David Dickinson - Death Comes to the Ballets Russes

‘I wish I could help you there,’ said the young choreographer, ‘but the night of the murder I was waiting in the wings to make sure nothing went wrong. They were my ballets, if you like. So I wouldn’t have noticed anything happening offstage. But there is one thing you should know.’ Fokine paused for a moment to brush a speck of dust off his immaculate trousers. ‘The girls would never know it because they never see it.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘That whole area backstage — there’s nobody looking after it during the performance, no porter, nobody from the Royal Opera House staff. I’ve often wandered round there when one of my ballets is on next — I’m a great prowler, as you saw just now. There are all kinds of people scurrying about: dressers, make-up artists, people bringing messages for one of the stars, new props being delivered, new costumes. It could be anything or anybody.’

‘I do have one question for you, Monsieur Fokine, and let me tell you how grateful I am for your visit here and the help you have already provided. I hope I may ask you more questions as the investigation develops. And I presume that you would not want Diaghilev to know of our association?’

‘Diaghilev would have a major tantrum if he knew I was in touch with you, Lord Powerscourt. He is a possessive man and I, for the moment, am one of his possessions. Shouting, expulsion from the ballet, wish that I’d never been born, what a hopeless choreographer I am — that would just be for starters.’

‘My question is this,’ Powerscourt said, ‘and it may not at first sight have much to do with the case in hand. But it may do. Is the Ballets Russes going bankrupt? Is Diaghilev — for the moment, anyway — completely broke? Bankruptcy has a startling effect — it ricochets around the place, crashing into all sorts of unexpected people and places. That information could be most helpful.’

‘I’ll do my best, my very best for you, Lord Powerscourt. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind knowing about a bankruptcy myself.’

In general, partnering is an effort by both the male and female dancers to achieve a harmony of movement so that the audience is unaware of the mechanics to enjoy the emotional effects. Also known as pas de deux, or dance for two.

For a male dancer, partnering includes lifting, catching, and carrying a partner, also assisting with jumps, promenades and supported pirouettes.

Scarcely were M. Fokine’s elegant trousers from Paris out of the door when Rhys and his cough were in action one more.

‘Sergeant Jenkins to see you, my lord.’

The Sergeant was in a state of high excitement. Powerscourt wondered if his red hair hadn’t turned an even deeper shade.

‘They’ve spotted him, my lord! They saw him coming through on the boat from Calais!’

‘Sorry, Sergeant, who is this “he” you speak of? You make it sound like the Second Coming.’

‘I don’t think it’s that, my lord. Not yet, anyway. My granny always says the Second Coming will never happen under a Liberal government. Don’t ask me why. Sorry, my lord, my mate Charlie Watchett works in the “make sure they don’t kill the King or the PM or members of the Cabinet watch out for foreign spies” bit of the police. He says the boys at Dover picked up a tip from the Frenchies that this messenger from Lenin was coming. They all think this Lenin person is pretty important. Charlie’s boys watched the messenger walk onto English soil this morning.’

‘Did they let him through, or did they arrest him?’

‘Very cunning this, my lord, they let him through. Charlie and the lads are going to have to watch out for him in London.’

‘Did he have a name? No doubt he has many names and many disguises, but which one was he using for the present?’

‘Karl Lodost, Pole from Warsaw, my lord. Can I ask you a question, my lord? I know I should have found the answer by now, but I’m worried that some inspector will ask me about the man and I won’t know a thing.’

‘Of course,’ said Powerscourt, repressing a smile. ‘Fire ahead.’

‘Who is this Lenin person everyone seems to get so worked up about?’

‘Good question,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I’m sure Lenin, man of steel, isn’t his real name either. He’s a leader of a band of revolutionaries, one particular band of revolutionaries, as there are many more. They are people who want to throw out kings and emperors and parliaments and replace them with rule by the working class. He wants to overthrow the institutions of democracy and replace them with the rule of himself and his fellows. Quite how that would be better is not clear. Quite how it is to be achieved, this revolutionary heaven, is not clear either. Lenin is banned from Russia, where he comes from, and has become a wandering preacher of revolution, usually by pamphlet, across the face of Europe.’

‘I see,’ said Sergeant Jenkins. ‘I believe we have a few of our own here in London, our own home-grown revolutionaries, or so Charlie tells me. He says he has to pinch himself to stay awake when he has to go to their meetings. They all carry on so. They keep on mentioning the name of some other bloke — Karl Marx, is he called? He seems to be the Top Prophet man.’

‘You keep thinking of Karl Marx as Top Prophet, Sergeant, and you won’t go far wrong.’

‘But what’s this messenger man doing here, my lord?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea. Russia’s troubles seem to have come a long way from home if they’re ending up in Markham Square. New revolutionary Congress perhaps? They’re always holding mass rallies, like the revivalist preachers they resemble. Only thing is that there are so few of them in any one country that they have to invite everybody they can think of from the entire Continent. They say the arguments about which city should host the meeting — London, Paris, Berlin, Vienna — can go on for months. Perhaps it’s one of those. Maybe there’s another pamphlet due from Lenin. They’re great ones for pamphlets, these revolutionaries, Sergeant. I’d advise you to keep in touch with your friend Charlie. He may bring us further news, though I do find it hard to think of a link between Lenin and his friends and the Ballets Russes.’

Natasha Shaporova would have been the first to claim that she loved her fellow countrymen and women very dearly. But a little of that sisterly love was, if not abating, receding slightly from the shore. For the route from Covent Garden to her house in Chelsea seemed to her to have an Ariadne’s thread strung out along the way. The girls from the corps de ballet came in ones and twos and threes and fours, all lured by the prospect of tea from the samovar and the icons on the wall and an occasional visit from the local priest and a place where Russian was the normal language. She had discovered one important thing, and she was going to tell Lord Powerscourt as soon as she could. At first, in those early meetings in the Fielding Hotel, the name of Alfred Bolm and the suggestion that he might have pursued some of the young girls had been a trickle. Definitely there, but a trickle nonetheless. Now it had turned into a torrent.

You couldn’t get into a lift with the man. He wasn’t to be trusted in a train or taxi or any form of wheeled transport. His presents had to be returned immediately, his other advances rejected. Natasha knew that none of these girls could have carried out the murder, but what about the other members of the company — the reserves, as she called them, who weren’t on the stage that fateful night? Could one of them, carefully selected by her fellows for her skill with the dagger in the Cossack dance, have performed in a new adaptation below the stage?