The Last Letter

by Kirsten McKenzie

  ‘Trish, it’s me,’ Sarah replied loudly, walking in.

  Patricia froze. Her hands clenched the snowy fabric. She looked up.

  ‘You’d better have a bloody good explanation for what you’ve been doing and why you’ve been away for so long.’

  THE RAJA

  The Raja of Nahan adjusted his black turban – the one which matched his mood. Not even the gleaming strands of pearls – some the size of quail eggs – slung around his neck, could ease the darkness that had settled over his household.

  Never had he encountered such hostility from the British. It was as if he were being held personally responsible for both the uprising, and the death of that pompous English officer Simeon Williams.

  It was well known in Simla, and beyond Simla’s verdant hills, that Williams was a brute of the first order. His avarice was legendary and, on more than one occasion, other members of India’s aristocracy had come to him with complaints at Williams’ ‘procurement’ of treasures which rightly belonged to India.

  It wasn’t the turban causing the band of pain around his head, it was his responsibilities. Never before had he put his own needs ahead of those of his family, or those under his patronage. Just once he wanted to run off, and to hell with the consequences. Surely they’d survive without me? But then again, in all likelihood, his lands and property would be ‘absorbed’ by the Empire, and he’d be left with nothing if he abdicated his responsibilities.

  He thought wistfully of those last moments with Miss Williams, before the conflagration had caused him to send her home. Home to safety, he’d thought. He’d had Saptanshu punished for abandoning Sarah Williams on the side of the road, for protecting his own skin, and not that of the English lady. His orders had been carried out without any qualms from the other staff. This was the way it had always been. Orders were given. And orders were obeyed. He had given Saptanshu no further thought. Servants were plentiful in India.

  He’d sent gift after gift to her, but had heard nothing. The servants reported that Miss Williams had fallen into a stupor, where she remembered nothing other than the trip out from England and then finding her brother’s eviscerated body in his room. He understood shock could incapacitate, but it had been days now, and the latest information seeping out of the Viceregal Lodge was that Miss Williams was being sent to Delhi to convalesce, before returning to England.

  Probably for the best, he told himself for the tenth time that morning. The scent of jasmine clung to his skin as he splashed toilet water over his face, patting the back of his neck with the cool liquid. He looked forward to winter coming upon them, with its crisp air and dustings of snow, a welcome respite from the disease-laden summer heat.

  Nodding to his image in a silver-framed mirror, he left his dressing room, ready to prove to the British they’d never be able to subjugate his people, not while he stood.

  Today he would call in person, couched in terms of visiting the Viceroy, of course. It would be a simple act to ask after the welfare of Miss Williams – she had, after all, saved his life when she’d shot the tiger which had attacked him.

  Climbing into his heavily decorated palanquin, he gazed out towards the majestic Himalayas. He could never tire of this sight. Their presence filled his soul with enough energy to live, and to understand that the problems of man were never bigger than the mountains overlooking them, and that, like mountains, problems were not insurmountable. Difficult to climb, but not insurmountable. He would see Miss Williams.

  * * *

  Activity around the Viceregal Lodge was frenetic. After the latest uprising had been quelled by the superior fire power of the British Army, the executions of the ringleaders had dampened down the remaining pockets of dissent. Soldiers looked at him with distrust. He tilted his chin higher. Their opinions were of no consequence.

  The Raja was escorted through the glorious entrance hall of the Lodge, and taken straight through to the Viceroy’s study, where he was met by Albert Lester.

  ‘Your Highness,’ bowed Lester.

  The Raja nodded in acknowledgement – his disdain for the British didn’t extend to Lester, who’d been one of the few true English gentlemen he’d encountered in recent years. He was different from the others; more relaxed, less judgmental – an unusual man.

  ‘The Viceroy will be joining us shortly. I’ve sent his aide-de-camp to locate him. He’s out on the tennis court; please forgive his tardiness – we weren’t expecting you.’

  ‘I understand, please do not apologise for the man. Exercise is as good for the country as is good management. And if he is only capable of one thing, well, I’ll leave that for others to comment upon. It’s not my place.’

  Albert Lester laughed. Only an Indian could give a compliment with one hand and take it away with the other in the same sentence.

  ‘And the girl, Mr Lester, how does she fare?’

  Albert considered his answer carefully. He’d heard the rumours about the Raja and Sarah. No father wanted to contemplate their daughter’s love life in any depth, even if his daughter was now safely back in her own time. But he did feel responsible for the real Sarah Williams, who was close to a complete nervous breakdown.

  ‘She’s gone. She left just before dawn, so she wasn’t travelling in the heat of the day. Did you not know?’

  ‘This morning? I had no idea. But the gifts I sent her? I had hoped to express my condolences to her myself for the loss of her brother.’

  ‘You’d be the only one concerned about the death of Simeon Williams. I wouldn’t concern yourself greatly with the death of that miscreant, and I ...’

  Interrupted by the arrival of the Viceroy, his tennis whites stained by the reddish dust which residents of Simla were all too familiar, Albert Lester lapsed into silence.

  ‘So terribly sorry to greet you like this. You should have sent word that you were visiting today. Would you take some tea, perhaps?’ The Viceroy’s upper-class training concealed from all but the most observant that he was a man who considered himself well above the native Indian in his status. He had been trained to play a part on behalf of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, and if that meant taking tea with a minor upstart who considered himself royalty, then needs must.

  Both men knew the part society expected them to play. The wild card was Lester. Raised by a father who worked for the postal service, and a mother who supplemented her housekeeping money with selling knick-knacks at community hall collectible fairs and car boot sales, no one in their right mind would have classed him as anywhere near upper-class, let alone royalty. Yet it was through the strangest quirks of fate that he was here in this room, advising the man second only in importance to the longest serving queen of all time, and damned if he wasn’t going to do all he could to help avoid any further bloodshed in the country he was destined to live out his days.

  ‘Tea would be most agreeable, thank you. From Mr Lester, I understand that Miss Williams has left for Delhi. This saddens me, as I had hoped to speak with her before she left. She saved my life. There is a debt of gratitude there that will never be repaid.’

  ‘Yes, we struggled with that decision, but she has distant family in England, and for her to remain in Simla seemed to be hindering her recovery. Too many reminders of her brother. Best thing for her. But enough of Miss Williams. Shall we speak of the troubles, or do you believe that they have passed us?’

  ‘The “troubles”, as you so eloquently describe them, have not gone away, they are but hidden underneath the carpets littered about your houses.’

  The tea arrived, interrupting the Raja, and providing the breathing space for the Viceroy to recover from the gentle insult loosed among them.

  ‘That is not reassuring. I understood that the ringleaders had been rounded up ...’

  ‘And shot,’ the Raja interrupted.

  ‘Yes, well that was unfortunate. But, like a snake, once you remove the head, the danger has passed?’

  ‘You have forgotten about Medusa. The danger is in the shadows n
ow. You’ll need to act quickly or your empire will tumble.’

  The veneer gone from the conversation now, the Viceroy flushed with anger, ‘You speak in riddles, man. The Empire will never falter. We have the power of an empire which spans the entire globe. Not just some shabby band of disgruntled sepoys.’ Struggling to manage his anger, the Viceroy took a deep breath. ‘Come now, let’s drink our tea, and talk no more of uprisings. We are done with them, peace will reign. Now, can I interest you in scones perhaps?’

  The Raja shook his head. Interestingly, he noted that Lester had been shaking his head during the Viceroy’s diatribe, as if he alone understood the Raja’s position and agreed with it. ‘Mr Lester, do you have an opinion?’ he probed.

  Lester drew down on his pipe, its acrid smoke filling the wood-panelled room. History had been his favourite subject at school, despite leaving as soon as he’d completed the minimum requirements of secondary level, he had a fairly clear memory of how the Indian rebellion would play out, how the British Empire would slowly disintegrate, falling like a set of ivory dominos.

  Exhaling, he chose his words carefully, ‘I have a feeling that we have not seen the end of unrest in India over the treatment of the sepoys. It would be my advice that we tread carefully, and take measures to assure the Indian commanders, and indeed soldiers, that they are an integral part of the Empire.’

  The Raja nodded, ‘A wise position to take – a prudent man would listen.’ He looked pointedly at the Viceroy, who’d spent the entirety of the conver-

  sation spreading English jam on freshly baked English scones.

  Acknowledging that his opinion of the British ruling class had been reinforced, the Raja rose. Brushing down his immaculate churidars – his trousers – he bowed stiffly to the Viceroy, ‘Thank you for your time. I have business to attend to in Delhi, so I must take my leave to prepare for my journey.’

  Shocked, Albert almost choked on the bit of his pipe. He was about to question the Raja, but thought better of it. His daughter was home. Sarah Williams was no longer his concern. He must not interfere.

  ‘Before you go, Raja ... this Simeon Williams business, I don’t suppose you know anything about it?’ the Viceroy asked, slathering another piece of scone with sticky jam before looking up at his guest.

  ‘I understand you were rather close to his sister – perhaps she shared some information with you? It’s just we’re having no luck in tracking down his murderer, and ... well, it is rather bad for morale. Rumour is that it was a local, and so, on the off chance, I thought I’d check.’

  ‘When one listens to gossip, the winds of rumour seep in. You’d do better listening to your advisors instead of whispers from the staff. I bid you good day.’ The Raja strode from the room, the Viceroy’s aide-de-camp hastening to hold the door open for him.

  Lester stamped out his pipe, ‘That could’ve gone better.’

  ‘The Indians are all the same, Albert. They think they rule the place. Swanning around with pearls round his neck, like a peacock. Wouldn’t have put it past him to have had old Williams knocked off himself, to get his hands on the sister. Yes, it’s definitely for the best we sent her away.’ He addressed his aide-de-camp, ‘Get Doulton in here – I want to talk to him about the possibility that the high and mighty Raja may have had something to do with Williams’ death; it’s an interesting angle. One I hadn’t considered.’

  The ADC nodded, and hurried off.

  ‘You don’t really think the Raja had anything to do with it? It will have been a gambling debt – we’ve talked about this. You’ve just insinuated that a member of Indian royalty murdered an English officer. By now every coolie south of Simla will have heard the rumour.’

  ‘Poppycock, Albert, there was no one in the room apart from us.’

  ‘Sir, you know as well as I do that India has eyes and ears everywhere. They know what you think before you do. God knows what’s going to happen now.’

  ‘Albert, you need to trust me on this. My information is that we’ve settled the uprisings. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must change out of these clothes.’

  The Viceroy left Albert in the study shaking his head at the arrogance of the Victorian upper class. Mind you, nothing much had changed in the one hundred and fifty years after. Eyeing the decanter, he decided it was never too early for the stuff when surrounded by idiots. Pouring two fingers into a crystal tumbler, he relit his meerschaum pipe, gripping the natural amber stem with his work-worn hands, and moved to the wingback chair. Sipping his scotch, he surveyed the great expanse of lawn. The sheer numbers of staff required to maintain the Empire in India was staggering, and the British treated them like dirt. It was no wonder the people of India were about to rise up and shrug off the imperial yoke. Not in his lifetime, but it was coming.

  THE WOOD CHOPPER

  Price rolled onto his side, his head felt like it’d been split with a ball-pein hammer. He hadn’t drunk that much since he’d first started buying his own grog. After a couple of big sessions in his early days which had incapacitated him, he’d vowed never to do it again. That vow had lasted till last night. In an attempt to ingratiate himself with Hunt and Shrives, he’d consumed what seemed like a barrel-full of gin and whisky, without anything solid in his stomach to absorb the toxic mixture. He’d no recollection of putting himself to bed. The bedpan on the floor beside him held a mass of regurgitated alcohol and bile. Better in the pan than the bed. He tried to sit up, but his head hurt more than he’d ever known. Groaning, he fell back onto the lumpy mattress, his pillow nothing more than the rolled up oilskin that travelled with him.

  The tilt of the sun coming in through the window proved it was well into the day, dawn a distant memory he’d never have.

  His tongue rolled around a dry cave of a mouth. It was this that forced him up. He’d kill for a drink, and not the alcoholic kind.

  He didn’t need to put his hobnail boots on, he’d never taken them off. Somehow he’d managed to strip off his shirt before getting into bed, showing off a torso banded with muscles that years of outdoor work had formed. Confused, he looked around for his shirt. There, balled up in the corner, with a silk garment. Wait ... a what? He hooked the silky fabric with his finger – the creamy folds shook out revealing a chemise of foreign origin.

  Slowly he scanned the room. There was nothing else obviously feminine. He dropped the chemise, grabbing his shirt instead and pulling it over his head, grimacing as the sudden movement jolted his hung-over skull. Thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his oilskin, he tarried long enough to splash cold water on his face. He put the chemise out of his mind. Perhaps it had been left there by the last inhabitants of the room.

  He slipped down the stairs into the tavern, already busy with no-hopers filling their stomachs with ale, or something stronger depending on the coin in their pockets.

  The room fell silent as Price appeared. He felt the mood shift from congenial to feral in the space of a heartbeat. Unarmed, his rifle left for safe keeping with the publican when he’d first arrived, he shifted his weight, unsure whether he was in any fit state to defend himself.

  ‘Morning,’ he said to the barman, who didn’t waver from his look of outright disgust this morning. Warden William Price had seen much in his life –little surprised him and, with a remarkable tolerance for animosity, provided it was not accompanied by violence, he chose not to react. There was no point making a mountain out of molehill over bad manners.

  ‘I’ll just grab my rifle and be on my way,’ Price said quietly to the barman.

  The barman turned, and slipped through a door marked “Private”, returning moments later with Price’s well-cared-for rifle, its cherrywood stock gleaming in the antipodean light that seeped in from the windows.

  Price muttered his thanks and, avoiding the looks of the other patrons, made his way outside, only to walk straight into Hunt.

  ‘Hang on a bit there, friend, we got some unfinished business from last night. Figure you owes me and Shrives here so
me money for the bit of fun we passed your way last night.’

  Shrives peeled himself off the white-painted wall, and matched pace with Price, as he tried to sidestep Hunt. The trio made an odd picture, with the healthy-looking Price towering a good head above the other two. In contrast, Hunt and Shrives both had the sallow sheen of the malnourished, and bandy legs, as a result of childhood rickets. Their clothes, the same sets they’d worn on the journey out to New Zealand, had more repairs than a patchwork quilt. Both of them peered malevolently at Price through bloodshot eyes.

  Price rubbed his hand across the lengthening stubble on his chin, ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, gentlemen. My head is killing me, and I really must locate Mrs Bell, which means I’ve to follow her trail down country as there’s no sign of her here.’

  ‘Surely the taste of Waimate you had last night is enough to make you want to stay – you know, to try it again?’ Both men laughed uproariously at the private joke.

  ‘I thank you for your company last night. It was indeed eye-opening, but I must move on.’

  ‘Then you’ll need to reimburse us for your woman last night. She wasn’t free, you know,’ Hunt said slowly.

  ‘There was no woman, gentlemen, I believe you are mistaken. Again, thank you for your company, and for your efforts in trying to locate Mrs Bell. Sinclair was right when he said you were the men to help.’

  ‘Stop pissing around, Price. You had a right royal romp with our Sue last night, but you didn’t pay.’

  Price stopped. ‘Look, I’m sorry but I don’t recall meeting any Sue last night. You’re mistaken. Now I must be on my way.’

  Hunt slapped a hand on Price’s shoulder, his strength a surprise to the taller man.

  ‘Seriously, you need to pay up. Sue doesn’t spread her legs for free. Your Mrs Bell may be doing the same wherever she is, and you wouldn’t want to think that some fuckwit has just stiffed her out of enough money to feed her brood of bastard kids, do you?’