David Dickinson - Death Comes to the Ballets Russes

‘I would be deceiving you if I were to say that you were wrong, Mrs Cooper.’

‘I shall give you the boys’ addresses when you leave, Mr Fitzgerald. And I know that Nicholas and Peter were intending to go to the Oxford ballet and have their lunch on the grass in the park. I do not know if they actually went. They often change their plans, as young people do. Now it’s my time to ask a question.’

‘Of course, Mrs Cooper. Please do.’

‘Am I right in thinking from your interest in rounding up potential suspects that you still do not know who killed my nephew?’

‘That is a perfectly legitimate question. I shall tell you the truth. We don’t know who killed him. If we did I wouldn’t be here. We have a number of lines of enquiry running at present, but no, we do not know who killed your nephew.’

As he made his way back to the train station, Johnny thought she had told him one thing, even though she wouldn’t have known it. Why would she have talked of tens of thousands of pounds if that wasn’t something close to the real figure?

It was that time of the week again. Captain Yuri Gorodetsky was watching the telephone on his desk in the little office in Holborn. The windows were grimy, heaps of files packed up in disorderly fashion along the walls. It had always been one of the Captain’s worst fears that his superior officer, the General from Paris with his passion for neat and exact filing, would pay an unexpected visit.

There it was! The Captain picked up his telephone. As ever, he suspected that the General was in the next room, shouting at him.

‘Gorodetsky! Good morning to you. What news of the English Bolsheviks?’

‘Very little, I’m afraid General. It all seems fairly quiet just now.’

‘Come come man, you must have something to report, for God’s sake! Every other day now I am bombarded with questions from St Petersburg. Every day I have to say we have no news.’

‘Well, General, most of the money is still in that bank where it was last week.’

‘Most of the money? Where is the rest of it, you fool?’

‘It has gone to pay the printers, General. There are to be two sets of five hundred copies made. They will be returned to Arthur Cooper and then he will decide what to do with them.’

‘And you say this is nothing, my friend? This should keep them quiet for at least twenty-four hours, those jackals in Headquarters! What bloody language are they going to be in?’

‘English and Russian, General.’

‘It’s the Russian one that is important. The English Bolsheviks can go and throw them across the railings of Buckingham Palace as far as I’m concerned. No doubt they think the waves of strikes in their country and over in Ireland will make people receptive to their cause. Are the Russian ones ready yet?’

‘Not as far as I know, sir. The printer is a very sensitive man.’

‘Title, Gorodetsky? Do we have a title for the bloody pamphlet? No doubt they intend to circulate it inside Russia as soon as they get their hands on it.’

‘I think it’s called “What Is to Be Done Now?” sir.’

‘What indeed,’ said the General, ‘I think the bloody man Lenin wrote a pamphlet called “What Is to Be Done” some years ago. Sounds as if the comrades have been rather lax in the performance of their revolutionary obligations, if they have to get the same title twice. Repeat homework if you like. Pretty poor show.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Just get one thing into your head, Captain. You watch over this business as closely as you can with your English colleagues. When you know when and how the pamphlets are going to leave England, you let me know.’

‘Are you going to have them picked up, sir?’

‘We have had this conversation before, Captain. No, we are not going to intercept them. We are going to follow them to their destinations. I shall tell you more about this operation next week.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And remember, Captain. Any news of these pamphlets arriving, you get straight onto the telephone and let me know.’

Natasha Shaporova spent most of the afternoon reading through Alexander Taneyev’s letters to his sisters. They were all younger than him, and Natasha felt that he would not be likely to confide in them. She had more hope of the elder brother Ivan, who was an officer in a fashionable regiment and liable to appear at any moment. The girls wanted to know about the fashions in London. The youngest seemed to expect her brother to inspect the clothes of the audience very closely during a performance and report back. The middle one seemed to think her brother should spend his time checking out the latest London fashions in the great shops of Oxford Street. And the eldest one wanted an impression of English men, their clothes, their manners, how they behaved towards the opposite sex. Alexander decided that this sister, Olga, must be planning a visit to England, well prepared for the young men she would conquer there, and intending to carry one of them back to St Petersburg. There was only one note to interest Natasha. ‘Ivan has told me of the decision you may have to make. I think you should consult Papa as well as Ivan. That would be for the best.’

This too made its way to London down the telegraph wires and landed in Markham Square four hours after it had left St Petersburg. Mrs Clarissa Cooper’s eldest, Nicholas, was a vicar. He was one of the more fortunate vicars in that distinguished community. His parish was owned by one of Oxford’s richer colleges, and his parish came with a suitable endowment of between four and five hundred pounds a year. It was in the little town of Kidlington, between Oxford and Blenheim Palace, and its occupants were employed on the estates around Woodstock or in university business.

‘Mr Fitzgerald,’ he said, showing him to a seat in the parlour of his handsome vicarage. ‘My mother sent me a wire. She said I was to be very careful what I say to you!’

He laughed and poured some tea. His wife was out, he said, handing out clothes to some of the poorer parishioners. She always did this, his Hermione, the first Friday of the month.

‘Forgive me for plunging straight in,’ Johnny began. ‘I’ve talked to your mother and your aunt in London about this business of the inheritance from Uncle Richard. I thought it would be useful to talk to the surviving nephews as well.’

‘Only too happy to help,’ said Nicholas, ‘but just let me say one thing at the outset. Both of those good ladies will have impressed on you that this doesn’t matter at all, that it’s all a whim of Uncle Richard’s and nobody should pay any attention to it. They wouldn’t want me to say this, but I do have obligations in my profession. All that stuff about it not being important is not true. It has taken up a lot of their attention for years now. Who’s in; who’s out: it could be a parlour game if it wasn’t so serious. If Peter or I have fallen from favour — maybe my uncle doesn’t approve of me being a vicar — who’s going to inherit now? Mark? Is it his turn? Alexander can’t any more because he’s not here, God rest his soul.’

‘Would you say they were obsessed by it?’

‘I would, Mr Fitzgerald, I certainly would. Short of getting down on the floor and counting out the imaginary money, there isn’t a lot else they could do.’

‘Pardon me. Mr Cooper, do you know how much it is worth, this inheritance?’

‘No.’

‘Do they?’

‘No. I don’t think so, anyway. I’ve not been told, at any rate.’

‘And how long was your time in the sun, as it were, when you were the favourite one? Of all the nephews?’

‘I’ve followed the progress, Mr Fitzgerald. Alexander was the favourite at the moment. I suppose he’d been in place for about two months. My mother is always writing to keep me up to date. I’d say he had about one month to go. Three months is the average.’