The Star of Kazan

27 The Uncle’s Story

Baron von Keppel was in bed, but though it was well past midnight, he was not asleep. His joints always hurt more at night and he had got used to reading, sometimes into the small hours.

There were many patients in Bad Haxenfeld who only slept fitfully. Lights were left on in the corridors of the hotels; porters and pageboys were on duty to check the window locks and renew carafes of drinking water.

So when he heard a knock at the door the Baron said, ‘Come in,’ readily enough.

But it was not one of the usual attendants who stood there.

‘Good heavens, Zed! What is it? Has Edeltraut thrown you out?’

‘In a way.’

Zed wore the armband he put on to work in the hotel. He was known to the staff. No one had stopped him as he rode Rocco into the stable yard of the Majestic and made his way upstairs.

‘Well, I’ll give you a job. My usual man is bone idle — I’ve been wanting to get rid of him.’

‘Thank you, sir. Maybe one day, but I’m in a hurry. Only I want to ask you something. It’s important.’

Now that he had broken his flight from Spittal, Zed was angry with himself. He had to get away as quickly as possible, not waste time getting mixed up in Annika’s affairs.

The Baron had put down his book. ‘Well, what is it?’

‘It’s about when the jewellers were here — three months ago.’

The Baron looked at him suspiciously. ‘What about them?’

‘You began to tell me something one of them had said. About a man in Paris and a dancer. Then Lady Georgina came and interrupted us and when we went on you’d forgotten what you were going to say.’

‘Yes,’ said the Baron sadly. ‘I’m afraid that happens to me more and more often. It’s dreadful getting old. This morning I forgot my grandmother’s Christian name. I had to look in the family Bible. It turned out to be Serafina. Youwouldn’t think one would forget a name like that.’

‘No. But I’d like you to try and remember the story you were going to tell me about the jeweller in Paris. The one with a crooked back.’

The Baron turned his head away. He seemed to be thinking. ‘It’s gone right out of my head,’ he said apologetically. ‘Unless it was the one about the emperor’s sword stick and the doughnut?’

‘No,’ said Zed very quietly. ‘It was the one about the jeweller in Paris. The one with the crooked back.’ He paused and turned the lamp so that the light shone directly into the Baron’s eyes. ‘I would really like it very much if you would try to remember that.’

The Baron backed away from the light. He was remembering the other side of Zed: not the obedient bath attendant but the wild boy with Romany blood. There had been a band of gypsies in the neighbourhood a week or two ago. Perhaps they were camped outside, ready to rush upstairs and cut his throat.

‘I only overheard snatches of the conversation,’ he said. ‘There were two men in the cubicle next to me. One was Viennese, judging by his accent, and the other one was French. It was the Frenchman who was telling the story. He’d just come back from Paris and he’d been to Fabrice’s, the big jeweller in the Champs-Elysées, to do some business. It’s one of the most famous firms in France and it used to belong to a man who was a bit of a legend. He had a crooked back and never married and he put all his feelings into his work. He used to make pieces for the tsar of Russia and people like that.’

Zed was listening intently. ‘Go on, please, sir.’

‘This man — the one with the crooked back — was in love with an actress, a chorus girl really. She used to swing high up over the stage and strew flowers…’

‘La Rondine,’ said Zed.

The Baron looked at him, startled. ‘Yes. Something like that. The spotlight was on her face when she scattered the flowers and Crookback said she looked so joyous. Anyway, she went off with a painter and when she came back no one would employ her. But she still had her jewels and they were fabulous. She had the Star of Kazan and a chain of Burmese rubies and a butterfly brooch some duke had given her…

The Baron stopped speaking. He was frowning, staring at the curtained window. Then he sighed and went on.

‘You have to remember I was next door; I didn’t hear all of it. The Viennese chap he was telling the story to was a great splasher. Some people can’t get into a bath without flooding the place. But it seems this actress, this Rondine, used to bring her jewels to Crookback to sell when she needed money, and he would take them and give her the price the pieces had fetched in the open market. And it was a fortune. Millions and millions of francs…

‘But because he loved her he had the pieces he sold for her copied in paste or glass and gave them to her. Her eyesight wasn’t very good by then and she used to hold the copies in her hands just as she’d done with the originals. She knew they weren’t real, but she loved them just the same. She talked to them. You know what lonely people are like.’

‘Yes,’ said Zed. ‘But that wasn’t all, was it?’

‘No. Apparently after Crookback died they went through his books and accounts and they couldn’t find any record of the sales. And no one knew who had made the copies either, which really surprised them because everything has to be written down a hundred times for the tax people.’

The Baron stopped again, but Zed was still looking at him with those strange flecked eyes.

‘The jeweller who was telling the story went out to supper with one of the partners in the firm. He was a very old man — the partner — and he didn’t have much longer to live, but he’d been Crookback’s apprentice all those years ago. And he swore that Crookback had never sold the jewels at all; he just gave them back to her and paid her the money out of his own pocket. Of course, you can say he was a very rich man, but I’ve never heard that rich men are famous for their generosity. He must have loved her very much.’

‘And no one ever knew?’ asked Zed.

‘Only this apprentice — and he said nothing till he knew he was dying. I suppose he got tired of hearing jewellers described as greedy and money-grabbing.’

‘I see. Did he say anything else — about what happened to La Rondine?’

The Baron turned his face away. ‘She went back to Vienna. She came from there and one of her relatives took her in — her nephew was a councillor, a pompous and disagreeable man. She died in his house and everyone thought she died penniless; he was complaining about having to look after her. Apparently she left an old trunk with all her possessions to some orphan who had befriended her.’ There was a pause. ‘The jewellers were wondering how that had turned out.’

The Baron had finished.

‘And you told this story to your niece? To Frau Edeltraut?’

‘Yes, I did. But I swear I had no idea — even when I met Annika I didn’t guess — not till the Eggharts came. But Edeltraut was desperate. She’d have done anything to save Spittal.’

Zed nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you, sir.’

‘You believe me, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Not that it matters. I’m too old to worry about the future. I wouldn’t have told you now except for the galoshes. Annika’s a nice little thing. If Edeltraut took the child’s jewels she should have shared. You don’t steal from your own daughter.’

Zed had finished his story.

‘So you see,’ he said, looking round the professors’ kitchen, ‘if the story is true and the jewels in the trunk were priceless, then Annika has been most cruelly robbed.’