David Dickinson: Death Comes to the Ballets Russes

‘I like it, General, I like it very much. With your permission I shall return to London. I’ll send a cable to the Met before I go so they can set things in motion.’

‘God speed,’ said the General, ‘and good luck.’

There was marble everywhere. It swept through the foyer of the Savoy Hotel and carried on for about a hundred yards to the suite of management offices at the end. A huge reception desk, manned by severe-looking men in frock coats, stuck out like the bridge on an ocean liner. Powerscourt thought these people could have been Roman senators in a previous life. Three other ‘senators’ in top hats swirled round the front doors, greeting the new arrivals like royalty, which they often were. A phalanx of footmen, lower in the pecking order than the senators, were also on duty. They stooped down from Mount Olympus to give directions to lost children or aged dowagers. Sometimes they escorted the new guests to their quarters in the electric lift. The Savoy was the only hotel in London which was totally powered by electricity. It was also the only hotel in the capital where all the bedrooms had their own bathroom attached.

Powerscourt and Sergeant Jenkins had been waiting for Diaghilev since nine o’clock in the morning. By a quarter to ten he had still not appeared. They had not been invited to his suite, merely told to await his arrival in the reception.

‘What do you think he’s doing, Sergeant? Is the man still asleep? Eating breakfast in bed with bacon and eggs and cups of Russian tea?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I’ve never had breakfast in bed in my whole life and that’s a fact. Come to think of it, I’ve never stayed in a hotel, either.’

‘You will, Sergeant, you will. Lots of inspectors take their families to seaside hotels for their summer holidays. Your time will come.’

‘I tell you one thing, my lord. You’ll never guess where I went last night.’

‘Go on, astonish me,’ said Powerscourt.

‘Why, I went to the ballet, my lord. I took my mama, as she doesn’t get out that much since my father hurt his leg. She thought it was great.’

‘You mean the Ballets Russes, I presume?’

‘That’s right. My mother was bowled over by Nijinsky. There’s one dance, called The Spirit of the Rose , I think, where he does a great leap at the end and disappears right off the stage. It was amazing.’

‘Were you as impressed by Nijinsky as your mum?’

‘Yes, I was. But it was those girls in the corps de ballet who got me, my lord. Some of them were very beautiful. And they weren’t wearing many clothes.’

‘I’m told people don’t wear too many clothes as a rule in the ballet.’

‘Do you think I could ask one of them out, Lord Powerscourt? Tea in the Corner House, that sort of thing?’

‘I don’t see why not. If they won’t come, then you just arrest them. Conduct your interview in the Corner House and then let them go for lack of evidence.’

A footman was approaching with a note on a silver tray.

‘This has just come for you, sir. I believe Mr Diaghilev dictated it to one of our telephone girls. We always have one on duty who speaks French.’

‘My art is more important than police procedures. I shall arrange another appointment when I have time. Diaghilev.’

‘I say,’ said the Sergeant, ‘that’s bloody rude.’

‘It certainly is,’ said Powerscourt, picking up his hat. ‘I shall send a reply when I can think of something that will make him behave better in the future. It’s not as if he’s some bloody barbarian from the Russian steppes, after all. He wasn’t brought up in the wilderness in Siberia like that holy charlatan Rasputin. St Petersburg is as sophisticated as any city in Europe. The man’s well educated; he’s been to university, he moves in the best circles in Paris and London. He just doesn’t know how to behave properly.’

‘Maybe them Russians don’t think much of their own police force.’

‘Maybe. We’re going for a short walk, Sergeant. Shouldn’t take long.’

‘Where are we going, my lord?’

‘We are going to the Royal Opera House, Sergeant. I don’t care any more about what that man Fokine told us about not going to see the scene of the crime without Diaghilev’s permission. Diaghilev can go to hell. We’re going anyway.’

The head porters bowed as Powerscourt and Sergeant Jenkins left the sacred portals of the Savoy and headed off up Wellington Street in the direction of the Royal Opera House. They were just passing Covent Garden Market when Powerscourt stopped suddenly.

‘It’s old age,’ he said, ‘it must be. How could I be so stupid?’

‘What’s wrong, my lord?’

‘It’s the body, Sergeant, the body of Alexander Taneyev. Where is it, in heaven’s name? Don’t tell me Diaghilev’s got it stashed away in his dressing room at the Savoy?’

‘No, he’s not. I must be getting old too, my lord. I meant to tell you first thing this morning. Our men took the body away the evening they found it. It’s not very far away, actually. It’s in the Middlesex Hospital near Oxford Circus. Some doctor or professor or maybe both is going to conduct the autopsy this morning, my lord. He’ll be sending a written report, of course, but his office let us know that if we were to call in after two o’clock tomorrow, he would be able to talk us through his findings. Sorry about that, my lord, very remiss of me.’

‘Don’t worry. Good to know the autopsy is being carried out so soon.’

They made their way into the Royal Opera House through the works entrance at the rear, where the stage sets and other bulky items were brought in. A young carpenter brought them to the hole under the stairs where Alexander Taneyev, a Prince in Georgia, had jumped in at the end of Thamar .

‘It’s got very popular, this spot,’ the carpenter said cheerfully, as he ushered them into the little room. ‘I think they ought to charge people to come like they do at Madame Tussaud’s. Mind you, Mr Diaghilev’s had it all cleaned out and redecorated.’

There was still a strong smell of paint. The walls were pale blue. There were bare boards with no carpet on the floor.

‘My God,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Who gave Diaghilev permission to tidy everything up? Why wasn’t this room sealed off? Do we know what it looked like before, Sergeant?’

‘As a matter of fact, we do sir. There were loads of mattresses piled up for the dancer to fall into. He was stabbed in the front. The killer appeared to have left nothing behind.’

‘He might have left a hair behind, or something like that. He might have been blond, for heaven’s sake. We’ll never know now. Damn Diaghilev. To be fair to him it’s perfectly possible he was told to leave everything as it was but the policeman didn’t know that Diaghilev doesn’t speak a word of English. Maybe it’s a failure of communication rather than a deliberate attempt to destroy the evidence and cover up the scene of the crime.’

Powerscourt and the Sergeant went on a tour that took them round the scenery dock where the body was found, past the dressing rooms and up to the back of the main stage. Fokine was still shouting at the corps de ballet. Powerscourt wondered if it was the same complaint he had been making the day before.

‘Tell me, my lord,’ Sergeant Jenkins had noticed that Powerscourt’s normal good humour seemed to have returned, ‘they always emphasize on police courses how important it is to inspect the scene of the crime. You’re meant to do it in person. Do you think it’s very important?’

‘I’m sure I’ve been told the same thing. Probably by a policeman, mind you.’

‘Have you ever solved a crime or found the murderer by visiting the scene of crime?’