The Last Letter

by Kirsten McKenzie

  Gathering her in his good arm, he pulled her tightly to his body, breathing in her scent, the scent of happiness and freedom.

  ‘Oh, my dear wife.’

  Together they sat on the bench, Elizabeth careful to sit on the side without a sling.

  ‘A “minor” accident then?’

  ‘Just an arm, with an infection. They’re keeping me here to make sure it doesn’t spread or get worse. Should be out by the end of the week, back into the classroom, but not the air.’ He tucked a wayward bit of hair behind her ear, marvelling at how, despite not having seen each other in months, the same familiar ease was there, the comfort of a couple perfectly suited.

  ‘I, for one, am grateful you’re sitting here, on this bench with a dicky arm. I wish you had two dicky arms. I wish that you’d never need to fly again in this stupid war.’

  ‘Without our wings, this war will be lost, my love. I’m doing my part, although I’m guessing that from here it’ll mostly be in the classroom. When the war is over, I’ll take you flying, and you’ll feel as if you’re a bird, soaring high above the land. There’s nothing like it, Lizzie.’

  Elizabeth harrumphed as only a wife can do. A sound imparting so much meaning, but without definition or defined form.

  Together they sat on the slatted bench, clouds and sunlight making alternating shadows on their faces, shadows of things to come, when the quiet was suddenly broken by Philip’s cry, ‘I almost forgot, Lizzie, look at this.’ He pushed the Roman statue into Elizabeth’s hands, the copper alloy cool against her hands.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Philip, just divine.’ She looked at him, their togetherness enough for him to know her question without it being asked.

  ‘To be frank, my Spitfire found it, can’t take any of the credit. Buried in a field. By rights I should have let the farmer know what was there, but ... well, I knew you’d see the beauty in it, and would appreciate it a darn sight more than the farmer.’

  Elizabeth laughed, loud enough to make the passing nurses giggle in response. ‘He’s glorious, look at the detail of his hair, those curls, just like a babe’s. And this rough bit, he’s off something, otherwise there would be clean lines here ...’

  Philip was nodding along with her monologue before interrupting, ‘That’s exactly what I thought. There was so much care in the making of this piece, why would one side be so roughly cast? It’s definitely been broken off something. I never thought to look at the time. I’d love to go back and dig around – but without crash landing on it this time.’

  ‘We will, my darling, after this war is done. Just promise me a couple more broken arms and I’ll be happy.’

  Elizabeth leaned into his shoulder, her felt hat crumpling under his chin, his good arm pressing her into his chest. There they remained until the English sun pulled its vanishing act and the temperature dropped below comfortable.

  ‘Time for you to go, my love. They’ll send out a search party of hatchet-faced matrons if I’m not back by teatime. They’re scarier than the Germans.’

  Elizabeth laughed again, shivering in the country gloom.

  ‘You think I’m joking. I’m wounded. I’ve lost the ability to joke. They’ve sucked the life out of us men here. Any banter, and they stick you in the arse with needles they use to damp down moral. I kid you not.’

  He’d kept a straight face while reeling off the woes of the ward, but lost control of his facial muscles at the end, his eyes crinkling in the corners. Elizabeth slapped him gently on his arm.

  Standing up, they hugged awkwardly. Noticing her shivering, he said ‘You’re freezing. Come on, off you go now. If I’m still here next weekend, I’ll send you a card, but don’t you waste any time worrying about me. I’ll be as right as rain. So, when the rain hits your roof tonight, you think of me.’ Pressing his hand to her heart he carried on, ‘Remember, I’m always here. I always have been and I always will. Let your heart carry me, and I’ll always have wings.’ He finished his sentence by kissing her, throwing all of his passion into that one last, moment.

  THE LODGE

  Sarah and Patricia were safely delivered at the Viceregal Lodge, into the surprised arms of the household staff. Major Brooke stood at the door silently, nodding at Sarah as he pulled the door closed behind him, before he and Captain Doulton disappeared into the recesses of the lodge.

  ‘He likes you, that one,’ Patricia announced, with no thought to the ears of the staff still in the room with them.

  ‘Shhh!’ Sarah said, motioning to the Indian servants pottering around the room, ostensibly ignoring Sarah and Trish, but listening to every word, which they would have broadcast all through Simla before nightfall.

  ‘Don’t be so silly, they can tell he likes you too. Probably the only people who can’t see it are you and him. Is he the one you were telling me about – you know, that night with the wine, and the curry? Or is it the one in New Zealand’

  Sarah cast her mind back to that night, so long ago now. It hadn’tbeen Brooke she’d been referring to. And as for Bryce Bay, it made no matter now. She’d never see Price again. Now, reviewing her recollections of Major Warren Brooke was like a series of black and white photos slowly developing into a prismatic feature film. Every glance, every word had been a declaration of sorts.

  ‘Sarah? Hello? Earth to Sarah?’

  ‘Yes, I’m just ... I think I’m a little bit in shock to be honest.’

  ‘Thought so, you had no idea. Typical really. You have to tell him. You can’t let this drag on any longer. Chop, chop. What better place to have a rip-roaring love affair than in India.’ Trish got up and opened the door, ready to usher Sarah out into the arms of Major Brooke. As she did so, she came face to face with a different man, who went white with shock as he glimpsed Sarah inside the room. ‘Oh sorry, hello,’ Patricia enthused, not for one second recognising the man for who he was.

  ‘Sarah?’

  Sarah stood up as if on autopilot and walked to the door, ‘Hi.’

  ‘Oh. Oh my.’ Trish clapped her hands together, ‘Come on, ladies, let’s leave these two alone, and you can show me to a bathroom, and I’ll need some new clothes. Actually, let’s sort those out first – oh yes, lead me to the clothes.’ Trish gathered up the two serving girls and shepherded them out of the room, nattering inanely about fashion. The two girls cast curious glances at Sarah and at the man, Albert Lester.

  At last, the two of them were alone.

  Albert stared. ‘It can’t be you. You left. You left and then the person you left behind went back to England. You left. You shouldn’t be here. You can’t be here. Jesus Christ, Sarah, why are you here?’

  Sarah burst into tears. She needed her dad – yet, here he was dismissing her out of hand, without any emotion. No hint of love. Every girl deserves the unconditional love of her father.

  His resolve faltered. He gathered her into his arms. Slipping back into parental mode was as easy as that. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t believe that you are truly here. Your mother? Have you found her? I never in all my dreams expected to see you back here. Sarah, look at me.’ Tilting her chin up till she was looking into his eyes, he carried on softly, ‘Sarah, you know what’s coming, to stay here is madness. The whole country is about to turn to custard. Britain is losing its grip here only doesn’t know it yet.’

  ‘Then come back with me, Daddy. We found a way last time. We can do it again. Take me back to Simeon’s house and I’ll find something I recognise from home. Something to take us both back, and I won’t screw it up this time. Then we can work out how to find Mum, together.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sarah love, but I can’t come back now. My life is here.’

  Pushing him away, her eyes wild, Sarah screamed back at him, ‘No! Your life is with me, at home. With Mum. You can’t stay here. You can’t.’

  ‘Sarah, keep your voice down. For God’s sake, shut up.’

  ‘You don’t get to tell me to shut up. Not any more. If you won’t be my father, then you don’t have the right to tel
l me anything.’

  ‘I’ll always be your father, Sarah. Now calm down.’

  ‘No. My father would never have left me. Never. You’re not my father. Just go. I’ll figure it out on my own.’ Her face fell into a sullen scowl, worthy of any teenage girl.

  Albert Lester, recognising the futility of carrying on the conversation, took a seat, biding his time. Waiting for sense to prevail.

  Sarah stalked over to him, pulling at his shirt, ‘I said, just go. Go on, bugger off. Go play soldiers, or whatever it is that you think is more important than your daughter and wife.’

  ‘There is nothing more important to me in this world than you and your mother ...’

  ‘Well, you’ve got a poor way of showing it,’ Sarah interrupted.

  ‘If you could just listen for a moment?’ Untamed white eyebrows raised in exasperation at his daughter’s petulance. ‘Your mother is lost to me. I’ve spent years trying to get back to you both. Perhaps it’s as the police said, perhaps she really did run off with someone. I ended up here, and by some twist of time, so have you. Don’t you think that, if your mother was anywhere other than home, she would be here with us? Now?’

  ‘Dad. Do you not remember when I told you ...’ Sarah broke off abruptly. She couldn’t for the life of her remember if she’d told her father about her adventures in New Zealand, and as Betsy in London.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Did I tell you I haven’t just been here? I’ve been other places too?’

  Albert frowned at her. ‘What do you mean other places?’ Comprehension struggled across his face.

  ‘I haven’t just been here, in Simla, I’ve been in New Zealand, in the time of the gold rush. I’ve been a servant in a lord’s house in London, and I’ve been back to the same house as a potential bride to Lord Grey. And now I’m back. All those trips were linked. They all involved something from an estate I bought. Everything was owned by one lady, Elizabeth Williams. You must have bought something off her, back in the day? Something that sent you here.’

  Albert sat and thought. He’d all but persuaded himself that his wife had run off with someone. And thus he’d put her out of his mind, embracing this new life with his extensive historical knowledge, the only subject he’d shown any aptitude for at school other than maths. He turned his thoughts to his business, trawling through his almost photographic memory of his sales and purchases. He couldn’t recall any goods from an Elizabeth Williams. ‘Whereabouts in London?’

  ‘No, not London – Salisbury. Surely you’d remember anything you purchased that far away?

  ‘I used to go to Salisbury on occasion. My godmother lived there and I’d travel there to see her. Our families were very close when I was younger. I always tried to do some buying when I visited. Your mother almost never came – she had to look after you. Let me think? Did you go to a house, or a flat?’

  ‘Her house. Well, her estate. The most glorious Georgian house. Made of flint. History says King James the First once stayed there.’ Her father looked at her quizzically. ‘I Googled it. Anyway, seems it was just her and her husband, who’d died before her. No children. I only dealt with the solicitors. Most of it was packed up by the time I got there.’

  "Ah, I loved those sorts of deals. You’d never know what sort of treasures you’d find when you got the lot back to the shop.’

  Their combined passion for the trade bridged their earlier difference of opinion. Like father, like daughter. At once, his face lit up like a firework. ‘Yes, I remember now! In Cathedral Close, enough windows to make you think the house was looking into your soul. She was old, your Elizabeth Williams, but one of those ladies who embody the word “class”. Actually, I think I was put in touch with her because she was a friend of my godmother. I remember the way she held herself. I bought some chinaware, nothing exciting – good stuff, though, Royal Albert teasets, and a shell collection. I made good money out of that. The shells were all boxed up when I got there, with just a few big conch shells on the top, a teaser as to what was in the cartons. At the bottom of one of the boxes was a silver trinket box studded with jewels and decorated with engraved seashells. I never clicked that it was the trinket box which led me here. After all these years it’s just becoming as clear as day. But how does that explain your mother’s disappearance?’

  His question stumped Sarah, and she chewed her lip. ‘Maybe Mum met her somewhere? Bought something off her at a fair? Or maybe she came into the shop one day when you weren’t there?’

  ‘You’re grasping at straws now. No, she’s not part of this. I’ve tortured myself thinking about it. I had no idea that she was unhappy, but, my love, it’s the only explanation. Which is why I won’t go back. There’s no life for me there now. Here, it’s an adventure every day. It’s like living inside a Clive Cussler book – every time you turn a page, something exciting happens.’

  Sarah took a deep breath, her next questions flooding out like water running over rapids, ‘I don’t really want to know, but can you tell me, can you tell me if ... if you have a new family here ... it’s not my business but ... well, I’d like to know that you were happy ...’ She paused for breath, and looked her father straight in the eye. He had the most annoying habit where he would tap the side of his nose with his index finger, as if to say don’t be so nosy. ‘Dad! Stop it. I asked you a completely reasonable question.’

  Albert laughed, ‘No, I don’t have another family. I live here in the Lodge in what can only be described as “bachelor” quarters. To be fair, I have escorted a few ladies to the theatre, but I don’t have to tell you that my favourite pastime at the theatre is usually catching up on my sleep.’

  Sarah recalled several occasions with him nodding off when he’d taken her to the theatre. Only her father could fall asleep in a production of ’Allo, ’Allo or Cats.

  ‘What I do have is the most perfect collection of antiques. And, before I die of some tropical disease here, I need to work out a way to ship them back to England and to keep them in storage for you. That way, when you go back ...’

  ‘When we go back.’

  ‘No, when you go back, you’ll be able to ...’

  ‘Again, Dad, just when I thought I’d finally seen some sign you do actually love me, it all comes crashing back down. You love antiques more than you love your own daughter. Fine. Whatever. You stay. You can gift me some leaky warehouse full of antiques. But until you help me get back into Simeon’s house to find a way home, you’re stuck with me – and Patricia. And she tells me that one of the officers quite likes me. I think that’s worthy of investigating further, don’t you?’

  With that, Sarah stomped out of the room. Petulant and hurt at the same time. Once she’d slammed the door satisfyingly loud behind her, she stood uncertainly in the hall. She really had no idea where to go to now.

  Nirmala appeared by her side. ‘Memsahib?’

  THE BOYFRIEND

  Andrew Harvard paced pensively in his small office. Those halcyon days when he’d first started with Christie’s – so long ago that the memory of them had almost faded. He’d felt his office had been the pinnacle of success for someone newly graduated. Now it seemed like a jail cell.

  ‘Come on, Trish, answer the phone,’ he muttered.

  She hadn’t picked up the night before, and she wasn’t answering again this morning. Today was the day of her show. He knew she would be beyond busy, and probably considered his phone call a trifle to be dealt with later, but the sound of a friendly voice was what he needed today. Still no answer.

  He threw himself onto his chair, which skidded across the floor, just as Jay Khosla peered in through his door.

  The Senior Manager of the Indian Art Group at Christie’s, Jay was well regarded by all those he worked with. His knowledge of Indian art was legendary. Originally employed by the Museum of London, he’d been lured to Christie’s, not by the offer of more money, although that certainly helped, but by the opportunity to handle the very upper end of trade in Indian antiquities.
Items the museum would never have had the funds to purchase. At Christie’s, he could often be found in the bowels of the building staring at a piece the restorers were working on, prepping for auction. It was as if he were trying to absorb by osmosis the glory of the item, its historical provenance.

  ‘Having fun, Andrew?’ His musical voice quietly laughing, never mocking.

  ‘Good morning, Jay. Sorry, chair skidded out from under me. How can I help this morning?’

  ‘The police have asked for all the original paperwork relating to the katar, so I thought I’d come down, rather than send an email.’

  A contrived excuse, Andrew thought. Jay was normally either obsessing over the latest Indian treasure to enter Christie’s catalogues, or glued to his laptop, surfing auction sites around the world for a mis-catalogued treasure.

  ‘Absolutely, but I’m pretty sure I’ve already given them everything I had.’

  ‘No handwritten notes, or anything like that? Perhaps some information you jotted down about where the dealer got it from? Maybe in a notebook you forgot about, or something like that? Can you recall if she said anything more about other pieces?’

  Ah, that didn’t take long. Andrew was surprised Jay hadn’t quizzed him earlier about whether Sarah had any other Indian articles. The police thing was just a ruse. When it really came down to it, the murder at Christie’s hadn’t been a public relations nightmare after all. They’d received days and days of free front page publicity. Not even Christie’s had the marketing budget for the sort of exposure they’d received after Grey had sliced open the clerk.

  ‘To be completely honest with you, Jay, I know as much as you do. Probably even less, since I haven’t spoken with the police since Leo died.’

  Jay looked crestfallen, until Andrew brightened as he remembered something Trish had said to him a week or so ago, ‘Wait, there is one thing I’ve just remembered – the girl working in the shop told Patricia ...’ and here he fumbled. He wasn’t quite sure whether telling his employers he was dating the best friend of a missing person – a missing person who’d inadvertently been responsible for Leo Hayward’s death – was necessarily the best career move, especially with him already under the spotlight for the Textiles episode.