Read Online Death Comes to the Ballets Russes by David Dickinson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Dickinson
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gather you wish to speak to me. You, I presume,’ he said, shaking his cane at Powerscourt’s face in rather an alarming fashion, ‘must be the man called Powerscourt.’
‘I am indeed,’ Powerscourt replied in French. ‘Allow me to introduce Natasha Shaporova, wife of the banker Mikhail Shaporov, the head of the family bank in London.’
‘Good,’ said Diaghilev, bowing slightly to Natasha, ‘bankers can be useful sometimes. They can also be very disagreeable at other times.’ This was said with some menace.
‘Won’t you sit down, Mr Diaghilev? Would you like some tea?’
‘I prefer to stand, thank you. I don’t want any tea. I shan’t be staying long. Perhaps you could give me some indication of what you wish to ask me?’
‘What was your reaction, Mr Diaghilev, to the murder of one of your dancers at the Royal Opera House?’ Powerscourt opened the batting.
‘I regret it very much. My work goes on. I am an artistand a collector and conductor of artists. Everything else is secondary to that.’
‘Did you know the victim at all?’
‘Of course I knew him. I hired him, you fool.’
‘Do you know anybody who might wish to see understudy Alexander Taneyev dead? Or did you know anybody who might wish to see the man meant to dance the role that night, Alfred Bolm, dead?’
‘These are ridiculous questions. I have no wish to make life difficult for the authorities here. But I am not prepared to speculate about members of my Ballets Russes. I am its artistic director. We have a reputation across Europe. I am not a policeman.’
‘Mr Diaghilev,’ Natasha was at her most charming, smiling at her visitor, ‘is it true that you are going bankrupt? People are saying it all over London. Are they right?’
‘This is preposterous!’ shouted Diaghilev, banging his cane on the back of the nearest chair. ‘I am not staying here to be insulted!’
With that, he turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him. They could hear him shouting in Russian as he made his way downstairs.
‘Pity he didn’t bother to say goodbye,’ Powerscourt shook his head sadly.
‘Rather a hasty exit,’ agreed Natasha. ‘Do you know, something tells me he won’t be coming back to see us any time soon.’
5
Grand écart
Literally, great gap. Also known as ‘spagat’ in German or ‘splits’ in English, is when the dancer opens his/her legs in 180°, front or sideways.
Johnny Fitzgerald, Powerscourt’s oldest friend and companion in arms, was back in town. Ever since the affair of the Elgin Marble he had lived mainly in the country, supposedly researching a new book on the birds of the Midlands. Lady Lucy had long ago established that Johnny’s principal interest in the Midlands was not, in fact, the local wildlife, but a rich widow in Warwickshire. Lady Lucy had enlisted series after series of interlocking circles of friends and relations in the search for the identity of the lady concerned. She was almost certain that her prey was a certain Lady Caroline Milne, widow of the late Colonel Sebastian Milne, formerly of the Life Guards and a previous Master of the Harbury Hunt. Lady Lucy had been on the verge of asking Johnny a number of times if LadyCaroline was indeed the object of his interest, but she had resisted. If Johnny had wanted them to know, she reasoned to herself, he would have told them. All in good time, as her grandmother used to say.
‘Well, Francis,’ said Fitzgerald, ‘I hear you’re consorting with ballet dancers and that man Diaghilev. That’s what they’re saying round the town.’
‘How very perceptive of you, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt with a laugh. He gave Johnny the details of the case.
‘And I presume that you have some delicious assignment lined up for me?’ said Fitzgerald, who had visited many Valleys of Despair and Sloughs of Despond in previous cases with his friend. ‘Lunch with the prima ballerinas? Dinner with Anna Pavlova if she’s in town? That sort of
‘I am indeed,’ Powerscourt replied in French. ‘Allow me to introduce Natasha Shaporova, wife of the banker Mikhail Shaporov, the head of the family bank in London.’
‘Good,’ said Diaghilev, bowing slightly to Natasha, ‘bankers can be useful sometimes. They can also be very disagreeable at other times.’ This was said with some menace.
‘Won’t you sit down, Mr Diaghilev? Would you like some tea?’
‘I prefer to stand, thank you. I don’t want any tea. I shan’t be staying long. Perhaps you could give me some indication of what you wish to ask me?’
‘What was your reaction, Mr Diaghilev, to the murder of one of your dancers at the Royal Opera House?’ Powerscourt opened the batting.
‘I regret it very much. My work goes on. I am an artistand a collector and conductor of artists. Everything else is secondary to that.’
‘Did you know the victim at all?’
‘Of course I knew him. I hired him, you fool.’
‘Do you know anybody who might wish to see understudy Alexander Taneyev dead? Or did you know anybody who might wish to see the man meant to dance the role that night, Alfred Bolm, dead?’
‘These are ridiculous questions. I have no wish to make life difficult for the authorities here. But I am not prepared to speculate about members of my Ballets Russes. I am its artistic director. We have a reputation across Europe. I am not a policeman.’
‘Mr Diaghilev,’ Natasha was at her most charming, smiling at her visitor, ‘is it true that you are going bankrupt? People are saying it all over London. Are they right?’
‘This is preposterous!’ shouted Diaghilev, banging his cane on the back of the nearest chair. ‘I am not staying here to be insulted!’
With that, he turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him. They could hear him shouting in Russian as he made his way downstairs.
‘Pity he didn’t bother to say goodbye,’ Powerscourt shook his head sadly.
‘Rather a hasty exit,’ agreed Natasha. ‘Do you know, something tells me he won’t be coming back to see us any time soon.’
5
Grand écart
Literally, great gap. Also known as ‘spagat’ in German or ‘splits’ in English, is when the dancer opens his/her legs in 180°, front or sideways.
Johnny Fitzgerald, Powerscourt’s oldest friend and companion in arms, was back in town. Ever since the affair of the Elgin Marble he had lived mainly in the country, supposedly researching a new book on the birds of the Midlands. Lady Lucy had long ago established that Johnny’s principal interest in the Midlands was not, in fact, the local wildlife, but a rich widow in Warwickshire. Lady Lucy had enlisted series after series of interlocking circles of friends and relations in the search for the identity of the lady concerned. She was almost certain that her prey was a certain Lady Caroline Milne, widow of the late Colonel Sebastian Milne, formerly of the Life Guards and a previous Master of the Harbury Hunt. Lady Lucy had been on the verge of asking Johnny a number of times if LadyCaroline was indeed the object of his interest, but she had resisted. If Johnny had wanted them to know, she reasoned to herself, he would have told them. All in good time, as her grandmother used to say.
‘Well, Francis,’ said Fitzgerald, ‘I hear you’re consorting with ballet dancers and that man Diaghilev. That’s what they’re saying round the town.’
‘How very perceptive of you, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt with a laugh. He gave Johnny the details of the case.
‘And I presume that you have some delicious assignment lined up for me?’ said Fitzgerald, who had visited many Valleys of Despair and Sloughs of Despond in previous cases with his friend. ‘Lunch with the prima ballerinas? Dinner with Anna Pavlova if she’s in town? That sort of
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