The Christmas Egg

by Mary Kelly

  They were very capable hands. In a matter of seconds they had laid on top of a display case a tray of cameo brooches for him to inspect. He disregarded any that were elaborately framed, since Christina had admired her mother’s for its plain band of gold. But those of the collection which satisfied the condition were not the most handsome. He looked up to ask if others were to be offered, and saw that a young girl had come noiselessly to Mr. Emmanuel’s side. Nightingale recognized her at once; she was the girl with blonde hair who sat on the bomb site in the sunshine, the youngest member of the staff, the junior odd-job girl, Miss Cole.

  She was murmuring a message to Mr. Emmanuel, of which Nightingale caught only the words “phone,”

  “lapis columns,” and “Louis.” Mr. Emmanuel looked perturbed. With deference he begged to be excused for a few minutes.

  Brett was not displeased to be left with Miss Cole. He had often thought that she promised to reward closer inspection, although he was not sufficiently interested to go out of his way to make it. Given this opportunity, he saw with satisfaction that she exceeded expectation. She could hardly be called pretty. Her cheekbones were very broad and high and seemed to push her gray-green eyes upward at the outer corners. Her eyebrows followed the same slanting line. Her nose was short and high-bridged; her mouth wide, with the upper lip much thinner than the lower. Everything about her proclaimed youth and health: her downy skin, the straightness of her back, the liveliness of all her movements. Brett put her age at not more than seventeen.

  She stood quite still, her hands resting on the edge of the case. She didn’t meet his eyes, didn’t so much as glance in his direction. She looked, in fact, as if she begrudged having to serve him.

  “What I want,” said Brett, “is one about this size, but with a plain rim and not carved simply with a head. The one I want to replace was of two women dancing. Show me some like that, if you have them.”

  Her face seemed to darken. For a couple of seconds she didn’t move, so that Brett was on the point of saying something quite sharply; then she turned to a cabinet, opened its door, and slipped out a small tray from which she picked one brooch. She held it out to Brett without a word.

  He gathered himself for a concise sarcasm on the range of selection available, then stopped. Her hand was shaking. He took the brooch without hurrying, looking at her. From time to time she folded her lips tightly, causing a tiny commotion in each cheek. It occurred to Brett that the pinkness of those cheeks might not altogether be due to well-being. He had glanced up from the cameos too often and too noticeably, and she was discomposed. At once her demeanor was presented in a new light. Her apparent scowl was due simply to the line of her eyebrows. She was young, the uttermost junior, and very nervous.

  “Thank you,” he said, and looked down at the brooch.

  The design swirled across the length of the oval. Diana, slung with bow and quiver, drove her chariot through the vast expanse of sky. The legs of the team curved out in a gallop; their necks were arched; their manes flying. The goddess leaned back, her curls and semi-transparent draperies streaming behind her. Below and behind sailed a solitary star.

  “You like that one?” The voice of Mr. Emmanuel spoke beside him.

  “Yes,” said Brett, looking up with a start. He laid the brooch on the case.

  “It is a fine example of carving,” said Mr. Emmanuel, taking it up. “Good shell, too. Well-fitted to the subject. That dark grayish color is right for the night sky. A lot of them would be too brown.”

  He held it to the light to demonstrate how thin it was, and the carving appeared in reverse like black tracery. “No frame, of course,” he said.

  “What’s that then?”

  “Well, that just holds it and supports the pin. Compare it with this.” Mr. Emmanuel pointed out a monstrous circle of chased yellow gold which seemed to crush the central cameo inward.

  “That’s exactly what I didn’t want,” said Brett. He smiled at Miss Cole to let both her and Mr. Emmanuel know where he bestowed credit for the satisfaction of his wishes, but she was looking away from him. He drew out his check book. “How much?” he asked, writing the date.

  “Fifteen pounds,” said Mr. Emmanuel, after the tiniest pause. “You’ve less gold to pay for than people who prefer more substantial frames. Shall we wrap it for you?” he concluded with a little edge to his voice.

  “Yes,” said Brett, smothering an overemphatic “of course.”

  Mr. Emmanuel’s trained eye must have seen that his pen hovered an instant before descending again on the check. Quickly he wrote Majendie’s name, the price, his signature, and his address on the back. The check passed into Mr. Emmanuel’s discreet hand. In return he received an almost weightless package neatly wrapped by Miss Cole. The transaction was made.

  Forcing himself to shake off a certain uneasiness, Brett thanked the girl. For once, she was looking straight at him, and, he felt, with some curiosity. But at that moment Mr. Emmanuel waved her away.

  “Fine weather,” he observed, handing the check to a passing assistant with a look that urged him to dispatch. “I shall be surprised if it holds though. When that sky covers we’ll have to look out for snow. White Christmas if we’re lucky.”

  “Yes,” said Brett without enthusiasm. He was in no mood to be entertained by post-sales talk. Miss Cole had disappeared. He had done something which he was cross with himself for half regretting.

  He stared gloomily across the shop. Through an arch he could see into another room where three men were discussing some porcelain bowls which, at frequent intervals, they lifted and tapped with their knuckles. The bowls gave forth pure, bell-like notes. Sometimes two were struck in quick succession, and the rooms throbbed to mellow tones or semitones. Ring out, ye crystal spheres, Once bless our human ears, thought Brett. This was the month, after all, and nearly the happy morn. And he could think of something else he’d like once to bless his ears. No information had greeted him this morning; no encouraging reports of unusual underworld activity; no dank Ivan fished from the canal. He hadn’t yet spoken to the Division; perhaps they would have unearthed a little of what he’d asked about, although they hadn’t had much time for probing.

  With relief he took his receipt, managed a civil farewell to Mr. Emmanuel, and departed for a less luxurious sphere of operations.

  Outside the divisional office Nightingale met Beddoes.

  “I left early,” he said hastily, while Nightingale was still staring at him in silence. “I’m all right. I told you I was last night. No one tried to stop me coming out anyway.”

  “No, I suppose you’ll pass,” said Nightingale, looking him up and down. “How’s the head?”

  “Functioning quite normally, I think. Were you going in to see what they’ve got for you?”

  “Yes. But as you’ve been in before me I needn’t bother—I hope?”

  Beddoes shook his head and then flinched. “I’ll tell you. Where shall we go?”

  “I’ll drive down to the parking lot and we can sit there in the car. I’ve a thermos of coffee—you can have some if you like, but it’s black and sweetened and there’s only the thermos cup to share with me.”

  Beddoes was already making a face and noise such as small children often make when served with a helping of spinach.

  “Good,” said Nightingale, “I can have it all. There wasn’t going to be much for two. Anyway, I expect it would have been bad for you.”

  As Nightingale drove down the road he outlined his gleanings from Majendie. Beddoes received the description of some of Princess Olga’s treasures with his usual affectation of nonchalance, and Majendie’s valuation with a gesture of skepticism.

  “So I thought,” said Nightingale. “Even if he’s nothing worse, I think he was prepared to slice the Princess. As she was a half-deranged recluse he may have valued them even lower for her than he’d dare do for us. But I don’t know—she wasn’t that mad. Anyway, he and his partners must have been fairly rubbing their hands in antic
ipation of the profits.”

  “Of course,” said Beddoes, “as far as Majendie knows, Ivan Karukhin is the legitimate heir and there’d be nothing to stop him selling if the lot was recovered. So he doesn’t want to risk admitting the real value even now.”

  “Still hoping to pull off the deal—yes. He did his best to lead me to expect a low price last night, after he’d discovered which way the wind was blowing. What he’d first described as a considerable purchase suffered a metamorphosis and ended as a considerable risk.”

  Nightingale backed the car into a space between two others, pulled his thermos out of the pocket, and unscrewed the top. “Tell me,” he said, leaning over the side of the car to pour in safety—“just a minute, do you find it too cold? I didn’t put up the top, it’s such a lovely day. There’s a rug in the trunk, if you’d like it.”

  “One minor mishap hasn’t undermined my health,” Beddoes said. “Well, they didn’t get much more about Ivan from St. Pancras . . .”

  “You’ll say that when you’re giving evidence one day.”

  “Dull but inoffensive, it seems. Went there straight from school at fourteen, recommended by his old headmaster. How anyone could recommend Ivan, I don’t know. However, they took him as office boy. Lucky to get that in those times, in view of his qualifications—or lack. Couldn’t be used for portering, not strong enough. He was often off sick as it was. Sometimes they sent him home when his asthma got too bad. Never a sign of drunkenness at work, so if he soaked regularly as much as I saw him do last night, he must have been able to sleep it off something stunning. Station people could hardly find a thing to say about him apparently. They sound tolerant, but I think they’d really almost forgotten him. He did very minor clerical work, no set job, just here and there as needed. No complaints of the way he did it. I don’t suppose they’ll miss him. Odd though, he was all over the place on the twenty-second, and quite talkative.”

  “He overacted, that’s all. Have they found his old school?”

  “Yes, it was the one nearest Bright’s Row. They went there first only this morning. Or rather, they asked the head direct, as they know him well. But he didn’t remember Ivan personally; he looked him up on the old registers. Ivan’s forty, don’t forget. The head who recommended him retired years ago. He’s still alive though and they got his address. Esher. Someone’s gone to talk to him.”

  “Good. What about pubs?”

  “Ripe,” said Beddoes, “very ripe. The local boys knew his favorite. Not the one where I met him. The Oak Tree. Landlord’s all right, very informative. It seems Ivan’s known as Prince—he sometimes used to protest his noble birth when he’d had a few, and the regulars used to egg him on for their own diversion. He’d also taken to boasting of what he’d do when he came into his inheritance, alternatively making vague allegations that he’d been maliciously deprived of same. No one ever took Ivan seriously, according to the landlord. The Division asked him if he ever had shady birds in the pub. He said they nearly all looked shady to him and some were proper pitch. Instanced Sowman and Pomphilion—quite upset when the Division wasn’t impressed. But then he said he’d served Stan Wacey.”

  Nightingale raised his eyebrows. “Someone saw him in Vanbrugh Street the other day. What’s he doing here?”

  “He lives around here, don’t you remember?”

  “Lord I’m corrupt! I can’t think of people like Wacey going into a pub just because it’s their local and they want a drink. I must start looking for what they’re after. But he’s behaving, isn’t he? He’s not long out. When was he first in the Oak Tree, do you know?”

  “A couple of months ago. And he hasn’t been there since.”

  “It may not mean a thing, of course. Wacey couldn’t have been connected with Hampstead at least, for the good reason that he was inside at the time. Ivan could have included him in one of his habitual unbosomings about his . . .”

  Nightingale stopped. His inheritance. His Fabergé. Part of Beddoes’ report of last night suddenly burst into flames of significance.

  “What do you take Ivan’s talk of an egg to mean?” he asked.

  “Ivan was bats,” said Beddoes gloomily.

  “I don’t think so. I mean, not necessarily in that respect. I’ve told you what’s on Majendie’s list. Fabergé. Fabergé and eggs, Beddoes . . .”

  “Wait a minute! I’ve heard of those. Easter eggs made of gold and diamonds and what you will, with little surprises inside in the same style. But weren’t they all for the Tsar to give to the Tsaritsa or his mother?”

  “I believe anyone who could afford one could have one, and God knows, the Karukhins were wealthy enough. Suppose there was an egg like ice and frost and stars?”

  “Not on Majendie’s list, is it?”

  “No. But it would be too outstanding, surely, to miss or forget.”

  “Maybe the old girl got rid of it or didn’t show it because she didn’t want to part with it. Maybe it didn’t exist except in Ivan’s disordered brain.”

  “Perhaps. I must get hold of one or all of Majendie’s partners on the side and see whether they really were told of an impending Karukhin deal. I could hardly ask him to bring them to me this morning and then tell him to leave us. And now we have to think of Wacey—possibly an unwitting red herring, but we’ll scout him out all the same. And look here, the landlord said no one took Ivan seriously. Why should Wacey, if he heard him?”

  “No stone unturned when there might be loot under it.”

  “Possibly. But don’t you think it is rather remarkable that he should appear at that particular pub? I know you said he lives in the area.”

  “You think he was planted?”

  “Someone could have overheard one of Ivan’s earlier outbursts, someone with enough interest to prick up his ears at any mention of an inheritance, even a drunk’s. Someone with enough general knowledge to realize that the name Karukhin was a promising one, promising because it’s Russian, and Russians have sometimes owned valuable property of a particularly thief-worthy sort. He needn’t have had particular knowledge of the Karukhin family. He could have asked what Ivan’s name was, Beddoes.”

  “This someone, you’d like to think, being in with the Hampstead people, being one of them perhaps?”

  “Why not? And when Wacey came out and picked up with them, he was the chosen instrument—being local—for the case.”

  Beddoes was thoughtful. “Well, we know who’d prick up his ears at the name, if only because he’d had a taste in the twenties and could very well guess that more of the family possessions he’d known in Petersburg had come over than just the diamond-and-ruby brooch.”

  “Oh Lord! Yes.”

  “Why oh Lord?”

  “Nothing. Anyway, there’s Ivan. Whoever isn’t involved, he is.”

  “If he knew Grandma was in the potential and wouldn’t hand out, I suppose that accounts for the Russian rows Mrs. Minelli heard.”

  “That reminds me, I must have a word with her this evening. And I forgot to tell you that the Princess wanted the proceeds of the sale to go direct to a school for the daughters of the nobility.”

  “Boil me!” Beddoes said wearily.

  Nightingale started the engine. Beddoes’ almost complete lack of effervescence had been nowhere more marked than in his reception of that piece of information.

  “Where are we going?” Beddoes asked now.

  “There’s something I want you to do,” said Nightingale. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Beddoes sit up straight and try to look attentive. “I’m afraid you’ll have to do this my way—no deviation, none of your own ideas, and strict adherence to orders.” Beddoes had turned on him a stare of disbelieving reproach. “You’re to go home to bed,” said Nightingale calmly, “and not show your face to me till tomorrow morning.”

  “All right,” said Beddoes.

  “Mind, no evasion,” said Nightingale, suspicious of such prompt and unqualified submission. “There’s no point in making a martyr of yo
urself. Remember what you said when the Assistant Commissioner would persist in coming in when he had that foul cold? You didn’t know I’d overheard that, did you? You said . . .”

  “But he was spreading germs!”

  “You said that when people were so groggy they could only crawl around like cold flies in a coma they’d do better to stay in bed. I’ll take you to Charing Cross—that’s where you go from, isn’t it? All right. And on the way I’ll give you a history lesson. I learned it last night while you were paddling in the canal.”

  Having ejected Beddoes at the station, Nightingale left the car in the forecourt of the library and walked through to the reference section in St. Martin Street, where he was soon engrossed by a handsome book describing and lavishly illustrating the art of Carl Fabergé.

  As he left the library an hour or so later he discovered the loss of one glove.

  Brett glanced again at the note lying on top of the refrigerator. However slight and informal the message, Christina never scribbled, never failed to address him.

  Dear Brett—

  Ticket here if you want to come on. Sorry not to wait, but I want to see T. in intermission to secure promise of introduction to S. afterward. Your clothes have come. Please try for fit tonight so that they can be sent back, if necessary, in good time. They’re on the bed. And this came second mail from Henry.

  Christina

  He stared at the three kisses with which she had ornamented the note; she must have been feeling very expansive or very hilarious, or both. His eyes traveled from them to the clear rural postmark on the envelope that had held his brother’s record certificate, thence to the green stripes of the ticket. Neither of them would have stirred a foot to hear the concert if it hadn’t been conducted by someone whose acquaintance Christina considered desirable. He still had time—for what? To sit through the undistinguished second half, then either come home without her or go backstage and be in the way. He left the ticket where it was. He looked once at the dishes he had stacked on the drainboard and left those where they were too.