“I read a book by a Russian historian a couple of years ago that claimed the Romanovs had been murdered by ‘Letts,’ or foreigners.” He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “The Russians still won’t take responsibility for it themselves. A classic case of passing the buck.”

“Who do you think gave the order?” Val asked. “Did it come from Lenin?”

“There’s no paper trail from the top. It seems to have been the men of the Ekaterinburg soviet who made the final decision.” He grimaced. “But Lenin had already created the Cheka, and they had the power to order summary executions without trial. You can imagine the sort of men they attracted: power-hungry and unscrupulous . . .” He looked as if he was about to say more, then stopped himself. “I’m sorry. I’m not suggesting your father was like that.”

Val screwed up her face. “It’s horrible to accept,” she said. “But I suppose he might have been.”

She agreed that Bill could make copies of the documents and fax them to his colleague in New York. There was no point trying to protect her father’s name. If Bill’s theory was true, he didn’t deserve protection.

* * *

She took the gold box to Hardy Brothers, an upmarket jeweler near Darling Harbor.

“This is Fabergé,” the jeweler said, peering through a loupe at the almost indecipherable engraving on the back. “It has the maker’s mark HW. Those are the initials of the man who made it.”

Val wasn’t surprised to hear it. “Fabergé were jewelers to the Romanovs, weren’t they?”

“Among others. They had wealthy customers across Europe. How did it come into your possession?”

“It was my father’s,” she replied. She couldn’t tell this man that she thought it might have belonged to one of the Romanov family without inviting awkward questions.

“Do you know the provenance?” he asked, as if reading her mind.

She shook her head. “I found it among his possessions after he passed away. But I wondered if you know how to open it? There seems to be something inside.”

The jeweler peered at the edges. “There’s a mechanism sealing it. It’s one of their trick boxes, where you have to know the secret.” He tried pressing on the jewels, twisting them, but nothing seemed to work. “You would have to contact Fabergé themselves, or find someone who is a Fabergé expert. I could cut it open for you, of course, but that would be a waste.”

“Do you know any Fabergé experts in Sydney?” Val asked, but he shook his head.

“Sorry. It’s not my area.”