The Last Letter

by Kirsten McKenzie

  ‘You lock the door, I’ll check on our guest,’ Joe directed.

  Jimmy did as he was told, the tension from the outside world sloughing off him. His shoulders straightened, his head lifted. This was his safe place. He pocketed the sturdy key, its heft a reminder that, through the grace of God, he had a roof over his head, and was about to have food in his belly. As long as the girl doesn’t ruin everything. He muttered a short prayer; that he wouldn’t be led into temptation – again.

  THE WARDEN

  Warden William Price ran his hands through his long hair. It was as if Sarah Bell had just disappeared; vanished, along with Bryce Sinclair. He’d found no sign of them. None of Sinclair’s associates would admit to having seen him with, or without, a woman.

  With a jaw hidden by a week’s worth of stubble and hair loosed from its regular tie, his wild man look was enough to keep the other drinkers away. He sat nursing a whisky, his large hands grasping the barely clean glass, trying to think where else to look. Dunedin was his destination, but he had his suspicions that Sinclair had somehow obtained another boat, abducting Sarah Bell via water. That was the only logical answer. They couldn’t just disappear like a winter’s breath.

  It was killing him not being able to find her. It made no sense at all. He’d never been married, preferring the company of soldiers, then, later, his horse. He was a man comfortable with his own company. So why was he pining for a woman whom he hardly knew? There’d been something there. Was it love? As intangible and untouchable as a ghostly vision, deep down, he suspected it was.

  Knocking back a drink in a miners’ tavern near the bottom of the South Island of New Zealand was hardly tolerable, but he had a good reason for dallying in this less than salubrious environment. He’d heard Sinclair had at least one good friend, Saul Hunt, another ferryman. An ex-convict from Australia who’d made his way to New Zealand to bury his criminal past, to forge a new life here. And the Waimate Hotel was his favourite haunt. The barman had assured him that Hunt would be along soon, but only after Price had passed over enough small change to fund several drinks, sufficient to satisfy the alcoholic habits of his host.

  If Saul Hunt was a dead end, the only possibility left was Dunedin, and beyond that ... he didn’t have the means or time to continue the search. He’d have to return to Bruce Bay, to carry out the duties the government was paying him for. This trip was under the pretext of finding Sinclair and the stolen silverware from the Bruce Bay church. That was always at the back of his mind, but enquiries he’d made during his journey down the coast, and across the island, had proved fruitless.

  The door opened, bringing in on the nor’wester wind the scent of fire; a daily occurrence in these parts, as settlers cleared vast tracts of land for new houses. Blowing in with the wind was the man the hotelier had described as Hunt. Tall and mangy like a malnourished dog, a droopy left eye completed the picture. Hunt was accompanied by Shrives, the local bullock driver – a hulk of a man, with as much sense as his teams. Laughing, they sauntered up to the bar, leaned against it like regulars, and waited for their drinks.

  ‘Here you are, lads. These drinks are on him over there,’ the barman tilted his head towards Price.

  Price lifted his glass in acknowledgement of the suspicious look Hunt and Shrives gave him. The men quietly conferred. Evidently Price’s wild man looks were enough to assure them he posed no threat.

  By and large, Shrives was a law-abiding man; Hunt, not so much. Together though, that was another story. Price bore no man ill will; judgement was for another to give. Time, however, was of the essence, and becoming embroiled in policing these two was not high on his list of priorities.

  The two men moved as one, making their way to Price’s table. Hunt then took the lead. ‘I’d say thanks, but I’d rather know who I was thanking, and why I’m saying thanks for a free drink when I don’t know you from shit,’ he muttered.

  ‘William Price. Figured it was the right thing to do when you’re the new guy in town, trying to find his way round. Just got here. The barman suggested I catch up with you – you know, find out how things are around here.’

  Price was nothing if not creative with his words, stoking Hunt’s ego like a fire. It worked.

  ‘Always happy to help a new arrival. What brings you to town?’

  ‘Just came from the West Coast. Had to get out of that rain. Bloody rain every day. Heard it was warmer here, and men were needed for the forestry. Thought I’d try my hand. Given up on the gold. That’s all gone. Is there money to be made round here?’

  ‘Only if you want to break your back. Nah, you’re better off going to Timaru or Oamaru, get into the building industry up there. You know how many men’ve been killed chopping down those fucking big trees? What do you reckon, Shrives, at least twelve this month?’

  Shrives took a long sip of his grog as he mulled over the question. Draining his glass, he replied, ‘Nah, more like fifteen. It’s been a bad month. Last one was better; only three or so then.’ He looked expectantly at his empty glass.

  Price motioned to the barman, who’d been listening to the conversation while cleaning what few glasses he had left. The room was filling and, with that, the noise increased. Price needed to find out about Sinclair before any friends of Hunt and Shrives turned up, and made the conversation more difficult. With replenished drinks, Price took a punt, ‘It wasn’t just the barman who suggested we talk. A guy I met down the Moeraki river suggested I get hold of his mate over here, said he might be able to get some info on a girl I used to know. She thieved some stuff of mine I’d like to get back.’ Price swallowed down the hard liquor, staring at Hunt the whole time.

  ‘A mate, you say? Can’t say that I’ve many of those!’ Both men laughed uproariously, before Hunt continued, ‘You must mean Sinclair? Yeah, we go way back. Haven’t seen ’im for a couple of years now. Last I heard he was still down Otago. He’s always had a nose for following the money. If he’s saying there’s more money to be had in this shit hole of a town, then fuck knows where he heard that. Got his ideas all wrong, that boy. Yeah there’s money in the trees, but more money to be had staying alive, and well away from those things. Haven’t heard of no girl round here, not unless she’s the sort that makes you pay for it.’ Another round of bawdy laughter followed.

  ‘I’m not after what’s between her legs, just what’s in her bags,’ Price interjected.

  ‘That’s what they all say,’ Shrives quipped, looking to Hunt for validation of his pithy comment.

  ‘Never knew a man who wasn’t after what’s between a woman’s legs, apart from some of those queer bastards who we haven’t strung up yet. Leave it with me, I’ll find out. How long you in town for then?’

  ‘Pretty much taking it day by day till my money runs out, or till I find the girl. Goes by the name of Sarah Bell. She left me high and dry. So you haven’t seen Sinclair for a couple of years then?’

  ‘Nah, shit, it’s gotta be at least two years. Hope he’s not telling everyone that I owes ’im anything. We ’ad a thing going in Dunedin, but it went a bit south, so we split up. It’d probably be OK to go back there now, but some of those army boys ’ave got long memories. Thought it best to stay away a bit longer, steer clear of Sinclair, so’s we can’t be accused of anything. Some people just like pinning everything on an ex-con, regardless. A man can turn over a new leaf, you know.’

  Price nodded in agreement, noting Hunt’s insistence that he hadn’t seen Sinclair. Seemed that this avenue of enquiry was a dead end.

  THE PLAYER

  The soft plunk of balls against racquets echoed around the tennis courts. Abrupt yells of players commingled with the soft conversations of spectators, the barks of coaches, and the sounds of diners knocking back healthy concoctions made from the current trendy ‘super food’.

  Grey sipped on a tea. The green sludge in his companion’s glass looked as appealing as Thames river water. He’d foregone his normal structured black suit for a pastel polo shirt and white s
lacks, finished off with leather boat shoes. His suit would have been an anomaly among the sea of white uniformed players around him. The setting was oddly private. Hannah Gardner squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. If she could have hidden behind her blunt blonde fringe, she would have. Talking to Richard Grey in public would be career suicide if she were seen. Meeting with a man charged with murdering one of her co-workers was undoubtedly the stupidest thing she’d ever done. She’d never regretted her involvement with Grey as much as she did now.

  Their relationship had begun when she’d been at a low point in her life. Her elderly parents both required care, depleting their savings. Their comfortable semi-detached home, the one she’d expected to inherit, had to be sold when she was forced to put them into full-time care. Her salary at Christie’s, and the occasional split of a sales commission, was barely enough for her to live on, let alone to assist with the care of her parents. When Grey had initially approached her, with what seemed like a minor query, she was all too happy to help one of Christie’s most moneyed clients.

  Cultivating customers was a major part of her work – the more distinguished they were, the more money spent, and you received a greater portion of the commission, especially if you sourced the object they purchased, or helped broker the sale, either by private treaty or by bringing the winning bidder to the auction.

  Grey had called her to ask one minor question; who had consigned a piece of art, a late 1800s painting, by Russian war artist Vasily Vereshchagin. Hardly a piece that was going to break any records under the gavel. She’d been so flattered that he’d contacted her personally, since they’d only met the once, that, without really thinking, she’d looked up the details, sharing the confidential information without any concerns.

  A few days later, a small bouquet of flowers from Grey were delivered to her home, as a ‘thank-you’. In all these years, she’d never thought to ask him how he knew her address.

  When Grey rang with a second question, about the reserve price of an urn – a run-of-the-mill piece of Doulton Lambeth pottery – she hadn’t hesitated, the scent of the lilies still fresh in her mind. The piece only warranted a reserve of three hundred pounds, and he wanted to buy it because his great-grandfather had talked of owning a similar piece. She was more than happy to oblige. She’d seen him at the auction, and it felt completely natural leaning towards him to whisper the confidential reserve price of a lacklustre piece of pottery, for sentimental reasons. The smile he’d given her was a reward in itself. She’d fantasised that, before long, he’d be whisking her away on trips to Aspen, and winters in Bermuda. He was the only man ever to send her flowers, or shower her with compliments.

  Was she breaking the rules? Absolutely. But, at the time, it had seemed like such a minor infraction that it hadn’t bothered her. He’d always seemed so grateful. Half a dozen bottles of good French wine had arrived on her door step after he’d won the urn. After that, tickets to the Royal Ballet, seats at Wimbledon. She’d only ever answered what seemed like innocuous questions about items consigned to Christie’s. Over time, the requests had increased, and became more complicated, involving more subterfuge. By then, she was in too deep. At some point, the gifts evolved into payments, the money a welcome boost to her haemorrhaging finances. By then it was too late to back out. Finally, she was sending Grey the contact details of people looking to consign goods in which Grey had expressed an interest. He had a very specific list of items he desired, and didn’t want to pay market price for them. He wanted them before they even made it to the auction floor.

  ‘Couldn’t we have just talked over the phone?’ Gardner whined, looking furtively at the people surrounding them.

  ‘They’ll no doubt be listening to my conversations, hoping I’ll incriminate myself. Any fool can see on the CCTV footage that I slipped and, in my haste to claim my stolen property, it was merely the confluence of physics, the sharpness of the antique blade, and the reactions of the idiot on the stage that led to his death. And this sham of a trial will prove that.’

  Gardner choked on her smoothie, coughing loudly into her serviette. Her eyes darted frantically around to see if anyone was looking their way. After wiping her mouth, she pulled her cap down even further, tucking her blonde hair safely out of sight.

  ‘Surely you can’t want anything further from me now?’

  ‘On the contrary, Hannah, I need you even more than before. Apparently I am persona non grata at your place of work now. Your assistance will be rewarded. I cannot stop my quest to reunite my family’s belongings. Our work here has only just begun.’

  ‘You can’t seriously expect me to continue giving you confidential information? The whole office is going through a massive security crackdown ...’ Gardner’s voice cracked under the strain.

  ‘Hannah, I don’t think you fully understand the position you’ve put yourself in. But I’m sure your employers will, once I instruct my solicitor to release the evidence of your attempts to curry favour with me in order to supplement your income. Rather daring of you, I must say. You were also hoping for a smidgeon of romance, no? And to think I kept rebuffing your naive advances. Do you truly think I like the ballet? Dire rubbish, tiresome and devoid of imagination. Did you really believe I would have gone with you? How many nights have you sat in a theatre with an empty seat next to you? Oh yes, it is all well documented, your pathetic attempts to seduce me ...’

  Hannah started to interrupt, her heart hammering wildly, she pressed her hands to her chest.

  ‘No, no, let me finish. You need me. Your parents need my money. Yes, I know all about them. I knew all that and a lot more about you before we began this dance. But your dance card is full now, and my name is the only name on there, so we shall continue dancing. We just needed to get that completely clear. I expect the same level of service that I have received from you up to this point to continue.’ Grey took a final sip of his tea, before elegantly wiping his lips.

  ‘Thank you for your time. Good luck with your game.’ With that, he left the table, and wound his way past the other tables filled with oblivious diners, his height casting shadows in his wake.

  Gardner fiddled with her phone, struggling with her decision. Deep down, wasn’t her involvement with Grey the only bright spark in a monotonous life? She only had her job, her failing parents, and a crummy flat. And because of Grey, a tidy sum in her bank. The sort of sum that facilitated membership to a club like this one.

  THE CAPTIVE

  Sarah had touched everything in the room trying to find a way home. It hadn’t taken long. The room was as Spartan as her shop was cluttered. A bed, a functional chest-on-chest, a transfer ware basin and jug, and two candlestick holders, the type Wee Willie Winkie would have run around town with, old beeswax clinging to the sides like a climber on Everest.

  She’d been left with no lantern, nor matches to light the candles or fire. Her fingernails were bloodied where she’d tried to prise the wooden boards from the window frame. She could feel curls of wind seeping through the window sashes. Freedom so close. So unattainable.

  She’d screamed herself hoarse trying to summon attention, anyone’s attention, until finally she’d wrapped herself up in the quilt – a quilt made from one inch squares of red, black and cream, sewn together in intricate geometric patterns – and curled up on the bed, too cold, hungry and despondent to do anything else.

  Strangely, the key turning in the old iron lock was a welcome noise compared to the silence she’d endured since she’d been locked up immediately following a harrowing breakfast.

  That had commenced with her being hauled out of bed. Half asleep, she’d stumbled along the corridor to the kitchen, where Jimmy was feeding the fire in the black range, refusing to meet her eyes, as Joe pulled her roughly into the kitchen, brusquely pointing out oats, sugar, bowls, and cutlery. Sarah had rarely cooked porridge herself in London – and that had been with access to a microwave and instant sachets from the supermarket. Her lack of culinary knowledge had been a fam
ily joke, to the point where she’d had to ring her father when she was away at university, to ask him how long it took to boil an egg. Cooking porridge from scratch, for two strangers, in what she considered a medieval kitchen was going to be beyond her.

  For two men on their own, the kitchen was a shrine to cleanliness. A delicate tea service sat pristinely on a hutch dresser, its golden rim winking in the sunlight that flooded into the room through the thin glass windows. The fabulous view of the emerging settlement down the hill wasn’t enough to distract her from her predicament. Standing there lamely, she made no further move. Joe stepped forward and slapped her.

  ‘We’re waiting for our breakfast. It won’t get cooked by you standing there. God gave you hands to use and to serve. And while I allow you to live under our roof, you’ll cook, or there’s room back in the cellar. You liked it enough to sneak in there before.’

  Sarah held her hand to her cheek. The power behind the slap had thrown her into the table. Glaring at Joe she replied, ‘I have no idea how to cook porridge. So you can bloody well cook it yourself.’

  Joe jerked his head at his brother. The twin pushed back his chair, stood up and, like a well-mannered child, returned his chair neatly under the table. Seeing his huge hands on the back of the chair, Sarah felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. Her heart rate quickened.

  Jimmy walked towards her. Joe moved to block the doorway, cutting off any potential escape route.

  ‘You sure, Joe?’ Jimmy asked as Sarah backed away.

  Joe nodded.

  Jimmy lunged at Sarah, his bulk belying his speed and strength. Grabbing her in a bear hug, he dragged her to the range. Bending down, he opened the cast iron door, the fire-hot metal barely registering on his labour-toughened skin. Using her hair, he pulled Sarah’s face to the open door.

  She struggled futility against his benign strength pushing her closer to the fire. She screamed as the heat singed first her hair, and then her eyebrows. Her bruised cheek brushed against the edge of the range, and her screams of fear turned to those of absolute pain.