Page 11 of The Maid's Secret

“The key to her diary is more like it,” said Brown. “Edwardian-style diaries were often kept under lock and key to protect the secrets of the well-to-do ladies who wrote in them.”

“But my gran was a maid, just like me.”

“Do you have her diary?”

“I don’t believe she ever kept one,” I said.

“Then her secrets died with her,” said Brown.

“Yes,” I said. “They most certainly did.”

“But, Molly,” said Beagle, “you’ve managed to point out everything in that box except the one item that’s actually caught our eye. Brown, you’re seeing this, too, yes?”

“I definitely am,” Brown replied, and as I watched, he covered his mouth with his hand in an expression that, if I’m not mistaken, might best be classified as “utter disbelief.” Brown reached into the box and gingerly removed the ornamental golden egg sitting on its delicate bow-legged pedestal. He held it carefully in the palm of his hand. The camera zoomed in for a close-up, the lights catching the egg’s sparkling jewels and the Bees’ rounded eyes.

“My word,” Beagle said as he leaned back in his chair. “Molly, you have brought us a most unusual item.”

“I didn’t mean to waste your time,” I said. “It was actually my fiancé’s idea to bring that silly egg here. It was given to me by a gardener who worked at a mansion my gran used to clean when she was a maid. I’ve been warned it’s a bit of junk, but no matter. It has sentimental value.”

“Good golly, Miss Molly. I wouldn’t jump to conclusions so quickly. I’m not so sure that’s a bit of junk,” said Brown.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Thomas,” said Brown. “What’s your assessment of the jewels?”

Beagle removed a jeweler’s loupe from the pocket of his indigojacket. He held the magnifier over his small right eye, which grew several sizes under the loupe as he examined the egg proffered in his husband’s flat palm. “Jewels intact,” he said. “Free of inclusions. All cuts and markings characteristic of the period.”

Beagle brought the loupe down and stared meaningfully at his husband, though what exactly that look meant, I could not have said. “Bax,” said Beagle. “The gold pedestal.”

“Yes, I know,” said Brown. “Pure gold, through and through, twenty-four karat, the detailing unmistakable. In all my years as an antiquities appraiser, I never dared to dream I’d see such a thing with my own eyes.”

Both men paused and the audience drew a breath.

“Forgive me,” I said, clearing my throat. I was suddenly aware of the tension in the room. “I’ve been told I have a habit of missing obvious clues, but for goodness’ sake, will someone please explain exactly what is going on here?”

“Molly,” said Brown as, with exceptional care, he placed the egg on the display table between us. “I’m afraid Thomas and I are in a bit of a state of shock.”

“We are,” echoed Beagle, his mouth a tight line.

Baxley took off his glasses and returned them to his scarlet breast pocket. “What you have in that box is a bona fide, jewel-encrusted, one-of-a-kind prototype made by the famed St.Petersburg jewelers who once served the Russian tsars.”

I followed the words, but their meaning was lost on me. It was as though the two men were suddenly Charlie Brown adults blathering in a language I didn’t understand.

“Once upon a time, Molly, the Russian royals gave precious Easter eggs as gifts,” said Beagle. “They hired a very special design house to craft their imperial treasures, and for well over a hundred years, rumors have swirled about the prototype egg that started it all, the only closed egg ever designed, resting on an iconic gold pedestal, the original egg that inspired all those made after it.”

I was certain I was missing something, that as usual I was failing to comprehend the obvious. I decided to voice what was on my mind. “All that glitters isn’t gold.That’s what my gran used to say.”

“And she was right,” said Brown. “But not when it comes to this egg. Each of the quatrefoils on it are inlaid with the rarest rubies, pearls, emeralds, and rose-cut diamonds.”

“And the pedestal base is pure gold, with cabriolet feet,” added Beagle. “There’s only one house in the world that ever detailed them like that.”

“The House of Fabergé,” Brown said.

“We called the egg the Fabergé—Gran and me. But it was a joke,” I said.

“This is no joke,” Beagle said somberly as he slipped his jeweler’s loupe into his blue velvet pocket. “The specimen of fine art you’ve brought today is not only rare, it’s a hidden treasure, unique in all the world.”

“I would estimate its minimum worth at five million dollars,” Brown added.

---