Death of a Dancer. Caro Peacock

had been part of London’s artistic circles most of his life and had a love of gossip.

      ‘There’s usually been some scandal circulating round her. I remember when she first appeared on the London scene – must have been twenty years ago. She was about seventeen at the time and bewitchingly pretty.’

      ‘Where did she come from?’

      ‘Nobody knew. She simply turned up on an old lord’s arm at the opera one night, dressed in red satin and more diamonds than all the rest of the women put together. He put it about that she was the daughter of an Italian count, but there were rumours that she was a milkmaid from his estates in Dorset.’

      ‘Did she try to get him to marry her?’

      ‘He had a wife already, also down in Dorset.’

      ‘Were he and Columbine together long?’

      ‘Almost a whole season, until he killed himself.’

      ‘Killed himself?’

      ‘Got out of his carriage and jumped off London Bridge one night. She said he was drunk and trying to show her how he used to dive off a bridge at home when he was a boy.’

      ‘Did people believe her?’

      ‘There was no proof to the contrary, and he was always eccentric. The town said suicide but the jury brought in death by misadventure.’

      ‘Do you think she pushed him?’

      ‘No. She had a lot to lose by his death. While he was alive he could cut down his forests to buy her more diamonds, but the estate was entailed, so once he died it went to his heir.’

      ‘What happened to her then?’

      ‘That was when she decided to become a dancer. She was never very good, but people would always pay to look at her because of her beauty and her reputation. And of course various men became her protectors. She always had the best in houses and carriages.’

      We crossed Leicester Square, trying to keep clear of the worst of the mud. A chanter was still hawking the Columbine ballad by the light of a guttering tallow candle. In an attic somewhere, a man who’d dreamed in his youth of being a poet was no doubt already working on its sensational sequel.

      ‘You said people paid to look at Columbine because of her reputation,’ I said. ‘There are plenty of scandalous women. Why was she special?’

      Kennedy thought for a while before answering.

      ‘You know the fascination cliffs or precipices have for some people? All the more if poor fools take to flinging themselves over them. It was like that with Columbine.’

      ‘The old lord wasn’t the only one, then?’

      ‘No. There was one scandal not so long ago, about a cavalry officer who turned to forgery on her account.’

      ‘How long ago?’

      ‘About five years, I think. It’s a strange thing that, now and again, even women like Columbine can fall for a man’s looks instead of his money. Maybe it’s a kind of a holiday for them, who can tell? Rainer, the name was. Major Charles Rainer of the Household Cavalry. He was a handsome devil, all the swagger in the world, best horseman in London, killed two or three men in duels. All the usual nonsense.’

      ‘What did he forge?’

      ‘Bills. You know what a bill is?’

      ‘A legal promise to pay. They’re what they keep passing around to each other in the City.’

      ‘Just so. Forging them’s a serious business. In theory, you could still hang for it. This man took to forging them to pay for all the presents he was giving Columbine. At least, that’s what he said in the dock at the Old Bailey. He tried to get the jury’s sympathy, saying he’d been tempted away from his honourable career by a wicked and ungrateful woman. It goes without saying that she’d taken up with another man by then.’

      ‘And did it get the jury’s sympathy?’

      ‘Of course not. He was found guilty and sentenced to ten years’ transportation. He yelled out from the dock, cursing her.’

      Five years since Rainer was transported, nearly twenty years since the old lord died. It didn’t seem likely that either of those scandals would be of interest to Disraeli and his friends now. We walked in silence along Piccadilly, up Berkeley Street and through Grosvenor Square. Candlelight glowed softly behind the curtains of the great houses. It was quite possible that in one of them Mr Disraeli was sitting with the gentlemen over their port, no more than a few yards away. Well, I had some information for him, and some questions.

      When Kennedy and I parted at the foot of my stairs in Abel Yard, he promised to get word to me as soon as he had news. He patted my arm and told me not to worry.

      ‘And you – are you taking your own advice?’ I said.

      He didn’t answer.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      The next day, Tuesday, brought no word from Kennedy or anybody else. It was the dreariest of days, the grey sky seeming to press itself against the window, and the smell of sewage coming up through the building along with the damp.

      It was raining on Wednesday morning when I went out and bought the Morning Chronicle. The report was there on page three, a column and a half.

       Police are continuing to investigate the poisoning on Monday night of the popular dancer, Madame Columbine, who died in her dressing room at the Augustus Theatre. The deceased’s maid, Marie Duval, was arrested at the scene but the magistrate at Bow Street ordered her release yesterday on the grounds that there was no evidence that she was involved in the crime. She was generally believed to be devoted to her mistress.

       After her release, Mademoiselle Duval was among those called on to give evidence at the inquest yesterday afternoon on Madame Columbine (whose baptismal name was Margaret Priddy). Mademoiselle Duval’s distress was so evident that the coroner at one point halted proceedings and ordered that she should be brought a glass of brandy and water. Thus fortified, she testified that she had been with the deceased all day, at home and at the theatre. On days when she was performing, Madame Columbine would eat nothing but a cream-and-sherry syllabub, personally prepared by Mademoiselle Duval. After her arrival at the theatre, she had eaten a few spoonfuls in her dressing room. She performed the first ballet of the evening, but was taken ill immediately afterwards. When the severity of her symptoms made it clear that she was suffering from more than a passing indisposition, a boy was sent running for a doctor.

       Dr Alfred Barry, who is frequently consulted by the police and lives nearby, was attending another patient and arrived within twenty minutes. He testified that by then there was little to be done for Madame Columbine, who was delirious and slipping in and out of consciousness. He believed that her symptoms were consistent with some form of narcotic poison such as belladonna. Asked by the coroner whether Madame Columbine had accused anybody of poisoning her, he replied, ‘No, sir. She was delirious.’ The coroner asked him if he had examined, at the police station, a bowl of syllabub brought by a police officer from Madame Columbine’s dressing room. He replied that he had, and found in it some flecks of ground-up black seeds. When a small sample was fed to a rat, the animal expired.

       Mr Barnaby Blake, the manager of the Augustus Theatre, testified that he had met Mme Columbine on her arrival there and she seemed in reasonable health and spirits. He was also asked by the coroner whether, in his hearing, Mme Columbine had accused anybody of poisoning her. ‘No, sir,’ he replied. To his knowledge, did anybody in the company bear enmity against her? ‘No, sir.’ A stir among the jurors, rebuked by the coroner. Had there been an incident involving Mme Columbine and another dancer on stage on Saturday night? Mr Blake replied that there had been some small misunderstanding in the heat of the performance. Laughter from a juror, also rebuked. When asked the name of the other dancer involved, Mr Blake,