“We brought it.” Grace set the case on the table between them.
“May I?” Caulfield asked Grace.
She nodded.
He opened the case, and his breath caught. “Oh my.” He lifted the blue enamel egg, pulling his phone from a pocket and a stand from his satchel. Instead of using the outdoor light, he mounted his phone in the stand and turned on the flashlight, holding the egg underneath it. “The color is extraordinary. Thisshade of blue is called bleu roi. Fabergé used it on several of the Imperial Eggs.”
“The jeweler back home said the gold was real,” Grace said. “And the stones.”
Caulfield produced a loupe and examined the surface. “The enamel appears to be guilloché, which is consistent with Fabergé’s technique. Multiple layers, each one fired separately. You can see the depth, the way the light moves through it, and how the color almost hovers above the surface.”
He pressed the small catch, and the egg opened to reveal the golden yolk. Another soft sound escaped him. He lifted the loupe again, studying the seam.
“The hen is inside,” Grace said.
He opened the yolk and sighed as he withdrew the hen. “She’s beautiful.”
Grace pointed to the seam on the hen’s breast. “This one opens, too, but I’m not sure how.”
Caulfield nodded slowly, lowering the loupe. “I’d prefer not to attempt that here. If the interior mechanism has degraded at all, forcing it could cause damage. I have the proper tools at my office.” He raised his brows at her. “We can go now, if you’re available?”
“We’ll schedule something,” I said from my position.
Caulfield’s gaze flicked to me, then back to Grace. “Of course. I understand caution.” He set the loupe down and reached into his satchel, pulling out a worn leather portfolio. “In the meantime, let me show you something.”
He opened the portfolio to reveal a black-and-white photograph. It was blurry, but showed two tall display cases full of Imperial Eggs. “This photograph was taken at an exhibition in 1902. Most of these eggs are now accounted for, whether they’re in museums, private collections, or some still held by the Kremlin. But this one...” He tapped the image. “You can barelymake it out in the back, but it’s certainly egg-shaped and roughly the same size as the first egg. It doesn’t match any of the other known eggs.”
“You think the photograph is of the Hen with Sapphire Pendant?”
“I believe it is,” Caulfield said. “And this one is the right size and shape. The real one’s been missing since 1922 without any confirmed sightings or auction records.” His eyes cut briefly to the window. “If your egg is what I think it is, Ms. Laurent, you’re holding a piece of history that collectors have been searching for for over a century.”
“How much would it be worth?” Grace asked.
“Authenticated by experts, but without a solid proper provenance chain?” He shook his head slowly. “Twenty million, at least. More if we had provenance.”
Grace didn’t blink. “I did some research before we left, and twenty was about what I’d expected.”
“Of course…” Caulfield held his hands out. “This egg? It would cause a sensation, and the price would depend entirely on who wanted it badly enough.”
“How does the sale get structured? I assume you don’t simply wire twenty million and hope the authentication holds up.”
“No, quite right.” Caulfield eased back, waggling a finger at her. “It’s an appropriate question, though. For pieces at this level, authentication and payment are typically mutually conditional. The funds would be held in escrow with a specialist firm and released upon formal authentication by an agreed-upon panel. The seller can’t be paid without authentication, and the buyer can’t take possession without payment.”
Grace nodded, something shrewd and unexpected showing from underneath the chipper coffee shop owner exterior. This was a side to her I hadn’t been expecting, but it was good to see she was prepared for the conversation. “And a specialist firmbecause a regular bank wouldn’t have the expertise to verify the terms were met?”
“Precisely. There are perhaps three firms I’d recommend. I have relationships with two.”
“That’s wonderful.” She sighed, staring down at the egg. “It was my grandmother’s. She passed away last year, and we found it in her jewelry collection.”
“And whom did she acquire it from?”
“I don’t know, but if you had resources that could help me figure it out, I’d appreciate it.”
Caulfield pulled a pen and a small notebook from his satchel. “It would help to have her history, such as where she lived or where she traveled. Any connection to Russia, or to the émigré community after the Revolution.”
“She grew up in London, lived here during the war, and moved to the States after she met my grandfather.”
“Fascinating.” Caulfield jotted notes as they spoke. “And after? Did she travel to the Continent?”
