The Christmas Egg

by Mary Kelly

  Nightingale went into a telephone booth and looked up Runciman’s number. As he dialed he wondered whether the complaint which had caused Runciman’s premature retirement might not have carried him off; nearly a year had passed since Nightingale had last had occasion to speak to him. With relief he heard Runciman’s own voice and pressed the button.

  “Hello,” he said, “it’s Nightingale. Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy. How are you? Good. And your wife? Thank you, very well. Listen, I want your invaluable help. Does the name Karukhin mean anything to you? What? What? But wouldn’t there be more than one family? You’re sure? All right, I’m sorry. But I’d no idea. Look, I didn’t think there’d be as much as this. I can’t wait now, I’m on my way to see someone. Could you phone it through to the office? All you can. Tell them I want it copied accurately this time. They’ll understand. Thanks a lot. Seven four—oh, you remember. Don’t forget to charge them. I’ll ring you again later. Thanks. Good-bye.”

  He dropped the phone, lifted it again, and dialed the number of his own home.

  “Hullo?” he heard Christina say. He was about to reproach her for not answering with the number when a belated awareness of the tone of her voice stopped him. “Hullo, Chris,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve had a call. It’s all local so far, but God knows when I shall be in. So don’t wait up. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh.” There was a pause. “All right.”

  “Is anything wrong?” he asked.

  “I’ve broken my cameo,” she said unsteadily.

  “Oh, darling . . .” Brett stopped. He didn’t know what he could say. The brooch was not valuable, but it was pretty, and she had been attached to it because she couldn’t remember a time when she had been without it and because it had belonged to her mother. “How did that happen?” he asked awkwardly.

  “It was lying on the edge of the piano. I’d taken it off—I don’t know why—and I just put it down without noticing where. Then I went to close the top of the piano and the prop slipped somehow, and fell in, and the lid dropped . . .”

  Brett felt it would be heartless to comment on the injudicious placing of the cameo. “I’m sorry,” he said. It was all he could think of saying. The silence was continuing. “Chris?” he asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Oh—I wondered if you were still there. I must go. I am sorry,” he repeated.

  “Yes, all right.” Her voice was flat. “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Brett lowered the receiver. At this moment he almost envied those glib rattles who could reel off their tongues long spools of pretty consolations for feminine disasters. What their minds were doing, apart from congratulating their own good humor in patronizing the weaker sex, was anyone’s guess. But though silly women might be flattered, Christina would be neither deceived nor gratified at such attention; at least, he hoped she wouldn’t.

  He pushed out of the steamy box. The bitter cold could not neutralize the cafe emanations of fish and chips and vinegar in which the street seemed steeped; but it served to enhance the seasonable contents of the shops—tangerines, nuts, fir trees, boxes of frilly crackers, row on row of trussed turkeys lit by a ghastly glare of fluorescence. Nature, in awe to Him, Had doffed her gaudy trim. Human nature was more than making up for climate deficiencies and preparing to commemorate the event with its customary wallowing. Brett looked along a chain of windows gaudy with red and silver, dabs of cotton wool, strings of fairy lights. His mind dwelt on the somber browns of the Karukhins’ room. What, if any, incredible fairy lights had sparkled in that trunk? He began to imagine a Christmas tree in a platinum tub, its emerald branches festooned with diamonds; gold ikons piled at its foot were the presents.

  Presents. He still had nothing for Christina, and with only two shopping days left, he was beginning to feel frantic; especially as each thing he thought of seemed on reflection trite, trivial, or dully utilitarian. But the sight of a bus, stationary at the stop, put the matter out of his head. He ran to join the end of the queue.

  KARUKHINS—obscure origin. Family liked to say there were Karukhins at Kiev, but first definite record in medieval Vladimir. Survived Tartar attacks by servility to conquerors, and Muscovite dominance by cunning and astuteness. Great leaps of boldness and rapacity during the chaos preceding accession of Michael Romanov. From Peter to Catherine followed policy of ingratiation with autocrat; result, immense political influence. During and after Napoleonic wars, emphasis subtly shifted to acquisition of money alone, instead of power first and money as corollary. By end of nineteenth century Karukhins owned, thanks to strategic marriage campaigns, estates in Ukraine, Crimea, Vyatka, producing vast quantities of grain, fruit, and timber respectively. Also smaller estates outside Ryazan and Yaroslavl. (1861 Emancipation of serfs. Karukhins less affected than many, because biggest and most productive estates were in the south where less land received by serfs, whom landlords found it cheaper to pay off.) Also owned emerald mine in Urals. Residences, apart from those on the estates: villas in Caucasus, Crimea, and Monte Carlo; flat in Paris; house in Moscow; palace in Petersburg.

  1893—Prince Sevastyan Karukhin married Countess Vyestnitskaya. Prince S. handsome, stupid, and dissolute. Interest in politics stopped short after automatic endorsement of furthest extremes of reaction. Ruled by two passions: first, gambling, hence much time at European casinos, Monte Carlo being the favorite. But for second passion, gypsies, might have lived always abroad. No gypsies so pleasing to him as those of native land. Great frequenter of Tzigane restaurants, esp. Villa Rode, and Yar when in Moscow.

  Princess Olga ruled palace and all in it, including Prince while he was indoors. Inflexible will to dominate. No unseemly commands or disputes, but compulsive pressure of a look from narrow black eyes. Model of strictest fidelity to husband. Too proud for intimates, but lavishly hospitable to many. Servants well rewarded and cared for, and her voice never raised. Yet all feared Olga Vassilievna.

  Son and only child, Ilarion, domineered from infancy by mother. Degenerate Karukhin strain swamped all traces of Vyestnitsky maternity, except for querulous obstinacy, shadow of Princess Olga’s will. Eruptions of this obstinacy ignored by the Princess, even when directed against herself, since never occasioned by any but most trivial matters. She also turned blind eye to son’s sexual dissipations—precocity inherited, like empty head and handsome face, from his father. Apart from these instances of calculated freedom, Mother ruled him in everything.

  1913—Prince Sevastyan died of a stroke (induced, some said, by rumor that Tsar had granted a liberal constitution) , and Prince Ilarion became nominal head of the house. In reality, as everyone knew, it was Princess Olga.

  1914—Prince Ilarion twenty. Nothing changed for him by the war. Being of noble birth, had no obligation to serve or alter habits of extravagant indolence. Social life of capital continued, if somewhat altered by absence of those who felt morally compelled to try to alleviate Russia’s misfortunes.

  1916, Autumn—Prince Ilarion married girl of Mother’s choice, Irina Scherbinina, youngest daughter of a general; delicate, docile blonde.

  1917—Outbreak of March Revolution and abdication of Tsar were events which not even a Karukhin could disregard. Prince Ilarion shocked and horrified, but no idea of leaving Petersburg, where involved with dancer of Imperial Ballet. Went around saying “revolt” would soon be quashed and autocracy restored. Concluded that since he’d taken not the smallest part in conduct of the war provisional government could have no quarrel with him (apparently never thought that as they were intent on a more vigorous prosecution of the war effort, he might have to do something). Princess Olga less sanguine but indomitable. So Karukhins stayed precariously on through worsening situation till Bolsheviks seized power in November.

  Princess Olga foresaw irrevocable end of Tsarism and imminent catastrophe for them and their kind. Prince Ilarion, on the other hand, refused to accept it; and anyway too infatuated with his dancer to think of leaving. He and his
mother in major conflict for first and last time. He disregarded her dire warnings. Furious at his blind obduracy, she left him and contrived her own escape to the Finnish border, traveling by road in weather and conditions that would have daunted a less determined mind. She took son’s wife with her, but Princess Irina had neither will nor constitution of her mother-in-law, and was also seven months pregnant. Within a week of reaching Finland she died in giving birth prematurely to a son, who survived and was christened Ivan.

  From Finland, Princess Olga arrived in Sweden in the summer of 1918 with the child. For the next two years she lived there in close retirement, apparently making no attempt to communicate with her son or with anyone she had known in Russia. During that time news was published of the shooting of the Imperial Family at Ekaterinburg; and, as a mere incident in the savage course of the Civil War, of the shooting at Petersburg in reprisal for some White atrocity of three hundred class enemies, among them Prince Ilarion Karukhin.

  Nightingale pushed the papers aside. The only person in that story whose plight moved him was Princess Irina, the delicate, docile blonde. He smiled at the detail and the brief covering message from Runciman.

  “The general stuff I knew,” he read, “but the tittle-tattle is father’s. I’ve put it all in on the chance of its being usable. You can rely on its accuracy. The old man’s eighty, but his memory is as clear as a bell. His authority for the Swedish episode was a friend who was at Stockholm at the time. She worked up quite an acquaintance with the British colony there, then seems to have faded out. Let me know what happened to the Karukhin remnant if you find out—and if it’s O.K. for private release, the old man would be interested.”

  Nightingale nodded. Runciman’s father had held some position at the Petersburg embassy for several years before the Revolution. His mother had been Greek. So it was hardly surprising that Runciman himself had found the study of Eastern Europe congenial. Nightingale had forgotten what his special field was. He could remember that Runciman had once laid himself open to mockery of almost a year’s duration because, asked by a superintendent for help in a newspaper quiz, he had been at a loss for the date of the battle of Agincourt and had excused himself with the plea that it was outside his period. Nightingale made a note to have the usefulness of Runciman’s derided specialization brought to that superintendent’s knowledge; only as he was now considerably more than a superintendent it would better be done by devious means.

  He sipped his fast-cooling tea. Majendie, according to his housekeeper, was at the theater. Nightingale had come back to the office to read Runciman’s notes and to wonder intermittently if he’d been watched. The feeling that he was had come on him as he’d stood at Majendie’s door. A glance up and down the street had disclosed several people on both sides, all walking with apparent purpose and innocence. That meant less than nothing; one or more of them could have noticed and perhaps recognized the visitor awaiting admission. He felt that it had happened. He often had similar experiences and had never been able to prove whether they were professionally developed instincts at work or merely projections of his own suspicion. In either case there was nothing he could do about it now.

  He rang the divisional office. “About the Karukhins,” he said. “It seems likely that they’ve lived at Bright’s Row since the early twenties. As Ivan would have been only three or four years old when they came, he must have attended a local school. Find out which, please, and if there’s anyone on the staff old enough to remember him. Of course, the schools are closed for the holiday, but you can get the headmaster’s address from the education office. Also, he drinks, I believe. Does he patronize a particular pub? What about that one behind Sadlers Wells, the Empress of Russia? No, perhaps not, a sort of lese majeste. Well, a chat with the landlord, if you can find him. And I’d like more from St. Pancras than an alibi and a negative character. Anything at all about him. All right. As soon as you can.”

  He glanced at his watch. In two minutes the final curtain was due to fall at the Haymarket. Majendie would be leaving his seat, taking a taxi home. Nightingale rose. It was late, but not too late. He would see him now.

  There was a pause in the argument of three men at the bar, followed by a sudden but unrelated hush in general conversation. The impassive barmaid pulled the handles for a mild and bitter. Canned laughter barked from a radio to which no one was listening.

  Beddoes glanced at Ivan Karukhin; and seeing that he was handing over the counter money for yet another drink, returned to his ostensible struggle with the evening paper’s crossword, a puzzle of such puerility as not to deserve the name. He gnawed the end of his pencil, an exercise fostering the illusion of mental labor and dispelling the taste of beer, which was a liquor he could not teach himself to like, although considerations of anonymity and expense had caused him to order and swallow half a pint of pale ale.

  He stared around the walls of the public bar as if searching for inspiration; walls adorned on one side by glazed tile pictures of pseudo-classical half-draped women and on the other two, including the bar, by plate glass with an engraved border; frosted windows made the fourth. The ceiling was almost hidden by an oppressive mesh of paper chains and bells, which hung in a pall of smoke unruffled by the draft that seemed to Beddoes to be cutting through his ankles.

  Nightingale, he thought, was probably swigging surreptitious sherries by a roaring fire in the plutocratic jeweler’s house. In thirteen years he would be as old as Nightingale was now and would have risen as high; in the meantime, he was a silly sergeant, who had only himself to blame for his present discomfort. As soon as Ivan was reported to be in the Derby Arms he had rushed down there himself, which would have been all right if it had stopped at his taking a look to make himself familiar with the fellow. But the detective who had discovered Ivan, and who had watched him thereafter, had mistaken Beddoes’ single glance of recognition for a dismissal. He had, of course, his own lines to watch. Quite a separate matter, in fact, had taken him into the Derby. That he’d spotted Ivan was incidental and a stroke of luck, especially as he must have heard the message by the narrowest margin, just as he was leaving the station to come on duty. For him, Ivan’s description had been superfluous; he knew him, as did other local detectives, from having to spend so much time on duty in pubs. And the Division, which had its Christmas rush together with and as a result of the one in the outside world, could not have been expected to transfer someone solely to the Derby for the sake of saving Sergeant Beddoes a walk in the cold. Thus Beddoes repeatedly tried to indoctrinate himself.

  He let his eyes come to rest on Ivan, who was sitting against the plate-glass wall a little apart from the groups of talkative drinkers. Beddoes thought he must have been swilling steadily almost since he had run out of the house in Bright’s Row. He was surprised that Ivan had found the energy to come so far from home, some ten minutes’ walk, for even considered as a product of his environment Ivan was a poor specimen. Although the cut of his cheap suit was skimped, it lay loose on his puny frame. The skin of his face glistened, stretched over inflamed, almost ulcerous flesh. His straw-colored hair looked wet, and when, from time to time, he left his seat for the bar a greasy patch was visible on the plate glass where his head had rested. Beneath a straggling mustache his mouth permanently drooped, thereby increasing the slackness of his chin. He had a nasty spattering cough. He stared blankly at the ground, raising his glass and swallowing the beer in it with dull regularity.

  The sight reminded Beddoes of his own glass. To his surprise he found that he had slowly emptied it, and to his dismay he saw that the clock stood at ten to ten. He stood up. Beer was out this time. He refused to go on being a martyr. He went to the bar and ordered rum. Faint strains of a carol concert piped from the indefatigable radio. The equally indefatigable bar proppers had abandoned politics for a more general discussion. One of the three was buying the round which had fallen due to him, a small man with a face like a battered nut in which the eyes glittered like chips of glass.


  “Three of the same, please, Daff,” he said briskly, raising his cap more in gesture than in deed. “No, Jim, he don’t know; he don’t see it,” he went on to his cronies, almost without a break. “But what odds ’tween knockin’ off a couple a pots a paint an’ the ol’ man knockin’ off in the afternoon to go to Twicknam? Or,” he jerked the word in with great vehemence on a rising note, “the ol’ man takin’ a couple a men off to do ’is car for ’im—on the firm’s time, eh Jim?”

  Jim, who had evidently suffered a setting down, merely looked mopy, and raised his glass to the speaker.

  “No, Jim!” The third man was older than the others. His face was red; he had an enormous Stalin mustache, and bushy gray eyebrows under which his dark eyes twinkled as if in ceaseless anticipation of the point of a joke. “Alwiz the same. Alwiz ’as bin. Alwiz will be. One lot a rules for them an’ another for us. Same everywhere. Can’t change it, ain’t no use tryin’. Once you swaller that, boy, life comes a lot easier.” Having delivered these maxims in a slow, rich voice, with each pause given due length for the point to sink home, the third man tilted his glass and drank most of the contents in one draft.

  Nutface resumed. “What they think’ll ’appen to their paint if they leave it lyin’ about? Put temtation in people’s path. Just like Daff,” he added, grinning at the barmaid. “Eh, Daff?”

  The woman’s face betrayed no emotion. Her long chin and inscrutable eyes and heavy bronze make-up made Beddoes think of some kind of Indian.

  “ ’Ere, Joe,” began Nutface.