The Last Letter

by Kirsten McKenzie

  Price fixed Hunt with a steely glare, ‘I have no idea what you’re playing at. You need to take your hand off me now. I’ve been more than pleasant, but that’s at an end.’ Price shrugged off the other’s grip.

  A pointed dagger, reminiscent of a Scottish dirk, appeared in Shrives’ hand. Short and skinny, just like him, it appeared to be the only well-kept article Shrives had on his person.

  ‘We gave you Sue, whether you remember her or not – she serviced you, and you need to pay for that. Her unique skills usually leave men with a hankering for more. Perhaps your tastes run towards something not quite so delightful?’

  The men laughed. But it was no joking matter to Price. There were very few women he’d felt attracted to in his life. As with most men, there was always the first love, someone from his adolescence, a girl who made you so tongue-tied, that it never went any further than ‘hello’. Then there was that first real love, one which arrived and fled faster than a summer storm, but one you remembered fondly for her freshness and vitality. And, if you were lucky, there was a girl like Sarah. A woman whose presence gave warmth to the sun. A simmering love, its ignition hard to pinpoint but undeniable, and when you found that love, you’d do everything in your power to hold onto it.

  Despite losing Sarah, Price would never do anything to compromise his relationship with her, which is why he was adamant there’d been no ‘interlude’ with Sue – nor with anyone else. These men were lying. The dagger in Shrives’ hand was evidence of that.

  One last effort at peace, then he was done, ‘Once again, gentlemen, thank you for your company last night, and the advice.’

  As Price made towards the stables, Shrives lunged for him, aiming for the stomach. At the same time, Hunt went to grab Price’s arms, only to find an empty oilskin in his hands as his target squirmed out of reach, using his bulk as a weapon against the smaller man. Hunt stumbled forward, thrown off balance, clumsy with the heavy oilskin in his arms.

  Shrives yelled in frustration. Price may not have been trained in any of the ancient Asian defensive arts, but he’d had enough experience of men gripped by rage to know that their decision making was diminished by their fury. He deflected Shrives’ thrust with his forearm, bone on bone paining him more than he’d ever show. Still holding his rifle, he swung it like a hockey stick against Shrives’ shins – the man’s thick corduroy pants partially absorbed the impact. He slashed at Price again, the dirk tracing an arc through the air towards his face.

  The sharpness of the honed blade took the top off Price’s cheek effortlessly. Blood flowed freely down his face. Clenching his teeth, he swung the rifle towards his assailant again, aiming for his less padded torso, a thin cotton shirt no protection for his ribs. The crisp sound of them snapping punctuated the air. Price took in a breath and, as he paused to wipe away the blood pouring from his wound, he was tackled by Hunt. They toppled to the ground, where – grappling like Graeco-Roman wrestlers – they grabbed and tore at each other. Hunt ground his palm into the wound on Price’s cheek. Price flipped the smaller man onto his back, pinning him down with his superior weight. His strong hands squeezed Hunt’s windpipe and the smaller man struggled violently, his face turning puce, his lips parted, trying to pull in even the smallest amount of air. Gradually the struggling stopped, followed by a random jerking of his oxygen-starved limbs, then nothing.

  Hunt lay there. A soulless cadaver, cooling in the morning breeze. The scent of death mingled with fresh sawdust carried on the colonial wind. Shrives’ moans were carried away on the same breeze. Price pressed his hand to his cheek, adrenaline failing him now. Pain came in crested waves, and he stumbled away from the men by his feet.

  He scooped up his rifle, pain screaming his name silently with every footfall. Someone would clean up this mess, it wasn’t going to be him. He doubted anyone would take umbrage with a Warden ridding the country of types like these.

  He turned his back on the township of Waimate, and continued his journey to Dunedin, to Sarah Bell.

  THE BISHOP

  ‘There’s absolutely no record of this piece. We’ve been through everything. Every piece of documentation, all the vaults, the libraries. There’s nothing about a matching pair of altar candelabra, which means these markings could be counterfeit.’

  The diminutive woman in the room sighed in frustration, ‘It’s genuine. Why you persist in questioning it defies belief.’ Gemma Dance furiously shuffled the papers in front of her.

  The portfolio assessors on the other side of the table shook their twin heads. Their matching bald pates shone under the harsh fluorescent lights, their client sitting beside them, his black robes an anomaly in the soulless corporate space.

  ‘It’s not that we’re questioning your expertise – it’s just that our client wants to be sure that the article they purchased is genuine.’

  ‘Really – this is an issue you should have taken up with Christie’s. Querying the authenticity of a piece after buying it is like questioning the spiciness of a meal after you’ve eaten it.’

  The accountants both sniffed, equally affronted.

  ‘They’re just doing their job, Miss Dance. Let’s refrain from personal attacks and concentrate on whether these candelabra are indeed made by Paul de Lamerie?’

  Gemma Dance drew herself up, fixing her glare on the cleric filling her boardroom. ‘You hired us. We have told you again and again that there is no evidence that these candelabra are not genuine. Unless you have evidence that you’ve yet to share? Our evidence indicates that your Church commissioned them. And it’s lovely to see them returned to their rightful owners ...’

  Bishop Shalfoon averted his gaze, inspecting instead his perfectly manicured nails, a rather effeminate affectation, given his role. ‘The Church is not withholding any evidence – we’re not Catholics.’

  Gemma winced, but turned her winning smile towards the Art Loss Register’s newest clients. ‘Indeed. As you can read in our report, it’s well documented that de Lamerie was a prolific silversmith, but he also ran a large workshop, and allowed his apprentices to apply his silver mark. He was known for his personal commissions, but those records have been lost to time. Documentation does surface giving the provenance of a piece – but only occasionally. Sadly, most laymen view ephemera such as bills of sale as rubbish. It’s the opinion of the Art Loss Register that these candelabra are indeed by the silversmith de Lamerie.’ Gemma closed the file with finality as her words made their way across the laminated boardroom table.

  The Bishop nodded to his advisors, and they scurried away in tandem, sensible shoes carrying them to their sensible offices.

  Tapping the folder on the table, Bishop Shalfoon smiled at Gemma, ‘Thank you for your efforts, Miss Dance. The Church appreciates all the work which has gone into this report. Insurance is one of our largest costs these days. We have to be so careful to ensure that what investments we do make are for the best. So many natural disasters, earthquakes in New Zealand, erosion in the Islands, wars in Europe ... our land holdings are not proving to be as robust as we once thought.’ Gathering up his belongings, he rose, a faint stench of body odour lingering in his seat. Gemma’s professionalism barely prevented her from wrinkling her tiny nose.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure, Bishop Shalfoon. Please let me know if the Register can provide any additional assistance?’

  The Bishop nodded, like a bobble-head dog in the rear window of a car, before leaving the room.

  Gemma moved to the far side of the now empty room, away from the smell of unwashed sweat permeating the room. She wiped her own sweaty hands against her skirt. Jesus, he was a difficult customer. Who on earth buys at auction and then queries the provenance? Not for the first time she wished the windows could be opened, if only to remove his stench. But the Church was a good client of the Art Loss Register, and he was working on their behalf.

  If she’d been party to the conversation Bishop Shalfoon was now having via cellphone in his car, she’d have been less conciliator
y towards the man.

  THE PHONE CALL

  ‘She’s confirmed it, these are the ones we thought were lost, from New Zealand ... yes, I am sure ... no! That’s the last thing that needs to happen to them. We’d be mad if we sent them to that backwater. Do we even have a presence there? ... I doubt there’s even a congregation there any more, let alone a functioning church ... no, these should go to one of our higher profile congregations. We’ll discuss it further when I return to Salisbury ... no, I’ll be there tomorrow, I have other business in London.’

  Terminating the call, Bishop Daniel Shalfoon ran a finger around his collar, his other hand holding Gemma’s meticulously prepared file on the authenticity of the de Lamerie candelabra Sarah Lester had consigned to auction. It would be a damning indictment if anyone were to find out how much they’d paid out for the pair of candlesticks, but then the lay-person rarely had any idea what the Church did to ensure its survival in these times of disbelief.

  Tapping his driver on the shoulder, they drove off into London’s spaghetti-like traffic. On the leather seat next to Shalfoon was a second folder. Older and slimmer than the one from the Art Loss Register. Within it were two pieces of paper, foxed with age. Sloping lines of faded ink marched sideways across the page. Here was evidence that the Church had once commissioned a piece from the silversmith Paul de Lamerie; a pair of candelabra, destined for the newest church in New Zealand, the church at Bruce Bay. What a personal coup it would be when he recovered the funds he’d spent acquiring property which he’d just proven had been stolen from the church. The potential media opportunities had him salivating.

  THE TRADERS

  ‘What do you mean, the shipment has been stopped for inspection? This is the third time this month. This is ridiculous; we have customers waiting on that cargo! There are spices in the hold which will spoil in this interminable damp.’

  Samer Kurdi pulled his scarf tighter around his neck, his frustration at the clerk palpable. Fussing with the scarf was the only way he could stop his hands from throttling the man. Just doing his job, just doing his job Kurdi repeated over and over. It’s Allah’s wish also fleetingly crossed his mind. Sometimes he wondered if this time away from his homeland was turning him more English than Arab. And, not for the first time, he wondered what he was doing living in this dull grey world when his home was full of faith and light. He turned his attention back to the insipid Customs clerk. ‘Perhaps if I could speak to your superior, we could get this cleared up?’

  ‘Sorry. Mister Meredith is on an audit today, and not expected back before teatime. I could make an appointment for him to see you tomorrow?’

  Kurdi shook his head, ‘No, it’s clear now what the delay is. Thank you for your time.’ Turning on his polished heel, he made his way through the throng of watersiders, officials, and traders like himself. All manner of humanity passed through the wharves, every strata of society represented in some way.

  Hailing a carriage, he climbed in and sat utterly dejected, frustration written all over his swarthy face. The carriage bumped over London’s cobbled streets, jarring every bone in his weary body. Fighting the establishment had left him spent. Perhaps it was time to travel home and settle down – but first he must advise Williams of this latest development, and the expected reaction filled Samer with dread.

  THE OFFICER

  When Edward Grey was in the army, his world spun steadily on a known axis. His days were marked by routine, orders given, orders followed. He was neither junior enough to be cannon fodder, nor senior enough to be held accountable for some of the truly heinous decisions made in India during his deployment.

  His father’s influence in the army had wormed its way into most aspects of his career. He constantly came across officers who’d served with his father. Most had nothing but praise for Lord Henry Grey, although they chose not to regale Edward with the legendary stories of his father’s gambling. On some level, part of him was aware of untold stories about his father – probably about his womanising, he’d naively thought. After all, what man, stationed away from his family for years on end, wasn’t above finding comfort where he could? If only his father’s compatriots had at least hinted to him that his father was on the slippery road to ruin, he could have done something about it. He could have taken steps to ensure the family was protected.

  As it was, he sat at his father’s desk ploughing through the mounting paperwork generated by his mother spending at her usual level, the horrendous arrears left by his father, and exacerbated by his brother’s bad debts, which had followed him from India.

  Brittle paper crackled under his angry hands, as each sheet was perused with mounting concern, every spidery figure another nail in their financial coffin.

  Grey rubbed his eyes, the creases in his forehead deepening more than was right for any young man with his life ahead of him. The weight on his shoulders was not of his making, and resentment seeped from him, adding to the tense atmosphere in the room. The door swung open as he was about to abandon all hope.

  ‘Hello, my dear.’

  A draft ruffled his paperwork and lavender scent wafted across the desk, as his mother entered the room, her powdered face serving to emphasise her weariness. It seemed old age had finally crept up on her, but had added several years all at once. He stood, as she walked around the panelled room, pausing occasionally to run her hand over a book, a statue, the back of a chair.

  ‘Your father loved this room. I think sometimes he loved it more than he did me ...’ she hesitated before correcting herself, ‘No, that’s not right. He did love this room more than me. His things, his collections. I was one of the beautiful things he collected but, unlike his other pieces, my beauty faded. I wouldn’t sit on a pedestal like he desired. Especially not in India.’ Bitterness tainted her words. ‘I detested it there. The filth. Those women throwing themselves at any man with breath in his body, regardless of whether he’d been married in the sight of God. A godless country. One season I lasted – the voyage home was the best part of my time there.’ Her eyes flickering to the mountain of paperwork concealing the desk stop. Her voice broke, ‘Perhaps, perhaps if I hadn’t ... if I hadn’t come home, the gambling ...’

  Edward rushed around the desk to his mother’s side, helping her to a chair by the shuttered window. Crouching at her side, he awkwardly stroked her hand as empty tears made their way through the powder on her face. Twin tracks of tiredness on her papery skin.

  Their family had never been one for displays of affection. He’d grown up with tutors, and rare interactions with his parents. His father had been stationed in India for most of the time. His mother – the equivalent of modern-day Internet celebrities, Twitterati and ‘B’ list reality stars – had been at every society lunch, charity dinner and royal ball. There’d been no time for her children. Isn’t that what nannies are for?

  ‘Shall I call for tea, Mother?’ he asked, uncertain as to the protocol for situations such as this.

  ‘Tea, yes – tea would be lovely, thank you.’

  Edward made his way to the call bell discreetly hidden on the wall behind his desk, a long strip of fabric intricately embroidered with a repeating pattern of an artfully arranged bouquet of roses and peonies, a hundred different shades of pink, ending in an ornate brass handle, and tugged on the cord, and although no bell sounded in the study, a sturdy ringing was heard in the kitchen.

  As Edward returned to his mother’s side, he stopped short, ‘Mother, the knife?’

  ‘No, I don’t need anything to eat, just a cup of tea. That should jolly me up. Sorry. You have all these troubles, and here am I adding to them.’

  ‘No, Mother – one of Father’s knives is missing. Have you moved it?’

  Edward rummaged around his desk for the key to the cabinet, running his hands through his hair in exasperation.

  Lady Laura Grey stood up, silk skirts rustling as she leaned over the curiosity cabinet.

  ‘You know I’ve never paid much attention to what was in
this. I’ve no idea if there ever was another knife.’

  ‘Mother. Seriously? You can see there’s a void in the cabinet. There have always been two knives in it. Father had his cabinetmaker craft these cabinets specifically for the pieces they displayed. I should know, we’re still paying off his substantial bill.’

  ‘In that case, best you ask Sutcliffe, he’ll know.’ Dismissing the issue from her mind, Lady Grey made another circuit of the room, appraising its contents. ‘I feel this room is due for modernising. Now your father is gone, there’s no need for it to stay so dreary. The fashion for Indian decor has passed, and the latest Woman At Home magazine says Japan is in vogue now. There was a marvellous picture of hand-painted wallpaper with stunning mountain vistas and wooden pagodas which would entirely suit this space. Yes, I think I shall arrange to order some.’

  ‘No, you will not, Mother.’ Edward yanked at the bell cord again, venting his frustration on the embroidered fabric.

  ‘I beg your pardon? This is my house, Edward, and if I choose to redecorate, that is my decision. I was not asking for permission.’

  ‘It’s not a case of asking for permission, Mother – I said “no” purely because we don’t have sufficient funds to accommodate your whims. We barely have the wherewithal to fill our stomachs, let alone paper these walls. The only thing we’ll be doing with this room is selling off its contents. I’ll arrange for that auction house to call, to appraise some of Father’s things.’ He strode angrily to the door, wrenching it open, ‘For Christ’s sake, we pay their bloody wages, yet they can’t be bothered to answer the damn bell.’ Looking out into the expanse of empty hall, he bellowed for Sutcliffe. He may as well have been yelling into St Cuthbert’s Cave for all the response he got back. Looking back at his mother, who’d paled at his outright admission of their poverty, he shook his head and strode off in search of one of their dwindling number of servants.