Betraying the Crown (A Guy Harford Mystery) by TP Fielden

Author:TP Fielden [Fielden, TP]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2022-05-30T16:00:00+00:00

In Burnley all the talk backstage was about the company’s new name. The Vic-Wells Ballet – or Sadler’s Wells Ballet, it had never quite made up its mind – was about to take an historic step up.

The King, and more especially the Queen, had followed the company’s fortunes with growing interest and the long-held dream of their boss Ninette de Valois – to emerge as the Royal Ballet ahead of the competition from other fledgling companies – looked as though it might finally come to pass.

There’d been a piece in the News Chronicle under Ted Rochester’s name that had blown the secret, and though the management hastened to deny it publicly they confirmed to the gathered members of the company that it was true – they had won the royal seal of approval.

‘It may take a year or two,’ the dancers were told, ‘certainly until the war is over. But as from this week, we are effectively By Royal Appointment.’

The stresses and strains of life on the road, the injuries and the thieving landladies, the laddered tights, broken slippers and constant hunger, all melted away with this one brief statement – for dancers live for only two things: perfection and acclaim.

Oh, and love.

‘I’ve got a bottle of sherry,’ said Elena. ‘Come back to my digs and we’ll celebrate!’

Mick and Pete beamed their handsome smiles, put on their day clothes, and walked her home.

It had been an extra special evening because one of the principals had fallen badly at rehearsal and Elena had taken over the part of Myrtha in the second act of Giselle, dancing it to perfection. She was slowly moving towards the heart of the company, and this realisation had given her looks a new bloom.

‘I wish Simon had been here to see me,’ she said. They drank the sherry out of eggcups, there was nothing else.

‘Simon this, Simon that,’ said the Russians, pricked by jealousy. ‘Do we mean nothing to you?’

‘Oh, I love you both!’ laughed Elena. ‘But Simon is my guiding light, my lodestar. He took care of me when nobody else was interested. He got me into the company – the competition, boys, you wouldn’t begin to understand!’

‘We had to struggle too,’ they said.

‘Not so much. What with everyone going off to war there aren’t so many male dancers around.’

‘You’re wrong,’ said Mick. ‘When we arrived here—’

‘Broke and penniless and without a farthing,’ interrupted Pete.

‘—London was full of Russian boys looking for a dance. We worked for the Anglo–Polish ballet for a bit, but they hate Russians, then for the Lydia Kyasht Ballet. But she was just too terribly grand, darling, world-famous – she knew the last Tsar and Tsarina, she was the toast of pre-Revolution Moscow. We soon cleared out of that – we’re working-class boys from Petrograd!’

‘We had a go at the Arts Theatre Ballet but they had no money and we didn’t get paid,’ said Pete. ‘Was only when we started attending Madame Volkova’s class that we stood a chance with Vic-Wells.’

‘But

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