‘Naturally,’ GeGurra said, giving his guest a look of disapproval. ‘No little electric motor with a battery, if that’s what you think is missing, because such things had, fortunately, not been invented at the time. Instead, there was an incredibly intricate spring mechanism which filled a bladder made out of reinforced balloon silk with air, and transformed a nose into a flute with the help of the extension of the nose. We’re talking artistic craftsmanship here, my friend, and there could scarcely be a finer example of craftsmanship anywhere.’
‘You said it was made of gold,’ Bäckström said slowly. He was struggling somewhat with his short-term memory as the admittedly excellent cognac fought back.
‘Only the best was good enough for Carl Fabergé and his most prestigious customer,’ GeGurra declared. ‘The box was made of gold but covered in enamel of various colours. Pinocchio has a red cap, a yellow jacket and green trousers, and the total weight of the actual box is a little less than a kilo. But if that’s what we’re talking about, we mustn’t forget the key or the case in which the musical box was kept.’
‘Tell me,’ Bäckström said. Now we’re getting somewhere, he thought, as the cognac had just given up and his short-term memory was suddenly working perfectly again. That little figure with the red cap clearly wasn’t some ordinary whisky carafe, he thought.
‘The key that was used to wind up the musical box was made of gold as well, white gold,’ GeGurra said. ‘It was also set with twelve diamonds, a total of thirty-two carats. As far as the case is concerned, the one the musical box was kept in, it was made of ebony and jacaranda, with gold inlays and reinforcement. There’s also some onyx intarsia work on the lid, in the shape of the imperial double-headed eagle. As I said earlier, Bäckström, Carl Fabergé wasn’t a man who left anything to chance.’
At last, Bäckström thought, but made do with a nod. Now he had to think quickly. Not show his cards unnecessarily. GeGurra is more than capable of stealing your fingers from you when you shake hands on a deal, he thought.
84
Fortunately for Bäckström, who needed some time to think, GeGurra didn’t want to talk about money when he resumed his story.
‘The musical box was ready in good time for the Easter celebrations in 1908. As usual, everyone was given their presents on Easter Saturday. Of course, Easter was the biggest festivity in those days. Alexei’s mother and grandmother each received an egg. Maria Pavlovna, who of course was the tsar’s cousin and had grown up in the tsar’s family since she was a young girl, is said to have received a full set of jewellery for gala occasions in advance of her impending marriage – bracelet, necklace, earrings and tiara, all in white gold, set with diamonds and sapphires. There was no skimping, if I can put it like that,’ GeGurra said with a contented smile.
‘Perish the thought,’ Bäckström said, suddenly in a quite excellent mood. Not the sort of woman you’re likely to pick up on the internet, he thought.
‘Happiest of all was little Alexei,’ GeGurra said. ‘There was no doubt that his musical box was the best present he had ever been given. Every day he would play it, and he was just as pleased each time Pinocchio’s nose started to grow. I’d imagine that it was his beloved music teacher, Anna Maria, who had to wind it up for him.’
Well, he does seem to have been a bit soft in the head, Bäckström thought, but satisfied himself with a grunt of agreement. Probably not all that surprising, really, given all the inbreeding that lot got up to.
‘His delight lasted until a week or so before the big wedding between Maria Pavlovna and Prince Wilhelm,’ GeGurra sighed.
‘What happened then?’
‘A terrible accident,’ GeGurra said. ‘Alexei’s cherished musical box almost managed to kill him.’
‘What the fuck are you saying?’ Bäckström for some reason found himself thinking about little Edvin. How had that happened?
‘At a guess, he put Pinocchio’s nose in his mouth,’ GeGurra said. ‘Little children do that sort of thing, of course, they try to put things in their mouths and suck on them.’
‘Go on,’ Bäckström said. Now we’re really getting somewhere, he thought.
The accident happened eight days before the big wedding. At night, Alexei’s cherished musical box was kept in a cupboard in the dressing room next to his bedchamber. That night, he must have woken up and gone to get it. The two guards who were supposed to protect him round the clock must have been fast asleep, as not even the sound of the musical box woke them.
Alexei lies in bed, playing with the musical box, and it’s unclear how Pinocchio’s growing nose ends up in his mouth – if he puts it there himself or if it ends up there while he was dozing. He suffers severe cuts to his gums, tongue and throat and, when his guards are finally woken by the gurgling sounds he’s making, he’s well on the way to choking on his own blood.
‘It was the holes on the underside of the nose that injured him, the holes that made Pinocchio’s nose work as a flute,’ GeGurra explained. ‘Their edges were very sharp, and because neither Hügel nor Rimsky-Korsakov was aware of his illness, they hadn’t taken it into consideration at all. If they had, no doubt they would have constructed a more traditional musical box.’
Little Alexei had floated between life and death for several days. Tsar Nicholas was in a desperate state, and his wife, Alexandra, was unable to offer him any comfort. She was confined to her bed, and the idea that she might be able to provide him with a new heir if the worst happened was out of the question. It was also her side of the family that had introduced haemophilia into the Romanov dynasty. So everyone had set their hopes on Rasputin.
‘Rasputin,’ GeGurra said, shaking his head. ‘You must have heard of him, Bäckström?’
‘I’ve heard the name,’ Bäckström answered with a shrug. Wasn’t he some old Russian serial killer?
‘Grigori Rasputin had arrived at the tsar’s court three years earlier. He was the son of a peasant, a monk and religious mystic, but the reason he ended up at the imperial court was that he was also a healer and was supposed to possess miraculous powers. He had treated Alexei on several previous occasions and had managed to stem his bleeding with the help of hypnosis and the laying on of hands. Quite how is unclear, but it seemed to work, and it did so again on this occasion. Just a couple of days before the wedding, Alexei was out of danger. He remained in bed for several more weeks, which is why he doesn’t appear in the family photographs of Maria Pavlovna’s wedding, but he recovers, he survives, and Rasputin’s power at court is greater than ever. In spite of the fact that he was, in other respects, a fairly primitive person.’
‘Primitive? How do you mean?’
‘The name Rasputin was adopted. His real name was Grigori Novich. In Russian, “Rasputin” means a lewd, dissolute person, and he certainly lived up to the name. There’s no doubt about that. He had a terrible weakness for women and drink, and other drugs too, for that matter, a proper rake. The year before the revolution, in 1916, he was murdered by a group of noblemen from the tsar’s court. They must have got fed up with him in the end. According to legend, it took a ridiculous number of bullets and knife wounds before he finally died.’
‘Tragic story,’ Bäckström said with a nod. Sad end to a decent bloke, he thought. Daresay the only thing he did wrong was having it off with their other halves.
‘The most interesting thing about this story of Pinocchio’s nose almost killing little Alexei is the political thoughts going through the tsar’s mind at the time. Quite a lot has emerged from recent historical research into the Romanov family. Things that are of great political interest, I mean.’
‘Is that something you could explain in more detail?’ Bäckström asked. He needed more time to think, and now had no problem with GeGurra banging on while he did so.
‘Of course, of course,’ GeGurra assured him, scarcely able to conceal his surprise. ‘It’s certainly not a secret, but the point of what these historians claim is that, if Alexei had died, the tsar would
probably have chosen to abdicate. The more liberal forces in Russian society at that time would have stood a good chance of taking over, and most of the evidence suggests that there wouldn’t have been a revolution. The Bolsheviks would never have been able to take power the way they did in the revolution of 1917, and Lenin would have become a historical footnote. Not the founder of the greatest dictatorship in world history.’
‘Is that so?’ Bäckström said, nodding interestedly.
‘I’m not the only one to think that,’ GeGurra said. ‘It’s the conclusion that many notable Russian historians have reached today. I, of course, am only a simple dilettante when it comes to politics, but what I’ve read on the subject has left quite an impression.’
Bäckström nodded again, which was more than enough encouragement for GeGurra to carry on.
Not the usual political musings on the theme of what might have been. No, serious historical research from the past few years, and – for some reason – research which has only been possible since Russia shrugged off the Soviet yoke. ‘Since the search for the truth is no longer being directed by politicians,’ as GeGurra chose to sum up the situation.
At the time of his son’s accident with the musical box given to him by his father, Tsar Nicholas was tormented by political doubts. The Russian people were suffering. There was great, and growing, social tension. Large parts of the middle class and many leading academics were openly opposed to him. After the failure of the war against Japan, he had also realized that he could no longer rely on his own military. There had been armed revolts in several regiments and units of the army and navy. During the 1905 revolution, the Winter Palace in St Petersburg had been stormed, in the belief that he and his family were there. The intention had been to take them captive, depose him from the throne, and perhaps even kill him and members of his family.
The things that are going on around him, things he can see with his own eyes, hear with his own ears, have little in common with what his closest advisors are telling him to do. Russian aristocrats, soldiers and the owners of estates the size of some European countries, men who are implacable, belligerent, unwilling to make even the slightest compromise, men who are unwilling to hold out a single finger to the Russian people, let alone a hand.
And then his beloved son suffers this latest accident, because of a gift he himself has given him, which very nearly kills him. Tsar Nicholas is in despair, and the night after the accident he makes a confession to his personal spiritual guide. If his son dies, this can only be a sign from God that Nicholas no longer has His support. Which would mean that he would withdraw and hand over power to the men who may have opposed him and his way of leading Russia but were, nonetheless, men who can be reasoned with.
‘But of course that isn’t what happened,’ GeGurra said. ‘Alexei survives and, according to the tsar’s advisors, the good Lord couldn’t give a stronger sign than that. Everything must remain as it has always been, carry on just as before, and nine years later the Russian Revolution is a political fact. And of course the whole process was only accelerated by the immense Russian losses during the First World War.’ GeGurra nodded thoughtfully, as even political dilettantes are prone to doing.
‘So what happened to the musical box? Once the little lad was better, I mean,’ Bäckström asked. He had finished thinking and wanted to get back to the more pertinent financial matters as quickly as possible.
The tsar had given the musical box to Maria Pavlovna – on condition that she took it to Sweden so that he would never have to set eyes on it again and be reminded of what had happened.
‘According to some sources, she specifically asked for it,’ GeGurra said. ‘If she hadn’t, it would probably have been sent back to Fabergé.’
‘But it wasn’t,’ Bäckström said. Mustn’t forget that business with the province, he thought.
‘No,’ GeGurra confirmed. ‘But it was removed from their records. The business of Alexei’s illness was a state secret, of course, but people talk, and presumably they were perfectly aware that what had happened really wasn’t terribly pleasant. Not least for Carl Fabergé and his jewellery company. But the fact that it was created for the tsar is beyond all doubt.’
‘You’re quite sure about that?’ Bäckström said. ‘Entirely sure?’
‘Entirely sure. The Communists took over the business in 1918. Client records and stock and everything. And, of course, the client records were of particular interest to them, because they planned to reclaim what they believed Fabergé’s customers had stolen from the Russian people. But Fabergé and his colleagues weren’t stupid, and had already tried to remove anything that could lead back to the most sensitive of their clients. So there was no record of the tsar ever having ordered a musical box. According to the order book and their client records, anyway. When modern historians went through Fabergé’s old files – and there were vast amounts when the archive was finally opened up in the early nineties – they were able to find both Hügel’s designs, descriptions of the work, orders for the components and invoices. There is also a comprehensive amount of correspondence with Rimsky-Korsakov. Even his music, in various different versions that were produced as the work progressed. The fact that Carl Fabergé produced a musical box in the shape of Pinocchio is categorically beyond doubt.’
I’m inclined to agree with you, as I’ve held it in my hand, Bäckström thought, and nodded.
The existence of the musical box was a fact. But far more was shrouded in mystery as a result of the chaos that had followed the revolution, and not least the fact that almost all of those most closely involved had lost their lives.
‘The tsar and all his family, including Alexei, who was thirteen years old by then, were murdered by the Communists in the summer of 1918. The same fate befell hundreds more members of the Russian aristocracy and the Romanov dynasty.’
‘What about the Italian woman? She was the one who started it, wasn’t she, if I’ve understood correctly? The business with Pinocchio, I mean.’
‘For her and Sergei, the story actually has a happy ending. They left Russia just a couple of months after the wedding between Maria Pavlovna and Prince Wilhelm. Sergei may have been a bad Russian, but he was also a very crafty Russian, so he prepared in good time and transferred most of his fortune to Europe. They got married and moved to Italy, dividing their time between the palace in Florence and the French Riviera, where they had a magnificent villa built on Cap Ferrat, and travelled all round Europe and the rest of the world. Beautiful Anna Maria Francesca di Biondi went on to have seven children with Prince Sergei. She died in 1975 at the age of ninety-two. Her husband lived to a very respectable age as well. He may have been twenty-eight years older than her, but he’s supposed to have been over ninety when he shuffled off this mortal coil.’
‘Okay,’ Bäckström said, throwing his hands out. ‘So what can I do for you?’
‘Several things,’ GeGurra said with an amiable nod.
‘I’m listening.’
‘To start with, you can help me find eleven icons and one musical box,’ GeGurra said. ‘If I’ve understood correctly, our lawyer, Eriksson, was murdered in his home out in Ålsten.’
‘Correct,’ Bäckström said with a nod. ‘That’s no secret.’
‘If I know you at all, my dear friend, by this time you will be very familiar with the situation at the crime scene.’
‘There’s nothing for you to worry about on that score,’ Bäckström said. ‘The sad thing about that is that we haven’t found any icons, or a musical box.’
‘Not good,’ GeGurra said with a concerned shake of his head. ‘Of course, he could have had them in storage somewhere. You wouldn’t be able to look into that while you’re investigating his affairs?’
‘By all means,’ Bäckström said. ‘But I’m afraid to say there’s information which suggests that might not have been the case, and this must stay strictly between us.’
‘What?’
‘Witness statements,’ Bä
ckström said, with a heavy, sombre nod. ‘According to witnesses we’ve spoken to, two people, probably the perpetrators, were seen carrying out some white removal boxes immediately after Eriksson was beaten to death. If there had been any old Russian paintings in the house, I daresay we would have found them. There weren’t any. I can promise you that much.’
‘What you’ve just said saddens me greatly,’ GeGurra said. From the look on his face, it wasn’t the nature of Eriksson’s death that was troubling him.
‘It’ll work out,’ Bäckström said with a shrug. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘Two more things, perhaps. Firstly, how that painting by Versjagin ended up among all those others. It’s a complete mystery. Quite regardless of the fact that it was painted by a Russian artist, it has no business being in that collection. It was never owned by either Maria Pavlovna or Prince Wilhelm. It was bought at auction in London towards the end of the Second World War, only to pop up here in Sweden seventy years later. It just doesn’t make sense.’
‘And the second thing?’ Bäckström said. ‘What’s that?’ Things usually make sense, sooner or later, he thought, wise, as he was, from experience.
‘The business of provenance,’ said GeGurra. ‘First, Maria Pavlovna, then Prince Wilhelm, that much is clear. I could do with knowing what happened to the pieces after that. The idea that Wilhelm’s son, Lennart, could have inherited them doesn’t seem terribly likely, as he’s spent almost his whole life abroad, whereas most of the evidence suggests that the various items never left Sweden.’
‘You want to know who commissioned Eriksson to sell the pieces,’ Bäckström said. ‘But you mentioned something about me falling off my chair when you told me who you thought it might be.’
‘The evidence suggests that it ought to be a relative of Prince Wilhelm. When I asked Eriksson, all he would say was that the collection had been owned by the same family for three generations, but of course there are quite a few Bernadottes to choose from. I haven’t managed to get anywhere with my own investigations, but there ought to be a power of attorney, something like that, if Eriksson was representing a client, as he claimed. A power of attorney given to Eriksson by his client, I mean.’
The Sword of Justice Page 32
