“Far from it, my dear sir! Apart from the jewellery, everything on that list is made from or with gold. That was what the Princess was concerned for—saving the most valuable. Could she have foreseen the present trend of values—I wonder, should I say, of fashion?—she would have brought with her works by Fabergé in semi-precious materials, of which there were many in the Karukhin palace—some of these parasol handles, for one example, which I mentioned last night.”

“It isn’t all Fabergé, is it,” said Nightingale. “What’s this—Louis XV oval gold box, gem-set, enamelled—”

“Oh yes—several most interesting antiques, and among the jewellery also, though to a lesser extent, as fashion decreed that most old jewels should be refashioned from time to time. A few family pieces seem to have survived, however. Let me show you—yes, here, you see. Late eighteenth century floral spray, pavé rose diamonds, silver set. And here—these earrings. Also the enamelled watch, a very fine piece.”

Nightingale nodded. “And a record of Jean de Reszke! May I see the letters sent to you by the Princess, please?”

“Certainly—I have them ready, but I fear I should have forgotten—Please keep them, if they will be of use to you.”

“Thank you,” said Nightingale, resignedly watching Majendie’s plump fingerpads impressing themselves on the letters in a dozen places. He wondered whether Majendie had observed that his visitor hadn’t removed his gloves. He glanced rapidly at the letters, little more than notes. “French!” he exclaimed.

“The Princess always addressed me in French—whether originally to spare her ears or my tongue I don’t know.”

“So you told me. But it was a point she might be excused forgetting.”

“Quite so—but she didn’t forget. Amazing, wasn’t it? And her command of French, as you will see, appears little impaired by years of disuse. A remarkable mind.”

“Yes.” Nightingale slipped the papers into his wallet. As he folded the list of items, he glanced again at Majendie’s valuation. It seemed to him a little on the conservative side, for such a collection; but he remembered the rhodonite, and passed no comment. What would a Fabergé fanatic be prepared to give for a sample of his work? He couldn’t believe that the Hampstead people made such elaborate plans simply to acquire some gold which could be stripped of its enamel. They had a market somewhere for objets d’art, witness the removal of the shiny china so scorned by Beddoes. That meant there might be less need to despair of results from the careful observation he had wearily set in train last night. Objets d’art for a special market might still be stored somewhere in the country, even in London. The jewellery he couldn’t hope to save; it was probably already broken up and on its way out.