David Dickinson - Death Comes to the Ballets Russes

‘He’s been around longer. He must be in his forties. He’s had years and years to make enemies in the highly charged atmosphere of a company like the Ballets Russes. Maybe there’s been some dispute about roles in the company we know little about.’

‘There could be another reason you don’t seem to have considered so far. Cherchez la femme . Jealous husbands, maybe jealous husbands come all the way from Paris to take their revenge on the man who took their wife. Is that possible, Natasha?’

‘It certainly is. In Paris and London the women go mad for the ballet, possibly because it’s not here for very long and the time for conquest and pursuit is short. Look at the way Lady Ripon and all the other Lady Ripons pursue them for afternoon tea and a spot of dancing after the muffins. I bet they have something more in mind. Maybe they don’t do anything about it, but the dancers could become trophies, conquests to be shown off to your less or more fortunate friends.’

‘And how do we find out if this is going on, or, perhaps more realistically, if it has been going on at Covent Garden?’

‘I shall ask the corps de ballet,’ said Natasha, ‘though the gossip there might not be one hundred per cent accurate. I suggest you ask Sergeant Jenkins, Inspector. I believe he has good contacts now among the stagehands and the scenery people.’

‘And what,’ said Powerscourt, ‘do we make of this story of the duel and the vow of revenge?’

‘I think it should be taken very seriously indeed,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘Natasha is even now corresponding with her relations in St Petersburg. There may be more news yet to come.’

Lady Lucy did not care to mention it but she thought Natasha’s network of contacts and relations in St Petersburg might be the equal of her own here in London.

‘I find it all very strange,’ Natasha said. ‘The original duel must have happened fifty or sixty years ago. It could even have happened at the same time as the poet Pushkin’s unfortunate end. But the authorities have always been very strict about duels and vendettas caused by duels. They have been known to send people to exile in Siberia for it.’

‘But would those strictures apply if the revenge killing took place outside Russia?’ said the Inspector. ‘Suppose you are a male descendant of the victim. You come away on holiday. You carry out your killing. You go back home. Did you have a good time, the relations ask. London is a wonderful city, you reply. You expound on the changing of the guard or the shops on Oxford Street or the plays in the theatres. You don’t mention the murder to a single soul, except your parents, if that.’

‘There’s one other thing that troubles me,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘You remember the Cossack dance in Thamar , the one where all the knives are hurled into the floor? Could the girls or one of the girls in the corps de ballet have become expert in those lethal instruments, so that she too would know how to kill Bolm or Taneyev, whichever was the victim.’

‘Now I think about it,’ said Natasha Shaporova, ‘I think you’re probably right. I suspect any of those girls could have done it; except, of course, that they were on stage at the time of the murder.’

‘I shall make enquiries,’ said Inspector Dutfield. ‘Circus people, they’re always throwing knives about. They should probably know.’

‘I’m confused,’ said Powerscourt. ‘We just seem to have established a whole fresh lot of lines of enquiry, as if we didn’t have enough already.’

Literally ‘jump’. As adjectives, sauté (masc.) or sautée (fem.). French pronunciation: [sote] are used to modify the quality of a step: for instance, ‘‘ sauté arabesque indicates an arabesque performed while jumping.

By half past one in the afternoon, the crowds had begun to arrive at Blenheim Palace. The programme was due to start at three. They came through the main gate that led to Vanbrugh’s triumphal entrance and the elegant courtyard within that led onto the front of the great palace. Small groups had already taken up their position by the edge of the lake and were having a picnic. Footmen and porters were on duty to show them the way to go. The wooden platforms for the musicians and the dancers were empty, a bare stage for the glories to come. Towards two o’clock, the crowds grew thicker. Powerscourt and Lady Lucy had a place reserved for them by Fokine at the rear of the Palladian bridge. There was a sort of throne area for the Duke and his lady where they would be more visible than the dancers. Powerscourt suspected the steward must have been responsible for that part of the arrangement. He had made friends with a local reporter who was scurrying round the lake and the two entrances for information. The young man’s name was Riggs, Benjie Riggs, and he told Powerscourt that he worked as a reporter on the Oxford newspaper and that his beat included Woodstock. ‘It’s going to be amazing,’ he told his visitors. ‘People are supposed to be turning up from the little towns and villages for miles around, not to mention Oxford itself!’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I am, sir. I asked in as many local pubs as I could contact last Thursday for a piece in the local paper. Some of the publicans are even thinking of closing down for the afternoon, and that’s a fact.’

‘Good God,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Do they know what to expect? I mean, they aren’t going to be what you would call the usual crowd for a ballet, are they?’

‘Well, it’s free isn’t it?’ said Riggs. ‘That’s in its favour, for a start. The locals, some of them at any rate, even turn out to watch the arrivals when they have a costume ball up there in the big house, Marie Antoinette dancing with Napoleon, Nelson waltzing with Boadicea with his one arm. And that’s just a glimpse of the participants from outside the front door. The ordinary people aren’t allowed inside. Pardon me, my lord, there’s a great throng just arrived at the main gate. They seem to have come in buses. I’d better find out who they are. I’ll catch you up later.’

At two o’clock, Diaghilev himself waddled out of the main entrance to the palace. He appeared to wish to be incognito, for he had his hat pulled well down over his head. He strolled as far as the bridge and looked around. Powerscourt wondered if — even in his wildest dreams — he had ever thought of performing in such a place with such an audience. In spite of his hat over his eyes, a number of people recognized him from the newspapers.

‘That’s Mr Diaghilev!’ ‘Isn’t that Diaghilev?’ the sober whispered to each other. A rather inebriated fellow who had taken up position halfway along the lake roared out, ‘Good on you Diaghilev! Well done mate!’

Diaghilev would not have understood a word. But he raised his cane as a gesture of politeness and hurried back to the safer quarters of the palace.

By a quarter to two all the seats at the edge of the lake on both sides were full. The new arrivals pitched camp on the ground. The footmen were stressing that all the area behind the seats was for sitting; the area behind a number of posts was standing room only, rather like a football match.

Benjie Riggs was back now. ‘I’m on the way to that Palladian bridge now,’ he said. ‘It may be cut off by the crowds later on.’

‘One question,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Who will the audience be? What will they have seen that’s remotely like this before?’

‘Well, no, they certainly won’t have seen anything like this before. There’s lot of the men, maybe most of the men, certainly the football-crowd people, who believe that the stage is full of virtually naked women all the time.’

‘Just like in London at the opera house,’ said Powerscourt.