by Mary Kelly
“Not at Bright’s Row?”
“Where else?”
“I’m surprised you knew of its existence,” said Nightingale.
Mr. Majendie smiled slyly at him. “I didn’t, I confess, until the Princess wrote to me.”
“Wrote? Through the mail?”
“The post office generously conveyed the letter, on credit as it were. The Princess had omitted the formality of a stamp.”
“I see. When did this come?”
“Some ten days ago. It will be filed in my office.” Mr. Majendie paused. “She wrote, as you may guess, to offer for sale jewelry and various valuable objects.”
“She’d sold to you before?”
“She disposed of some pieces in the early twenties—she had recently made her way to this country. A fine diamond and ruby brooch and an enameled watch, formerly the property, I believe, of Princess Irina. That was the only occasion, apart from this last, on which she availed herself of our professional services. But of course I remembered her from Petersburg.”
“Oh? You were there? When?”
“Let me see, 1911 and 1912, those were the years I spent in Petersburg. My father was a man of great wisdom and great foresight. He was expert in porcelain, you know, but jewels are my great love, always have been. He saw that when I was a mere youngster and encouraged it. Wonderful man. Liberal. Nothing of the narrow specialist in him. Sent me abroad to study and gain experience. France, Germany, Russia—unforgettable.”
“And at Petersburg you met . . .”
“Faberge. A great master and a very charming, kindly man. There were, of course, others. Britzin, Khlebnikov, Tillander—I had letters of introduction to all of them. But Faberge was outstanding. I studied chiefly with Wigstrom—Henrik Wigstrom, you know, one of Fabergé’s workmasters. I consider him to have been the greatest.”
“And the Princess?” Nightingale tried to steer the conversation a little nearer his goal.
“But of course! That was how I was brought to the notice of the Karukhin family. I remember going to the palace with Michael Kulp, a German, one of Wigstrom’s assistants. Such a privilege to be allowed to accompany him. My dear sir, if you could have seen the Karukhin palace! So difficult for young people to imagine the sheer lavishness of that vanished age.”
“You went to the palace . . .”
“Indeed, yes. Prince Semeon Karukhin built it in the days of Catherine, you know, but each generation added something—the private theater, the Roman bath, the hothouses. Vast building. Two ballrooms, two banqueting rooms, a whole chain of salons—one in which only the Grand Dukes were received, another for princes, another for lesser nobles, and so on—salons for music, for chess, for tea, for fruit and lemonade.”
“And the Princess?” Nightingale repeated gently, repressing a boorish desire to ask where the Karukhins had received tradespeople.
“Had ordered half-a-dozen parasol handles. We were submitting designs for her approval. How well I remember. Impossible at first, you know, not to be overawed. The Princess was a formidable person. She treated me to a signal mark of condescension—addressed me in French then and thereafter. Never forgot.”
“You saw her again?”
“Several times—and her husband, Prince Sevastyan. He used to come to Faberge for presents as a regular thing. So many did. His son, too, Prince Ilarion. I remember him spending a couple of hours deciding between two enameled powder boxes for his mother’s name-day gift. He preferred trinkets—his youth, I suppose. His father invariably gave jewelry. For the anniversary of their wedding day, I remember, a magnificent parure of emeralds and diamonds. We delivered it on the previous evening. They were giving a ball—hardly a night passed, you know, but there was some assembly at the palace. Roses and candelabra everywhere, and what beautiful chandeliers!” Mr. Majendie sighed nostalgically; he was stretched almost horizontal in his chair.
“So the name Karukhin alone would entitle a letter to serious consideration,” said Nightingale, “even if there hadn’t been the diamond-and-ruby brooch in the twenties, and even if the address were somewhat startling.”
Mr. Majendie bowed his head. “There could be no question of ignoring it. My dear sir, you know Bright’s Row. You may conceive the painful contrast to me . . .”
“You went yourself? In person?”
“Princess Karukhina demanded no less.” Mr. Majendie looked over the tops of his spectacles. “Of course, I took the precaution to ascertain that the Princess did live there—though she had allowed the title to lapse, naturally.”
“Did you go alone?”
“Upon instruction, yes. In any case, I judged it better to make the call in every way inconspicuous. I took a cab to Upper Street and went the rest of the way on foot.”
“She let you in herself?”
“Certainly. You mustn’t imagine that she was enfeebled or bedridden. She appeared in excellent health and vigor, considering her great age.”
“But I understood that she wouldn’t let anyone in unless they knocked in a special way and called out their name and business.”
“That may be so. I had no such instruction. But then, you see, I was to arrive exactly at three o’clock or not at all. She wrote that she wouldn’t receive me at any other time.”
“So she was expecting you. That would be as good security as a codified knock. She could watch you from the window. She seems to have suffered a morbid fear of discovery and persecution. I suppose if she was hoarding family jewels . . .”
“My dear sir, she was hoarding a treasure,” said Mr. Majendie impressively. “But I should say she was haunted not by the possibility of losing that but by the fear of being carried off to Russia. Her son, you know, was shot. Yet in my opinion she didn’t fear death. She hated the new regime so bitterly that she was simply determined to deprive it of further prey.”
“I should think the regime had enough to do without bothering to hook back the ones that got away,” Nightingale said. “But as she was accustomed to being a person of the first importance it probably didn’t occur to her that her whereabouts, her very existence, could become a matter of indifference. Obviously she had to live in obscurity for her safety immediately after the Revolution, and by the time she came to England the habit of secrecy was hardening into an obsession. I believe she went almost straight to Bright’s Row. That was a pretty unbalanced thing to do. With the sale of some more of her jewels she could have lived in moderate comfort. She could have changed her name for security.”
Mr. Majendie sighed. “Yes, I knew, even all those years ago, that the catastrophe had unsettled her mind. She imposed on us—or me, rather—such tremendous conditions of secrecy concerning the sale of the brooch that protestations of professional integrity and confidence were not enough, I fear, to reassure her. As for changing her name, pride would forbid, I think.”
“In any case, once you accept the fact of an unsound mind, nothing need be logical. She went to you, plainly, in both instances because your stay in Petersburg entitled you to her trust. Did you, in fact . . .” Nightingale stopped to reframe his question. “Were you able, this time, to help her dispose of her jewels?”
Mr. Majendie shot him a look as quick as any hamster’s. “No, sir. That is, the matter was in suspense. The Princess, you see, asked for payment in cash, which was naturally not available on the spot. And before committing the firm to such a considerable undertaking, I had to consult my partners, one of whom was in New York at the time. I did explain that we were more than interested, and I promised definite acceptance of at least part of the treasure within a few days. The objects were stored in a trunk, believe it or not. I offered to have it transferred to our strongroom or a bank, pending negotiation, but she argued that as she’d kept it safe for forty years she could do so a little longer. There was nothing to do but leave. Of course, she forbade us to communicate with her in any way until we heard from her again.”
“And you never did?”
“Indeed, yes. A let
ter arrived the very next morning . . .”
“Stamped?”
“No,” said Mr. Majendie with submissive deprecation. “It was not, however, to arrange a further appointment. The Princess had changed her mind as to the manner of payment. If we decided to take part or all of what she offered, we were to make over the value by check, directly, to any school for the daughters of the nobility.”
“What!”
“But, my dear sir, that was a cause widely supported by Russian ladies of wealth and family,” said Mr. Majendie. “The Empress Marie Fedorovna . . .”
“Yes, yes,” said Nightingale, recollecting himself. “I meant, it showed how much she was living in the past, in the Imperial Russian past. You’d be hard put to find a school that conformed to such an exclusive pattern in England now. Did you know that Ivan Karukhin, her grandson, lived with her?”
Mr. Majendie made a little grimace of regret, pursing his lips and putting his head to one side. “A young man whom, I feel, life has not treated kindly,” he said. “The Princess remained, essentially, formidable.”
“And do you know whether she was naturalized?”
“I’m afraid I’ve no idea. I wonder . . .” A gleam of cupidity appeared in Majendie’s eyes. “Ivan Karukhin, whom I have not met, is at present no doubt too distressed to appreciate his new position. But I wonder . . .”
“Whether he’ll sell?” Nightingale paused. Basing his judgment on Majendie’s behavior and a knowledge of his commercial and social status, he had decided that Majendie was either right in the thick of the Hampstead people or completely innocent; no half measures. If he was involved, to tell him of the robbery would occasion him no more than secret amusement at the expense of the police. If, as Nightingale considered rather more likely, Majendie was innocent, then they would have to co-operate. Discretion, being habitual with him, would scarcely need to be appealed to.
“I’m afraid,” said Nightingale, “that the Princess’ treasures are no longer at Bright’s Row.”
Majendie’s eyes widened immediately. He certainly looked surprised, yet Nightingale would have sworn that his first fleeting reaction was again one of relief.
“Not there?” he said. “But he can’t have sold already! She hadn’t the remotest intention—regrettable as it all seemed—of letting him touch it.” He smiled wryly. “Unless, indeed, we have both overestimated the influence of Petersburg!”
“You’re thinking that she’d approached firms other than yours and had accepted a better offer?” He took the plunge. “We have reason to believe that she was robbed.”
There followed what was for Majendie quite a long silence. “Shocking,” he said at last, “profoundly shocking. But, tell me, was her death—natural?”
“We don’t know,” said Nightingale. “Could you tell me, in detail, what she possessed? It would help us to know what’s been taken, and if we should recover . . .”
“Quite so, quite so. I made a few rough notes while I was at Bright’s Row, though I could remember the more outstanding items. I drew up a full list for my partners, but unfortunately I haven’t got it with me. It’s at the office. You wanted to see it tonight?”
Nightingale hesitated. There was a risk. He decided to take it. “No, thank you,” he said. “Tomorrow morning will be soon enough. When may I call?”
“My dear sir, at any time.”
“Thank you. Could you also give me a rough valuation?”
Mr. Majendie darted one of his sharp glances at Nightingale. “Why do you ask for that?”
Nightingale was incredulous that Majendie should need telling. “If there’s a reward offered, someone may inform. We can’t offer the reward, obviously, but we could co-operate with a firm of . . .”
“Of course, of course. But surely Ivan Karukhin would be prepared to indemnify . . .” Mr. Majendie stopped to look inquiringly at Nightingale, who said nothing. Mr. Majendie’s face grew thoughtful. “Well, well, no matter,” he said. “You shall have a valuation.”
“An estimate from memory would be enough. You spoke of a treasure,” he reminded Majendie quietly, “and of a considerable undertaking.”
Mr. Majendie frowned and put the tips of his fingers together. “Yes, but it’s very difficult—a treasure, certainly, especially to a lover of all forms of jewelry. But much of it would not have found a ready buyer; it belonged to an awkward period not yet restored to grace by the turn of taste and fashion. Most of the pieces would have had to have been broken up for the sake of the gems, and, even then, a great number of those were rose diamonds for which there’s almost no demand in modern jewelry. Again, some of the pieces were silver set—and silver, you know, has quite lost to platinum and palladium. So when I spoke of a considerable undertaking and the need to consult my partners, you must realize that it was in the sense of responsibility.” Mr. Majendie leaned forward to poke the fire.
“You had no misgivings, afterward, of the Princess’ ability to keep her property safe? Perhaps if you had set a security officer to watch . . .”
“But, my dear sir,” Mr. Majendie said in great surprise, “the trunk and its contents had not yet become our property. The firm, I am happy to say, was in no way dependent on the sale. Why should we have troubled?”
“I see,” said Nightingale. He rose. “Thank you very much for your help. I’m sorry I had to call so late in the evening.”
“Not at all, not at all. How pleasant, if duty were always so agreeable. Now if, tomorrow, I should be called out—at Christmas one must be prepared for anything—I’ll leave the list with my secretary, tell her to hand it to you personally.”
“Your secretary, the girl who sits in the empty lot in fine weather?”
“No, no, dear me, no! That’s Miss Cole, our youngest member of staff; came to us just over a year ago straight from school. Charming girl, charming. So agile—hockey, you know, lacrosse. Only the other day someone knocked a Chaffers off a shelf—underneath were some pieces of faience brought in from Sotheby’s, a most interesting pair of Strasbourg pigeon tureens. If you had seen Miss Cole move! Lightning, sir, positively lightning! Wonderful save. You frequent Fitch Street?”
Nightingale, who was wondering what a Chaffers might be, collected himself. “I’ve bought records from the shop next to yours,” he said.
Mr. Majendie’s face could not, probably would not, have altered more profoundly if Nightingale had uttered an abrupt obscenity. Nightingale decided to pursue the subject a little.
“I drove along Fitch Street this evening,” he said. “I see from a notice the record shop put up that they’re to extend their premises to that lot.” It occurred to him that Majendie’s apparent dislike of the record shop might be prompted by resentment at their having acquired a coveted space. “What used to stand there?”
“Elliman the florist. Poor fellow, never recovered from the blow—the bomb, you know. Lost all heart. Wouldn’t rebuild, wouldn’t claim war damage compensation—but wouldn’t part with the lease. Amazing obstinacy. Died a couple of years ago and the executors sold, of course. Uneconomic premises for a single business. Small, no egress at the back. We and the record people block the way. What strange anomalies of building exist in great cities. Fascinating. Rather dull, don’t you agree, if everything were regular and symmetrical? London may be a muddle, but it has a heart, a lively beating heart.”
“It certainly has,” said Nightingale, thinking of the turbulent central divisions of the Metropolitan area.
“You know,” said Mr. Majendie, “had the Princess’ trunk passed into my possession, I could have offered something of considerable interest to our phonographic neighbors. The Princess had two old records—oh, very old. Brought them away with her. She showed them to me. They were her favorites, she said, but as she’d no means of playing them, I might as well take them with the rest. Wonderful, and rather touching, that she should have preserved them for so long.”
“Was she interested in music?”
“Devoted, my dear si
r, devoted. She was a Vyestnitsky, and they were all musical. Her brother, Count Sergei—what an elegant man! I shall never forget his canes so long as I live. I was about to say, he had a collection of records quite famous at the time. That was, of course, the comparative infancy of recording. He was an enthusiast. So was Prince Sevastyan Karukhin. But not a pure enthusiast.” Mr. Majendie glanced up at Nightingale as if assessing his fitness to hear an inglorious revelation. “He had to outdo his brother-in-law. That was his motive for collecting. He built a studio in which to house and play his records—nothing if not thorough. Converted the hothouses.”
“How did he manage to do without those?”
“But the railways, you see, development of the railways.” Mr. Majendie seemed unaware of sarcasm. “Fruit and flowers could be rushed by special train from the southern estates. Often were, especially for balls and banquets. Kept them fresh on blocks of ice, you know.”
“What were the Princess’ records, can you remember?”
“I’m not much up with all that sort of thing. Let me see. Olimpia Boronat—does that convey anything to you?”
“That sounds possible. She was a Russian soprano. What was she singing, ‘The Last Rose of Summer’?”
“That I can’t remember. Now, who was the other singer? A hand-written label, a man’s name, French, I think. Something, I recall, that put me in mind of cigarettes . . .”
“Not De Reszke?”
“Why, splendid, Mr. Nightingale! That’s it. Jean de Reszke.”
“Jean!”
“But is he famous? I confess I’ve never heard of the fellow.”
Nightingale looked incredulously at Mr. Majendie. He could believe that a young person might not know of Jean de Reszke unless he had certain interests; but he had thought that before 1914, which was the period of Majendie’s otherwise receptive youth, names like Tamagno, Maurel, and De Reszke were still bandied in society with as much facility as W. G. Grace and Kaiser Bill. That was the impression some people liked to give.
“Offered to the right party,” he said, “an original record made by Jean de Reszke would probably realize as much as one of the Princess’ jewels.”
