Madame Koska & the Imperial Brooch

by ILIL ARBEL

  “What are you talking about?” asked Mr. Howard.

  “Don’t you know? The Imperial Brooch, as they call it, the piece that was stolen from the museum in Russia?”

  “I never heard of it,” said Mr. Howard, seemingly annoyed.

  “It belonged to Catherine the Great, and after the Revolution it was put in a small museum in the provinces and was extremely well guarded. It vanished somehow.”

  “What does it have to do with us?” asked Mr. Howard. “The Bolsheviks stole a lot of jewelry after they killed the rightful owners.”

  “But my dear Mr. Howard, it has everything to do with us. It is in London! It will be sold illegally. The police made a statement. They promise to find it first.”

  “So they say,” said Mr. Howard irritably. “I’ll believe it is in London when they find it.”

  “Did they say who stole it?” asked Gretchen in a small voice, as if embarrassed to talk in public.

  “No. They seem to have their suspicions, but nothing is revealed to the public yet.”

  “So why did they release the information that it is in London?” asked Mr. Howard. “What’s the point of giving silly hints if they don’t tell us the whole story? This happens too often. I have no patience with such sensationalism.”

  “To warn the public, I suppose,” said Lord Plunkett. “Or rather, not the public, but those who are able to buy it for their private collections. There have been rumors that certain individuals may wish to have it if it were available for sale.”

  “No news in that,” said Mr. Howard, seemingly even more irritated. “There are always those immoral idiots who are willing to spend a fortune on illegal jewelry.”

  “The Imperial Brooch is one of most important pieces that had ever been smuggled out of Russia,” said Mr. Korolenko. His tone of authority seemed to settle the senseless and slightly unpleasant argument. Mrs. Howard got up and invited the ladies to follow her to the drawing room where tea and coffee would be served, leaving the men to their port and cigars. Madame Koska wondered if Mr. Howard would apologize to Lord Plunkett about his behavior.

  The elegant drawing room was full of indoor palms in decorative cachepots, a great fire roared in the fireplace, and the Christmas tree glittered with its shiny ornaments. After the gentlemen joined them, Mrs. Winston got up to sing an Italian song in a wonderful soprano voice. She was accompanied by her husband, an accomplished pianist. Mr. Howard, in restored good mood, recited a poem. The evening was highly enjoyable.

  The next day, after attending church and having lunch, the guests were invited to take advantage of the sunny weather by ice skating on the frozen pond, to which the servants cleared a path. It was located at some distance. Madame Koska begged to be forgiven—she claimed she had started a slight cold and would rather not spend the hours outdoors. Everyone was sympathetic, and the Misses Plimpton-Anderson, who seemed to take a great interest in Madame Koska and her collection, offered to stay with her, but she made it clear that she was not so ill as to need help, but would like some rest, to shake off the cold. In truth, she knew that Gretchen’s room was at the end of the corridor, and she planned to go there as soon as everyone left and do a little sleuthing.

  Once everyone left, and no noises were heard on her floor, Madame Koska opened her door quietly and looked around her to be sure no one was around. Just in case, she held a book in her hand, and if anyone caught her, she was ready to explain that she was returning a book that Gretchen had lent her. Walking softly, her steps made no sound since she wore cloth slippers, the ballet style she favored at any home that was adequately warm. Looking again over her shoulder, she silently opened Gretchen’s room, and was startled to see Mr. Korolenko standing in front of the bookcase, holding a book he was in the act of taking off the shelf. “Ah, Madame Koska,” he said. “I was expecting you.”

  For one second, Madame Koska felt intense fear flooding her. The thoughts ran wildly in her head. What did she really know of Mr. Korolenko? What if he had to hide something terrible? Would he hurt her? But she calmed herself down and realized that such drama was not really possible. “Why would you expect me?” she asked calmly. “You did not know about the book I was returning to Gretchen’s room—”

  “There is no need to pretend, Madame Koska,’ said Mr. Korolenko. “We are here for the same purpose. You wish to check if Gretchen is really the scatterbrained pretty girl she seems to be—and you cannot deny it since I was the one who told you about her precocious behavior as a child and her studying habits. I am here for the same reason.”

  Madame Koska shrugged, defeated. “Well, yes. But I thought you were going to skate with the others.”

  “I begged to be excused in the last minute. I told them a severe headache came upon me suddenly. They were all concerned that perhaps you and I are the first victims of an influenza epidemic. Well, here I am. Look at the room, and then look at the bookcase. This is very interesting.”

  The beautiful room was relatively small and daintily furnished. Other than the bookcase, it contained a dressing table, a wardrobe, a pretty bed with many pillows piled on it, and a couple of small tables holding trinkets and bowls of pink hothouse flowers. The furnishing was classic white and gold, the fabrics dusty rose. “It looks perfectly nice and normal to me,” said Madame Koska. “I would say it fits Gretchen’s personality. This is the look one would expect from a young girl’s room in a wealthy home.”

  “Exactly, but please step over here,” said Mr. Korolenko. She approached him by the large bookcase. “Just look at these books,” he added.

  Every shelf was crammed full of books about science, art, humanities, philosophy, literature, and poetry. It was the bookcase of a scholar whose tastes were eclectic, probably a well-educated amateur, not an expert of a specific field.

  “Yes, this is very significant,” says Madame Koska.

  “The books could be her father’s library that she keeps out of sentimentality, or with the hope he will come back,” said Mr. Korolenko. Madame Koska went to the bedside table and looked at some magazines piled on it.

  “Not if you look at what is hidden under the fashion magazines,” she said. She handed him a slim volume. “I do not know the language, but I recognize the author.”

  “Well, well,” said Mr. Korolenko. “She is reading Desiderius Erasmus, in Dutch. Granted, this is an easy one. In Praise of Folly is not a hard book…”

  “Mr. Korolenko, it’s not hard for you, but it would be for a normal young girl who is interested only in fashion and jewelry. Anyway, it’s still quite serious. And if she reads the books on the bookshelf, some of which are extremely difficult, this one might be her light bedtime reading. Let’s see the books on the writing desk.”

  On the dainty white and gold writing desk was a book of essays by Spinoza, translated into English, and a copybook where very careful notes were taken. Madame Koska recognized Gretchen’s neat handwriting—she saw it often enough on the order sheets at the atelier.

  “At least she does not read Greek and Latin,” said Mr. Korolenko. “I suppose she, or her father, leaned toward the modern languages.”

  Madame Koska could not answer. The discovery rendered her speechless.

  Every surface overflowed. Patterns and interfacing fabrics covered the large cutting tables. The long central sewing tables were draped with chiffons, silks, velvets and lace, the soft colours mixing and blending into a delightful purple, blue, and grey confusion. Beads spilled over them, glittering like tiny stars at dusk. The work on the Mistral collection had begun, and the atelier crackled with waves of excitement. Madame Koska stood at the embroidery table, on which Natalya had already set up the boxes of pearls and beads in preparation. She was holding about ten sketches, each of them a carefully designed embroidery pattern, and Natalya was putting them up on a frame, using wooden laundry clothes pins to hold them securely. The telephone rang in the other room, and since Gretchen had been sent to one of the suppliers to look for a pale lavender thread that someho
w was never purchased, Madame Koska shook her head with an uncharacteristic hurried look, shoved the rest of the sketches into Natalya’s arms, and ran to answer it.

  “Oh, it’s you, Annushka. I am so happy it’s not a client, I am drowning in work. We just started on the collection yesterday…”

  “I know, dorogaya,” said Madame Golitsyn, “and I would not call at a time like this if it were not to ask your permission for something. I just realised that Vasily is going to be the only man when we go to the Petrograd Room for our Christmas celebration, and he will be so terribly bored with all of us chattering about the fashions… I must find another man for him.”

  “Oh, yes, that won’t do,” said Madame Koska. “We are going to be three women, no, four… He is bringing his lady friend, you said.”

  “If you insist on calling her a lady,” said Madame Golitsyn, laughing. “She is a flapper, half his age. Pretty, but rather…well…”

  “It does not matter, Annushka. It’s not as if they are going to be married,” said Madame Koska.

  “No, since he does not have any money, there is no danger of that…still, she is not quite… Ah, well, you will see her soon. What if I invite Mr. Korolenko, would you mind?”

  “No, of course not,” said Madame Koska. “Why should I? By all means, ask him. He might be busy, though, it is short notice.”

  “Well, all I can do is try. I’ll tell him he can bring anyone he wants, in case he has a previous engagement. It will be nice to have a bigger group and I can reserve a large table even on short notice; they know me there.”

  “Very well, I trust you can arrange everything,” said Madame Koska. “I really should run, they are all in a state of confusion, and so am I, to be honest. Starting a collection is always a little crazy. I think I hear Gretchen coming in, she must have purchased the lavender thread…”

  “So come to dinner when you are done for the day, Vera. You’ll be too tired to get your own meal.”

  “You are an angel, Annushka. I will be a bit late, though, probably.”

  “Around eight will be just fine; I know your schedule, Vera.”

  “So did you say anything to Gretchen?” asked Madame Golitsyn as she poured out the after-dinner coffee.

  “No. There is no point, she will not tell me anything; Mr. Korolenko agreed with me that for the moment there was nothing to gain from confronting her. We will learn more if we observe what she does.”

  “I think you are right,” said Madame Golitsyn. “It’s so strange, though. The whole thing does not make sense.”

  “It has to do with the missing father, I am certain of that,” said Madame Koska. “It is impossible to believe that Gretchen is a criminal. Still…she is obviously a very good actress. But how this is connected with me, and the atelier, is not clear.”

  “Perhaps it is not connected with the atelier.”

  “I am convinced there is a connection,” said Madame Koska. “That is why she chose to work for me. It’s the only real possible explanation.”

  “So we have an international, or rather Eurasian gang, a missing, possibly kidnapped civil servant, his brilliant, scholarly daughter who pretends to be a fool and wants to be a mannequin, and a robbery where nothing was taken. If you can find a connection, you should work for the police, dorogaya.”

  “Maybe these Eurasian criminals like to wear pretty dresses,” said Madame Koska, and laughed. “I really have no idea. But I have long ago learned not to dismiss my hunches, Annushka, and now I have a hunch that there is a connection. We just don’t see it yet.”

  The Petrograd Room glowed with typical Russian red and gold colours, creating an aura of great opulence. It was a very large restaurant, the tables arranged around a square dance floor. A gypsy band, dressed in their traditional costumes, played soft, haunting music that could be enjoyed by the guests but did not interfere with the conversations. Many brass samovars stood on side tables all around, and the pristine white tablecloths were a perfect foil for the rose-coloured, gold-rimmed china. Everything in the Petrograd Room was done with scrupulous adherence to the Russian Orthodox tradition of Christmas, so in the middle of each table stood a tall white candle in a heavy brass candleholder, surrounded by miniature bales of hay that symbolised the stable where Christ was born, and next to it stood a large plate with a large round loaf of Pagach, a special bread that represented Christ as the “Bread of Life”.

  When Madame Koska arrived, a little out of breath since she had hurried straight from the atelier, Vasily, Natalya, and Madame Golitsyn were already there. “I am so sorry I am late,” she said.

  “Not to vorry,” said Vasily with utmost good nature. “Have a glass of vine, ve have all night! And I vant you to meet Vilma! Vilma, Madame Koska!”

  “Hello, darling,” said Wilma brightly and jumped to her feet to shake Madame Koska’s hand. With her usual blink-of-an-eye appraisal, Madame Koska noted that Wilma was about twenty-eight or thirty, and certainly a flapper. She was dressed in a short, garish dress of pink chiffon, beaded and fringed wherever a bead or a fringe could fit in, and they all seemed to flap or shimmer with her quick motions. The cold weather did not deter her from having her arms and neck exposed by the very short sleeves and low neckline, and on top of all the glowing decorations she wore an opera-length rope of large pearls which Madame Koska did not think were born in the sea. A wide band around her forehead adorned her bobbed, wavy blond hair. It glittered with large paste pink jewels, and a rose-tinted feather was stuck in it, straight up. Her naturally pretty face was too heavily made up, with kohl-rimmed eyes and red lipstick. Vasily beamed at the ladies as they shook hands and nodded his head in approval and joy at their meeting.

  At this moment Mr. Korolenko walked to their table, accompanied by another man, who looked every inch a British civil servant of a certain age. “I am sorry we are a little late,” said Mr. Korolenko. “My friend was held up at the office. Everyone, I would like you to meet Inspector Blount. Inspector Blount, Madame Koska, Madame Golitsyn, Miss Saltykov, Mr. Saltykov, and… I am sorry, we were not introduced?”

  “I am Wilma, darling,” said the young woman and winked at Mr. Korolenko, who did not seem to notice. “Yes, Miss Wilma,” he said with utmost decorum. Madame Koska was amused at his obvious reluctance to use the young lady’s Christian name, but he had no option since no last name was provided.

  “Inspector?” asked Madame Golitsyn with interest. “Where exactly…”

  “Scotland Yard,” said Inspector Blount. He did not seem to be much of a talker, thought Madame Koska. She glanced at Mr. Korolenko and he smiled. “I have known the inspector for many years,” he said to her quietly while the others were still talking. “I have occasionally done some work for them.”

  “Is there anyone in Europe you did not do some vork for?” asked Madame Koska, and laughed.

  “Well, this one must persuade you I am rather legitimate,” said Mr. Korolenko.

  “Perhaps,” said Madame Koska. She did not want to pursue the subject, even in jest. The waiter approached. “May I suggest the traditional Christmas dinner?” he asked.

  “What is it, darling?” asked Wilma curiously. “I would like to see how you darling Russians celebrate.”

  “I highly recommend it,” said Vasily. “It’s delicious, and the Petrograd Room’s chefs have a very good reputation, so they probably do it very vell. You vill like it.”

  The waiter started reciting the menu of the traditional meal, which included mushroom soup, baked fish, beans that were cooked all day, new potatoes with chopped parsley, and tiny bobal’ki, small biscuits combined with sauerkraut or poppy seed with honey, followed by oranges, figs, and dates as dessert. Miscellaneous items such as ground pepper, peas, nuts, and garlic were mentioned but where they fitted in was not entirely clear to anyone except for Madame Golitsyn. Everyone decided enthusiastically to try the interesting meal which needed good red wine to go with it.

  “Vell, since ve are so traditional, should I do the honours
and follow vhat the father of the family does on Christmas?” asked Vasily.

  “Yes, by all means,” said Mr. Korolenko. “Inspector Blount and Miss Wilma will enjoy the novelty, and the rest of us, the Russians, will like being reminded of old times.”

  “So I am Father now,” said Vasily. “I vill do it all in English, except for the prayer vhich I just don’t know how to translate so quickly. Garcon—please bring a pot of honey, and a small bowl of chopped garlic. Annushka, my dear, vill you do the Mother, please?”

  “And if you like, I’ll translate the prayer as soon as you are done,” said Mr. Korolenko. “I know it by heart.”

  “Ah, yes!” said Vasily. “I forgot you are a linguist. Please translate.” The waiter brought a pot of honey and a bowl of garlic and placed them in front of Vasily, who passed the honey on to Madame Golitsyn but kept the garlic. He recited a short prayer. Mr. Korolenko immediately translated it, and it turned out to be a prayer of thanksgiving for the blessings of the past year and for the good things to come in the next year. Vasily then looked around the table benevolently, and greeted everyone in English by saying “Christ is born!” Madame Golitsyn, Natalya, and Madame Koska, who knew the routine, responded with “Glorify Him!” Wilma applauded with delight.

  Madame Golitsyn got up, and walking around the table, stopped in front of each person, dipped her finger in the honey, and drew a cross on their forehead, saying a blessing, “In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, may you have sweetness and many good things in life and in the new year.” She returned to her seat, and Vasily broke the pagach and gave a piece to each person. He showed them how to dip the bread first in the honey, to symbolise the sweetness of life, and then in chopped garlic to show acceptance of life’s bitterness which must come with the sweetness.