Russian Bear

By J. G. Abbey

In 1927 Edward, Prince of Wales made a Royal visit to Canada to solidify the British Monarchy with the Dominion. The Prince spent part of that visit at his Alberta ranch and what if, he made a gift of a Faberge Imperial Egg that later became part of a bequest to Kananaskis University?

Out of spite for her abusive husband, the wife of the Chairman of the Board of Governors steals the egg that is part of that bequest. Dr. Trenwith Morrisey is ordered to recover the egg only to find covetous behaviour, lies and deceit prevailing among faculty members. Follow a trail of greed, arrogance and murder as Tren discovers personal failings and learns that colleagues' agendas are more highly valued than truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. G. Abbey
• Release date: Apr 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9780988038400

Book preview

Chapter 1

London, England

Tuesday, March 1, 1927

Trouble. Long and winding roads lead to trouble and of that Anthony Newbegin was certain. He hesitated admitting to himself that the Faberge egg would create difficulties for someone, but he felt trouble in his gut. Whether it was he, another aide in the Royal Household staff, or Edward, Prince of Wales, or even an unfortunate soul in Alberta, Anthony knew that a sea of troubles waited for someone and the narrow bends of Blackfriars Road assured it. Twisting roads, built along cow-paths that once connected ancient villages with plainspoken factories were part of England’s industrial revolution. Now, instead of impressing people with London’s growth, Blackfriars' twists and its dismal, dun brick buildings display the city’s decay.

Despite the area’s frayed state, its craftsmen produce items of stark beauty. The only problem: most of the pieces are copies, not originals. This troubled Anthony because the egg is a gift and by ordering it he would be part of a fraud. The thoughts of fraud and turmoil were Anthony’s, alone, as the Royal chauffeur guided the massive Bentley to the shop.

Sir?

Nigel’s query brought Anthony back to the moment.

Nigel stood at the Bentley’s open door, holding an umbrella. The rain was more a gentle Scots’ mist than any Brighton downpour that Anthony always seemed to experience in his hometown. There was little need for Nigel to protect him because in three steps Anthony was in the shop.

A bell’s tinkle made the goldsmith peer at the door. May I help you?

Anthony took off his Derby and started to peel off calfskin gloves. Yes. I understand you have done work for the aide to Prince Edward before.

Yes. That’s true. May I ask how he is?

Fine. Prince Edward is fine, although, I rarely encounter him.

There was a chuckle, No, sir. I meant the Prince’s aide.

Anthony realized his gaffe and did not want to lie, nor deceive, so with as bland a face as he could muster, he said, Oh. Very kind of you. He’s in his usual form. Keeping well.

Yes, he is exquisitely boring isn’t he?

Sir?

Now, how can I be of assistance? the goldsmith said rising from his stool.

He was an elf of a man, in his late sixties with a fringe of wispy white hair poking out at every angle as if he’d been rubbing his head while trying on difficult physics equations. The loupe in front of the left lens of his glasses made one pupil huge, distorting all details, while his other eye revealed a pale-washed blue iris flecked with gold. To Anthony, looking at someone who appeared to have only one eye was most disconcerting. The goldsmith must have noticed Anthony staring at the loupe.

Sorry about that. After this many years you forget it. He flipped it off to the side.

My fault, Anthony said, withdrawing sketches and photographs from his inner jacket pocket. He smoothed the sketches on a glass-topped cabinet. Would it be possible to have something like this made by early August? It’s a gift for an Alberta rancher.

Mmm, let me see, the old man said. You will want this in the style of Faberge, but it all depends on how large. What size did you have in mind?

Approximately three and three-quarter inches high, not including the pedestal.

Yes. Yes, that is quite large enough and should be possible, but I’ll have to stop my other work. The enamelling is the difficult part, you see. But yes, for the Prince anything is possible. Now, I think this would look best in a deep sapphire on a wavy guilloche background. For each of the five Romanov medallions a band of rose diamonds set around their portraits would be best. Do you think these will do?

He reached into his trouser pocket, withdrawing a handful of polished stones.

No. No. Forget those rubies and that emerald. These are what we need. He positioned a string of rose cut diamonds on top of Czar Nicholas’s photograph.

There. Will those do? Will they amuse Prince Edward?

Anthony looked at the number of diamonds but was unsure of what to say. He pushed a few of them out of line. All of those?

It will take many more than that, young man. Really, they are nothing special. In all, this will cost, mmm I should say, between two hundred and two hundred, eighty pounds. Is that agreeable?

Well, yes, Anthony said. The aide’s stern command still rang in Anthony’s ear but his hesitation must have been evident to the goldsmith.

The goldsmith looked at him as a father does when counselling an inexperienced son. You must remember, Faberge’s little trinkets look more impressive than what they cost. In recent time Faberge’s work is just becoming known to London’s beautiful people, so he’s not expensive, yet. There is a definite future in his bijouterie.

He ran his hand over his hair trying to smooth it into some order, but he could have saved himself the effort because the strands popped up as soon as his hand was past.

Now, for the surprise. I will make the sixth medallion into a pierced grille for a large silver key and I have the perfect ball upon which the little bear will stand.

Anthony watched the goldsmith disappear behind a counter to rummage in several drawers.

Where did I leave that? I had it here the other day. Oh, my. There it is, the goldsmith said. He pushed back on the edge of the counter and with effort straightened his back.

Look at this. The old man held a black lustrous sphere between his thumb and forefinger before tipping Anthony’s hand over. It’s a little something from the South Seas. All part of the empire you know.

With that, the goldsmith let a gorgeous three quarter-inch, black pearl roll into Anthony’s palm where the coolness of its beauty warmed against his skin. Anthony stared at his palm. He knew of black pearls but this was his first experience with something this exotic. Images of turquoise water, pale beige sand, and swaying grass skirts on young, tanned, curved hips came to mind. He felt his inability to respond to the old man’s comments announced his naivety.

The goldsmith must have noticed Anthony’s unease because along with a gentle pat on Anthony’s arm he said, My son who is a little younger than you had the same reaction when he first saw it and he apprenticed in the shop for years. Now he wants to travel to the South Seas and then emigrate. He keeps talking of Canada or Australia.

All Anthony could say was, That would be exciting, as he picked up his Derby and turned to leave.

The goldsmith held the door and said, Give my best to Prince Edward and assure him the trinket will be ready by August, One.

As Anthony left the shop he heard the goldsmith talking to the walls, The Russian Bear is what I’ll call . . .

Chapter 2

Andrea Jennings slapped the steering wheel and muttered to the cars at the red light, Richard, you bastard. I’ll get you. I will get you. You think everyone owes you. Well mister, as of this morning I have had it. You will pay.

Finally, the traffic inched forward which made Andrea stop her tirade. She was going to get even and she was going to do it with style. That is why she turned into the parkade of Calgary’s fashionable Lion’s Bridge Centre.

A narrow parking space between a car and a van would be ideal. The two vehicles crowded the yellow lines and they gave Andrea the perfect opportunity. The important thing-the man sitting in the white car.

Andrea wanted attention and she wanted to stir shit for Richard. Causing a ruckus in a parkade was another small piece to Richard’s end. With that thought, Andrea gave the heavy door of her Mercedes E 32 D a deliberate shove. It swung open, full force, and smacked the car next to her with a satisfying thump.

The man rolled down his window. Hey! Watch it.

Pressing the button on the remote and watching for the flick of the car’s lights, Andrea slammed her door. She tipped her head, glancing towards the man hoping he would react.

His bald head with a fringe of mousy brown hair was even with the roof of a nondescript car. The man rose to his full height peering over the roof at Andrea. You hit my car!

Andrea narrowed her eyes, looked straight at him and said, For Christ’s sake, your car is nothing. Stop your bitching and next time don’t park on the yellow line.

You did it on purpose, the man said.

This is on purpose. Andrea thought. She lifted her hand high enough so the man could see the keys in her hand. She lowered them to thigh level and felt satisfaction with the deep groove etching into Japanese paint. As she approached him, she cleaned the white paint off her key and with a flick of her index finger sent a gob of paint toward his head. It landed at his feet.

As she passed him she muttered, Miserable prig, loud enough so that he was sure to hear.

How dare you! the man said.

Andrea let out a short, contented chuckle and headed toward the Plus15 entrance linking the parkade to Fordham’s Boutique.

Once through the door she felt the first flush of adrenaline. She made sure to look straight into the surveillance camera. Her choice of Fordham’s was deliberate. The stylish boutique carried upscale clothes and its security staff was capable. On occasion, even they were up to Andrea’s devious level. Andrea knew the routine of store security and immediately spotted a floorwalker looking at Anne Klein dresses.

The young woman’s behaviour gave her away. Her fingers slid over an exquisite, multi-coloured cocktail dress but instead of concentrating on the satiny finish she turned her head just a little too much; her attention was on the shopper in the next isle.

As Andrea passed the Anne Klein display she heard the receiver crackle in the ear of a slender black woman.

Whatever the command was, it made a fortyish woman place a package of pantyhose onto a counter and turn toward Andrea.

Heading straight to the Platinum Collection’s classic clothes, Andrea stopped at a table of cashmere sweaters. One, the colour of French-vanilla ice cream, caught her eye. While holding the sweater up to her throat, she tipped her head from side to side, looking at her reflection in the full-length mirror. The ribbed, stand-up collar of the sweater drew attention to her diamond earrings. This will do for a start, Andrea said to no one in particular.

With a practiced motion she flipped the short capped sleeves back, folded the sweater into neat thirds and shifted her position so the camera would catch the next move. When she placed the cream coloured sweater on top of the small pile, her left hand eased a similar sweater into her booster pocket. The exquisite wool slid over her fingers and then Andrea felt the warm comfort of cashmere nestle in front of her tummy. Her spirits buoyed by the small additional weight in her skirt made a shrewd smile spread on her lips.

Andrea knew it was time to up the ante; not a lot, but just enough. She adjusted her no-line bifocals. They sat squarely on the swell of her nostrils and she peered intently at a shimmering charmeuse nightie. Its low cut bodice, almost nonexistent spaghetti straps and baby-doll length made it more suitable for male fingers to caress than it was for sleeping. It was not something she’d ever wear; after all it was a rich red and besides it was three sizes too small, but it was so striking she had to have it. It would add a shot of colour to the others in her lingerie cabinet.

In a defiant move, she draped the nightie over her arm and walked to the sweeping curved staircase.

They could arrest her at anytime and she knew that because concealing the sweater showed intent. However, she needed to push the edge. If she were going to ruin Richard’s name in a style fitting his status, it would take something more than a thousand or so dollar’s worth of stolen goods. She needed more attention than what she was getting from the two floorwalkers she spotted back in the Platinum Collection.

High-end perfume kiosks dominated the main floor with Calvin Klein, Chanel and Oscar de la Renta prominent in the high traffic aisles.

Her inspiration came from a perfume counter in stark red and black. At the bottom of the staircase she turned left and spotted the swinging door to storage where she pushed open the door and found herself in a room of steel shelving stacked with boxes and more boxes of cosmetics. She passed by cases of antifatigue creams, bath bars, and shower gels; at last she spotted it. A case of twelve bottles disappeared under the red nightie and she exited the stock room, headed to the elevator for the top floor.

Andrea said to the secretary, Excuse me? The manager is expecting me.

Andrea's buoyant tone hid her intent and without waiting for a reply, pulled open the inner office door. The manager looked up from his paper work spread over a beautiful antique Honduras Mahogany desk with its hand rubbed, French polish finish.

Andrea saw layers of reflections of the papers in the desk’s deep rich lustre. Yes? Is there a problem? the manager said, motioning to the nightie.

No. Not this time. Everything's fine. Andrea gave the manager an amused grin. The smile lines around her mouth and eyes belied her thoughts.

How may I help . . . The manager didn't have time to finish before Andrea pulled the stopper from a bottle of Giguere Eau de Parfum Classique and poured it on his desk.

With the liquid flowing across his desktop, the manager’s eyes opened wide. The perfume became alive. At the puddle's edge the perfume reacted with the shellac. The mixture bunched higher and higher, shimmering in the light of the desk lamp. The puddle looked like a slime mould spreading its tentacles outward. All it left behind was white, sticky goo.

There is no excuse for this, but there is justification, Andrea said.

The fragrance spreading throughout the office brought breezes of sun-baked lavender, fields of rosemary and the sweet smell of spite to her nostrils. She threw down the first bottle and reached, under the nightie, for a second.

Ms. Bevan. Call security! Get her out of here, The manager leaped to his feet.

Chapter 3

Trenwith Morrisey’s modest status, as the junior member of the University’s Museum Acquisitions Committee, gave him the job of organizing and chairing the meetings. This meeting wasn’t going well and Richard Jennings’ interruption, to answer his cell phone, further irritated Tren.

If it hadn’t been the telephone call, it would have been something else: another prof taking the last cup of coffee and not pressing the button to brew a new pot, Tren’s pen running out of ink, the Dean of Science calling Tren to explain his expense account, a student sending an excuse about why she could not attend class this afternoon, or a past indiscretion used as a pressure point.

A simple thing was wanted by Tren-a decision on the details of the upcoming presentation ceremony. He wanted it so he could adjourn the meeting and get back to his lab. Jennings’ rudeness surprised Tren. If anything, Tren considered Richard prim, a little stiff even. As a kid, Tren knew the Jennings as the neighbouring ranching family and all of them were polite. Richard’s mother saw to that. Although the interruption annoyed Tren, he never anticipated the consequences it would have for him or others.

Tren watched Leslie Dupre Odeman’s scowl deepen as Richard Jennings stood to leave.

Trenwith, my time is valuable and I do not appreciate interruptions. Is that clear? Odeman said.

Yes.

As chair, your control of the meeting is questionable. You do realize that I’m the lawyer for the estate of Charles Windsor-Blackston and we’re here to finalize the plans for the public donation ceremony.

Tren nodded.

Well, I would suggest you start acting as chair.

Very well, Leslie. Tren said.

Odeman scowled and continued, And I want the record to show that the head librarian, Kat Ducasse is absent, mmm? I find this situation most troubling. It may not create difficulties for you, personally, or the committee, but it annoys me. Now, I want to finish with the preliminary information,

Noticing Sylvia Embleton scratch a note in the margin, Tren nodded. He knew Sylvia had the good sense just to doodle in the margin and ignore Odeman’s pompous display.

Very well Leslie. Please begin? Tren said.

As you well know, my client, Charles Windsor-Blackston, has donated several pieces to honour the history of ranching in the Canadian west, specifically in southern Alberta. It’s with fondness that we called him Charlie, and he was a good friend of the university. With his estate making a significant donation, I expect this ceremony to have decorum, or what I term a proper modus vivendi, Odeman said.

A pause at this point made Tren suspect that Odeman wanted a reaction to his overblown phrase. Trying to dazzle people with Latin was another Odeman fault.

Philip Noseworthy gave the secretary a knowing look when Sylvia raised one of her plucked eyebrows. Her message clear; when will the fanciful gasbag stop? At that moment Kat Ducasse came in a little breathless, and it was an unfortunate time to arrive because Philip Noseworthy continued in his mischievous ways. He gave Kat a vicious wink.

Excuse me for being late, Kat said and placed her black gym bag on the floor. The bag’s stylized magenta logo seemed out of place for the fashionable Kat.

In short order another comment came from Odeman. He paused to stare at Kat and let the pause widen into a noticeable silence before he popped his shirt cuff to note the time. Sylvia. Please let the minutes show Dr. Ducasse arrived late and this is the second interruption this morning.

Leslie. That is not necessary, Tren said.

Fine. As chair you have the authority to ignore my remarks, but let me assure you, that with me, that is unwise, Odeman said and moved his cigarettes a fraction of a centimetre. He then aligned the edge of the cigarette package with the edge of his lighter.

To Tren, the actions spelled one thing—intimidation.

Odeman turned, carefully stroked his chin and looked straight at Tren. Odeman let his body language convey its message. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, Now that all the voting members are here, let me continue. As I was about to say, it is not every day a donor graces the university with, at the very least, eight million dollars of art and I believe you should show your gratitude. Mmm?

Leslie, the university will do everything you’ve stipulated, Tren said.

Trenwith? Please refer to me by my title, yes? Odeman said.

Clenched teeth was Tren’s reaction to the request, but he said, Yes, Mr. Odeman. Tren seethed inside at Odeman’s snobbish behaviour. Tren couldn’t decide if the behaviour was owing to him being a lawyer, or if it was just part of his being English. Whatever it was, his superiority added to the tension.

Then, let me continue if you please, Odeman said. Windsor-Blackston’s grandfather was an English gentleman rancher who emigrated to the Northwest Territories in the early 1890s and settled in the foothills southwest of Calgary.

Mr. Odeman? Tren interrupted. We’re well aware of our province’s history.

That might be but I still insist that Sylvia make a full record. Odeman gave a perfunctory nod to Tren. Then the inevitable Mmm, came from Odeman’s lips and he continued, As you know Charles was a bachelor, who didn’t admit to any children, and he gave the university an A. Y. Jackson of Sentinel Mountain, a Krieghoff in one of his usual snowy winter scenes, and a few bright, antique trinkets from Deitwylers’ main Montreal store. These Deitwylers’ baubles graced the necks, wrists, and bosoms of Charlie’s grandmother and mother and there are, nestling in this little pouch, several unset stones.

Odeman let a tiny velvet pouch, now worn around the drawstring, wave back and forth like a metronome.

To Tren it was as if Odeman was trying to hypnotize them, or no doubt set the stage for an unctuous comment. Whatever Odeman was up to, Tren decided not to react.

Without warning, Odeman’s other hand snaked out grabbing the pouch in mid-swing. He tugged at the drawstring and poured a handful of polished stones into his palm. Deep blues of sapphires, greens of emeralds, dazzling whites of diamonds, and slashes of all these colours and several more glinted from opal nuggets.

Leslie? At the time, the Northwest Territories was the edge of civilization so why did the Blackston’s have such elaborate art and jewellery out here? Kat said.

Tren smiled to himself as he watched Odeman turn his head and look at Kat with an expression that Odeman made as bland as possible. Odeman had spotted his chance to retaliate.

That is a silly question. Do you not like beautiful things? Odeman said.

Yes. Kat said.

Enough said. Remember, these were English gentlemen. Odeman paused letting the tension rise even further so the committee members knew what he thought of Kat’s intelligence.

All of this art and jewellery are minor compared to the Russian Bear, Odeman continued gesturing to the Faberge Egg sitting in the centre of the boardroom table. This is the piece de resistance, is it not? It is exquisite, isn’t it gentlemen and ladies?

Straightening his back, Odeman leaned forward and picked up the sapphire blue egg. He cradled it with gentleness reserved for a newborn, his enthusiasm evident for the piece.

You will notice it has six panels, five of which have portraits of the Czar’s family and the last panel has an opening for this key, Odeman said.

With his last two fingers extended to the side, like he was holding a fragile teacup, Odeman gently placed a large silver key on the table. It winds the mechanism for the surprise. He ran an index finger over a band of rose diamonds encircling the egg’s centre and gave an audible sigh as he opened the medallion with Czarevich Alexis’ portrait on it. A grille of entwined strands of fine gold ribbons served as the background for each portrait. They allowed Odeman to peer into the hollow centre and the surprise nestled within.

Faberge’s artistry had everyone in the room, the curator of the museum, the head librarian, Tren, the secretary and even Odeman, mesmerized. The egg with its dazzling blue enamel and intriguing depth of lustre, fascinated everyone.

Of course, Tren’s mind threw around questions of science instead of art: What chemicals did Faberge mix to get that colour? How did the craftsmen carve the enamel, if that’s what they did, to get the alternating shimmer? How did they learn about refracting light off the wavy guilloche background?

With another flourish Odeman picked up the key, wound the mechanism and, in so doing, interrupted Tren’s thoughts.

Odeman opened each of the six panels with a careful touch, transforming the egg into what reminded Tren of the centre ring of the Moscow circus. With the movement of the last panel a flawless Russian brown bear started walking on its hind legs atop a shimmering black pearl.

Tren watched Odeman close his eyes and stroke the rose quartz bear. His finger paused when it came to an inky blue sapphire set as one of the bear’s eyes.

You were explaining about the egg, Tren said, calling Odeman out of his reverie.

Yes. Yes. Now. A week today, Odeman said, and popped a French-cuff making a gold Marchand watch appear, April 10, at precisely 2:05 P. M. we’ll open the main doors to the library and invite the public in to see my client’s splendid gift to the university community. Of course, the invitations say 2:00 P. M., but I know how you university types are, so I’ve organized it with a five minute grace period. We’re all agreed on that, mmm?

Odeman’s plummy Exeter accent and his annoying habit of ‘mmming’ rubbed Tren the wrong way, but around the table everyone gave the required collective murmur of agreement. Tren saw Sylvia roll her eyes, as if to say ‘He does not trust us poor colonials to even appear on time.’

Letting his fingers glide over the perfect smoothness of the enamel, Tren rotated the egg. The corners of his mouth turned down and Odeman caught it because he said, Trenwith? Is there a problem with that time, mmm? Tell me now.

No. I’m sure it’s fine, Tren lied.

May I have the egg back, please? Odeman said.

Once Odeman placed the egg on its gold pedestal he continued, "Well, then. All the items but the egg are