‘We Germans are not good at tact or at jokes,’ the German Colonel began, speaking now in perfect English, ‘but it seems to me that the gas did not draw any distinction between the sheep and the goats.’
25
Pirouette
A pirouette is a turn on one leg, often starting with one or both legs in plié and rising onto relevé (usually for men) or pointe (usually for women). The nonsupporting leg is held in passé. A pirouette may return to the starting position or finish in arabesque or attitude positions, or proceed otherwise. It is most often en dehors turning outwards toward the back leg, but can also be en dedans turning inwards toward the front leg. Although ballet pirouettes are performed with the hips and legs rotated outward (‘turned out’), it is common to see them performed with an inward rotation (‘parallel’) in other genres of dance, such as jazz and modern. Spotting technique is usually employed to help maintain balance. Pirouettes can be executed with a single or multiple rotations.
Petroc Danvers Tresilian did not live up to the rich promise of his name. Earlier Tresilians had made their money through smuggling in the eighteenth century. When large bribes were not enough to satisfy the customs men, it was rumoured that attractive young girls from the servants’ hall or the more formal quarters upstairs were pressed into service. That never failed. Turn your faces to the wall while the gentlemen come in.
Later Tresilians, especially after their union with the Danvers at the time of the Repeal of the Corn Laws, had escaped from the clutches of the customs men into the great bosom of the English middle class. Amelia Danvers, who married Caradoc Tresilian, brought with her the virtues of High Church, high moral standards and a burning desire to make it into the upper reaches of society. One of her brothers became Governor of Bengal, another was a Fellow of All Souls and another kept up the family ambition by becoming a High Court Judge.
Petroc Danvers Tresilian did not seem to possess the buccaneering spirit of his ancestors. As the senior civil servant in the Cabinet Office, he glided around Whitehall, a couple of new recruits accompanying him on his progress. The cynics said he resembled nothing so much as a senior hospital doctor on his rounds, flunkeys and junior doctors in tow, as he pronounced the sentence of life or death on the recumbent forms (or government plans) as he passed on his way.
‘Gentlemen,’ he began, in a private lounge looking out over the river, ‘thank you for attending our little demonstration. English is now the lingua franca of the day. From now on we are all complicit in these matters. We have all broken the Official Secrets Act many times this morning. It applies, as you know, to the clean shaven and the bearded, the washed and the unwashed, to foreigner and native Englishman alike.’
He’s making them dip their hands in the blood, Powerscourt thought to himself. We’re all complicit now.
‘I would just remind you all of the dates we agreed at our last meeting at Baddesley Clinton. Three weeks from now we all travel to the desolate country behind Calvi in Corsica for the French demonstration. The Baddesley Clinton protocol –’ Powerscourt could see how much Danvers Tresilian enjoyed the word ‘protocol’, which spoke, strictly speaking, of private clauses inserted secretly into treaties between states by their despotic rulers – ‘makes it clear that our last demonstration should be in the Ardennes; close, appropriately enough, to the French border.’
The two foreigners nodded in agreement. Baddesley Clinton, Powerscourt thought. Baddesley Clinton. A little jewel of a house, with a perfect moat, in the English Midlands, it had been famous for concealing recusants in the reign of Elizabeth I. Perhaps they’d popped the two foreigners into the priest holes. They would naturally have been suspected of being agents of the Catholic faith – the fact they were foreigners was enough to rouse Elizabeth’s spy master, Sir Francis Walsingham, into action.
‘Now then, gentlemen, questions are allowed, although I cannot give any guarantees of my being able to answer them.’
That means he’s not going to give any answers at all, Powerscourt said to himself.
‘The wind,’ said the Frenchman, ‘would I be right in saying that there was virtually no wind this morning?’
‘You would be right in assuming that,’ said Danvers Tresilian.
‘And there is still virtually no wind now, is that not right?’ asked the German, peering out of the windows at the calm running of the river, swirling on its way to London and the sea.
The man from the Cabinet Office made a brief inspection of the Thames.
‘You too are correct: there is still a dead calm here.’
Powerscourt had managed, with great difficulty, to clear his son Thomas and his friends from his mind. Now he was wondering what on earth was going on. What was this conspiracy all about? Why was the Frenchman here? And the German? Sharing secrets with foreign powers with whom we might be at war in a few years’ time? Had Tresilisan permission from his political masters to be here, offering secret displays of the lethal properties of British poison gas? And if so, which masters? The urbane mandarins of his own department? The Generals in all their pomp and glory on the Imperial General Staff?
‘The gas,’ said the Frenchman, ‘is a gas that could easily be manufactured through detailed knowledge of the more advanced forms of the chemical industry in all our countries?’
‘You know the rules, Monsieur, I couldn’t be expected to reply to such a question. Unofficially, and I shall not include this in the secret minutes of this meeting, unofficially the answer is yes.’
If they all know about how to make the stuff, what are these three doing here? Powerscourt asked himself. Then the answer came, or did it? For his theory was so bizarre that it seemed literally incredible. He remembered the Sherlock Holmes lines in The Sign of Four: ‘How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?’
It couldn’t be true, surely. Or could it? It was too improbable for words.
‘I feel that we have probably exhausted the lines of enquiry that might be regarded as safe,’ said the man from the Cabinet Office, gathering some papers in front of a very large and very expensive leather briefcase. ‘Lord Powerscourt, you have been quiet ever since you arrived. You didn’t even ask for marmalade this morning.’
That must be the Cabinet Office idea of a joke, Powerscourt said to himself. God help us all.
‘Perhaps,’ put in the Frenchman, ‘you should tell our friend the real nature of our business. He was not at Baddesley Clinton. He does not know our purpose. If he does not know that, then why is he here?’
Danvers Tresilian slapped his hand on his brow rather dramatically. He’s covering his tracks, Powerscourt said to himself. Maybe this is how the upper reaches of the mandarin class get themselves out of trouble in the discreet quarters of their Ministry or over a glass of something at the Athenaeum.
‘The Baddesley accords,’ Tresilian began – accords as well as protocols; Powerscourt’s brain was working at full speed now, thinking of Metternich and Talleyrand and the intrigues that followed the war against Napoleon – ‘state quite clearly that we gentlemen here are committed to our countries agreeing never to use poison gas in the event of war between us. We are neutral on the question of war or peace, though we would, naturally, prefer peace. But if there is to be a war, we see it as our duty to ensure that none of our countries use the dreadful stuff we saw in action this morning. How do we propose to secure this harmony? By lobbying as hard as we can with our political masters and their military counterparts to ensure that poison gas is never used. Lord Rosebery suggested you would be a very useful addition to our cause, Lord Powerscourt. That is why you are here.’
Powerscourt rose to his feet and bowed to those present. ‘I am honoured,’ he said. ‘I congratulate you on your courage, to undertake such a mission that could well be laughed to scorn by our colleagues in uniform.’
‘You will forgive me, gentlemen,’ said the German. ‘There is one further argument agai
nst the use of this poison gas. It only came to me as I watched the end of the demonstration earlier.’
‘Do tell us your thoughts, my friend,’ Danvers Tresilian was once more the perfect civil servant, not closing the discussion down, leaving avenues of exploration open to visitors, stones not left unturned, when a lesser man might have headed for the exit.
‘We have to have the little game of war, gentlemen,’ said the German. ‘I am on the side where the guns were, the ones that fired a warning for the start and the one that fired the shell with the gas. Let’s say I am the German officer commanding. My French friend here is the officer commanding on the other side. His men receive the full impact of the German gas, possibly even more powerful, having been made in Germany, than the one we saw earlier.’
‘I and my men are in a state of complete chaos,’ said the Frenchman, pulling a small cheroot out of his waistcoat pocket. ‘My men are dying or dead. Some, no doubt, have gone blind or are going blind, and cannot see where they are. Others are running or stumbling away towards what they think is the safety of the rear lines.’
‘Remember the weather,’ said the German. ‘It is still. Every bone in my body, every hour of training tells me that this is the moment to attack. The enemy are in trouble. Now is the time to strike. But I cannot.’
‘Why not, pray?’
‘The gas is still lying there. I cannot order my men forward into the same fog of poison that has decimated the Frenchmen. They too would suffer the same fate. It would be madness to follow up after a gas attack like this one.’
‘Presumably,’ said Powerscourt, ‘if the wind changed it could blow your own gas back into the German lines. There again your troops would suffer the same fate as their enemies.’
‘Exactly so,’ said the German, ‘it is yet another reason why this terrible weapon should never be used. It could boomerang back into the people who sent it there in the first place.’
There was a loud knock at the door and two well-built soldiers burst into the room. ‘Begging your pardon, sirs, but we found this one sketching in his little book outside the plant where they make the stuff, sir.’
Powerscourt remembered the glint that could have come from the sun on a pair of binoculars on the edge of the forest. Perhaps they too belonged to this man, currently wriggling as hard as he could to escape his captors. He was wearing a very long greatcoat with a cap that could be pulled down low. He had a small beard and a great air of injured righteousness, as if he’d been caught defending the Holy of Holies.
‘Let me go, you fools. You can’t treat me like this. I am a diplomat accredited to the Court of St James.’
Powerscourt remembered Rosebery telling him during his time as Foreign Secretary that at least a third – if not a half – of those who presented themselves and their papers to the Court were spies of one sort or another.
The German and the Frenchman tried to make themselves as invisible as possible. They did not want to be seen by anybody outside their own circle. If their presence here was known to the authorities in their own country, they could be tried for treason and shot. They were very brave to risk the wrath of the authorities in their own military hierarchy. Visibility only added to the prospect of capture and exposure.
Then the stranger made his move. He seemed to slump down for a moment. As he rose he thrust his knee with all his power into the groin of the guard on his left and smashed his other elbow into the face of the guard on his right. They seemed to be holding him, but with one great heave he wriggled free and headed off down the corridor at full speed. Powerscourt set off after him, conscious – as he had been on more than one occasion on this investigation – that he was not as fast on his feet as he had been. Danvers Tresilian picked up the telephone and began barking out orders. He shouted to Powerscourt as he set off in pursuit of the stranger, ‘For God’s sake, man, whatever you do, don’t go into the kitchen.’
26
Pulling Up
Pulling up is critical to the success of a dancer because without it, the simple act of rising up would be extremely difficult. It involves the use of the entire body. The feeling of being simultaneously grounded and ‘pulled up’ is necessary for many of the traditional steps in ballet. To pull up, a dancer must lift the ribcage and sternum but keep the shoulders relaxed and centred over the hips, which requires use of the abdominal muscles. In addition, the dancer must tuck their pelvis under and keep their back straight [so] as to avoid arching and throwing themselves off balance. Use of the inner thigh muscles as well as the ‘bottom’ is very helpful in pulling up. Pulling up is also essential to dancers en pointe in order for them to balance on their toes.
The rag-and-bone man did not seem to be stopping at very many houses in London’s East End that morning. Perhaps it was too early. Karl Lodost, Lenin’s man sent from Cracow to look after his business interests in London, had called on Arthur Cooper two days before and informed him that he would be coming to take the pamphlets away in this unusual fashion and at this unusual hour. As he stacked the bundles of revolutionary rhetoric onto the back of the cart, Cooper wondered if this would be his moment in the great hall of historical fame, a revolution or revolutions started somewhere in Europe, inspired by Lenin’s words that had been stacked for three whole days in the attic of his little house. The packets of pamphlets were all stamped ‘BALLETS RUSSES, CUSTOMS CLEARANCE, ONWARDS DESPATCH’.
As he watched them trundle quite slowly up his street, he also wondered by whom and where they would be opened. When the cart had turned the corner into Union Street, he went back into his house to prepare some breakfast. He had not waited to see the milk float that seemed to follow Karl Lodost’s rag-and-bone cart towards Covent Garden and the West End of London. The milkman didn’t seem to be stopping to make any deliveries either.
Powerscourt hadn’t time to wonder about kitchens or poison gas recipes as he set off down the passage. The stranger seemed to have vanished. The thump of his boots told Powerscourt he was moving up the corridor. A set of steps led down into a lower level of hell, beneath where he was now standing. There was a prominent sign at the top that nobody could have escaped: KEEP OUT! AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY! As he too turned the corner he saw his opponent making full speed towards a great set of double doors. Even at fifty yards, Powerscourt picked up the traces of a terrible smell and a dull noise that might have been machinery of some sort. Maybe, he thought, running towards the entrance, this was the Devil’s Kitchen, where Lucifer or the Devil himself prepared menus of death for their victims. Human rather than crème brûlée, Enemy Flambé a speciality of the house.
It was the sound that struck Powerscourt as he made his way warily through the double doors. It was the throb of many giants hissing in unison, with the odd extra gurgle coming in from the side. The room was circular, about fifty feet by fifty. Great grey vats or silos lined the walls.
Powerscourt thought he could count thirteen of them. A series of pipes of varying shapes and sizes led down from each vat to the central section, a large open pit, the oven of the place. Very steep slopes led down to it from the main body of the death chamber, in case anybody needed to give the monstrous stew a stir or throw extra ingredients into the inferno. This was where the noise came from as the devil’s brew marinated or stewed, surrounded by the waters of the Thames and the countryside of England. Powerscourt saw the advantages of the river setting – the Thames could carry away at full speed any amount of noxious leftovers, the debris of the kitchen that even the dogs and the local vermin wouldn’t touch.
The Russian was right on the edge of the cauldron, sketching as fast as he could.
‘Who are you?’ asked Powerscourt.
‘My real name is immaterial. I am a patriot. I love my country. On patriotic missions like this one, I go under the name of Andrei Rublev. When I have finished my work here, I am going to kill you.’
‘That’s very considerate of you,’ said Powerscourt, feeling his feet going on the slippery floor. ‘Might I h
ave the honour of knowing which nationality is going to take me to the other side?’
‘You may, you may indeed,’ said the man, turning over another page of his notebook. He’s a cool customer, this one, Powerscourt thought, finishing his work before he moves in for the kill.
‘I come from Mother Russia, the land of Kievan Rus and the home of the holy monks.’ Powerscourt wondered if he went to top-up courses in fanaticism with Rasputin in the Tsar’s village after a session with the Delphic oracle.
‘And what are you doing here?’ asked Powerscourt, playing for time. Surely that bloody civil servant with the Cornish name could have sent some soldiers here by now?
‘You do not understand. Russia may be building factories faster than any other power in Europe. But we do not have the knowledge acquired by you people in the decadent West. We have to steal to learn how to make the weapons of our enemies. We always have and we always will. Then Russia can take her seat at the top tables of the world. We would have the same weapons, including gas, as our enemies – and Mother Russia would not go naked to any conference table.’
‘You can’t build a plant like this with a few drawings,’ said Powerscourt. His reply seemed to drive the Russian to fury. Powerscourt didn’t think the man would have a gun, but knives, whips, steel knuckledusters that could smash a man’s skull in?
‘Listen, you fool Englishman! I will tell you the truth and then I will kill you. We have been looking out for you a long time, Powerscourt, We have kept abreast of your movements through compatriots in that silly dancing place.’ The Russian had a heavy iron bar at his side to warn Powerscourt to keep his distance.
Powerscourt wondered what on earth Diaghilev and the Ballets Russes could have to do with this monstrous building on the Thames. Would Nijnsky and Karsavina dance a pas de deux in front of the devil’s kitchen?
Death Comes to the Ballets Russes Page 27
