David Dickinson: Death Comes to the Ballets Russes

‘So Lady Ripon might feel the need to put on airs, to throw her weight about now, precisely because she is much less important than she was before?’

‘Exactly so, Lucy, exactly so. But I wonder who she meant by “her people”. She referred to them more than once.’

‘I’m sure she knows a lot of very rich men, Francis, like those financiers who bailed out Edward the Seventh. The only other thing I know about her is that she was one of the first society ladies to have a motor car and to install a telephone. She claimed, so I was told, that the telephone was much more discreet. No billet-doux left lying around for the servants to blackmail you with later on. Anyway, Francis, are you going to take on the case?’

‘Well,’ said her husband, ‘I must admit that I was very tempted to tell Her Ladyship to go to hell. But I don’t think I can refuse. Think of that poor dead dancer — he can’t have been much older than our Thomas is now. Think of his family back in St Petersburg or Kiev or Moscow or wherever they live. I shall send a note round to the Royal Opera House, accepting the case and requesting an interview with Diaghilev in the morning. Maybe he’s one of “her people”. But I look forward to meeting him. I wonder what he’s like. I do have one major problem with this case though.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I really don’t like ballet, Lucy. I never have and I never will. I can’t stand it.’

The stage at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden was a hive of activity. A couple of carpenters were high on their ladders adjusting the scenery. A make-up artist was putting the finishing touches to the complexion of one of the prima ballerinas. The girls of the corps de ballet seemed frozen in mid-pirouette, waiting for guidance. The choreographer, Michel Fokine, a young man, probably in his early thirties, looked as if he was, quite literally, tearing his hair out. He was swearing violently in what Powerscourt presumed to be Russian. Powerscourt learnt later that Fokine had one complaint, repeated over and over again: why in God’s name did I leave St Petersburg with these stupid girls?

Another young man was staring hard at the scene. Powerscourt thought he must be a policeman. He had that slightly uncomfortable look people often have when they are transferred out of the uniformed branch.

‘Excuse me,’ said Powerscourt, ‘are you connected with the opera or the Ballets Russes?’

‘No, I’m not, sir. I’m a policeman. Sergeant Rufus Jenkins, at your service.’ The young man bowed politely. ‘And who might you be, sir, if I might make so bold?’

‘My name is Powerscourt, Francis Powerscourt. I happen to be Lord Powerscourt but that isn’t important. I have been asked to investigate a rather shocking murder that happened here a couple of days ago.’

‘Why, my lord, that’s why I’m here too. I’m the officer in charge of the police inquiry, so I am.’

‘Forgive me if I sound rude, but are you the only officer on the case? In my experience Scotland Yard usually send an inspector to look into murder cases.’

‘That’s right, my lord. But that’s what happens if you’re English. English corpses get inspectors, so they do. Foreign dead get sergeants.’

‘What would happen if you didn’t come from Europe? Suppose you were a New Zealander or an African?’

‘Empire dead would get a sergeant like me. Africans, I’m not sure what would happen to them. They might be lucky to get a detective constable, and that’s a fact.’

‘Have you been able to talk to anybody at all? Any of the witnesses?’

‘This is bad, my lord, I know it’s bad. Fact is, I don’t speak a word of Russian. That lot on the stage, they don’t speak a word of English. One of them, the bloke who seems to be in charge, tried to talk to me in what I thought might be French, but I don’t speak bloody French either. The office are busy hunting for fluent Russian speakers in the schools and over at the university, but they haven’t found anybody yet.’

‘Well, I can get by in French. I’ll see if I can have a word with that man in charge when he’s calmed down and they’re not so busy with their rehearsal. You haven’t come across a fellow called Diaghilev, by any chance? He’s the head man of the whole thing. Big fellow. Astrakhan collar on his coat. Oiled hair. Monocle. Ring any bells?’

‘I’ve not seen him at all this morning, my lord.’

‘Lord Powerscourt! Lord Powerscourt! How very good to see you again!’

Natasha Shaporova was skipping down the aisle of the auditorium of the Royal Opera House. She was wearing a pale-blue coat and a rather raffish hat. Her feet, Powerscourt remembered from his time in St Petersburg, were clad in the usual high Russian boots. She looked as though she might be on her way to Ascot or Henley.

‘Natasha, you look prettier than ever!’ said Powerscourt. ‘May I introduce my companion in arms, Sergeant Rufus Jenkins of the Metropolitan Police?’

Natasha Shaporova smiled at the young man. He was hers for life now.

‘I heard about all this from Lady Ripon yesterday, about the murder and so on. I called at your house just now and Lady Powerscourt said I’d find you here. I’ve come to offer my services, Lord Powerscourt!’

‘How nice to have you on board, Natasha. I feel happier about this investigation already.’

‘I’ve come to help, Lord Powerscourt. When I was talking to Lady Ripon yesterday, I suddenly realized that there are going to be problems with the languages, Russians and ballet people not speaking English, and the English not speaking Russian. Well, I didn’t know much English when we met before in St Petersburg, but I’m nearly fluent now. I will be able to translate Russian into English or French as you wish. I’ve lived here for a few years now. The last time we worked together, you had Mikhail as a translator. This time you can have me. I might not be so fluent but I like to think I’m better looking!’

‘Thank you so much,’ said Powerscourt. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘Now then, Lord Powerscourt, why don’t you wait here a moment and I’ll go and speak to that fellow onstage. I think he’s called Michel Fokine. He’s quite a celebrity back home. Is there anybody in particular you’d like to speak to?’

‘Well, yes, there is. I’d like to speak to Mr Diaghilev as soon as possible. I don’t think I should talk to anybody else until I’ve spoken to him.’

‘Very good. Hold on. I’m just going to set my brain to Russian — do you know, I don’t think I’ve spoken it for a couple of months now. Mikhail makes me speak English at home. Says it’ll be good for me. I’ll be back in a moment.’

Natasha tripped forward to the edge of the stage. Powerscourt and Sergeant Jenkins stared in wonder as the corps de ballet began to move about the stage. It looked as if they were one single person, not fifteen.

The ballerina who had transported the jewels from the Fontanka Quay was not the only Russian with a mission in London that summer. Members of the Bolshevik Party, an extreme revolutionary sect, planning to take power and bring socialism to Mother Russia, had two reasons for sending a man to England. They were still sitting on the proceeds of a bank robbery they had organized in Tiflis several years before. A number of people had been killed in the shoot-out, but the haul had been enormous: 341,000 roubles. The only problem for those advocating the final liquidation of the capitalist system was that most of the money was in 500-rouble notes. And the authorities had the numbers. They could not be used or exchanged in Russia. Lenin, the leader of the Bolsheviks, and his follower Joseph Stalin had both been involved in the organization of the robbery. One of Lenin’s disciples had a close friend in the Ballets Russes. So the notes were to go to London, where the disciple was instructed to contact as many revolutionaries as he could — Lenin had all the names and addresses — and enlist them in his mission. Between eleven and twelve o’clock one weekday morning, a guerrilla band of ten comrades were to take many thousands of roubles each into a series of different banks and change them into pounds. The day chosen was some days after the corpse was discovered beneath the trapdoor of the Royal Opera House. Lenin’s friend was to make contact with his fellow revolutionaries, most of whom lived in working-class districts in the East End.