Free Death Comes to the Ballets Russes by David Dickinson Page A

Mr Fokine, he was doing his stuff.’
    ‘And who was doing the fighting?’
    ‘Two girls from the corps de ballet. One of them was that tall redhead called Kristina. The other one was a brunette and I don’t know her name. I could point her out to you next time you’re in the place, if you like.’
    ‘That would be very kind. Was it like a boxing match? Wrestling maybe?’
    ‘It was pretty fierce stuff. The brunette had apparently accused the one called Kristina of having given in to Bolm’s advances. She denied it. There was a lot of shoving and a lot of biting. The redhead was trying to pull something out of her stocking when they were stopped. It might have been a knife.’
    ‘A knife like the one used in the murder? One of those Cossack daggers?’
    ‘God help me, I hadn’t thought of that. It could have been, I suppose, but I’m not sure.’
    ‘So who stopped it?’
    ‘Mr Fokine and one of the big stagehands, one of the Russian ones, had to force them apart. The redhead had blood pouring out of her shoulder. The other one was limping. They were both taken away. Mr Fokine gave everybody else half an hour off. I saw him having a very large vodka all by himself in the bar. It’s always open for the Russians that place, even at breakfast time.’
    ‘Nicholas, you’ve done well. Please try to find out what they were fighting about. Maybe there’s going to be another round.’

    The early evening sun was still streaming through the great windows of Lady Ripon’s drawing room at Coombe. She had just rearranged the flowers to hersatisfaction. Honestly, it was so hard these days to find staff who knew how to do things properly. She had already been to the ballroom where she had recently built a small stage for the ballet, the floor raked at an angle like the one at the Mariinsky Theatre in St Petersburg. Russian dancers always complained about the flat floors of London and Paris. Round the stage, twenty seats had been placed. Here at least the work had been carried out perfectly, probably because Lady Ripon had supervised every move herself.
    She was wearing her rubies tonight, with the Nattier-blue taffeta dress. She had recently had all her jewels reset by Cartier in the fashion of the day, rather than the heavy gold settings of Victoria’s time. The dining room was her last port of call with Crooks, the butler, in attendance. She was, as she told her maid later that evening, only just in time. The first problem was the table itself. ‘Just look at those champagne flutes, Crooks. Can’t you see they’re in the wrong order? Sort it out, please. My word, you have to have your eyes about you these days.’
    Lady Ripon turned her attention to the seating plan. Crooks held out the red leather pad with slits to hold the names and place settings of the guests and the order of precedence on the way into dinner.
    ‘Good God, you don’t expect me to be taken in to dinner by that fool Twiston-Frobisher, do you? I don’t care if he isn’t English, I must be taken in by Mr Diaghilev. It’s my party and he’s the guest of honour. I do believe Frobisher’s the stupidest man in England. And you can’t put Sir Ernest next to Lady Trumpington, he’ll be bored to tears. And the Ambassador – he’ll expect to be next to Mrs Sackville. He’s been crazy about her for years.’
    By eight o’clock all the guests had arrived except the Russians. Lady Ripon began to grow anxious. Her husband, an older and larger figure, was deep in conversation about cricket with the retired Brigadier who lived next door. By half past eight, Crooks the butler was whispering that the food could not be delayed much longer or it would spoil. He also pointed out that in the absence of Diaghilev and Nijinsky, the only appropriate person to take Lady Ripon in to dinner was Sir Felix Twiston-Frobisher. The guests were beginning to look at their watches in a pointed fashion by now. At ten to nine the butler reported that the chef and the sous