David Dickinson - Death Comes to the Ballets Russes

‘Come in, Mr Welby, this is my brother-in-law, Lord Francis Powerscourt.’

The two men shook hands. ‘I want you to show off a bit, Mr Welby, if you would. I want you to run through the main flat winners this season. We’ll leave the jumps out of it, as you’re not that keen.’

‘Just the major races, sir? I’m not sure I could manage the two forty at Salisbury last month if you follow me.’

‘Just the big ones, here and in France.’

‘Do you want me to start now? With our own ones here in this country?’

‘Yes please.’

‘In time order, sir, Two Thousand Guineas at Newmarket, early in the season, going’s often a bit soft if you follow me, won by Sweeper II, jockey Danny Maher, trained by Atty Persse; One Thousand Guineas, also at Newmarket, won by Tagalie — strange name for a horse that and no mistake, sir — ridden by Les Hewitt, trained by Dawson Waugh; Epsom Oaks, won by another bloody animal with a strange name, Mirska, ridden by Joe Childs and trained by Tom Jennings; The Derby, the big one as you know, sir, won by our friend Tagalie, ridden by Johnny Reiff and trained by Dawson Waugh. That’s it for now, sir, the St Leger isn’t till September.’

‘My word,’ said William Burke with a smile, ‘that was very impressive. And across the Channel?

‘Well, gentlemen there’s really only one race over there that should concern you and that’s the Prix de Diane, the equivalent of our Derby and also run in June. Horse called Qu’elle Est Belle won it this year. They’re not so consistent over there as we are, sir. In 1848 they had one of those revolutions they’re so fond of and the venue was switched to Versailles. And in 1871 they had one of their wars with the Germans and the race was cancelled altogether. There is one odd thing about the Prix de Diane I think you should know about.’

‘What’s that?’ said Powerscourt.

‘Well, sir, everyone likes to have a bet on it. In Paris the poorer people will sell some of their government bonds — they all seem to like buying government bonds over there — to have a bet. They say that the big-money men dip into their holdings so they too can have a flutter. Only happens with this one race, but they tell me it happens on a huge scale.’

‘Thank you very much. That’s it, Francis. That’s where your great bond sale comes from. French gamblers.’

‘I wonder if they won, the ones who cashed in their bonds.’

‘History doesn’t relate, my lord, ‘said Head Porter Welby, ‘and neither can I.’

Alexander Taneyev must have had plenty of practice at writing home to his mother, Natasha Shaporova thought, as she sat working her way through his correspondence with her in a little room full of icons that the family had lent her for reading. Sandra, the mother, had kept her letters from her son in a neat bundle in the table by her bedside. Other members of the family were even then searching for the various different places they might have left Alex’s mail. Much of this correspondence touched on a mother’s anxieties.

They had regular meals and attendance was compulsory. The food was very English with plenty of roast meats and rather disagreeable vegetables. The hotel looked after their laundry. Alexander, he told his mother more than once, was happy in London. It didn’t have the gaiety, the élan of Paris, but he had seen plenty to admire. He was very excited about being chosen as understudy for the Prince in Thamar . This meant, he wrote, that the ballet authorities must think highly of him. He wrote rather dull accounts of the tourist delights he had seen — the Tower of London, too small to be a proper fortress, the queues at the fashionable shops in Bond Street too long, Buckingham Palace only impressive at the Changing of the Guard.

There was only one phrase that troubled Natasha and it troubled her greatly. It occurred twice, shortly before he was killed. ‘What am I, Mama,’ he had written, ‘Russian or English?’

Why would a young man of about twenty years suddenly ask his mother that? She was certainly English, his mother, born and bred in fishing country in Hampshire, but surely he should have known the answer by now. Natasha could feel telegram number one coming on.

Johnny Fitzgerald was beginning to dislike Richard Wagstaff Gilbert and his habit of playing with his family’s emotions. Powerscourt had reported on his morning visit, on the day the first murder had become known, and had described him as a cold fish. Among the many things Johnny didn’t know about Waggers was how much money he was worth. He doubted if Waggers had ever told his relations. He would just have hinted at large sums, well worth waiting for. Johnny wondered how he was going to find the answer. He suspected an even larger contribution to Sweetie Robinson’s funds might be needed. But for now he was in Richmond, about to call on Mrs Clarissa Cooper, mother to Nicholas and Peter, both potential winners in the lottery of Uncle Richard’s will.

She showed him into a sitting room considerably smaller than her sister Maud’s. Here there were no pictures that looked as if they might have been Impressionists on the walls, just routine reproductions you could have picked up for a song. Mrs Cooper was polite. She ushered him to a seat on the sofa by the window. She did not offer any refreshment. Johnny reflected rather cynically that the funds from Barnes might receive a warmer welcome here than they would in Chelsea.

‘Mr Fitzgerald, my sister told me you would be coming. How can I help?’

‘This is all rather disagreeable I fear,’ said Johnny. ‘Lord Francis Powerscourt has been asked to look into the demise of your nephew. Of course I do not need to tell you that. You already know it. But it is a sad but necessary part of those investigations to find out, however disagreeable this might sound, who might benefit from his will.’

‘I do not imagine for one second that I will be a beneficiary of my brother’s will. He keeps his own counsel in such matters.’

‘I was given to understand from your sister that your brother was in the habit of telling his relations that his attentions had switched, first from one nephew, then to another, and so on. It all sounds very difficult for the families involved.’

‘I do not see why I should have to talk about my brother’s testamentary dispositions in front of a complete stranger, Mr Fitzgerald.’

‘You are quite correct in that, Mrs Cooper. But the alternatives are somewhat worse — worse for you, I mean.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Mr Fitzgerald.’

‘Well, there’s always the police, isn’t there? When I walk out of here you could very soon have the Oxfordshire constabulary on the trail of your two sons, who both live near Oxford, I gather. They would make a lot of enquiries with neighbours, employers, friends and so on. There would be a lot of talk.’

‘There are times when I really dislike my brother for the difficulties he has brought into this family. It is intolerable. What do you want to know, Mr Fitzgerald? What do I have to tell you to make you go away?’

‘Three things, Mrs Cooper, and thank you for deciding to be cooperative. First, if you would, do you know the size of your brother’s fortune? I don’t mean down to the last penny in the last investment trust, just a general sort of figure. Second, if you are prepared to give me your sons’ addresses, I shall call on them and I can assure you of my discretion. And third, do you know if either of your boys went to the open-air performance of the Ballets Russes at Blenheim Palace?’

‘As to your first question, Mr Fitzgerald, I think it is very difficult for me. I don’t honestly know the size of my brother’s fortune. But from your tone I suspect that the higher the figure, the higher the interest from investigators like yourself will be. Nobody’s going to murder somebody for a couple of hundred pounds. But start talking of thousands, or tens of thousands, and the bloodhounds are on your trail. Am I right?’