Finally she turned to the folder with the Russian writing on the front. Inside she found what looked like accountants’ ledgers, with columns of figures and dates, none of which she could make out. There were also several sets of identity papers—she counted eight altogether—each with a grainy photograph of her father. He was a young man, but his distinctive brow, pronounced as a window ledge above his dark eyes, was the same as when she knew him.

At the back of the folder there was a leaflet with Russian writing and a blurred photograph printed on it. Val guessed it might be one of the Romanov girls and took out a book to compare it with. Olga had a melancholic look; Tatiana had a pixie face . . . It was Maria, she decided. Her face was plumper and her eyes bigger and rounder than the others’.

As she looked through these objects, Val’s mind was jumping around trying to make sense of things. Her father must have stolen them from the Ipatiev House along with the camera. She looked at the bag again: it was a carpet-bag shape with pleats where it was stitched beneath a gold buckle. The base was badly stained with dark blotches. She picked it up by the handles, and as she turned it around, she heard something rattle inside. A few pencils were rolling around the bottom and an object was trapped between the cloth lining and the outer leather.

She found a rip in the inside pocket through which she was able to pull out a rectangular gold-colored box, about half the size of a matchbox. On top there was a yellow stone, one large white one, and a scattering of smaller white ones. She could tell by shaking that there was something inside the box, but she couldn’t get it to open no matter how hard she tugged. There was a joint in the metal but it felt as if it had been fused shut. Perhaps the edges were rusted with age.

It felt odd looking through a stranger’s belongings, as if she was poking around in someone else’s handbag. It didn’t tell her anything about her father, except that he must have stolen these items. Why did he not sell them, as he had with all the other White Russian property he stole? He could surely have charged a premium.

Next day, she went back to see Bill Koskov in the Russian department at the university, taking the accounts ledgers, the identity papers, and the leaflet.

“What do you make of this lot?” she asked. “They all came from my father’s safe deposit box, and there was a Romanov photo album and a sketchbook with them.”

Bill opened one of the accounts books and frowned. Then he read the leaflet and his eyes widened.