“But if—as you seem to be implying—there are degrees of death these days, you do have a first class, undeniable murder on your books. Your sailor witness may not have quite the same glamour as your dancer but he didn’t break his own neck.”
“I hadn’t forgotten him. I won’t let myself be mesmerised by the alluring light of a ballerina’s corpse-candle. Strange, isn’t it, Lyd? You always think of ballerinas as virginal. Young things barely into puberty. Dressed up in diaphanous costumes and dedicated to a life of dance, the only men in their lives the one or two gorgeous—but probably unattainable—Prince Charmings who lift them about the stage. Hard to think of them marrying, let alone conducting clandestine affairs.”
“They do marry quite frequently. And they usually choose someone solidly respectable—a member of parliament, a banker, someone in the city, or a minor royal personage. Lydia Lopokova married her distinguished economist some years ago and became Mrs. John Maynard Keynes.”
“But until that happy day, I suppose, when I think about it, there must be a succession of upper-class stage-door johnnies. I dare say the girls have to run the gauntlet of drunken old fools who gather about the back door of Covent Garden.”
“Oh, I don’t think they’d be seen performing such antics, Joe. Discreet notes are sent with extravagant bouquets of red roses. These girls are regarded in some circles as easy pickings, I’m afraid. There was a story about it in my dancing days that at the Mariinsky theatre in St. Petersburg—before the war and the revolution and all that—there was a secret passage leading from the royal box down to the back of the theatre giving direct access to the performers. If some dashing grand duke took a fancy to the latest girl in the chorus line, he could pass a note down and make his exit unobserved by the audience. They could be off in a closed carriage before she’d scrambled out of her tutu.”
“Good God!”
“We all thought it very romantic, in our innocence. We gawped at photographs of Mathilde Kschessinska, flaunting her lavish jewellery. Romanov gifts. She even wore them on stage—had them sewn into her costumes. She was mistress to at least two Grand Dukes and the Emperor Nicholas himself. And she no more than a Mariinsky pupil, a ballet dancer like us. Perhaps one day, we would dance our way into the heart of a prince? Now I see it for what it is. Though some of the girls are canny enough to understand the system and play it to their advantage. Mademoiselle Kschessinska became ‘Her Serene Highness Princess Romanov-Krasinskya’ after the war and lives in splendour in the south of France.”
Joe didn’t like to hear the longing and envy in her voice and replied crisply, “I’m glad you grew too tall, Lydia, and evaded the traps. It’s criminal exploitation of minors in my book. I’d like to know how common it is.”
“It happens more frequently than anyone guesses. And some of the exploiters are nearer home—the professional men who surround them: musicians, composers, choreographers, ballet coaches. Not all their admirers are rich. The girls, if they’re unimportant and unsupported and make a bad choice, just fall out of view and into the gutter. The grander ones with names, reputations and jewels to lose ‘throw a tantrum,’ or have a ‘difference of opinion’ with the ballet master and walk out for a few days. Sometimes they suffer from ‘mental and physical exhaustion’ and retire to the country for a month or two. Have you noticed how frequently that scenario is played out for the public?”
“And the public, like me, naively put it down to the artistic temperament. And grumble quietly when an understudy is shoved on stage at the last minute. Good Lord! They must be available everywhere, these places?”
“Most of the world’s great capitals can offer the facilities. And the discretion. At a price.”
“You’d know where these establishments were to be found in London, Lyd?”
“I’d start looking in Harley Street. Rich women are attracted by a grand address and reputation whatever their state of distress. Of course, they won’t advertise themselves openly. The birth control clinic I help to run would never be able to function under that description—we have to call it a ‘Women’s Advisory Bureau.’ Inevitably, we get the occasional girl coming in to ask about office work and typing lessons. You’d have to look for something general, reassuring and yet clinical on their letter heading. And their invoices.”
“How about St. Catherine’s Clinic, Feminine Hygiene. Diagnostic, Surgical and Speciality Care by highly qualified physicians?” He read from his notebook the words Armitage had noted down.
“Oh, yes! May I look?… Yes, I’d say that leaves no room for doubt for those with eyes to see. But—imagine a husband presented with a bill from such an establishment. He’s going to pay up at once with no questions asked. Too embarrassing. He’ll argue about the price of an Ascot hat but his good lady’s internal plumbing system? The less known, the better. And it doesn’t exactly invite a raid by The Plod, does it?”
“I know what we’d find! Polished instruments, starched nurses, indignant patients all with a distinguished relative in the Home Office. ‘Cousin Theodore shall hear of this!’ Been there, Lyd!”
“But what are you expecting to find in this place? I can see you’re already planning a visit. Or should I say—who will be there? Natalia’s taken a little time off to have her female problems diagnosed and treated? Is that what you’re thinking? Well! That would certainly give a reason for the quarrel you say they had on Tuesday night. They had plenty to discuss! Whose child? To let live or not to let live? Career or marriage? It could have turned noisy and nasty. Not the sort of scene you want to play out in a hotel—not even Claridge’s.”
“And her maid, who’s the only one in the know, makes a clandestine visit to check all’s well after her mistress’s hasty departure. She’s covering up for her. How irritating!”
“But it’s falling into place. You’ve established a link between your dead girl and your still-alive senator. The chain runs straight through to this abortion clinic.”
“A possible link. Won’t hold water, Lydia. I need something more tangible before I can mount a raid. I’ll bet my boots that’s where Natalia’s holed up but we have nothing yet to associate the dead dancer with St. Catherine’s. And we have a hint that the place is foreign-owned. German.” Joe didn’t reveal that his source was a London cabdriver. “It’s all a bit sensitive. I can’t just send in the coppers, even armed with a search warrant. I can ask for questions to be asked of Companies’ House and the precise ownership established, however.”
“You’ll have to get Bacchus to help you then. Your super secret special squad will leap at the chance to go in and kick a few Teutonic shins.”
Joe grimaced. “It would make a change from Irish and Russian shins, I suppose. Who’ve you been talking to—that old firebrand, Churchill? Something more diplomatic is called for, I think. And Bacchus has his hands full for the next week or two trying to keep Balkan factions from cutting each other’s throats on English soil. I wouldn’t have the words to ask him to spare men for a raid on a ladies’ health clinic.
“This maid that you followed—she seems to have the entrée. Any use to you? What did she take with her? Bunch of grapes? Copy of War And Peace? Spare knickers in a Vuitton weekend case?”
“None of those. And that’s a bit odd. She had nothing more than a small handbag with her when she rang the bell at St. Catherine’s.”
“What a cheek—choosing St. Catherine for your patron.”
“Is she significant?”
“There’s more than one Catherine. The most famous one—she of the wheel, from Alexandria, is a very proper person to name yourself for. One of the harder-working saints in the canon. She’s the one most people will assume is presiding over the place along with countless churches, colleges and cats’ homes. But there’s another one: the Swedish Catherine. Her speciality is protection against abortion and miscarriage. This is quite a joker you’re dealing with, Joe.”