Mr. Majendie reminded Nightingale of a small fat silver-haired hamster; or perhaps a round silver teapot, spouting puffs of steam, was nearer the mark, including as it did the loquacity, so gentle and fussy and quasi old-fashioned. Nightingale felt more than a touch of scepticism. He didn’t imagine that a leading figure in the trade of fine jewellery, objects of art, and antiques, had reached or held his position by conducting business in loving kindness. Majendie the plump household pet, blinking over the top of rimless spectacles, babbling persiflage, inclining the head in urbane courtesy, was all the time marking the flaw, the crack, the fake; or concealing jubilation at an unsuspected treasure. From behind those innocent lenses could shoot a glance of extreme shrewdness, such a one as Nightingale had witnessed in the midst of Majendie’s professions of surprise and regret. The professions were genuine, he thought, within the limitations of Majendie’s speech. How distressing—thus Majendie received news of Princess Karukhin’s death; but accompanying was a flash of great relief, not to say satisfaction, as if Majendie said to himself, and from his heart: how fortunate.

“It would be interesting to know,” Mr. Majendie said now, stretching his short legs to the fire, “how our estimable police force discovered that Princess Karukhin had been a client of ours.” He paused for a moment to peep invitingly at Nightingale, who smiled politely. “Ah, I’m not permitted, I see. Such a pity.”

Mr. Majendie’s face grew serious. “But the Princess,” he murmured. “Dear me, how sad! One feels, you know, that an era has closed. And what an era! We shall never see its like, my dear sir. Never.”

“No,” said Nightingale in a neutral tone. Eras must close quite commonly for Majendie. “When you said that the princess was a client of yours, did you mean a former client?”

Mr. Majendie blinked sweetly. “She was still honouring us with her patronage. We called on her, you know, as late as last week.”

“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 post?”

“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 jewellery 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, I remember, and an enamelled 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?”