Death Comes to the Ballets Russes (30 page)

Powerscourt felt glad, not for the first time, that he wasn’t a policeman. All that leg work, all those questions, always the same as the ones you had asked five minutes before, the endless writing of notes. He’d have grown so bored he would have made a mistake.

‘Well done, indeed, Inspector. At least that might produce something in the end. Please send our thanks to Inspector Jackson. We too have had some information. Two telegrams from Natasha Shaporova, reading Alexander’s mail in St Petersburg.

‘“What am I, Mama, Russian or English?” That’s the first one. The second could be connected to the first, or maybe not.

‘“Ivan” – that’s the elder brother – “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.” Ivan is the elder brother. Lucy, what do you think?’

‘They could be linked, as you say, Francis. Surely the first one could be something terribly simple, like who he should support in a football match between Russia and England, that sort of thing. But the second could relate to something more serious, as if there’s something worrying him.’

‘He may just wonder where his loyalties ought to
lie,’ said the Inspector. ‘He wants to take his bearings, which people he belongs with, that sort of thing.’

‘I suspect we need something more specific, don’t we?’ said Powerscourt. ‘And why, if we think it is serious for a moment, why would he want to know whether he’s English or Russian? I don’t see the context myself. It’s not as if there’s a war on and he has to decide which side to join.’

‘Tell me this,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘Where are the letters Alexander Taneyev received here? There must be answers of some kind in there. They must be in police storage somewhere, is that not so, Inspector? Then we could read the correspondence at both ends.’

Inspector Dutfield smacked his hand very firmly on his knee.

‘Of course, Lady Powerscourt. How right you are. Why didn’t we think of that sooner? I’m sorry about that.’

‘Never mind, Inspector,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I’m as guilty as you are. But you could lay your hands on them, couldn’t you?’

‘It’ll take a day or two,’ said Inspector Dutfield, ‘but we can certainly locate them. I’ve got one other piece of news to impart. You remember that duel in the forest glade outside St Petersburg? A member of the Taneyev family and a member of the Solkonsky family? Well, we’ve checked the names of all the Russians staying in hotels in the capital for the past week or so. At Brown’s Hotel in Mayfair there is at present a certain Mr Leonid Solkonsky, who gives an address in St Petersburg.’

‘God bless my soul!’ said Powerscourt. ‘You’ve been keeping that one pretty close to your chest, Inspector.’

‘You don’t know yet if he is a relation, do you, Inspector?’

‘I’m afraid, Lady Powerscourt, that as he is staying at a pretty expensive establishment, it might be better if your husband talked to him rather than a mere policeman.’

‘Do Russians not like policemen, Inspector?’ Lady Lucy was looking very determined all of a sudden. ‘Do you think they are more suspicious than people here?’

‘I asked one of the translators, Lady Lucy. They said people in St Petersburg would always be more suspicious of policemen than people in London.’

‘I wonder why.’

‘I don’t think this is the best time for a discussion on the relative popularity of police forces, Lucy, interesting though that would be,’ said Powerscourt, rising from the sofa to pace about his drawing room.

‘I shall drop this fellow a note at his hotel, saying I propose to call on him tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock. Any change of plan to be sent back by the footman who brings the note. How’s that?’

‘Capital,’ said Inspector Dutfield.

As he went down the flight of stairs to his study, Powerscourt wondered what would happen if he put the real questions directly. Are you a direct relation of the Solkonsky who fought a duel with a member of the family Taneyev all those years ago? How did you get into the Royal Opera House? Did you bring a knife or a dagger with you? Even as he signed his note, he realized there was one question that might make trouble for his cause. Why are you still here?

Peter Cooper had a pile of schoolbooks on each side of his table when Johnny Fitzgerald called. This particular
Cooper was not in a vicarage but in a spacious ground-floor flat in a large house off the Woodstock Road in Oxford.

‘Mr Fitzgerald, how kind of you to call. I’ve been expecting you. As you can see, I’m a history teacher at the boys’ school here in Oxford, and today is the day I mark the latest history essays.’ He nodded at the two heaps of notebooks on his desk by the window.

‘Are your charges doing well, Mr Cooper? Taking in what you have told them? Potential scholars all?’

‘Would that they were, Mr Fitzgerald! I have watched them read the relevant pages in their history books about the French Revolution. I have talked till I am blue in the face about the potential causes. And what do I get? Some excellent work, I admit, but one of the wastrels – there are always three or four in any class, sending each other messages, looking out through the window, scratching signs on their chairs and desks – has said that the mob stormed the Bastille because they were bored and hadn’t anything else to do. Another says that the King spent all his time on that damned tennis court where the oath took place and was so busy playing that he didn’t pay any attention to what was happening in Paris.’

‘I don’t envy you,’ said Johnny, ‘but I think you look as if you might be a little over halfway through.’

‘So I am, well, that’s something. Now, Mr Fitzgerald, I understand you want to talk to me about Uncle Richard’s will. Is that right?’

This was all pretty direct, Johnny said to himself. Take away the polite condolences and that was exactly what he had come for. ‘Absolutely right,’ said Johnny.

‘I’m not going to beat about the bush, Mr Fitzgerald. I think it is most excellent sport. I drink in all the latest
news from my mother and my aunt. They all believe it’s terribly serious, close the door to make sure the servants aren’t listening in the hall – all that silly cloak-and-dagger sort of stuff. I think it’s like being in a horse race – a very long horse race, mind you – where the favourite is in the lead for a while then he falls back and is replaced by one of the other runners. There used to be four of us in the race, now Alexander has fallen at one of the fences.’

‘Becher’s Brook, as it were.’

‘Precisely so. And when the new position has been well established, that only lasts a certain amount of time before he too is replaced. My relations keep asking me how I feel about Alexander’s death and I’m afraid I make the usual noises. But deep down, I’m rather intrigued in one sense. If you thought, Mr Fitzgerald, that you were one of four riders left in the big race, and that number was suddenly reduced to three, how would you feel? It’s hard to get too upset about it when you think that your own chances have been improved by a third or a quarter. You were four to one in the big race. Now you’re three to one. Don’t you see?’

‘That’s all very interesting, Mr Cooper. Do you know who the new favourite is, by any chance?’

‘No, I don’t, as a matter of fact. I think I was in the lead until I was replaced by Alexander, so it’s not likely to be me.’

‘Do the changes in expectation, as it were, always follow the same pattern: A followed by B and B followed by C and C followed by D?’

‘No, they don’t. It’s all completely random. There was once a period of A to D in strict alphabetic pattern, but it didn’t last.’

‘Does your uncle know you are a strict follower of form in this matter, Mr Cooper?’

‘No, he doesn’t. He hardly ever sees us at all. My aunt says he doesn’t like young people as a rule, but that might just be camouflage.’

‘Let’s suppose, Mr Cooper, that you were in the preferred position, leading the field, and your uncle dropped down dead. What would you do with the money?’

‘I’d get married for a start. I have been in love for six months or so with a young lady who teaches English at the girls’ school here. We could buy a bigger house. Maybe I could give up teaching history altogether. The problem is, we don’t know how much money there is. Do you know, Mr Fitzgerald?’

Johnny shook his head. ‘No, I don’t know exactly. I may have an idea quite soon.’

‘Well, when you find out, and I’m sure you will, a resourceful chap like you, remember to drop me a line. Just the total will do. You needn’t bother with the rituals of politeness.’

‘Tell me this before I go, Mr Cooper. You say all your information about the places in the race comes from your mother or your aunt. You don’t have any conversations with your uncle about the latest odds and so on?’

‘That’s right. It all comes from my mother and my aunt.’

As Johnny took his leave, a return to marking history essays calling on Mr Cooper’s side, two thoughts would not leave him alone. The first was that he suspected Peter Cooper was probably more like his uncle than anybody suspected. And the second was that,
in the discussions about what he would do with the money, there had been no mention of sharing it out with anybody else.

Natasha Shaporova was sounding depressed and frustrated in her room in the Taneyev household, surrounded by the family icons.

‘Regret no further news to report here,’ the telegram began.

Powerscourt was reading it aloud to Lady Lucy.

‘Have read all letters to female members of the household. Nothing further to report. None of the men can find any of theirs. Alexander wrote more often to the women of the household than to his brother and his father. Both remember him referring to something very secret, something he shouldn’t have seen at all, and what should he do about it. The brother doesn’t remember replying, but admits he could have done. His father suggested that he send more details of what he’d actually seen. The brother thinks he may have left the letters in his barracks, the father thinks his may be in the yacht club. Both under strict instructions to carry out further searches. Regards Natasha.’

‘That all sounds pretty miserable,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘I shouldn’t like to be shut up in a room plastered with all those gloomy icons.’

‘Think about it, Lucy. What could it refer to?’

‘Well, it could refer to the future plans of the Ballets Russes. Further appearances in Europe cancelled because of lack of money. No return trip to London, perhaps.’

‘Or it could refer to some affair happening inside
the company, something it would be very hard to cope with, if it came out.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, like Diaghilev taking another lover apart from Nijinsky. That would put Nijinsky’s nose out of joint for a while. He might even leave.’

‘Perhaps it had nothing to do with the ballet and had to do with Ballets Russes being used as a sort of mobile post office, as Colonel Brouzet suggested from Paris. I can’t see that at the moment, mind you.’

‘Maybe what he wrote was proof that the company was bankrupt and he would have to go home.’

‘Proof, certain proof, Lucy. There are no certainties here, none at all. We had better turn our attention to other things before we drive each other mad with speculation.’