Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘Where’s the rest of them?’ Noakes asked.

  ‘Well, it’s company class right now. But,’ she pulled a face, ‘Isobel quite often likes to warm up by herself. Away from the common herd, so to speak.’

  ‘Company class?’ Markham enquired.

  ‘It’s an article of faith in the ballet world, Inspector. Every dancer knows the old saying that if you miss class for one day you know, if you miss class for two days your teacher knows, and if you miss class for three days your audience knows. It’s as essential as brushing your teeth. Even the hardest partying lads are present and correct, no matter what they got up to the night before. Discipline’s their watchword.’

  The DI was amused to see that Noakes was listening with interest, his idea of male ballet dancers as long-haired beatniks clearly undergoing a rapid transformation.

  Sheila Bloom led them via a backstairs route down to the theatre basement and her own particular domain – a cramped but cosy little cubbyhole festooned with piles of costumes, pointe shoes and wigs displayed on cork blocks, with some rickety stacking-stools propped up against the wall. Swiftly and without fuss, she sorted them each a stool, the two policemen perching opposite her in awkward proximity.

  Observing Noakes’s furtive glances towards the wigs, the wardrobe mistress said, ‘A bit creepy, aren’t they?’

  ‘What’re they made of?’

  ‘Natural human hair in the main, though the eighteenth-century type wigs sometimes have yak’s hair in them to make them crinkly. They’re sewn into the hair and glued to dancers’ foreheads. So there’s no danger of them falling off.’

  ‘How did you get into this business, Miss Bloom?’

  ‘My sister was studying theatre and used to bring home costumes for me to look at. That, to me, was heaven. I would spread them out on the bed and gaze at them – gaze at them so intensely that I could feel myself actually inside them. I would fondle them for hours, smooth them and smell them.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘I was like a dope addict.’

  Markham had noticed surprisingly elegant legs and a graceful economy of movement. He wondered if she had ever dreamed of being a dancer herself.

  Again, that almost uncanny ability to read his thoughts. ‘I wasn’t talented enough for the stage, Inspector,’ the wardrobe mistress said softly, ‘but I’ve always loved the ballet. It’s got everything – grief, anger, love, jealousy, tenderness – and then there’s the beauty of it … like music that you can see.’

  Markham looked at her steadily. Coolly intelligent grey eyes met his.

  ‘What will happen to the season, Miss Bloom, now that George Baranov is dead?’

  ‘The show will go on, Inspector.’ She met his gaze unflinchingly. ‘It sounds a cliché … unfeeling even … but that’s what he would want.’ She extended her hands, palms upwards, as though in prayerful supplication. ‘Ballet for him was everything. A code of behaviour – how to serve something bigger than oneself.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Like a religion almost, with Mr B as high priest.’

  It was an opening.

  ‘He didn’t live like a monk though, Miss Bloom…’

  ‘No, he didn’t, Inspector.’ Her countenance was open, candid. ‘He had a magnetic influence on both sexes. Men and women fell for him, and he exploited that to the full.’

  Noakes shifted uncomfortably on his chair, feeling that they were in deep waters, but the DI’s tone was detached, almost ironic.

  ‘Bisexual then, Miss Bloom?’

  ‘Well, it’s rumoured that he was homosexual in his early days. Certainly he would have had no hang-ups about it.’ She paused, as if this was a conundrum she had often pondered. ‘Perhaps it was his Russian heritage… You see, in Imperial Russia and for a long time afterwards, it was almost accepted that young men – particularly young men in the theatrical and ballet worlds – would experiment before marriage and ally themselves to rich protectors without its being of much account to anyone.’ She fell silent, and Markham let the silence stretch. ‘I got the impression his earliest sexual experience might have been with a much older woman, and this caused problems for him,’ she said finally. ‘Maybe it resulted in him looking for pleasure in other places for a while…’ She made a gesture almost of appeal. ‘He seemed to have a strange perspective on women … as if they were either prostitutes or saints…’

  ‘Liked them younger too, didn’t he?’ Noakes put in diffidently, thinking of what Kate Burton had told them about Baranov’s infatuation with fifteen-year old Alexandra Fairlie.

  The wardrobe mistress looked unhappy.

  ‘Ah, you’re thinking about his obsession with Alex.’ Her expression was troubled. ‘I don’t believe it was ever consummated, you know. Alex is a Catholic and takes her faith seriously. George was a married man, though he’d never got around to divorcing his wife.’

  ‘His wife?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant, the former ballerina Diana Adams. She suffers from MS and lives in Monaco for most of the time, though she made the odd appearance with Mr B.’

  ‘So it was a case of nothing doing between him and Alexandra, then?’ Noakes asked the question bluntly.

  ‘Well, Sergeant, there’s no doubt he could be aggressively predatory on occasion.’ Sheila’s expression was fondly reminiscent. ‘Mr B made no bones about the fact that he appreciated what he called “ladies who enjoy jumping on mattresses”.’ Her tone serious once again, she continued. ‘But the counterweight to his physical drives was a sort of continual yearning for ideal love – something pure and untainted. I think that’s what he saw in Alex… I remember he told me once that love can exist as a spiritual and ideal force and still be happy, providing we forget or try to forget our hunger and thirst.’

  ‘A strange thing to say, Miss Bloom,’ Markham commented, watching her closely.

  ‘I suppose he made me realize it’s the quality of love that makes it beautiful, no matter who the object.’

  The DI nodded in agreement, though his subordinate looked distinctly baffled.

  ‘I think he had somehow made peace with himself over the row with Alex, Inspector. As choreographer and dancer, they had something over and beyond the everyday … something which transcended sex…’

  Maybe George Baranov had come to terms with what had happened with Alexandra Fairlie, thought Markham grimly, but that wasn’t necessarily true of others. Fairlie’s husband for one…

  The DI smiled encouragingly.

  ‘Mr Baranov was clearly a remarkable man, Miss Bloom, but geniuses can inspire resentment,’ he prompted.

  A full-throated peal of laughter.

  ‘He could be absolutely maddening, Inspector. So rude…’ She broke into a reluctant grin. ‘“I dread all those whingeing corps girls coming into my office to weep,” he used to say to me. He never spared them … sent one poor little soul a note suggesting it would be worthwhile from the point of view of her career if she could manage to deal with the gap in her front teeth and make it less noticeable… But they all knew the deal. Number one, There’s no justice. Number two, It’s not fair. Number three, Be quiet and do as you’re told.’ Another reluctant chuckle. ‘No, he just didn’t have an ounce of tact. Told the ballet master Brian Shaw, who was trying to break into choreography, that his ballet Summer Daydream which lasted just fifteen minutes was the longest ballet he’d ever seen. It was so unfair, especially because—’ She bit her lip and looked as though she had been about to say something else before breaking off. Markham wondered what it was.

  Recovering herself, the wardrobe mistress said quietly, ‘There’s no doubt he was an arrogant man. “When you see my work, you see a part of God.” That was one of his sayings.’

  ‘What made him so special?’ The question was blunt, but Noakes sounded as though he genuinely wanted to understand the enigma of George Baranov.

  ‘It wasn’t just that he was a very charismatic man, Sergeant, though he had a wonderful dance pedigree and mounted the classics all over Europe. He was truly innovative as
well. Couldn’t be doing with cutesy-wootsey renditions of fairyland … all those elves, fey sprites and happy peasants. No, he was much more interested in the psychological dimension.’ Two spots of enthusiasm burned in her cheeks. ‘That’s what makes this Nutcracker so special. There’re all sort of Freudian nuances … it’s not just a simple fairy story…’ She came to an embarrassed halt. ‘Sorry, I’m getting carried away.’

  ‘Not at all, Miss Bloom. It’s fascinating,’ said Markham with such obvious sincerity that the woman relaxed.

  ‘I guess Mr B disliked soppiness. When he explored the Brothers Grimm, you saw the sadism and not the sentiment, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I believe I do.’

  Noakes cleared his throat portentously, keen to interrupt the literary love-in.

  ‘So he liked to experiment an’ that…’

  ‘In all areas, yes, Sergeant.’

  Noakes blushed and scuffed his feet.

  Markham took pity on his subordinate, smoothly interposing. ‘What you might call avant-garde then.’

  ‘Definitely. He wanted to strip dancing back to what he called its primal elements … which didn’t necessarily make for great box office, you understand.’ Ruefully, she added, ‘There was often a fierce tussle with the “money-bags” … to get them to open their minds.’

  The wardrobe mistress glanced at her watch.

  ‘They’ll be just about finishing class now. I’ll take you along and you can speak to some of the dancers. You should find it interesting. Mr B had no time for what he called the “star system”. Or rather,’ she corrected herself with a grimace, ‘he was the only star and the rest revolved round him as if by divine decree. There was no question of any prima ballerina getting above herself and lording it over the rest. “The first among equals,” that’s what he called the leading lady – and she just had to lump it!’

  They made their way back round to the auditorium side door where Sheila Bloom paused to check a delivery with the ancient doorman. As she turned back to them, Markham glimpsed a tall man, extremely thin and gawky with keen dark eyes in a lantern-jawed face, who was there one minute and then vanished out of sight.

  That was the thing about the theatre, he reflected, all those secret entrances and exits. He reminded himself to get a map of the place.

  Something appeared to have distracted the wardrobe mistress who was peering over his shoulder into the gloom as though some menace lurked in the shadows. Markham noticed that she had suddenly turned very pale and was swaying a little.

  ‘Everything all right, Miss Bloom?’

  The woman gave a somewhat forced smile.

  ‘Absolutely, Inspector. Must just be shock catching up with me.’ There was the faint sheen of perspiration on her forehead, promptly blotted with a snow-white handkerchief.

  Moving swiftly, she guided them through a covered passageway adjacent to the side door and along a warren of corridors. In the distance, they could hear the thump-thump of a piano being played with some vigour. ‘The dancers always want a good pianist,’ she explained. ‘It makes all the difference to get one with energy and a good rhythm.’ Chuckling, she added, ‘Get a dodgy one, and it’s enough to put Isobel in a bad mood for the rest of the day.’

  ‘Happen that’s why she pushed off then,’ Noakes suggested.

  ‘Could well be, Sergeant. But at least you’ll get to chat to Alex without the Moody One glowering at you.’

  Just outside a door marked Studio 1, Sheila paused.

  ‘That was a gift from Mr B,’ she said, pointing to a framed reproduction print that Markham recognized. ‘Edward Degas loved the little rats at the old Paris Opera—’

  ‘Rats?’ interrupted Markham quickly.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. The female dancers were popularly known as Petits Rats and were actually taught by a woman known as Madame Rat.’

  The two men exchanged glances. The stage managers had been told to keep the detail of the grotesque Rat King headdress found on George Baranov’s body to themselves, so Sheila Bloom would be unaware of any particular significance in the Degas picture. But it was further confirmation, if confirmation were needed, that a malign and warped killer was at large…

  Then the moment was gone, and Sheila was gesturing to a flight of stairs recessed into an alcove to the right of the rehearsal room door.

  ‘Go on up to the gallery until they finish,’ she murmured. ‘They shouldn’t be too much longer now, and then you can meet Alex.’ Pressing her palms together, with a graceful little bow and a preoccupied look in her eyes, the wardrobe mistress disappeared the way she had come.

  The atmosphere of a ballet studio was not unlike that of a prize-fight gym, thought Markham as he sat with Noakes in the tiny gallery above the rehearsal room. There was the same acrid smell too, and the somewhat intimidating presence of taut, steel-muscled, incredibly svelte bodies ruthlessly forcing themselves to become even lither and more svelte. From the way the DS was surreptitiously sucking in his paunch, the sight of so many perfect specimens was producing its effect on him too.

  In fact, the session was clearly nearly over, just the principal and her partner practising a pas de deux in the centre while the rest stood restlessly at the barre which, along with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, bordered the room on two sides. Even the dancers resembled pugilists, with their flat-footed but bouncy gait, shoulders swaying with a hint of swank, arms hanging loosely.

  But there was, curiously, an aura of asceticism, of spirituality almost, and a tangible sense of dedication to a mysterious and elusive ideal. Markham thought of Sheila Bloom saying that George Baranov regarded his art as semi-divine. Watching the intent expressions of the little group absorbed in their centuries-old craft, the DI had an awareness of the almost inhuman, detached objectivity attained, paradoxically, by means of a single-minded concentration on the body.

  The performers made an impressive couple – the ballerina with her swan neck, russet gold hair and slender swayback legs, and her partner darkly handsome with a narrow, almost brutal face, lethal as a knife blade. Watching the girl swoop and soar, it seemed to Markham that her body lost its human contours and traced a bird’s flight in the air. The man too had an almost pantherine grace, attacking a final climatic sequence of spinning leaps and lunges with an orgiastic abandon that had a touch of the exotic. The pair were watched intently by a short, stocky balding man who noted every detail, his cane marking time on the floor.

  Markham was entranced as he watched the enactment of a relationship which seemed so much graver, paler and less flesh-bound than those of everyday life. Noakes too seemed almost hypnotized by the spectacle, watching with superstitious awe.

  With a final rallentando, the duet drew to a close. There was a ripple of polite applause and the dancers made their obeisance to the ballet master and pianist, a dowdy looking crop-haired woman in a jumper and skirt, before making their way to the side of the room where leg warmers and shoes rested in neat piles. Music was still audible from the adjoining studio where another rehearsal was still in progress.

  Catching sight of the two detectives, the ballerina waved. ‘Hang on, I’ll come up to you!’ she called and headed for the door, followed by curious stares.

  Noakes harrumphed, obviously embarrassed to have shown himself susceptible to such ‘arty fartiness’. ‘Could do with a square meal, those youngsters,’ he declared. ‘Like scrag-end, the lot of ’em.’

  ‘We don’t eat food, we eat music,’ said a voice with an undercurrent of laughter, and Alexandra Fairlie sidled along the narrow bench to sit down beside them.

  Despite the quip, close up the ballerina looked strained with purple shadows under the beautiful, almond-shaped eyes.

  ‘I know who you are and why you’re here,’ she said at once.

  Nonetheless, Markham performed the ceremony of introduction with his usual courtliness.

  ‘You mustn’t think we don’t care about Mr B,’ she said with fierce impetuosity, gesturing to the room b
elow, the lovely face suddenly hot with unshed tears. ‘We’re all dancing for him … feeding off each other’s energy … that’s the only way to get through it.’

  ‘You don’t have to explain yourself to us,’ Markham replied very gently. ‘Just tell us about your Mr B.’

  ‘I loved him, okay!’ she insisted defiantly. ‘Not in the way he wanted, perhaps… He was in his sixties and I’m twenty-four, but I was making him younger and he was making me older … we met somewhere in the middle.’

  A fat tear spilled down her cheek. Oblivious, the ballerina declared, ‘He was a genius, you see.’ Noakes dug out a less than pristine tissue which she accepted gratefully, vigorously scrubbing her eyes and mopping her nose before continuing. ‘There’s a story about Margot Fonteyn and Rudolf Nureyev … that when Fonteyn’s old teacher was trying to persuade her to form a dance partnership with this boy half her age, she told her, “He’s a genius. He has the nostrils.” Mr B had it too, that look. So serious and beautiful looking with the high cheekbones and sad eyes … sort of like a priest.’ It was an intriguing analogy, thought the DI, almost an echo of the wardrobe mistress’s words. As though sensing his sympathy, the ballerina leaned forward eagerly. ‘He pushed me to do things I’d never imagined I could achieve. And then he’d stand there with his little secret smile, holding his finger in the air like a magician who’d just pulled a rabbit out of a hat. “You see, dear. You see!” he’d say, as though we were accomplices… “Why relax?” he’d challenge me. “What are you saving yourself for? Do! Now is the time! Relax is for the grave, dear! If you look back, you fall downstairs.”’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘He called me his porcelain princess… I’d always wanted to have a tan … be like other girls … but with George, none of that mattered.’ She met Noakes’s disapproving stare head on. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t like that, really it wasn’t. We did have a physical connection, but it was all about the dance. If we’d had an ordinary relationship, we’d have lost that. The thought frightened me.’