David Dickinson - Death Comes to the Ballets Russes

‘My Inspector says he’s had a case like this once before, in one of the colleges, my lord. High building: did he fall or was he pushed, that sort of thing. Only in this case it was a she.’

Powerscourt was thinking along similar lines. One case with a double possibility, dancer or understudy. Now a second. They did, however, have one thing in common.

‘There’s an old lady up there, my lord. Wants to speak to you as a matter of some urgency, she says.’

‘Would you want this old lady as your grandmother, Sergeant?’

‘No I wouldn’t, my lord. Not at any price. You’ve caught me out there, my lord. We’re not supposed to have opinions about members of the public, dead or alive, as you well know.’

They were now mounting the steps towards the Great Hall. A couple of constables waved them inside. Inspector Jackson, who looked even younger than his sergeant, came to greet them. One whole corner of the Great Hall was shrouded in sheets. The Inspector pointed up to the gallery.

‘That’s where she came from, right in the middle of that balcony. And that,’ he pointed in the direction of the sheeted section, ‘is where she ended up. The fall killed her. We’re waiting for the undertakers to take her away. Some fool began babbling on about where on earth she is going to receive an Orthodox funeral and an Orthodox burial in the middle of Oxfordshire. I ask you.’

Inspector Jackson shook his head.

‘Sorry, my lord. Let me tell you what we know. The ballet people danced here in the Great Hall, audience draped all the way up the stairs. The musicians were crammed in like mice on the balcony and the area behind, the dancers in the Great Hall down below. After the performance, the guests take a drink in the garden with the fountains out the back. Then they go in to eat in the State Dining Room with a few overspilling in the big room behind. They’re all still there. The butler, a former military man, I understand, realized that they all had to be kept in the same place. That went down well, as you can imagine. My men are now working their way through them: invitation cards, please, name and address, where were you at the time of the murder?’

‘Who found the body?’

‘Sorry, my lord. One of the footmen found her. Thank God he had the good sense to go straight to the butler.’

An angry Lady Ripon was advancing towards them, brushing aside a couple of constables as if they were flies in her drawing room. She carried an enormous bag in her right hand — clutching it, Powerscourt thought, like a weapon of war.

’Good evening, Inspector,’ she boomed, making the word ‘Inspector’ sound like an inferior sort of servant, somewhere between a sous chef and an under footman.

‘My name is Lady Ripon, Patron of the Royal Ballet, I wish to speak to your companion, Inspector,’ she carried on, ‘the man called Powerscourt.’

Inspector Jackson showed that he might have met her type before.

‘That won’t be possible in here, Lady Ripon. This area is closed off. Perhaps you’d care to have your conversation outside. Our constables will be able to keep an eye on you out there.’

‘Well, Powerscourt,’ she began as they reached the bottom of the great steps that led into Blenheim Palace, ‘I thought I had forbidden you entrance here this evening. But you turn up nonetheless. We’ll let that pass for a moment. My people and I employed you to find out who killed that understudy down in London.’

She made the word ‘understudy’ sound like a packet of tea you might have to pick up at the grocer’s when the Fortnum and Mason delivery hadn’t arrived on time.

‘You have failed. And now your prowess has led to a second murder, one you were powerless to prevent. What do you have to say for yourself? If you were one of my servants or my staff, I should dismiss you on the spot. But I would have to consult with the board of the Royal Opera House who are, alas, not here at the moment.’

‘I am truly sorry about the second murder, if murder it was-’ Powerscourt began.

‘Don’t give me this if it was murder nonsense, Powerscourt. Everyone can see it was a murder. That’s why all these policemen are charging about all over the place, making marks on the floors where they shouldn’t, knocking over valuable pieces of porcelain, no doubt. You couldn’t survive a fall like that onto a marble floor. It’s not possible. Don’t tell me all this would be going on for a mere suicide of a junior member of the corps de ballet.’

Powerscourt told her precisely that. ‘And, let me tell you Lady Ripon, it is only right and proper that a young girl should receive the same attention if she was a suicide or a murder victim.’

‘Your observations are outrageous, Powerscourt. Your performance is pathetic. Your record as an investigator is in ruins. Your future employment prospects are zero. Have no doubt that I shall tell all the society members — a select band in which you are not included — of your failures and your incompetence.’

With that Lady Ripon drew her cloak around her and swept back into the hall. Powerscourt had to admit that he was not sorry to see her go.

The French Secret Service believed that Argaud and his small band of confederates were passing their views on to a hostile power. Quite who this hostile power was, they were not entirely sure, but they felt it was unlikely it was to England, and possible but unlikely it was to Russia. Germany was the obvious place. If the German High Command knew that wave after wave of Frenchmen were going to pour out of their trenches in their ridiculous coloured uniforms and charge the German trenches, then victory would be assured. For a German victory, it would just be a matter of making sure there was enough ammunition for the machine guns.

Olivier Brouzet was certain that his visitor was passing secret information to the enemy. He did not know how or through whom the intelligence was transmitted. He intended to find out with his own very special form of torture.

‘Come, mon Colonel ,’ he began, ‘we both know that the French Army is always conducting manoeuvres, is that not so? Well, I have for you today details of a slightly unusual form of manoeuvre that could be repeated any time on those officers whose wives and daughters are living in the country. Plans have been laid, you understand.’

Brouzet knew that Colonel Argaud had a beautiful wife and two equally beautiful daughters. A slight look of alarm passed across his face.

Olivier Brouzet reached into a drawer on his desk and produced a large envelope. It contained a series of photographs, face down, all with a number written on the back in large letters. He brought out the first one. This showed an elegant maison de maître in peaceful rolling countryside. The proportions, with the double staircase and the large windows, were clearly those of the late eighteenth century.

‘Look at this, my friend. It is a beautiful house with gardens and the odd statue on guard at the front of the house. But today there are visitors.’

He produced photograph number two, which showed a group of about twenty French soldiers marching along the road outside. They were not yet quite level with the entrance.

‘Now we see, mon Colonel , who these visitors might be. It looks as if the men are on marching practice, but who knows what may happen? I wonder if the wife or either of the young ladies are on the lookout for visitors.’

Out came photograph number three, which showed that the little column had turned left and were now almost up to the front door.

‘What can this be?’ asked Brouzet, ‘the soldiers have come to call. What on earth do they want?’

Photograph number four showed the men, still standing in line, listening now to an officer who seemed to be addressing them from the top of the steps. A sergeant and a private had been sent inside. ‘See,’ Brouzet purred, looking carefully at his victim, ‘the Captain brings good news, a rare event for anybody to hear good news from their officers!’