A stolen bag. Nothing remarkable about that, you’d think. The sort of petty, forgettable crime that barely troubles the police blotter. And yet, tucked inside, almost absurdly, was something else entirely: a Fabergé piece. Not costume jewellery, not a trinket from a seaside shop, but a genuine object from the world of imperial Russia, the kind of thing once handled by tsars and now quietly commanding five or six figures at auction.

It’s the contrast that does it. A Tesco-bag sort of crime colliding with the rarefied air of priceless craftsmanship. Fabergé, after all, produced only around fifty imperial eggs, of which fewer than that still survive. Even the smaller pieces, pendants and miniatures, carry a weight of history far beyond their size. Gold, enamel, gemstones, yes, but more than that, a sense that this object was made to matter. And yet here it is, misplaced, mishandled, almost laughed at by circumstance.

Which, if we’re honest, feels uncomfortably familiar. Human beings have a peculiar talent for missing the point of things. We insure the trivial, misplace the significant, and occasionally carry something extraordinary without the faintest idea of what it is. The story lands not because of the crime, but because of the recognition. Value is often hidden in plain sight, and we are not always the sharpest judges of it.

There is a line in Matthew’s Gospel about a merchant who finds a pearl of great price and, recognising it, sells everything to obtain it. No hesitation, no confusion. Just clarity. One suspects that if such a pearl turned up today, it might spend a week in a gym bag before anyone noticed. And that, really, is the story.