David Dickinson - Death Comes to the Ballets Russes

‘Gorodetsky!’ he boomed at last. ‘What news of the Bolsheviks?’

‘Good news, General, in one sense.’

‘What do you mean “in one sense”? Give us a clear message, man, for God’s sake!’

‘They have changed the money, all of it. Our English colleagues, I have to say, were appalled at the way their fellow countrymen treated the revolutionaries. They all gave them a terrible rate of exchange, about two-thirds of what it should have been according to the published rates in the English papers.’

‘There can’t be that many people wandering round London wanting to buy that amount of roubles in large denomination notes, can there?’

‘You’re probably right there, General.’

‘Is that the good news in the sense you referred to earlier, Gorodetsky?’

‘No, it is not, General.’

‘What is it then?’

‘It’s this. They’ve put all the money into an English bank account. The Central Provincial, Ludgate Circus branch, now holds tens and tens of thousands of English pounds. The chief Bolshevik, Arthur Cooper, had opened the account a few days before. He arranged for all his colleagues to meet him there. This caused a certain amusement among our English colleagues, General, but each Bolshevik had to watch as the chief cashier, operating from a private office, counted all the money and made the appropriate entry in his ledger.’

For once the General saw the joke. ‘One load of money stolen from a bank in Tigris, being watched as it is counted into the vaults of another bank in the City of London, eh? What was the point? I’ve heard of robbing Peter to pay Paul, but this is robbing Peter only to put the money into a different Peter in another country. God help us all!’

‘You don’t think they’ve changed sides, do you, General? Seen the light?’

‘I bloody well do not think that for a moment, Captain, and if you make that suggestion again you’ll be counting the damned daffodils in some isolated Siberian hovel before I’ve finished with you!’

‘Yes, sir, sorry, sir. Perhaps they want to buy something? Something to further the cause of world revolution, sir?’

‘Ludgate Circus sounds a pretty odd place to me to be starting the world revolution. But come, let’s think. He’s a crafty bugger, that Lenin. He knows that if he transfers the money to Cracow or anywhere else in Russia there’ll be more secret police waiting for him to come out of the bank than he has supporters. So what’s his game? It has to be something he can buy in England and he must know how on earth he’s going to get it out of England. Isn’t that so?’

‘Guns? Some kind of armaments, sir?’

‘I can’t see those boys going round buying guns. They enlist some poor soldiers or sailors in their cause and then use theirs. It’s not weapons they’re after.’

‘Maybe Lenin’s going to retire, sir? This is the golden egg for himself and Mrs Lenin to change direction. Perhaps they’re going to go to America to start a new life.’

‘New life be damned! The only new life that bastard wants is in Russia, and would lead to you and me being confined in the St Peter and Paul Fortress for the rest of our lives, or in that bloody daffodil village in Siberia. He’s good for the employment prospects of counterintelligence officers like you and me, Gorodetsky, I’ll say that for him. Where would we be without Lenin, for God’s sake?’

‘Where indeed, sir? Our English colleagues are going to ask around the Russian community in a general sort of way about what Lenin might want to do with the money.’

‘Good. We’ve got to find an answer to this one, Captain. I can feel the pressure coming from St Petersburg when I send in my next report. We’re going to have bloody Lenin for breakfast, lunch, tea and supper for a long time to come.’

It might have been Lady Ripon’s random fire into the ranks of the authorities that produced the Inspector. It might have been Lord Rosebery’s more discreet applications of pressure in a world he knew so well. But when Powerscourt returned to Markham Square early that afternoon, there was a visitor waiting in his drawing room, twirling his hat in his hands.

‘Good afternoon, my lord. Dutfield at your service; Inspector Matthew Dutfield of the Metropolitan Police. Also on the case is my interpreter Anna, transferred to my care by some Anglo-Russian banking house, currently reading up on the details of the case. Red hair, my lord, English by birth, loves everything Russian.’

‘Are you the reinforcements, Inspector?’

‘I suppose you could say I am. I was pulled off a nasty case of armed robbery to join your team, my lord. I’ve been doing my homework with Sergeant Jenkins.’

Matthew Dutfield was a tall thin young man with a mop of unruly brown hair and a winning smile.

‘And I have news for the case, sir. The Commissioner’s assistant received news from his colleagues that the Duke intends to give in to Diaghilev’s commands for money. The great ballet performances at Blenheim Palace can go ahead.’

‘That’s good news indeed. Excellent news. I look forward to it. But isn’t there one piece of police work that we could use to our advantage?’

‘What’s that, my lord?’

‘Well, if my memory serves me right, don’t the local police force have to give permission? There has to be adequate transport, no risks to public order, sufficient police available on the day to make sure things progress smoothly, that sort of thing?’

‘You’re right, sir, you’re absolutely right.’

‘I don’t see why we can’t use that to our advantage,’ said Powerscourt. ‘If the Ballets Russes don’t behave at this end, then we block the performance at the other end. This could be the key to unlock Diaghilev’s ban on our talking to his senior people. That has been the major block in this investigation. Until now we’ve made little bits of progress here and there, but until we can talk to those people we’re operating largely in the dark.’

‘I see what you mean, my lord. Begging your pardon, but could I use your telephone? It’s just that the Assistant Commissioner seemed to have some sort of instant connection to Diaghilev’s people — maybe it’s this Lady Ripon woman — but if I can talk to him right now, he might be able to press a few buttons for us.’

‘You carry on, Inspector, down the stairs and first door on the left.’

Powerscourt wondered if it was the shame of putting a Sergeant on the case that forced the Metropolitan Police to produce an Inspector. Maybe the thought of all those conferences at the opera house had forced their hand. It wouldn’t take long for one of the journalists to ask if it was normal to put police sergeants onto murder cases involving distinguished artistic people from foreign countries. That, he said to himself, was probably the answer.

Inspector Dutfield was back in a few moments. ‘Whoever got hold of that key into Diaghilev’s inner circle has done us a great favour, my lord. Maybe they warned him that police cooperation at both ends of the Oxford Road was necessary. They’re all going to speak to us, preferably after the event at Blenheim; all of his top people, and that’s official. Even Diaghilev himself, apparently.’

‘I wonder if I might leave that one to you, Inspector. The man stormed out of a meeting with Natasha Shaporova and myself earlier in this inquiry and stomped off down the stairs.’

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but aren’t you forgetting something? I’ve been reading up as much as I can about these ballet characters, and from what I can see they’re all pretty volatile, liable to have a tantrum and threaten to leave in the morning, and then be best friends at lunchtime. And they’re Russian as well. They’re a pretty emotional lot. Can you tell me, my lord, of a successful English novel where the heroine throws herself under a train at the end? Dorothea Brooke? Elizabeth Bennet? Fleur Forsyte?’