The Lost Relic

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Ben waited for more. It was quiet on the balcony, just the roar of a speedboat cutting across the sea audible in the distance and the murmur of the palms. The sun was beginning to dip closer towards the sea, a shimmering gold disc burning the water.

‘A painting?’ Darcey asked.

Mimi shook her head. ‘Not a painting. But a piece of art, yes. The Dark Medusa is one of the lost eggs created by Peter Carl Fabergé, jewellery-maker to the Russian Imperial court.’

From a forged Goya to a rich man’s pointless trinket. Ben said nothing.

The old woman went on: ‘Fabergé made thousands of wonderful ornate eggs, each with its own individual theme, and the one that Alexander Borowsky commissioned him to create was especially unique. The prince was an avid scholar of classical literature and mythology. He had read Ovid and Homer and Virgil in the original Greek and Latin, and the theme of the egg was intended to reflect this passion of his. It was so high,’ – she spaced her thin hands vertically about eight inches apart – ‘made of white gold, encrusted with diamonds, and around its outside were painted scenes from mythology. But the best part was inside. Each Fabergé egg contained a “surprise”. Sometimes a fabulous jewel, sometimes a miniature portrait or icon. This one contained a tiny gemstone bust of one of classical literature’s most infamous, terrible creations. The Medusa.’

‘The lady with the snakes for hair,’ Darcey said. ‘Who could turn men to stone with just one look.’

Mimi nodded. ‘And Fabergé’s Medusa had eyes just as penetrating. They were crafted from alexandrite, a rare gem that was known as the national stone of Imperial Russia, named after Tsar Alexander II. It could change colour, from deep red to vivid green, depending on the light. The rest of the figurine was cut from a single bloodstone. Almost black, with flecks of red iron oxide that looked like spatters of blood. Fabergé intended the effect to be striking, even frightening. Little wonder that his creation quickly became known as the Dark Medusa.’

Ben was fighting to anticipate where this story was leading. What was the connection between a Russian piece of jewellery and a fake Goya forged by an Italian countess? ‘You say this thing was lost. But the way you describe it, it sounds as if you’ve held it in your hand.’

Mimi gazed deeply at him, pursed her wrinkled lips, and went on. ‘The egg was so magnificent that it rivalled even the finest of the so-called Imperial eggs that Fabergé had created for the ruling Romanov family. Completely captivated by its beauty while on a visit to the Borowsky estate, Tsar Nicholas II offered Alexander whatever price he wanted for it. Even in 1903, it was worth millions. But Borowsky was too proud of it, and he told the Tsar that it was not for sale.

‘Tsar Nicholas was a greedy and unscrupulous man. Slighted, he sent a gang of thieves to steal the egg one night while the Borowskys were at the opera. Alexander was devastated at the loss. He strongly suspected who the culprit was, and that the egg was now in the Tsar’s Winter Palace. But he knew better than to complain. The Tsar answered to nobody and the Okhrana, his secret police, had unlimited powers to make people, as well as valuable objects, disappear into the night, never to be seen again.

‘So Alexander Borowsky wisely held his tongue. Years passed. Our story moves forward in time to the year 1917. By now, Alexander’s wealth was greater than ever. His son Leo was now twenty-two, a handsome and charming young prince.’

Ben nodded to himself. Of course. Now he remembered why the name Leo had been tugging at his memory. It was the painting he’d seen in the gallery. Gabriella Giordani’s portrait of the aristocratic-looking young man. So this was Leo.

‘He was not like so many of these indulged young rich boys we see today.’ Mimi gestured across the bay at the distant homes and palaces of Monaco. ‘Leo had many accomplishments. He was a violin virtuoso, a published poet, an expert horseman. No doubt he would have distinguished himself at the military career he was considering, when everything suddenly changed.’

‘The 1917 revolution,’ Ben said.

Mimi nodded. ‘Everyone is familiar with what happened next. Almost overnight, Tsar Nicholas was overthrown and imprisoned. After a short period of provisional government, the country fell to the rule of the revolutionary Bolsheviks, under Lenin. The country was plunged into turmoil, made worse by the fact that Russia was in the middle of fighting World War I at the same time. It was a time of brutal murder. The Bolsheviks executed the Tsar and his family. The new secret police rounded up the aristocracy, confiscated their property, their assets, everything. Sonja, Natasha and Kitty Borowsky were taken and sent to a women’s prison, never to be heard of again. Alexander Borowsky and his younger brother were incarcerated in Spalernaia prison, where in 1919 they were executed by firing squad on the orders of the Bolshevik committee. Only Leo managed to escape. Now he was a fugitive, virtually penniless. He fell in with a counter-revolutionary group angered at the duplicity and brutality of the Bolsheviks. One dictatorship had simply been replaced by another.’

‘Tell us something new,’ Ben said.

‘Meanwhile, the Bolsheviks were loading their coffers with booty stripped from the aristocracy. Word reached Leo and some of his friends that the Dark Medusa had been among a hoard of treasures taken from the Winter Palace and stored in a warehouse together with piles of artwork, gold, silver and other valuables. They conspired to steal the egg back. Russia was flooded with weapons from the war, and so it was easy for them to procure rifles.

‘The robbery was successful,’ Mimi went on. ‘And yet, at the same time it was disastrous. Leo and his friends were able to get inside the warehouse. But while they were searching for the egg, the revolutionary guards were alerted and the place was surrounded. They were compelled to shoot their way out. Many were killed. Leo was the only one who got away alive. But he had his egg.

‘Now he set off to flee from Russia. He had just enough money salvaged to bribe his way across the border, but it was a dangerous journey. Russia was in a state of anarchy. Gangs of leaderless soldiers were roaming the country in those final days of the war, descending on villages, raping and murdering women and girls while their menfolk were hacked to pieces with bayonets to save ammunition. It was unsafe to travel the roads. Leo did not dare to attempt the journey with such a precious cargo. Too much blood had been shed to lose it to bandits. So he hid his treasure in a secret place and drew a map to mark its location, vowing that one day, when the madness was over, he would come back and get it.

‘He was lucky. He managed to flee into exile in Europe, where he found haven among members of the nobility sympathetic to the plight of the Russian aristocracy. He was able to survive, playing on his charm and title and giving music lessons to the children of the wealthy. Then, in 1925, nearly eight years after fleeing his homeland, he came to stay as a guest in the home of an Italian count, near Rome.’

‘Let me guess,’ Ben said. ‘Count Rodingo De Crescenzo.’