11. Behind the Footlights
INSIDE THE AUDITORIUM, IT looked as though the performers were on their break.
Figures in leotards and leg warmers leaned on portable barres, catching their breath and holding on grimly for support. Everywhere there were bodies stretching, kneeling, sitting and leaning, sprawled in splits, side splits and front splits. Legs were being pulled and pushed and massaged, or else twisted around necks and above shoulders. Muscles were shaken loose, realigned and retightened. Sweat-soaked costumes clung to glistening torsos. Clad in their practice clothes, the dancers were a surprisingly sexless blur of legs and limbs. The atmosphere felt downbeat and subdued. Hardly surprising in the circumstances. The three principals were nowhere to be seen.
Clearly, Marguerite Aroldingen was less than happy with how the rehearsal had gone.
‘Why were you jogging round the stage sixteen counts early while the rest were stationary?’ she snarled at a sheepish girl who looked all of sixteen. ‘You looked like a fucking escaped jumping bean… God Almighty!’
And yet a magical transformation was underway. Onstage, what had been a black open space now boasted a colourful floor design while the wings had disappeared behind packs of tall scenic flats. The backcloth looked magnificent, its gossamer tissue, dusty and expensive, a fairy tale fabric which stretched from one side of the stage to the other.
Kate Burton certainly looked entranced. Watching her absorbed profile, the DI was struck by how vulnerable she looked with her guard down, as delighted by the novelty of it all as any four- or five-year-old.
‘Any sign of the Friends yet, Kate?’
‘They’ll be in shortly, sir. Once the dancers have had a rest.’
‘Let’s have a quick briefing in our so-called incident room and get up to speed.’
At that moment, Doyle appeared, looking guiltily relieved to have missed the dancers’ warm up and his colleague’s raptures. As their little procession left the auditorium, he noticed Noakes peeling off in the opposite direction, ‘Where’re you off to, Sarge?’
‘Can’t do a proper briefing without biscuits,’ came the phlegmatic reply. ‘Mr Bissell said to let him know when we needed a top-up.’
Poor bloke, thought Markham. Having to deal with all those histrionics at the cemetery and now unofficial quartermaster for the police. God bless him. Never off duty.
Once they were settled with mugs of tea and digestive biscuits in their cubbyhole – which was such a tight squeeze that Doyle, being the most junior, had to stand – the DI summed up the latest developments.
‘A three-hour funeral… Everyone standing up the whole time!’ Doyle was aghast.
‘Yes, quite a marathon,’ Markham said drily. ‘It felt like everyone’s grief had consumed all the oxygen – not to mention the candles.’
‘Did anyone faint? Was your Olivia all right?’ Noakes’s bashful self-consciousness as he asked this question was a sight to behold.
‘She was fine, Sergeant. Thank you for your concern.’ Markham suppressed a smile at this knight-errantry. ‘It’s the Russian Orthodox way of saying goodbye – saying how much you were loved – so they put on quite a show.’
‘Marguerite Aroldingen told me in Russia they don’t cry when someone dies. They throw rice with nice sweet things in it – vanilla and natural stuff – into the grave.’
‘Well, in this case it was pointe shoes, Kate.’
Her jaw dropped as the DI went on to recount events at the burial.
‘Bloody hell, sir.’ Doyle too was stunned. ‘You mean Paul Gayle and Isobel Kent did a jig right there on top of Baranov?’
‘More of a waltz than a jig, and it was a few yards from his grave, but yes, they performed a duet together.’
‘That’s sick,’ the young DC said with feeling.
‘Alexandra Fairlie kicked off about them having an affair? And claimed Baranov and Sheila Bloom knew about it?’ Burton looked as though the universe had tilted on its axis. ‘God, that complicates things.’
‘Doesn’t it just.’ The DI’s sigh was heartfelt.
‘You think they panicked and tried to shut Baranov up?’
‘It’s possible, Kate.’ Markham stirred his tea reflectively. ‘There could have been a fight. Given the bad blood that existed between the three of them – emotions running high by all accounts – it wouldn’t be surprising if an argument ended in violence.’
‘What about Sheila Bloom, sir?’ Burton frowned as she tried to visualize the scenario.
‘I’m inclined to think she may have resorted to blackmail.’
‘Weren’t she an’ Baranov supposed to be bezzie mates? I mean, wouldn’t she have gone to the police if she knew who’d offed him?’ Noakes sounded impatient.
‘She admired him greatly, Sergeant, there’s no doubt about that. But relations had soured … they’d been seen arguing, remember.’
‘Plus, Shaw and Plucis both thought Bloom was in love with Fairlie… Baranov’s death left the way clear for her…’
‘Exactly, Kate. So, she may have been prepared to do a deal with his killer or killers … for a price.’
Markham turned to Doyle. ‘What did you discover about Ms Bloom’s finances, Constable?’
The young detective flipped open his pocketbook.
‘She was skint, boss. Iris Law – that’s ENB’s administrator – told me off the record that Bloom said she was scared of sinking so low economically that she’d never get out of it.’
‘Hmm. Interesting.’
‘And there’s more, sir. When Iris went round to Bloom’s flat last Christmas, it looked like she was on her uppers … no decorations and just a cheap tree with hardly any branches… It was so pathetic, that Iris went and bought two more and placed them either side … got her some baubles and lights while she was at it.’
It was a sad little tale, made all the more poignant when Markham recalled Eddie Bissell’s story about the wardrobe mistress’s determination that Baranov should have a Christmas tree with hanging fruit. She was prepared to stint herself but not him.
‘Surely she must have had a salary?’
‘Made some bad investments apparently, boss. Iris clammed up about those.’
Blackmail was looking increasingly likely.
But were Paul Gayle and Isobel Kent killers?
The DI updated his team on the stagehand’s gossip about Ted Murphy and Jake Porter.
‘That stuff about Murphy calling Baranov a paedo … d’you think there’s anything in it, sir?’
‘It’ll have to be checked out, Constable.’ Markham’s face was suddenly unusually tense, a fact not lost on Noakes who was watching him closely. ‘Look,’ the DI said finally, ‘genius inevitably attracts jealousy and toxic comment… And we have to remember that bodies are ballet’s currency.’
‘Well said, Inspector.’
Marguerite Aroldingen had suddenly appeared in their midst.
Markham immediately vacated his chair and motioned her to take a seat.
‘I don’t want to butt in,’ she said uncertainly as the DI stood next to Doyle, the younger man flattening himself against the sink in an effort to give his boss more room.
‘You’re not, Ms Aroldingen.’ Markham smiled down at the elegant ballet mistress who somehow maintained her regal posture even in the sagging armchair. ‘I can’t help feeling Mr Baranov is pulling strings even from beyond the grave… To be honest, I’ve never felt a murder victim’s presence so strongly as his.’
‘That’s George for you.’ For a moment, she looked as though she was about to cry. ‘I could hear his voice in rehearsal out there. “Don’t think, just do!” That’s what he’d be telling them.’
‘He seems to have had a certain talent for causing offence,’ Markham observed carefully.
‘Oh, he could be an absolute shocker.’ Her trademark elegant shrug. ‘When I was coming to the end of my career and doing Swan Lake, he made me feel less like a swan and more like a dead turkey – too old, too knac
kered … past hope, frankly.’ The sleek raven-black head came up proudly. ‘But the criticism put me on my mettle and I pulled it out of the bag in performance. I showed him.’
‘You strike me as very resilient, Ms Aroldingen.’
‘Had to be with George. Otherwise he’d have your balls on a plate,’ she said composedly.
‘I understand some male dancers had a tough time with him…’
‘You mean Ivan Plucis. Look, Inspector, you have to understand that George learned his craft in a hard school. When he was training as a dancer in Russia, the teacher thought nothing of whacking students’ calves with his cane.’
Doyle winced sympathetically.
‘George had no patience with namby pamby coddling… But, if anything, he was easier on Ivan than me when we were partners… Treated me like an old heifer while Ivan was the prize bullock.’
‘There wasn’t ever anything between them … anything of a sexual nature?’
‘No, nothing like that. But being East European, I think deep down there was a sort of cultural affinity… Ivan was desperate to impress George … longed for his respect.’
Almost like father and son. Could criticism and raillery have tipped Plucis over the edge?
‘He resented Mr Baranov’s favouritism? I mean, in relation to Ms Fairlie…’
‘Yes.’ For a minute, her eyes held a faraway expression. ‘Ivan never understood that special, well, kinship between a choreographer and his ballerina… Just didn’t get it at all.’ She sighed. ‘I think it made him bitter… When George gave Alex a beautiful necklace after an especially good performance, I remember him sneering, “That’s not generosity, that’s investment.” Really snide… Mind you, it wasn’t all plain sailing between George and Alex either… There was one day when I called on Alex and found her sitting on the floor with all the books George had given her scattered round her. She was tearing out all the inscriptions. All the pages where he had written from George to Alexandra.’ She shivered melodramatically. ‘It was like ripping out a heart.’
Very interesting, thought Markham. He wondered whether Marguerite Aroldingen’s apparently casual drop-in had a deeper purpose – whether she in fact aimed to direct his attention away from herself towards the company’s young principals.
‘I didn’t see Mr Plucis or Ms Fairlie out there in rehearsal, Ms Aroldingen.’
‘No, they’re taking some time out.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m not altogether sorry to be free of the pair of them so I can just concentrate on the corps.’
‘Sounded like you were really putting those youngsters through their paces.’
Wryly, she agreed with Noakes. ‘Yes, I was, Sergeant, but that’s the best medicine for them right now. And at least they don’t have to put up with endless complaints from Ivan about English dancers being “too bummy, too titty, or too short in the neck”, unlike those paragons from the Eastern Bloc… Morale’s pretty low right now, but we’re all determined to get Nutcracker on. We’re just so grateful that the police have let us have the theatre back. The Academy’s got an auditorium, but it’s not a patch on the Royal, and George planned the choreography round this place.’
The ballet mistress looked earnestly at Markham, throat convulsed, her eyes holding a veiled appeal. The signs of strain were clear on her face, and she suddenly looked old.
‘Are you going to say anything about Brian … how he died?’
‘Not at the moment, Ms Aroldingen … at least, nothing beyond the fact that he appears to have died in a tragic incident at home.’
Was it his imagination, or did the ballet mistress look relieved?
‘This funeral must’ve been quite an ordeal for you, Ms Aroldingen.’ Burton sounded genuinely sympathetic.
For the first time, the ballet mistress slumped in her chair.
‘Yes … yes, it was.’
‘You didn’t go to the wake?’
‘Well, the dancers needed to get back here and I wanted to be with them… There were so many mourners, we won’t have been missed.’ Her face fell. ‘George said wakes were always a huge deal in Russia. “The body is gone – not needed – but we drink to his spirit.”’
‘Will you manage to do this ballet?’ Noakes sounded dubious.
‘We have to, Sergeant.’ Her tone was fierce. ‘As a tribute to George.’ Her features were working. ‘I remember when I accused him of favouring Alex over the rest. He came back at me and said, “I have a right to love.”’ She gave a curiously strangled bark. ‘“You should love all thirty of us,” I told him. Because we were prepared to work our guts out for him, you see… Well, that’s what we’re going to do now.’
Admirable, Markham thought. And no doubt the Royal’s finances urgently required it. The ballet company was only small, being a satellite of ENB, and no doubt many of the dancers were freelance. Unquestionably, the show had to go on.
‘We’re doing it for Brian too,’ the ballet mistress said softly. ‘He really loved this production … gave it everything he had… Can’t let all his efforts go to waste.’ She straightened up. ‘And like I said, work’s the best thing for them right now.’ That dreamy look again. ‘When you dance, the outside world vanishes. You forget your name, your children, your friends … even what day of the week it is… For those two hours on stage, you’re like a thing possessed.’
It sounded almost like an incantation.
‘Amazing.’
The ballet mistress bestowed a warm smile of approbation on Burton, who coloured up very prettily while her colleagues exchanged meaningful looks. The DI had no doubt that were it not for his presence, the two men would be miming throwing up.
‘It is pretty amazing, Sergeant. D’you know, in ballet, dancers in the nineteenth century were little more than glorified prostitutes, but just look at us now.’
Noakes’s expression suggested he wasn’t entirely sure this represented cultural progress.
Marguerite Aroldingen rose gracefully to her feet.
‘Whenever George asked me, “Why do you want to dance?” there was only one possible answer. “Why do you want to live?”’
Markham felt a sudden conviction that for the woman in front of him real life was what happened onstage – that she only truly existed through the medium of ballet.
The question was, did this make her dangerous?
‘Right,’ she said, suddenly re-energized. ‘I must get back to them. See you in there, officers.’
‘Thank Christ for that.’ Noakes scowled. ‘Don’t know I could have stood another moment of her wittering on. Made me feel quite sorry for Baranov. What a pseud!’
‘I thought she was very interesting.’ Burton was distinctly frosty.
That figures. For a moment, Doyle worried that he had said it out loud.
‘She’s certainly left us with plenty to digest,’ Markham observed mildly.
‘Yeah, pointing the finger at Plucis and Fairlie for starters.’
Burton looked indignant.
‘She didn’t come across as bitching. More like it was a relief to get stuff off her chest.’
‘I’m jus’ saying, you don’ want to be taking it all at face value.’ Noakes was very much the old trouper. ‘I mean, ballet’s make believe. Princes an’ princesses … castles an’ magic tricks.’ He was warming to his theme. ‘It’s all about pretending, ain’t it?’
‘Well, I’m not sure that’s entirely true of contemporary dance, Noakes, but as far as classical ballet goes, you’ve got a point.’
The DS looked smug. You just can’t beat experience, his face seemed to say.
‘Right, folks.’ Markham did his best to inject some energy into his voice. ‘Let’s swing by the auditorium once again. The Friends – including your good lady,’ he inclined his head towards Noakes, ‘should be in by now.’
They were just in time to witness a rather touching little display.
The portable barres had been repositioned on the stage in a square. Through the pass door came a wobbly crocodil
e, with attendant six- and seven-year-olds grasping their mothers’ hands for all their worth. Onstage, they slotted in between members of the corps, their fingertips barely reaching the barres and their furiously concentrating faces creasing and frowning. They wore long white socks in ballet slippers and their school uniforms.
Eddie Bissell made a solemn circuit of the little figures, carefully taking one small foot after another, gently pointing the toe and placing the leg back in first position again. It was done with such incredible care, yet seriously and with encouragement. Markham wondered if any of these wide-eyed prospective dancers would remember the moment.
A ripple of murmured laughter, cooing and smiles came from the stalls.
Markham flinched as Muriel Noakes trilled, ‘Good afternoon, Gilbert.’
What on earth was the woman wearing? Some sort of dowager’s two piece adorned with so much costume jewellery, that she glittered like a Christmas tree. This self-conscious ‘artiness’ was decidedly at odds with the stiffly lacquered ash-blonde hair and Junoesque build. No doubt it represented the redoubtable lady’s nearest approach to bohemianism.
Strange to think that she and Noakes were leading lights of the ballroom dancing circuit, he thought. No illusion could be more remarkable than the transformation of these two into the Fred and Ginger of Bromgrove’s foxtrot brigade.
Being careful not to give any hint of his private thoughts, Markham detached himself from his colleagues, greeting his sergeant’s wife with the old-style courtliness which convinced Muriel she had made a conquest. (Simply tragic that he’d ended up with a shallow piece like Olivia Mullen.)
Before she could entrap him into conversation with Mrs Councillor Someone or Other, the DI managed to convey that police business regrettably prevented him from remaining glued to her side.
‘Of course, of course, Gilbert. Say no more. We can compare notes about our favourite dancers another time.’
Not if I can help it, he vowed.
His colleagues were watching the little ones with expressions of benign indulgence, and indeed the most obdurate ballet-hater could not fail to have melted at the spectacle. Even Doyle had a soppy grin on his face, while Kate Burton looked like a rather serious grown-up child herself.
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 93