Cooper looked round his little audience. Nobody asked any questions.
‘Inside a week we shall further the cause of progress. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity! Let us close our meeting with “The Internationale”.’ The song had been used by socialists, communists, anarchists, democratic socialists, all the different varieties of revolutionary factions.
This is the final struggle
Let us group together and tomorrow
The Internationale
Will be the human race.
Powerscourt had suspected for some time that his wife Lucy slipped bad news into the conversation at times when he could not complain very loudly. They were just about to go to the theatre in a taxi when she announced that her Great Aunt Theodosia was coming to stay for a few days. She was a Stratton, this Theodosia, related to Lady Lucy on her mother’s side, and very rich. Her family lived in a vast house with more servants than rooms on top of one of the largest and richest coal seams in the country. This aunt was extremely old, extremely deaf and extremely difficult. Powerscourt had once claimed that in any contest to find the most reactionary person in Britain, Great Aunt Theodosia would win at a canter.
‘Why is she coming to stay with us, Lucy? Why can’t she take a room at the Ritz or book a suite at the Savoy?’
‘Honestly, Francis, she’s a relation. People don’t want to stay in strange hotels when they’re as old as she is. They want to be in the bosom of their family.’
‘What happens if the bosom of the family don’t want them?’
‘You’re being unreasonable, Francis, you know you are. Anyway, she has to come up to town on business. That’s what she said, anyway.’
‘What sort of business? Doctors? Wills? Solicitors? That sort of business?’
‘You’ll just have to wait and find out.’
Powerscourt remembered a previous conversation with Great Aunt Theodosia in the drawing room at Stratton Hall in Yorkshire. They may have been sitting on top of thousands and thousands of tons of coal up there, but the rooms were always freezing. The old lady would raise a topic and then use her victim’s reaction to reveal the strength and depth of her prejudices.
‘What about these women going about the place smashing things up?’ she demanded after dinner. ‘Suffragettes they call themselves, I believe. They’d certainly suffer if I were in charge, I can tell you. I suppose you approve of these monsters pretending to be proper women, Lord Powerscourt? It’s the sort of thing fashionable people are said to agree with nowadays. Isn’t that so?’
‘Well,’ said Powerscourt, realizing all too well that these waters were treacherous, ‘I don’t support their methods, Great Aunt Theodosia, but I do support their objectives. I think women should have universal suffrage. Wouldn’t you like to have the vote yourself?’
‘I most certainly would not, young man. Two of my relations sat in the 1832 Parliament when the Great Reform Act was passed and let some of the rabble vote. They sat for those splendid rotten boroughs which have, unfortunately, been abolished. But they voted against the changes every time they could. A great uncle of mine was in the 1867 House of Commons and he opposed the later reforms to let even more of the rabble vote. And I had three relations who voted with the Diehards last year when the House of Lords had to agree to a ridiculous Act cooked up by that wicked Asquith to rip up the constitution and limit the powers of the House of Lords. One of them wrote the closing speech for Lord Selborne: “The question is, shall we perish in the dark, slain by our hand, or in the light, killed by our enemies?”’
Great Aunt Theodosia stared at Powerscourt as if he were one of the ringleaders of this ongoing treachery over the voting system. He could still remember her final blast up there in the cold of Yorkshire.
‘And another thing. They’re not educated, most of the women in this country. I fancy some of the suffragette people may have learnt to read, but even those who can read don’t spend their time following the passage of Bills through Parliament or the twists and turns of foreign policy. They read those dreadful magazines full of foolish gossip about film stars and people in the music hall. These women won’t vote on the issues. They will vote on the looks of the candidates. Do you call that democracy?’
‘Do you want to see the body? Some people don’t.’ Dr Thomas Harrison, the doctor who had conducted the autopsy was a small, sunburned man who looked as if he spent a lot of his life outdoors. Sergeant Jenkins was to tell Powerscourt later that the doctor loved walking in the Alps in spring and summer, returning with a fine tan and further specimens for his collection of wild flowers. He was in a small office next to the Middlesex Hospital morgue.
‘Yes please.’ Sergeant Jenkins sounded confident. This, in fact, would be the first corpse he had ever seen on duty. The doctor led the way. He nodded to the attendant to pull a body out of the trays on the wall.
Alexander Taneyev looked very peaceful and absurdly young.
‘I’ve heard about you from my colleagues, Lord Powerscourt,’ said Dr Harrison. ‘They say you like complicated cases. Well, let me tell you, this is one of the most straightforward murders I have ever seen.’
‘Really?’ said Powerscourt.
‘I’ll show you the wound that killed him, if you like. Our estimated time for his death, based on the rigor mortis and so on, coincides with the timetable of the ballet. End of Thamar, down he leaps, the murderer is waiting, stabs him with one of those evil knives, that’s the end of poor Alexander.’
‘Have you seen the murder weapon, doctor?’
‘I have indeed. The ballet people offered to let me hang on to one until all the formalities were complete. I said no. I didn’t want one of those lethal instruments knocking about on my premises. I sent it straight back.’
‘Could you describe it for us?’ Sergeant Jenkins was keeping his eyes well away from the sight of the gaping wound.
‘Of course. They told me it is a Cossack knife. It’s very slim and incredibly sharp at the end. They’re cleaned and sharpened regularly, I understand. The murderer knew enough about human anatomy to strike upwards from below rather downwards from above. The boy would have died immediately. It would have been very sudden.’
‘Could you hazard a guess as to whether the murderer was a man or a woman, Doctor?’
Dr Harrison winced. ‘Normally we associate death by knife wound with men. But we don’t know much about the culture of these ballet people. It could have been a man or a woman. That dagger is so sharp, a child of twelve could have done it.’
Natasha Shaporova had hired a suite in the Fielding Hotel for interviews with the Ballets Russes. The girls wouldn’t have to travel across an unknown city to a police station. They wouldn’t have to change out of their costumes if they were in rehearsal. They would come in groups of three so they wouldn’t feel too frightened or too alone. A samovar and a couple of miserable-looking icons had been imported from Chelsea Square.
The party for the corps de ballet in the Shaporova house the day before had been a great success. The Ambassador had turned up and made a splendid speech about the importance of proper behaviour and cooperation with the local police. It was, he assured them, rather like being invited to the country house of a rich relation you hadn’t met before. You want to be asked back. This had gone down very well with the girls. The local priest had managed to enlist not one but two metropolitans. Powerscourt felt sure they must have heard about the quality of Mikhail’s wines, which all came from the most prestigious vineyards in Burgundy and the Rhone valley. The holy men had glided about the room, crucifixes swaying by their waists, blessing the girls and reminding them of the church services in the cathedral. They led the gathering in singing traditional Russian hymns and folk songs at the end. Powerscourt had dressed the set, as he put it to himself, smiling at the corps de ballet like a benevolent uncle. Sergeant Jenkins had been bowled over by the beauty and the sheer numbers of the Ballets Russes dancers.