David Dickinson - Death Comes to the Ballets Russes

A weary Inspector Dutfield arrived in the Powerscourt drawing room that afternoon. He carried a great bundle of notes in his briefcase.

‘There’s only one consolation about the second murder at Blenheim — always assuming it was murder,’ he began.

‘What’s that?’ asked Lady Lucy.

‘Why, it’s the fact that it happened at the evening rather than the afternoon performance. Think what it would have been like had it happened at the lake with all those people to interview. That could have taken days. This lot here — ’ he waved at the notes in his bag — ‘were bad enough. I have to tell you, my lord, my lady, that we are no better informed at the end of the interviewing process than we were at the beginning. Certain members of the aristocracy might have been enjoying company they shouldn’t have. That is not my business. It is impossible to establish any link with the previous murder, apart from the fact that they both involved the ballet people. What we hadn’t realized was that the entire troupe, the men and the women of the corps de ballet, were on standby in case they were required to do an encore after supper. It was Diaghilev’s idea. If you ask me, my lord, my lady, I don’t think many of those people at the Great Hall concert were much interested in the ballet. It was a social occasion — see and be seen, that sort of thing.’

‘But where were they all, all those Ballets Russes people?’

‘Well, they were still in their costumes and they were wandering round all over the place. The footmen kept them out of the State rooms, the bedrooms and so on, but they were given the run of the rest of the place. None of them have watches so nobody has any idea of the time. So nobody can give any information about when they might have seen the dead girl, Vera Belitsky. She was killed from that balcony, thrown down a long way onto the marble floor to be precise. The balcony’s the best place in the house to get a clear view of the hall; you can see up as well as down, which you can’t do so well from the ground floor. Each and every one of them, I think, must have wandered onto that balcony to have a look at some time or other. There was one occasion when they all rushed off to the other side of the house for a peep into the dining room from the servants’ passage, but I can’t establish if the dead girl was left behind or not. And there’s another thing.’

‘What’s that?’ said Powerscourt, looking closely at the pages and pages of notes the Inspector had brought with him, all apparently useless.

‘It’s this, my lord. The whole place was wide open. Bits of the stage downstairs were being taken away. Bits of the stage from the open-air show were being brought back into the house for storage round the back. It’s quicker if you go straight through the house rather than going round the back. There were carpenters and scene shifters and the like everywhere. A complete stranger could have walked in — a whole team of complete strangers could have walked in — and nobody would have been any the wiser. And all the while the guests were tucking into their caviar and whatever they had for the other courses.’

‘Presumably,’ said Lady Lucy, ‘the Blenheim Palace people would have thought they were Ballets Russes and the Ballets Russes would have thought they were Blenheim Palace people.’

‘You’re absolutely right, my lady. Inspector Jackson is asking round about if people remember seeing any strangers on the day. Even he admitted it was a very long shot. The whole bloody place was full of strangers. So that’s it, my lord, my lady. One last thing — Inspector Jackson, who is, I must say, a very capable officer, thinks that the answer lies inside the Ballets Russes. Like me, and, I suspect, the two of us, he believes the murders are linked. Is there a connection between Alexander Taneyev and Alfred Bolm and Vera, the poor dead girl in Oxfordshire? We shall do our damnedest to find out. And we still haven’t had that interview with Monsieur Diaghilev that he promised us up there at Blenheim.’

‘I shall have to leave you,’ said Powerscourt. ‘There is another complication in our relations with the Russians and the French and even, God help us, the Germans. French bonds have now taken a bow centre stage and I must go and talk to my brother-in-law.’

‘You said you wanted to talk to me about the recent upswing in sales of French government bonds, Francis,’ said his banker brother-in-law William Burke, now a mighty power in the City of London. Burke was sitting behind an enormous desk, operational headquarters of his financial activities. ‘If it were serious, it could cause a financial crisis across Europe.’

‘I do want to talk to you about French bonds, William. Thank you. Family well?’

‘All well, even the eldest, wasting my substance at Oxford. Now then, the answer to your question lies not in the machinations of politicians or diplomats, the answer lies in the horses. I’ve got my principal witness right here somewhere in this building.

‘I’ll get our head porter,’ said Burke, ringing a bell for service. ‘Man by the name of Welby, Jack Welby. Former RSM in some bloody regiment to do with horses. Our friend Welby runs the most sophisticated betting syndicate in these islands.’

‘Does he run the whole thing from here?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘Porter one minute, gambler extraordinaire the next? Your hat, sir, your coat. Put a tenner on Island Queen in the three thirty at Doncaster, that sort of thing?’

‘To the best of my knowledge, Francis,’ said his brother-in-law, ‘he never gives tips to any of the staff here. He’s got contacts in all the major stables in Newmarket and Lambourn, the twin headquarters of English racing, and in the stables near the big meetings like Epsom for the Derby and Doncaster for the St Leger.’

‘And is it all legal? Surely the Jockey Club and the other old relics who run racing must have been onto him?’

William Burke laughed. ‘Two years ago a group of disgruntled bookmakers complained formally to the Jockey Club and the police. The Police Inspector told me afterwards that the Welby organization was like an old-fashioned friendly society, run for the benefit of its members. He said that if the gentlemen of the Square Mile here behaved like Welby’s people’ — Burke waved an arm at his window, which commanded a good view of the financial centre at the heart of London — ‘the world would be a better place. He said he ended up congratulating our friend Welby for what he does, rather than leading him away to the cells. First time he’d ever done that in an investigation into the City and its activities, he said. If you’re ill, Welby’s outfit’ll pay the bills. If your house is falling down, they pay for the repairs. The same if you’re sick. If you’re young and promising in the brains department, they’ll see you get proper qualifications. He’s devoted to the accounting profession, friend Welby. He’s got two of his relations in the top stables in Newmarket now.’

‘What’s the secret?’ asked Powerscourt.

‘He doesn’t cheat. He deals, he says, in the same kind of information any sensible man could pick up drinking with the stable lads. Which horse is off its food, which one is going well, which one looks like a winner this week. He’s not fond of the jumps, Head Porter Welby. There’s too much of the unpredictable about them, he says — stray horses, random collisions, that sort of thing. He punts a few pounds on the Grand National and the Cheltenham Gold Cup to keep up appearances, but his heart’s not in it. He’s a man for the flat. That’s where he places most of his bets.’

‘And what on earth has he to do with French government bonds, William?’

A pair of boots approached Burke’s door; they heard a firm but polite knock.