The Last Letter

by Kirsten McKenzie

  ‘Well, anyway, the girl employed after Miss Lester went missing said that there are several cartons of goods still in storage at the shop waiting to be unpacked. I don’t know if the police know that yet. The girl, Nicole, has been there a while now, but it’s taken ages to sort through the mess Sarah left behind. Patricia and I really had no idea what to do when she disappeared, so anything in a box which wasn’t priced, we just put downstairs out of the way. Seemed like the best thing to do at the time ...’ He trailed off, his own mind suddenly working through the implications of his actions, the potential of the stuff still in the cartons.

  Jay’s enthusiasm gushed like oil from a newly drilled well. ‘Let’s go! Let’s go, right now,’ he sang.

  Andrew shook his head. ‘We can’t just barge into the shop and ask Nicole if we can go through her basement. I’ll have to get hold of Patricia, and talk it through with her. I’m not quite sure what the legal ramifications are here. Should we tell the police?’

  ‘No, not at all. Not until we know whether there is anything worthy of their time.’ His eyes shining, he was literally rubbing his hands with glee as he pictured the treasures they might uncover. ‘Just imagine, uncovering some Agra carpets or ivory chess sets or jade cups. We should go now. Quickly.’ He was hopping from one foot to the other.

  ‘I’ll just try giving Patricia another ring. She hasn’t been answering this morning – she has the launch of her new line tonight, at the Foundling Museum ...’

  Jay interrupted, ‘The Foundling Museum? Weird ... that was on the news this morning – heard something about it on my way in. I wasn’t really listening so have no idea what happened there. But come now. You can ring her on the way. We’ll take my car.’

  Dread settled in Andrew’s stomach. He had no choice other than to go with Jay. Silently he prayed The Old Curiosity Shop would be closed, Nicole off doing a house clearance, or at least helping Trish with her show set-up. He barely took any notice as he buckled himself into Jay’s BMW, the scent of brand new car clinging to the leather seats. The radio flared into life as Jay turned the key, with the tail end of the ten o’clock news bulletin.

  ‘... the police are calling for any sightings of an armed man seen running from the Foundling Museum last night ...’

  Without any thought, Jay blithely changed the station to one with Hindi music, filling the car with the overly sweet sounds of the harmonium and a plethora of ancient stringed instruments. In a uniquely British way, Andrew started his next sentence by apologising, ‘So sorry, Jay, but do you think we could just go back to that news report?’

  Jay switched the radio back to Radio 4, where the presenter had moved on to the weather, surprisingly sunny for this time of year. ‘Sorry, thanks, we missed the rest of it. You can switch back, if you like?’

  Andrew stabbed at his phone, banging out another text message to Patricia. He understood she might not be able to pick up, given she was probably surrounded by technicians, make-up artists and models, but she could damn well take the time to reply to one of the dozen text messages he’d sent her over the past twelve hours. Then his phone rang.

  ‘Patricia!’

  ‘Who is this?’ replied an authoritative voice on the other end.

  Andrew’s voice changed, ‘Who is this?’

  Jay turned his head sharply towards him at the change in the tone of his voice, nearly colliding with a lorry sneaking past them on the inside, and jerking the steering wheel back just in time.

  ‘This is Inspector Fujimoto of the City of London Police. Who am I talking to?’

  Andrew’s heart stopped. Not good. Not good at all. Covering the microphone, he whispered to Jay, ‘It’s the police.’ Jay responded by turning the radio off, pulling into a side street and parking in a fortuitously empty loading zone. Killing the engine, he motioned to Andrew to continue.

  ‘This is Andrew Harvard.’

  ‘Mr Harvard, we understand that you know a Miss Patricia Bolton?’

  ‘Er, yes ... I’m Patricia’s ... er ... her boyfriend.’ He could feel a blush travelling up his cheeks, aware of Jay’s intent gaze on him. This mixing of his private life with work was getting to be a bad habit.

  ‘Mr Harvard, when was the last time to spoke with Miss Bolton?’

  ‘Er ... I tried to call her yesterday, and this morning, so probably not since the day before ... um, in the evening. Is she OK? Where is she? Can I talk to her?’

  ‘Unfortunately that isn’t possible, Mr Harvard. Miss Bolton has not been seen since last night. At the same time, a security guard was found dead here at the Foundling Museum. We’re reviewing the security tapes, and it seems that Miss Bolton was here with another woman ...’

  Andrew’s heart stopped, and he interrupted, ‘Nicole – Nicole Pilcher – she was helping Trish get ready for her show ...’

  Inspector Fujimoto barely paused for breath, ‘Thank you for that. Neither woman has been seen since yesterday evening. Miss Bolton’s phone was located among the boxes she had been unpacking. There’s a small issue with the CCTV footage, with a period of time missing. We’ve sent the footage over to our technical team. I’ll need you to come in to view the footage, to provide a confirmed identification of Miss Bolton and her companion.’

  ‘You don’t think Trish had anything to do with the security guard’s death do you?’ Andrew’s voice cracked. The thought of Trish being hurt filled him with fear. He’d been such an idiot, letting their relationship drift, not wanting to disrupt things by attempting to make it more permanent, or to even put a name to it – and now she was in trouble.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to speculate on anything at this stage. If you could meet me at the Wood Street police station at three o’clock, that would be much appreciated.’

  ‘Of course, thank you, yes I will.’

  ‘One last question, Mr Harvard, what sort of vehicle does Miss Bolton drive? We couldn’t find any vehicles registered in her name.’

  ‘She doesn’t.’

  ‘She doesn’t what?

  ‘She doesn’t drive. Well, she can drive, but doesn't, not unless she absolutely has to. She would have been in the shop van, the van from The Old Curiosity Shop. So Nicole would have been driving, I guess. They had a lot of stuff to move over there for the show, props and things.’

  ‘Right, thank you. I’ll see you this afternoon.’ Inspector Fujimoto rang off.

  ‘My girlfriend is missing,’ Andrew said redundantly.

  Jay nodded. He’d already composed a long text to Don Claire, detailing verbatim the conversation Andrew was having with the policeman. He pressed ‘Send’. Putting his phone down, he turned his full attention to Andrew. ‘There’s nothing to be done about it right now, Andrew. Shall we pop along to the shop, and look around there for a bit, till you have to go to the station. I’ll drive and wait with you. Moral support, if you like?’

  Andrew fiddled with his phone, turning it over and over, weighing up his options. If they went to the shop, surely it would be shut because, in theory, Nicole would be wherever Trish was – or she might be at the shop, oblivious to any issue at the museum; meaning someone else was with Trish. If he turned Jay down, he would probably lose his job. Should he go straight to Trish’s flat? She might be there – but not without her phone, and surely the police would’ve already checked there. But then again, how would the police know where her flat was? Mutely he nodded at Jay.

  Jay could barely conceal his pleasure. Any concern regarding Andrew’s missing girlfriend was trumped by his childlike excitement for the treasure hunt they were beginning.

  THE MARRIAGE

  ‘What have you done? All that work, and you’ve thrown it away. You foolish boy. You’ve ruined this family.’ Lady Grey raged at her youngest son.

  Benjamin Grey lolled about on the seat, one leg flung nonchalantly over the wooden arm, ‘Mother, you’re overreacting. How was I to know the girl was already married to some old codger? He should have been taking better care of her, instead of leaving her a
lone like the last of the summer strawberries, waiting to be picked.’

  ‘As far as I’ve been told, he was in the study with the other gentlemen. He’d hardly abandoned her. You, however, plucked her from the safety of the company of the other ladies, and were attempting to defile her in the gardens before you were thwarted. The shame, Benjamin, the shame on our family. To have you hauled off the young girl like a common cad.’

  ‘Is that the strongest word you could conjure up, Mother? Cad? Makes it sound deliciously evil when, in reality, she was asking for it. Girl spent all night making eyes at me, practically asked for it on a silver platter and I obliged her.’

  ‘You’ve ruined this family.’ Lady Laura Grey couldn’t have looked any paler if she’d applied white lead powder so popular for painting ladies’ faces a century before.

  ‘Hardly, Mother. A few disgruntled peers and their chicken-skinned wives tattling about me over their sherry isn’t going to ruin our family name. Your illustrious eldest son will rescue us, he always does. I’m such a disappointment to you aren’t I, Mother? Isn’t it a shame you’re stuck with me? No matter what you do, I’ll always be your son. Doesn’t that just stick in your throat?’ Ben Grey laughed, an ugly sound, one which made his mother’s skin crawl. Lurching to his feet, he made to leave the room, until Lady Grey shot out her hand, her nails digging painfully into her son’s arm.

  ‘This is the death knell for our family.’ Thrusting a stark white letter into her son’s hand, she swept from the room. She could only contain her fear for so long. She was teetering on the edge of collapse, and one more minute spent in the company of her younger son would be her undoing. She’d bemoaned her child’s lack of manners; she’d complained about his behaviour; but never had she wished him dead – not until today.

  When the letter had arrived from Jessica Williams, spinster aunt of Elizabeth Williams, Lady Grey had been shocked. Her hands turned clammy, and a vice tightened around her heart. Quite bluntly, the letter stated that betrothal arrangements between her niece and Lord Grey were no longer acceptable, given the proclivities of Lord Grey’s brother. Mr Robert Williams could not bring himself to agree to the marriage of his daughter into a family where such unbecoming conduct was tolerated.

  The details of the ‘proclivities’ and ‘unbecoming conduct’ were not disclosed in the letter. What did Jessica Williams know that she herself was not privy to? Surely the ‘Indian Issue’ hadn’t followed him back to England? That had been dealt with quietly and quickly. So quietly that she herself had only just heard about it. Summoning one of the few staff she had left, her housekeeper Mrs Phillips, she’d subtly requested that enquiries be made as to Benjamin Grey’s activities the previous weekend. What came back chilled her to the bone.

  By now, every family in the greater London area would be warning their daughters away from the Greys, their ancient title insufficient inducement to attract even the most impoverished family. It was enough to drive a woman to drink, except for the fact she’d seen the demon drink bury her own husband, his face a tangled mess of broken veins, his extremities decaying before her eyes. She wouldn’t go begging. She would not lower herself to that. There would be a way. A Northern girl then, an only child, no brothers, and no close family in London. It would be hard, but it could be achieved. Till then they’d have to start surreptitiously selling off some of their belongings. There was no shame in that, as long as no one knew.

  She rang the bell for some tea. Her nerves were frayed, and she still had to tell Edward, who was off conducting some business or other. She shivered, imagining how her eldest son would react to this latest blot by his rabid cur of a brother.

  Adelaide set the tea tray down, purposefully arranging the milk and the sugar just so, before pouring the boiling tea through a fine silver strainer, the delicate Ceylon leaves caught before they could sully the fine china cup. There would be no filthy reading of tea leaves in this house, as much as Adelaide might have personally wished to know the fate of those under whose roof she lived. Lady Grey would not brook with any of that nonsense. She wouldn’t even allow a children’s magician at any of the galas she hosted – or rather had hosted, before money had grown tight. The good lady passed off her parsimonious behaviour as the result of her bereavement, when the household staff knew it to be much worse than that.

  Lady Grey sipped her tea, watching Adelaide lay the evening’s fire, tidying as she went. A sense of resolution wound itself around her, burying its vengeful tentacles deep into her heart. ‘Adelaide, leave that now. I need you to send an urgent message to Gowlings, asking them to call upon me here. I have a sudden need for some personal legal advice. Suggest they make haste – I’d hate to change my mind, or to have someone else change it for me. And bring me my writing box; I have some urgent post I need to send.’

  THE SEARCH

  Warden Price was welcomed into the bosom of the Dunedin constabulary, where he was quizzed on the goings-on up country, and filled in on the flood of humanity at Westport. Together they commiserated with the lot of the police stationed there. Sergeant Nash was getting a good round of praise for his leadership there, before they moved onto the reason Price was in town.

  It seemed Sinclair’s reputation ranged far and wide across the country, and only the newest recruits were not familiar with the man.

  ‘What’s he done this time, then?’ Sergeant Jock Crave asked, the pipe clamped between his lips barely impeding his speech.

  ‘Abduction and murder this time,’ offered up the young Graeme Greene.

  ‘Gone up a bit in the world then, hasn’t he,’ Jock observed in his deep Scottish accent. It seemed like he’d been in New Zealand as long as the Maori, yet there wasn’t a hint of the colonial about him. He was Scottish, and would always remain so, a tiny piece of thistle under the long white cloud.

  ‘He abducted his lady friend!’ Greene recounted enthusiastically, as excitable as a puppy with a new ball.

  Trying to remain calm, Price corrected the lad, ‘Not a “lady friend”, lad, an acquaintance, and a proper lady. Best you not get your words mixed up when describing a lady, or it’ll not end well for you one day. Ladies like to be described decorously.’

  Graeme Greene blushed, his own ladylike features flushed with embarrassment at being corrected in front of his colleagues. He was well aware of his inexperience, although that wasn’t the only thing against him. His high voice was a constant source of amusement for the other men. He neither drank nor engaged in the typical male banter that occurred between the men. His private life was as circumspect as it needed to be.

  ‘Oh don’t worry about our Nancy here,’ guffawed one of the other men. ‘He’s new, been dying to get his hands dirty with something good. It’s been no fun just locking up the drunks has it, young Nancy?’

  Greene’s blush had made it all the way to his ears, bright red beacons in a room filled with testosterone. The very worst part of the job was that his colleagues had taken to calling him ‘Nancy’. A name that would stick like glue for the rest of his days.

  ‘It’s fine – but, where a lady is concerned, it’s not just right that we treat them well, it’s important that we think well of them too. Now what’s your name, for surely it isn’t “Nancy”, unless your father was one of those drunks you’ve been locking up?’

  ‘No, sir, it’s Greene, sir, Graeme Greene. Not sure my father had much to do with my name. My mother made all the decisions in our house. Pa spent most of his time away.’

  ‘That’d be right,’ muttered one constable under his breath, falling silent when Price shot him an unwavering glare.

  ‘Graeme, how’d you like to make the rounds with me. The lads here have given me some ideas to start with, so having a local to guide me would be more than helpful, and I can fill you in on the smaller details?’

  Greene looked towards his sergeant; Jock agreed, ‘It’d be good for Nancy to see how others get on. Gets a bit of a ribbing round here, being the new boy and all.’

 
‘I can see that,’ replied Price. ‘Let’s head off then, Graeme. I’ve no idea if Sinclair is even in this town, but it’s the only lead I’ve got. We’ll start with the port.’ Price strode out, with the lithe Greene following closely behind, thinking all his wishes had come true.

  The men arrived at Port Chalmers just as a coastal steamer came in. Burly Scottish dockworkers, and a smattering of Chinese workers, swarmed over the busy port, preparing to load the spring clip from the sheep being farmed in Otago. Like the Red Sea being parted by Moses, the dockworkers instinctively avoided the two policemen. A landing waiter intercepted them, and escorted them to the Customhouse.

  Along the foreshore, banded dotterels squeaked their way about the foreshore, like trainers on a basketball court, high-pitched and urgent; the Collector of Customs they encountered was anything but urgent. His bald head certainly wasn’t from moving too fast. Sloth-like he emerged from behind his desk, crumbs from morning tea clinging to his unnaturally black beard and his woollen uniform. Once-proud epaulettes sat grubby on his shoulders; he belched before greeting them, setting a farcical tone amidst the stunning scenery.

  ‘Gentlemen, this is an unusual time of day for you to be passing by. What could bring you this far out of Dunedin on a day when we aren’t expecting any vessels carrying delinquent treasure hunters? Today is all about wool and provisions, hardly worth your attention.’ Merv Kendall wiped his perspiring brow with a napkin sorely in need of a hard scrubbing with laundry soap.

  ‘Sir, we are making enquiries as to whether two particular persons may have departed this port in the past week. I request your leave to make your passenger lists available for us to examine.’