Death Comes to the Ballets Russes (8 page)

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.’

Grand écart

Literally, great gap. Also known as ‘spagat’ in German or ‘splits’ in English, is when the dancer opens his/her legs in 180°, front or sideways.

Johnny Fitzgerald, Powerscourt’s oldest friend and companion in arms, was back in town. Ever since the affair of the Elgin Marble he had lived mainly in the country, supposedly researching a new book on the birds of the Midlands. Lady Lucy had long ago established that Johnny’s principal interest in the Midlands was not, in fact, the local wildlife, but a rich widow in Warwickshire. Lady Lucy had enlisted series after series of interlocking circles of friends and relations in the search for the identity of the lady concerned. She was almost certain that her prey was a certain Lady Caroline Milne, widow of the late Colonel Sebastian Milne, formerly of the Life Guards and a previous Master of the Harbury Hunt. Lady Lucy had been on the verge of asking Johnny a number of times if Lady
Caroline was indeed the object of his interest, but she had resisted. If Johnny had wanted them to know, she reasoned to herself, he would have told them. All in good time, as her grandmother used to say.

‘Well, Francis,’ said Fitzgerald, ‘I hear you’re consorting with ballet dancers and that man Diaghilev. That’s what they’re saying round the town.’

‘How very perceptive of you, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt with a laugh. He gave Johnny the details of the case.

‘And I presume that you have some delicious assignment lined up for me?’ said Fitzgerald, who had visited many Valleys of Despair and Sloughs of Despond in previous cases with his friend. ‘Lunch with the prima ballerinas? Dinner with Anna Pavlova if she’s in town? That sort of thing?’

‘I’m afraid not, my friend, I’m afraid not. Would that such entertainments were within my gift. Alas, that is not the fate I have in mind for you. But it could be worse.’

‘What do you mean worse?’ said Johnny darkly. ‘Tell me the truth now.’

‘There is a rich City businessman involved in the affair, Johnny. Name of Gilbert, Richard Wagstaff Gilbert. He lives in a big house in Barnes near the pond. He’s very rich. He also happens to be a relation of the dead dancer Alexander Taneyev. He’s his uncle. I want to know all about him.’

‘Why? Are you looking for some hot investment tips, Francis? Buy Latin American copper, that sort of thing?’

‘Well, you never know when that might come in useful. The first major problem in this case is this: who was
meant to be the victim? The boy Alexander was the understudy. A much more famous fellow was meant to be dancing the part of the Prince, but he cried off. I know you’re going to ask me why and when he vanished from the stage, as it were, and I can only say that I don’t know yet. I haven’t been able to talk to him. Relations with Diaghilev are a bit frosty at the moment, so that may have to wait even longer. Our friend in Barnes appears to have no children. We know Alexander was his nephew. How many more nephews, cousins, brothers or sisters does our man have? That would be interesting.’

‘Francis,’ said Johnny, looking sadly at his friend, ‘you’re getting too devious for your own good. It must be these Russians. I think you suspect that Alexander whatever he’s called might have been Gilbert’s heir. If that is the case, who might the new heir be? He would, certainly, have a strong motive for lurking round the bowels of the opera house with a nasty dagger in his hand. Is that what you want me to find out?’

‘It is.’

‘Why didn’t you say so at the beginning? I’ll get started right away.’

Sergeant Rufus Jenkins had recruited a couple of English assistants among the younger members of staff at the Royal Opera House. The elder boy, Jamie, had just started work when the Ballets Russes first appeared in London the year before. He was employed because his father was chief electrician. Jamie could even remember some of the ballet dancers’ names, something the Sergeant thought might be beyond his powers. He, the Sergeant, had bought himself a
little book that claimed to teach you how to speak Russian. The Sergeant realized very quickly that this would be hard work. French, as he used to say to his mother, had always been Greek to him at school. Why did the Russians have to have a different alphabet? Furthermore, why did they have to have so many letters – six more, by the Sergeant’s arithmetic, than the English version? Why did ‘Cc’ sound like ‘s’ in see and ‘Pp’ sound like a rolled ‘r’, for heaven’s sake? It was enough to make a man despair.

Sergeant Jenkins’ other recruit worked as a stagehand and scene shifter and general dogsbody. Nicholas wanted to be an actor and this was the only job he could find that took him into a theatre. And it was Nicholas who provided the first burst of news from the world of the Ballets Russes, over a pint of bitter at the Lamb and Flag in Rose Street, known as the Bucket of Blood in an earlier century. Jenkins didn’t want the Russians to see the connection between himself and his in-house spies, as he mentally referred to them.

‘It was a fight, Sergeant, right in the middle of the stage, must have been about eleven o’clock this morning.’

‘Not so fast, my friend. Who was on stage? What were they rehearsing? Who was fighting?’

‘Well, from what I heard, I think they were running through a new routine for
Les Sylphides
.’

Nicholas had a pair of aunts who lived in Brittany, so he had picked up some idiomatic French, including a number of swear words, the precise meanings of which he was unsure.

‘That choreographer who shouts at them all the time, Mr Fokine, he was doing his stuff.’

‘And who was doing the fighting?’

‘Two girls from the corps de ballet. One of them was that tall redhead called Kristina. The other one was a brunette and I don’t know her name. I could point her out to you next time you’re in the place, if you like.’

‘That would be very kind. Was it like a boxing match? Wrestling maybe?’