse that and no mistake, sir – ridden by Les
Hewitt, trained by Dawson Waugh; Epsom Oaks, won by another bloody animal with a strange name, Mirska, ridden by Joe Childs and trained by Tom Jennings; The Derby, the big one as you know, sir, won by our friend Tagalie, ridden by Johnny Reiff and trained by Dawson Waugh. That’s it for now, sir, the St Leger isn’t till September.’

‘My word,’ said William Burke with a smile, ‘that was very impressive. And across the Channel?

‘Well, gentlemen there’s really only one race over there that should concern you and that’s the Prix de Diane, the equivalent of our Derby and also run in June. Horse called Qu’elle Est Belle won it this year. They’re not so consistent over there as we are, sir. In 1848 they had one of those revolutions they’re so fond of and the venue was switched to Versailles. And in 1871 they had one of their wars with the Germans and the race was cancelled altogether. There is one odd thing about the Prix de Diane I think you should know about.’

‘What’s that?’ said Powerscourt.

‘Well, sir, everyone likes to have a bet on it. In Paris the poorer people will sell some of their government bonds – they all seem to like buying government bonds over there – to have a bet. They say that the big-money men dip into their holdings so they too can have a flutter. Only happens with this one race, but they tell me it happens on a huge scale.’

‘Thank you very much. That’s it, Francis. That’s where your great bond sale comes from. French gamblers.’

‘I wonder if they won, the ones who cashed in their bonds.’

‘History doesn’t relate, my lord, ‘said Head Porter Welby, ‘and neither can I.’

Alexander Taneyev must have had plenty of practice at writing home to his mother, Natasha Shaporova thought, as she sat working her way through his correspondence with her in a little room full of icons that the family had lent her for reading. Sandra, the mother, had kept her letters from her son in a neat bundle in the table by her bedside. Other members of the family were even then searching for the various different places they might have left Alex’s mail. Much of this correspondence touched on a mother’s anxieties.

They had regular meals and attendance was compulsory. The food was very English with plenty of roast meats and rather disagreeable vegetables. The hotel looked after their laundry. Alexander, he told his mother more than once, was happy in London. It didn’t have the gaiety, the élan of Paris, but he had seen plenty to admire. He was very excited about being chosen as understudy for the Prince in
Thamar
. This meant, he wrote, that the ballet authorities must think highly of him. He wrote rather dull accounts of the tourist delights he had seen – the Tower of London, too small to be a proper fortress, the queues at the fashionable shops in Bond Street too long, Buckingham Palace only impressive at the Changing of the Guard.

There was only one phrase that troubled Natasha and it troubled her greatly. It occurred twice, shortly before he was killed. ‘What am I, Mama,’ he had written, ‘Russian or English?’

Why would a young man of about twenty years suddenly ask his mother that? She was certainly English, his mother, born and bred in fishing country in Hampshire, but surely he should have known the answer by now. Natasha could feel telegram number one coming on.

Johnny Fitzgerald was beginning to dislike Richard Wagstaff Gilbert and his habit of playing with his family’s emotions. Powerscourt had reported on his morning visit, on the day the first murder had become known, and had described him as a cold fish. Among the many things Johnny didn’t know about Waggers was how much money he was worth. He doubted if Waggers had ever told his relations. He would just have hinted at large sums, well worth waiting for. Johnny wondered how he was going to find the answer. He suspected an even larger contribution to Sweetie Robinson’s funds might be needed. But for now he was in Richmond, about to call on Mrs Clarissa Cooper, mother to Nicholas and Peter, both potential winners in the lottery of Uncle Richard’s will.

She showed him into a sitting room considerably smaller than her sister Maud’s. Here there were no pictures that looked as if they might have been Impressionists on the walls, just routine reproductions you could have picked up for a song. Mrs Cooper was polite. She ushered him to a seat on the sofa by the window. She did not offer any refreshment. Johnny reflected rather cynically that the funds from Barnes might receive a warmer welcome here than they would in Chelsea.

‘Mr Fitzgerald, my sister told me you would be coming. How can I help?’

‘This is all rather disagreeable I fear,’ said Johnny. ‘Lord Francis Powerscourt has been asked to look into the demise of your nephew. Of course I do not need to tell you that. You already know it. But it is a sad but necessary part of those investigations to find out, however disagreeable this might sound, who might benefit from his will.’

‘I do not imagine for one second that I will be a beneficiary of my brother’s will. He keeps his own counsel in such matters.’

‘I was given to understand from your sister that your brother was in the habit of telling his relations that his attentions had switched, first from one nephew, then to another, and so on. It all sounds very difficult for the families involved.’