Death Comes to the Ballets Russes (10 page)

‘Wrong? Wrong, you say? It’s perfectly clear what he did wrong. He only sent them to Australia, didn’t he? He should have had them all hanged, every single one of them. That would have been an example to the lower orders. Just think, we might have been spared Australia and Australians altogether if they hadn’t sent the convicts there. Think of the money they’d have saved if they’d all been hanged. The cost of one piece of rope against a ship stuffed with sailors and jailors to guard the prisoners and months and months at sea! Have you ever met any Australians?’

Powerscourt admitted that he had not yet had the pleasure.

‘Terrible people. Deplorable manners. Terrible accent,
you can’t tell what they’re saying most of the time! To think we could have been spared all that!’

George Smythe was one of those well-bred young Englishmen who always wear their clothes well. By day he wore them as a trainee at one of London’s prestigious picture galleries, where he was expected to dress the set and persuade old ladies to part with the Raphaels in the attic. By night, in slightly different clothes, he was a man about town, often until dawn, for he loved parties. He was never at his best in the morning. He was also a cousin of Prince Felix Peshkov, the young man who had taken part in the daring jewellery raid on the mothers’ collections before the ball at the Winter Palace in St Petersburg. The gems and precious stones were now in the luggage of the corps de ballet, where they had been stored by the Prince’s Russian friend Anastasia. It had taken Anastasia, now in London as a member of the corps de ballet, a long time to call on George, whose address she had been given shortly before she left St Petersburg. Now she had entrusted a small, but – she hoped – representative selection of jewels to the aristocratic embrace of George Smythe, who was conducting a reconnaissance of possible buyers in Hatton Garden, London’s diamond quarter. Anastasia had been left in a branch of Lyons Corner House at the far end of the street.

‘Johnston Killick, traders in gold, diamonds and precious metals’ seemed to George to fit the bill.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said George with one of those smiles you acquire at Eton and Christ Church.

‘Good morning to you too sir,’ said Mr Killick.

Each automatically began trying to work out if the other man was honest.

‘And what can I do for you this morning, sir?’ said Mr Killick, reminding himself that there was nobody more dangerous in London than the aristocratic con man, fourth or fifth sons perhaps, now on their beam ends, virtually sleeping rough.

‘It’s these jewels,’ said George. ‘These are a few of the best,’ emptying his haul onto the counter and reflecting that the middle-aged like Mr Killick often had half a lifetime of crime behind them.

‘My word, sir,’ said Mr Killick, pulling out a glass and giving the precious stones serious inspection. ‘These are fine indeed; easily the best I have seen this year.’

That’s just the kind of thing the man would say, George Smythe said to himself.

‘The whole collection – I presume you are interested in selling the whole collection? – is bigger than the samples you have brought this morning? How much bigger?’

George didn’t like the word ‘samples’, as if he were selling dodgy carpets, but his upbringing kept him quiet.

‘Fifty times larger maybe? A hundred times larger?’

‘Great God,’ said Mr Killick, who went over to the front of the shop and closed the door.

‘I have to ask, where are they from? They do not look to me as though they were from this country.’

‘They were a legacy, from my grandfather in Moscow,’ George said. He and Anastasia had agreed this as a reasonable explanation of the jewels’ origin.

‘Were they indeed?’ said Mr Killick, with the faintest hint of suspicion in his voice.

‘And why did he not leave them to a granddaughter?’

George and Anastasia had not thought of this, but his time in the art world served him well.

‘He didn’t have any granddaughters, I’m afraid.’

‘You don’t have a copy of the will, I suppose?’

‘I’m afraid not. All the papers are locked up in a Moscow bank.’

‘From whence they are unlikely to depart for these shores, I presume, sir?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

Mr Killick smiled, and George thought for a moment that Killick might be honest after all.

‘Very well,’ the jewel trader said. ‘Can I ask you a question? Are you in a hurry to sell these items?’

‘Yes,’ said George, thinking of the departure dates of the Ballets Russes and the possibilities they afforded for concealment.

‘Very well, I will tell you what my advice is. You will not like it, I fear. I shall keep the shop closed. I want you to go and bring me the entire collection back here. I shall leave some of the items English ladies like for my colleague here to see if he can effect a private sale in London. The rest I shall take to Antwerp, where European private buyers have different priorities in the matter of jewels. I shall be there for three or four days. I may have to travel to Berlin or Munich. Under no circumstances will I offer any of the items to Russian buyers. It is also of the utmost importance that the house of Fabergé here in London do not hear of it, for they would surely be in touch with their counterparts in St Petersburg.’

Killick paused. ‘Have I forgotten anything?’

George Smythe stared hard at the jewel trader. ‘Two
things, Mr Killick. One, how do I know that you will not disappear with my grandfather’s legacy? And, second, how much do you think they will be worth?’

‘I shall not disappear, sir. We have dealt with diamonds and precious stones for the coronations of most of the crowned heads of Europe here. If they disappear we should lose our good name and our honour, both of which are irreplaceable. I will not insult you by offering to post a bond in your favour with some local bank. Your jewels could be worth fifty thousand guineas; they might be worth twice that much. It is hard to say without examining them all. Either we trust each other, sir, or we don’t. If you don’t trust me, I wish you and your samples a very good day. But come, you must make up your mind. The trains to Antwerp are much worse in the afternoon.’

George Smythe never admitted that it was the mention of coronations that persuaded him. But it did. He shook Mr Killick by the hand, gave him his card, and set off to find Anastasia and bring the rest of the stolen haul.

The door of Mr Killick’s shop remained closed for the rest of the day.

Richard Wagstaff Gilbert. Richard Wagstaff Gilbert. Johnny Fitzgerald said the name over and over to himself as he began his latest assignment for his friend Powerscourt. It had a certain ring to it. Johnny placed a couple of advertisements in the local newspapers asking for information about the gentleman in connection with a will from Brazil. There were people, Johnny knew, who placed great store in information received
from these advertisements in the press, but neither he nor Powerscourt had much faith in them.

Instead he headed for a place his companion in arms would not naturally have associated with him, the financial district of London or, to be more precise, the wilder shores of the City of London. Lady Lucy had indeed been correct in her discoveries about lovers in Warwickshire. Lady Caroline Milne was the lady with whom Johnny was romantically inclined. She was also involved in trying to sort out the financial affairs of her late husband, Sebastian, a man quick over the hedges and fences of hunting country and equally quick, apparently, where money was concerned. Lady Caroline had told Johnny about her problems.

‘Honestly, darling, I wonder if you could help me. There are all these papers in a locked drawer in Sebastian’s study. I’ve had them opened and the solicitors took one look at them and said they were not qualified to give a judgement. Such investments, said the chief legal man, who’s seventy if he’s a day, are unknown in these parts. He gave it as his opinion that such transactions are seldom seen in Warwickshire. Honestly, darling, what’s the old goat there for if he can’t tell me what they mean? I’ve tried to read the wretched things, of course I’ve tried, but they’re simply too boring to read. Could you take it on, Johnny? I’d be so grateful.’

Johnny might not have admitted it to himself, but he would have done virtually anything for Lady Caroline. He discovered that the late Master of the Harbury Hunt was a man permanently short of cash. Rather than selling a few thousand acres, he had dabbled in those investments always to be found in centres of
finance, the ones that promise to bring forth a higher return, more ample rewards, than conventional stocks and shares. Well might William Burke and his fellows advise against anything offered at too high an interest rate, to Colonel Sebastian Milne and his ilk, high interest rate were the words they wanted to hear more than anything else in the world.

Most of Johnny’s funds had prospered and grown in the care of William Burke. But he had a secret portfolio of his own. Johnny Fitzgerald liked investing in things he knew about. He had a considerable holding in the stock of the German camera and binocular company whose products he employed on his bird-watching missions. The same with a firm of American clothing manufacturers, whose garments kept Johnny warm in all conditions. Careful not to put all his eggs in foreign baskets, he also had shares in a couple of English breweries whose beer he liked. He told himself that Burke would feel the beer holdings balanced out the foreigners.

This morning Johnny was on his way to see the principal investment adviser to the late Colonel Sebastian Milne, a man called Sweetie Robinson, whose offices were close to, but not in, Chancery Lane. Johnny had had many dealings with him already over the financial affairs of the late Colonel. Cynics – and there were many, it has to be said – claimed that Sweetie felt he would be protected by the proximity of all these lawyers, silks and briefs available for hire like taxis at the great London railway stations. Of the origins of the name Sweetie there were many theories, the favourite being that he owned stock in all the sweet manufacturers in the capital, so much did he like their products. The
other was that it was a term of affection bestowed on him by one of the many wives and mistresses who had graced his life, the endearment being passed down, as it were, through the female line.

‘Johnny Fitzgerald,’ Sweetie bawled as Johnny sat down in his office, ‘how good to see you! I’ve got some papers for you by the way, don’t let me forget them, about our mutual friend the late Colonel. Don’t suppose the widow will like them, for they show a bundle of losses. Never mind, Johnny, I’m sure you’ll be able to offer other forms of consolation!’

With that he guffawed and blew a vast cloud of smoke from his cigar. ‘Now then,’ Sweetie went on, what brings you to this lawyers’ conclave today, my friend?’

‘I want some advice, Sweetie, and I can’t think of a better spot to get it than here.’

‘I’m sure you’ve come to the right place,’ said Sweetie, pausing to wave at a couple of silks on their way to glory in court. ‘What do you need in the way of investments? I’ve had a couple of dodgy ones pass through here in recent days, I should say: mining for gold in the Peloponnese, on the grounds that there was so much gold about that the Spartans must have had a source for it. And –’ Sweetie helped himself to a humbug from the bowl in front of him – ‘what about this: advertisements for a fund to investigate turning water into wine. Man said if some uneducated carpenter’s son could manage it at a wedding in the Middle East, surely it could not be beyond the wit of man to reproduce it here and now in the West End of London. Shares start at five pounds a pop. Few takers so far, I’m told.’

‘Did the man offer the reverse?’

‘I’m not with you, Johnny. Explain yourself, man.’

‘Why, if they learnt how to turn water into wine, they could surely turn wine into water by the opposite process?’

Johnny was appalled at the thought of these alchemists being let loose in the vineyards of Burgundy or Bordeaux. It would be the end of the world as he had known it.

‘Don’t think there’ll be many takers, as I said.’

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Johnny, pleased that the vineyards of Europe had been reprieved. ‘I want to ask you about a man called Richard Wagstaff Gilbert. What do you know of the fellow?’