Death Comes to the Ballets Russes (3 page)

‘Should we?’ asked Natasha.

‘Of course you should, whole bloody city’s built on the water. Just like here.’

She had married Mikhail in the marble church of Santa Maria dei Miracoli in the heart of Venice. The investigator and his wife were among the guests at the reception in the Ca’ d’Oro on the Grand Canal.

‘I know what you should do,’ cried Natasha. ‘I know exactly what you should do!’

‘What should I do, Natasha?’

‘I’ve just remembered. I know just the man for you. I met him in St Petersburg years ago when he was investigating a murder. As far as I know he doesn’t speak Russian but he speaks perfect French. At least he’d be able to talk to Diaghilev and Fokine and Bakst and that rather frightening-looking composer person – Stravinsky, I think he’s called. My friend is one of the most distinguished investigators in the country.’

‘And what is his name, my dear?’

‘Why, he lives just round the corner in Markham Square, Lady Ripon. His name is Powerscourt, Lord Francis Powerscourt.’

Pas

Literally, ‘step’. In ballet, the term
pas
often refers to a combination of steps which make up a dance (typically, in dance forms such as jazz, hip-hop, tap, etc., this is called a
routine
).
Pas
is often used as a generic term when referring to a particular suite of dances,
i.e.
Pas de deux
,
Grand Pas d’action
, etc., and may also refer to a variation. The use of the word
pas
when referring to a combination of steps which make up a dance, is used mostly in Russia, and much of Europe, while in English-speaking countries the word
combination
is often used.

‘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!’