Table of Contents
Title Page
The Last Letter
THE PACKAGE
THE BAY
THE WARDEN
THE SHOP
THE EXPERTS
THE ADVISOR
THE VISITOR
THE MOTHER
THE INKWELL
THE LETTER
THE CELLAR
THE ANTIPODEAN
THE WINDOW
THE ASSOCIATION
THE RETURN
THE WAR
THE ARGUMENT
THE PRISONER
THE INVESTIGATION
THE ARAB
THE OFFICIAL
THE TOWN
THE WARDEN
THE PLAYER
THE CAPTIVE
THE CUSTOMER
THE CANDELABRA
THE ENVELOPE
THE NATIVE
THE RESPONSE
THE HOUSEKEEPER
THE ESCAPE
THE MILLER
THE SHOP
THE DESIGNER
THE ASSISTANT
THE RAJA
THE WOOD CHOPPER
THE BISHOP
THE PHONE CALL
THE TRADERS
THE OFFICER
THE LETTER – PAGE 2
THE AUCTIONEER
THE LANDING
THE KNOCKER
THE MEN
THE JOURNEY
THE DOLL
THE VILLAGER
THE ACCIDENT
THE ROMANS
THE MORNING
THE RUG
THE ARTIST
THE FAIR
THE BROTHERS
THE VAN
THE AMERICAN
THE AUCTION
THE FAMILY
THE STAFFROOM
THE TOWN
THE SCHOOL
THE SERMON
THE SHOW
THE MAJOR
THE LORD
THE DELIVERY
THE INTRODUCTION
THE PILOT
THE LODGE
THE BOYFRIEND
THE MARRIAGE
THE SEARCH
THE REVENGE
THE DINNER
THE INVESTIGATION
THE SAMPLER
THE MUSEUM
THE ADZE
THE DEAL
THE INTERVIEW
THE SAVOY
THE JOURNEY
THE LETTER – PAGE 3
THE POLICE
THE WALK
THE CHURCH
THE WEBSITE
THE PURCHASE
THE SHOPPERS
THE GERMANS
THE SICKNESS
THE EMPLOYEE
THE SHIPMENT
THE PRIEST
THE POLICE
THE DATE
THE TICKET
THE RETURN
THE MOTHER
THE STATUE
THE BUYER
THE SON
THE LUNCH
THE BOAT
THE PATIENT
THE MISSION
THE SAMPLER
THE FIGHT
THE WIFE
THE DOWNFALL
THE CALL
THE MOLE
THE HOSPITAL
THE FAIR
THE WAREHOUSE
THE LETTER – PAGE 4
THE SHOP
THE TRADER
THE INVALID
THE RUSE
THE GOLD
THE GIRL
THE NIGHT
THE STATION
THE EMAIL
THE UNPACKING
THE ROUGH
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Dedicated to everyone who ever dared to dream.
THE PACKAGE
Annabel Lester sat at the scrubbed table, her nervous hands unusually still in her lap. The leather-bound bible sat open in front of her, the spidery ink on the page brighter than it should be.
Trembling, she traced the words with her fingers. ‘Impossible’ she whispered, rereading the text.
“To Sarah,
It is with the greatest love that I gift this to you.
May your soul be filled with the word of God, and with the light of this country.
May God bless your footsteps through His land, from this day on, and for all your days, wherever those steps may take you.
With Love, Christine Young,
Fifteenth of March, 1864”
There must be a hundred Sarahs ... no, she corrected herself, a thousand Sarahs. Laughing, she passed a hand across her brow. There was no possibility that this Sarah was hers. Absolutely none that it was her daughter. The laughing, tousle-haired daughter she’d left in London. Then, her heart constricted as she remembered the moment she’d left.
She slammed the bible shut, smoothing the brown paper wrap, folding it into smaller and smaller squares. She’d find a use for it another day, no doubt. She wound the twine from the package onto a tatty ball of string sitting on the mantle. The bible she left on the table, a misdirected piece of mail sent to her based solely on her surname. It was nothing to do with her daughter she decided, lifting her chin as she left the room, casting no glance back at the unwanted book.
THE BAY
Christine worried at the cuff of her shirt, the once-white cotton slightly grubby, though not for lack of laundry skills, more for lack of soap.
Christine Young, wife of the only minister in Bruce Bay, on New Zealand’s west coast, sat in her parlour, curtains drawn against the winter cold. She’d been waiting in the front room for nearly four hours, refusing even the cups of tea offered to her. Samuel Sinclair sat at her feet, his pale, freckled face gazing up at this woman who’d taken him in, after his father Bryce had disappeared with the peculiar Mrs Bell so many months ago.
Together they waited for the Reverend to come from his meeting with the local Maori tribe. Troubled times in the region meant Christine couldn’t be sure he’d return, at least not in one piece.
Footsteps on the wooden porch steps startled them both – so much so that Samuel uttered one of the choice swear words he’d learnt from his abusive father. Uncharacteristically silent, Christine didn’t rush to admonish him like she did on an almost daily basis. Although he had been improving – his swearing was limited to a couple of times a day now, at least within her hearing, and he almost never swore in front of the Reverend.
The front door opened, allowing a swirl of damp air into the house. Samuel hugged his knees closer to his body. Half a year ago he’d been all angles and bones, starved by his father, and beaten into submission like a dog. The Reverend and Mrs Young had given him the first home he’d truly known. They’d shown him more love in six months than he’d had in the rest of his short life.
Christine half stood, hovering uncertainly, not knowing whether it was her husband returned or one of the other men bearing bad news. The brass door handle turned, and Reverend Gregory Young slipped into the room. Samuel launched himself at the minister, wrapping his arms around the man’s muddied legs. Christine collapsed onto the couch, biting back any cry she might have let slip if they’d been alone. Protecting Samuel from the terrors of her thoughts was an overwhelming priority.
‘There, there, young Samuel, calm yourself. There’s nothing to be upset about. Look at Mrs Young, as calm as a summer’s day. Now, Christine, I think it’s best if we have a nice cup of tea together and I can tell you all that’s happened today – my goodness, I hope never to have another day like it.’ He collapsed on the opposite chair, seemingly mesmerised by the swirls and whorls of the ivy patterned carpet.
Christine straightened up – a cup of tea was something she could manage – and returned moments later with a wooden tray filled with steaming t
ea and buns still warm from the range. Samuel sniffed appreciatively as he hurried to help Christine with the tray.
‘Ah, much better my dear, that will hit the spot. Nothing like a good cup of tea. It’s what the Empire was built on young, Samuel, tea. Blessed be the men who made it so. After God, and my good wife – and you, of course – it’s the one thing I love more than anything else.’
He lapsed into silence, sipping his tea, eyes glassy with thought. Samuel returned to his spot on the floor, devouring one of the warm buns Cook had lathered with freshly churned butter before loading the tray for Christine.
Christine was not as patient as her young ward, ‘Gregory, tea may well have built the Empire but, unless you tell me straight away what happened this afternoon, the Empire may have to do without one of its ministers.’
‘Such an eloquent way of asking me to hurry up, one of the things I love about you. Yes, well, the natives were most generous towards us. They’ve heard about the troubles up north, and they’re most uncomfortable. We’ve been very fortunate with our relationship with the local iwi and I tried to reassure them that as far as I knew, no British troops were being sent here. It took a long time. The new Premier seems eminently more sensible than the last one, but time will tell.’ Pausing to drain his cup, he continued, ‘There’s been no reason for a military presence here. The militia has kept the miners in check, and since Seth and Isaac died, and Sinclair disappeared, there hasn’t been any further trouble. I’d say most of the troublemakers have found their way to the northern goldfields now, although that won’t be helping the situation up there. All those men.’
Christine had crossed herself at the mention of Seth and Isaac. She’d had no time for Seth, but Sarah Bell had talked fondly of Isaac, seeming to believe that he’d been led astray by the older man. She shuddered at the memory of the blood at her front steps.
Although her husband appeared happy with the situation in Bruce Bay, Christine was far from reassured. His natural acceptance of the word of others was a constant source of frustration. How can someone be so trusting?
‘Samuel, perhaps it would be best if you went to help Cook in the kitchen, whilst I talk further with the Reverend?’ she suggested, mindful that his ears were too young for the words she was about to share with her husband, no matter that he was a man of the cloth.
Samuel scurried from the room, pulling the door shut behind him, then shivering along the hallway.
‘So they’re not about to murder us in our beds then?’ she grumbled, bustling around the room, tugging at the curtains to check they were properly closed, as if armed warriors were peeping into their Victorian parlour waiting for an opportune time to strike.
‘Hardly, my dear – they’ve enough of their own troubles to contend with. We’re not doing them any harm. I’ve told the Church that our lot aren’t keen to have their souls saved, and other than acknowledging that our silverware was lost, they haven’t even bothered to contact us ...’
Christine interrupted, ‘We didn’t lose it, Sinclair stole it, right from under our noses – and Sarah. I shudder to think what’s become of her. How do we know that that “our lot”, as you call them, haven’t eaten both Sarah and Sinclair, and sold our silver to boot?’
‘You’ve read too many novels. The Maori don’t eat people. They may shoot us with the guns we’ve traded with them, but they won’t eat us. I think you’re confusing them with natives in New Guinea. They eat their captives. Dreadful practice. No, my dear, we are completely safe here. I can’t say the same for all those in our flock, given some of the stories I heard today about the goings on all over country. Oddly, I feel that we’re in the safest place in New Zealand right now.’
THE WARDEN
For a man content with a solitary existence – a man who spent his working time breaking up fights, mediating between natives and settlers, and answering to the Crown – losing Sarah Bell was one of the most bewildering experiences of Warden William Price’s life. After she disappeared with Bryce Sinclair, he’d spent days searching for information about their whereabouts: combing the bush; haunting the wharf questioning the miners flooding out of Bruce Bay for the newly discovered goldfields in the North Island of New Zealand; and manhandling every reprobate he knew. Despite his years of experience, he couldn’t find any trace. Exasperated and exhausted he’d retreated to his cabin, descending into a dark depression.
With Price’s temper turning volatile, in a town already struggling under a cloud of alcoholic dependency, mistrust and greed, Christine had suggested he travel to Dunedin, to call on the woman to whom she’d sent the bible – the bible Sarah had left behind. She’d suggested it more as an attempt to save his life than to actually find the girl. But Price believed it would be futile – no, his place was here in the Bay.
Price sat morosely at a table in Sweeney’s Bar. Miners came and went; the hardcore losers of the mining world. Too poor to leave town, they were stuck working the remnants of the West Coast goldfields. Anything they earned, they poured down their throats, either here or at one of the other half dozen bars in town. Most were destined to become ‘Hatters’ – men too old or sick to continue panning for gold. And if they weren’t drinking in the bars, they were buying it out the back of someone’s shack, although that supply had shrunk considerably when Bryce Sinclair vanished.
The stench of strong alcohol and unwashed men churned through the room every time the door opened. Incessant rain and insidious conditions fuelled gloomy emotions, giving rise to the vilest behaviour. The pervading air of despair manifested itself in front of Price, with a scuffle between a scrawny Scots redhead and one of the Irish boys. Sweeney had his rifle cocked behind the counter as the brawl ranged across the floor, and their fellow drinkers placing wagers on the potential outcome.
‘Come on, Mac, kill ‘im.’
‘Don’t let a feckin’ Scotsman thrash ya, Paddy.’
The jeers were coming thick and fast, as fast as the fists were being thrown. Price let them go. As long as Fred Sweeney wasn’t too concerned about the mess, he was loath to intervene. He’d learnt early on that it was better to let the frustration play out, than to intervene, unless it looked like someone was going to die.
Sweeney nodded at Price, who stood up, and tipped his ale over the two fighters. Gasping and spluttering, they stopped brawling long enough for Price to haul the scrawny Scot off Paddy, who, despite his bulk, had been on the losing end of the fight.
Margaret Sweeney peeped round the corner from the stairs, a wrapped infant sleeping in her arms, unfazed by the ruckus in the bar. Friends lifted Paddy up into a chair, one of his eyes already swelling closed. Sweeney poured another handle of ale for Price, and, with barely a ripple through the room, peace was restored, money changed hands, and Margaret slipped into the room. Fred unashamedly kissed the forehead of the sleeping bundle, ‘Where are you off to, love?’
‘Mrs Young invited me round this morning, to discuss the Easter celebrations and, I reckon, to see wee Jillian again, although she only saw us two days ago.’
‘Do you need me to walk with you?’ he asked, trying to sound casual.
Margaret Sweeney looked up into the broad face of her husband, trying to gauge the level of his concern, ‘Not unless you don’t think it’s safe ...’ she trailed off.
‘No, I’m sure its fine. I was ... well, I was just offering in case you wanted my company,’ he shrugged.
She looked around the bar: spilt ale seeping into the kauri floorboards; two broken chairs, tangled together like the roots of the trees they’d been born from.
‘Best you clean up here, Fred. I shan’t be long. I’ll be back in time for lunch.’ Kissing his cheek, she tugged baby Jillian’s knitted hat further down over her ears, and ventured outside, using her free hand to lift her skirts over the worst of the churned mud, shivering at the deep cold carried into town by the West Coast winds.
‘You think it’s still safe here, Price?’ Sweeney asked as he watched his wife make her w
ay up the road, hems forgotten in her efforts to keep the wind off their child.
Draining his ale, the Warden handed the glass to Fred, ‘She’ll be fine, no harm will come to her at the Reverend’s. Not now, anyway.’ The unspoken message was that, since Sinclair had gone, everyone was safer – everyone except Sarah Bell. Price pulled on his oilskin coat and stepped out to the chill air, ‘It’s as safe as anywhere, Fred. As long as you’ve a good shotgun and someone to watch your back.’
Plunging his hands deep in his pockets, Price trudged down towards the wharf in the vain hope that today there’d be word of Sarah Bell’s whereabouts.
THE SHOP
Bryce Sinclair stared at the shattered wood in front of him. Astonished, he’d expected to see the remains of Sarah Bell’s head after he’d shot her. In panic he fled.
* * *
After their first meeting, Richard Grey had kept his word, and once Sinclair found his way to the address on the card he’d been given, he was met by a couple of Grey’s associates, who’d frisked him, furnished him with a mobile phone, and issued orders to stay close by and await further instructions.
Sinclair had no idea what the small black object was. He’d assumed it was some obscure modern day weapon, so pocketed it without any further thought. The last thing he wanted was to look stupid in front of the other men. He'd had enough of that back in New Zealand.
It hadn’t taken him long to find out the name of Grey, the man he’d followed from The Old Curiosity Shop to the George and Vulture Inn. That pub hadn’t been his cup of tea. It’s clientele looked askance at his rough clothes and pugilist face, and after settling into the apartment provided by Grey, he promptly ignored his orders, and went out to find a bar more to his liking. A mock-Tudor travesty called the Jolly Farmer, complete with condom vending machines, stained carpets, and a bartender whose blindness to the goings on around him was legendary. It hadn’t taken Sinclair long to find more of his ilk in the bar’s dark corners, and, like a lord, he held court there.
Grey had allocated Sinclair a minder – a goon called Stokes – a short weaselly man with a pinched face and close cropped hair who held a much higher opinion of himself than anyone else did. Sinclair had found a kindred spirit – both enjoyed inflicting pain on those who crossed them, and the men spent an enjoyable evening preying on tourists who accidentally stumbled into the pub, before Sinclair finally scored a pistol from a thug who’d mistaken them for gumby tourists who’d wandered off course. His bloodied corpse would later be identified by forensic dental work, the only recognisable feature left.
The Last Letter Page 1