Free The Final Fabergé by Thomas Swan Page B

uncovered in historic Scotland Yard?”
    Oxby smiled. “Hadn’t thought of that, but I might.” He pulled away the chair in front of Heston’s desk and settled into it. From his shirt pocket he took out a business card and put it in front of Heston.
    â€œRing a bell?” Oxby asked.
    Heston reacted immediately. “Of course. Christopher Forbes is the son of Malcolm Forbes. I knew the father slightly. Met him at the time he bought Old Battersea House.” Heston grinned. “The old boy enjoyed a good time. Rode motorcycles, began going out with Liz Taylor. What are you doing with Chris?”
    â€œKip, as he likes to be called, wants me to find an egg.”
    Heston ran a finger slowly down the length of his nose and made a wry face. “What sort of an egg?”
    â€œStart with the fact that Kip helped his father accumulate the largest private collection of Fabergé Imperial eggs in the world.”
    â€œI didn’t know it was larger than the Queen’s, but answer my question. What egg does Kip Forbes want you to find?”
    â€œAn Imperial egg commissioned by Grigori Rasputin.”
    A disbelieving frown erupted on Heston’s face. “That’s preposterous. Who thinks there’s such an egg?”
    â€œApparently, quite a few people. It’s one of those delicious rumors
that’s been around since Rasputin was assassinated. It was given new life a short time ago when a newspaper article appeared in Schaffhausen, Switzerland. Forbes sent me a copy of it. It seems that a ninety-four-year-old spinster died without heirs or a will. When the court examined her little estate, they found a trunk containing records belonging to her father, a man named August Hollming. Hollming had been an assistant workmaster in Fabergé’s shops in St. Petersburg at the time of the revolution.”
    Oxby handed a copy of the newspaper clipping to Heston. “You read German.”
    â€œPassably,” Heston said.
    â€œYou’ll see that Hollming exchanged notes with other workers in Fabergé’s workshop. One of the notes refers to Rasputin.”
    Heston read the clipping. He said, “Fabergé must have known that Rasputin was a charlatan. Hell, the man was a drunk, and a womanizer.”
    â€œNot to Alexandra. The Czarina thought he was a saint. She believed he’d saved her son’s life more than once. Besides, women liked the scoundrel and gave him jewels or gold. That’s how he could pay Fabergé, and rather well, I imagine.”
    â€œOn the basis of this paltry piece of news from, where the hell was it—Schaffhausen? You’re going to leave the Yard and a future—?”
    â€œElliott, don’t be redundant. We’ve covered that ground.”
    â€œBut you’ve got to have more to go on than a newspaper clipping.”
    â€œI have.” Oxby produced a second piece of paper, unfolded it, and showed it to Heston.
    â€œIt’s a handwritten note by Henrik Wigstrom to August Hollming in November of 1915. They were both Finns, so it’s written in Finnish. Forbes came on to it somehow through his contacts in Geneva. At that time, 1915, Wigstrom was the head workmaster for the Imperial eggs. I can’t read Finnish but I’m told the note merely confirms a detail concerning the construction of an Imperial egg. All I can make out are three numerals: 2, 11, and 9.”
    Heston took the memorandum, glanced at it quickly, then gave it back to Oxby.
    â€œI’m not impressed.”
    â€œI didn’t think you would be.”
    Heston shook his head, then sighed heavily and said, “So you’re going on an Easter egg hunt?”
    â€œIt looks that way. First I’ll confirm that Rasputin gave Fabergé a
commission. Then, and I don’t expect it will be easy, I’ve got to be convinced that the bloody thing still exists. That it wasn’t blown up or melted down in the war. If it all