The Last Letter

by Kirsten McKenzie

  Melissa’s idea of ‘a nice bar’ for lunch, and Sinclair’s were vastly different, so, when they entered the Lobby Bar at the One Aldwych hotel, his mind was blown. Described as the most beautiful hotel lobby bar in London by the Evening Standard, the Savoy had nothing on this place. Recognised by the wait staff as a regular, Melissa was shown straight to a table, where she wasted no time ordering for them both, an assortment of sushi, sashimi and duck spring rolls, accompanied by a Malt Jockey cocktail, a twist on the classic Manhattan.

  When the fancy cocktails arrived, Sinclair looked incredulously at Melissa, ‘What’s this then?’

  ‘You’ll love it. It’s got scotch in it. Just taste it.’

  Pushing it away from him, he summoned the waiter back over and ordered a proper Scotch whisky, ‘None of that nancy boy rubbish for me.’

  Melissa smiled smugly into her cocktail. A real man. How hard had she looked for one of those? He’s a bit rough, admittedly, but don’t all girls like a bit of rough in their lives? Worked for Elizabeth Taylor.

  The food arrived, and Melissa watched Sinclair pick uncertainly through the dishes, pulling the seaweed casings from the sushi, and spitting out the raw slivers of salmon and tuna. She barely managed to restrain him as he was about to send it all back for being raw.

  ‘It’s meant to be raw,’ she laughed.

  ‘Like hell it is. That’s the last time you order for me. Next time I’ll do my own ordering. Raw fish, I’ve eaten in the past, but as a last resort. Never thought they’d be serving it in a flash place like this.’ Sinclair pushed his platter away, instead throwing back the nuts served with the cocktails. They’d hold him till later, till he could find a good piece of lamb or beef. As Melissa ate her portion, they chatted inconsequentially about life, the state of the weather – always a safe subject – and the antiques they both liked. An odd subject for Sinclair, in that the things Melissa waxed lyrical about, were everyday articles, albeit ones he’d never owned, but he had seen them in the shops and on the persons he carried in his boat back and forth. How something so mundane became collectible was a miracle in itself.

  The bill arrived and, to his surprise, Sinclair found himself throwing cash down on the table to cover it. Admittedly it wasn’t his cash – he’d obtained it from Stokes, who was now nicely rotting away in the apartment – but the bulk in his pocket had given him a measure of comfort, and here he was using it to impress a lady. A miracle.

  Melissa smiled, and this time the smile made it all the way to her curiously frozen eyes. ‘Come on then, the waiter said The Old Curiosity Shop is only four minutes walk from here. We’ll go there first, so we’re not weighed down by too many other packages before I continue my shopping spree.’

  THE GERMANS

  Phil sat at the back of the room. Despite the frigid temperature outside, sweat beaded on his forehead. He extended his arm. It protested, but he had full movement, and most of the pain was gone.

  The briefing room was full to overflowing, the doors locked as they were briefed on the night’s activities. He wouldn’t be flying tonight, but soon. Just have to get the sign-off from the base doctor. In the six weeks he’d been out of action, they’d lost thirteen of their crews. Lads were being sent up with less than one hour’s flying experience. The doctor would have to sign him off, they needed every last man.

  After he’d crashed his Spitfire, he’d been transferred to another unit, and had the luxury of time to get to know his replacement aircraft. The new lads, the ones who arrived with shining eyes, and shinier uniform buttons, all joked they were worried the war would end before they’d get a chance to have a go at the Germans. The old hands like him – and there weren’t many around now – knew better. But still, even he was itching to get back behind the controls and give it another go.

  The Adjutant was burbling on about some visit from some high-ranking War Office official, so he let his mind wander to Elizabeth. She’d taken the little Roman statue off his hands, and had written how a bloke at the local foundry had ground down the base so he now sat flush in her display cabinet. He’d cringed when he’d read that, mindful that there could be more of the statue still in Barry Wentworth’s field. He’d tried begging leave to go back to Wentworth’s farm, to properly thank the man for saving his life, but the war had moved on from there. No time for that sort of thing. It was as if the war had put a halt to good manners, and they were all expected to carry on regardless of societal expectations. In reality, Phil wanted to have a good look in the hole. After the war, he promised himself. After the war.

  THE SICKNESS

  The Raja coughed delicately into his white silk handkerchief, the lace edging rasping at his face like sandpaper. He’d been in this interminable city for less than twenty-four hours, yet he’d been struck down in the night by a fever, which had since developed into a chesty hacking cough. He dare not leave the confines of his room, lest he become any sicker.

  He’d had word sent to the ladies at the Anglican Mission School that he would be unable to attend upon them today due to a sudden illness, and that he’d be in touch in due course, but to please pass on his regret to Miss Williams. He’d added that last bit to his message, his staff having told him that Miss Williams was still in Delhi, and that the two women at the school were trying to protect her from his advances. He could understand their position, but he wanted it known that their ruse could not be sustained. Once he was well, he would call upon Miss Williams. He would have her.

  He called out for a cool compress for his head, as the headache he’d woken with became worse. He shivered under his covers, yet knew he was too hot. This cursed fever. A tiny boy laid a cold cloth against his brow. As he waved the boy away, his arm felt as heavy as lead, weighed down by some invisible force. He forced himself to reach for a drink – he’d been unable to keep anything down all morning, and he knew he needed to drink. Dehydration in this climate could kill you. He fumbled with the glass, which slipped from his fingers and crashed to the ground. A thousand shards of Irish crystal decorated the floor of the Raja’s sick room. He turned his head away, towards the open verandah doors where a breeze gathered, teasing him with the scents of the garden. He could see an ornamental pond outside, and imagined the golden carp sunning themselves in the shallow water. His musings were interrupted by another coughing fit. He held the lace kerchief against his mouth, waiting for it to pass, feeling each cough sapping his strength.

  The Raja slipped into a fretful sleep, the fever ravaging his body. Staff came and went, replacing cold compresses on his forehead, tugging the mosquito netting around him as night fell. Closing doors, and wetting his lips with water. Meals were made, and taken away uneaten.

  By the next morning the bell by the Raja’s bed broke the silence of the morning. His headache gone, the fever broken, he ordered a simple roti – a flatbread – devoid of any spices or accompaniments. Washed down with chilled lemon tea, he felt he was almost back to normal. He’d take the morning slow, and then send word to the school that’d he’d attend them late afternoon. For now he would wash, and change out of his fever-laden clothes. They could be burned.

  THE EMPLOYEE

  Nicole had slept fretfully, tossing around in bed as if fighting an army of ninjas. The police had rung the night before advising of their concerns about the disappearance of Patricia and Sarah, and the murder of the night guard. All night she’d shivered as she lay there thinking ‘What if?’ What if I’d helped Patricia set up like I was supposed to? Why didn’t I ring the police straight away to tell them that Sarah was back? Am I going to be considered an accomplice now? To what, she didn’t know, but it terrified her, regardless.

  Dawn arrived, heralded by her alarm clock, and the increased hum of traffic outside her window. She missed the call of birds at home. She’d yet to see any sign of bird life in London, bar the ‘flying rats’; the pigeons which seemed to infect every public building in the busy city. Will this police investigation see me back in Tamworth? God, I hope not. All
would be revealed when the police came to the shop for a ten o’clock appointment. Stumbling out of bed, eyes puffy from lack of sleep, her hair a tangled mess, she forwent breakfast in exchange for a long bath – all the better to prepare herself mentally for the day ahead.

  A coffee in hand, she unlocked the shop. As a rule, she stayed away from newspapers and online sites; they only made you feel miserable. Of course, as soon as the police had rung, she’d gone straight online, pulling up anything she could find about the murder at the Foundling Hospital. Once she’d unlocked the shop, she actually crept upstairs, calling out Sarah’s name in the hope of an answer. She’d done a quick circuit of the rooms – not much to see up there apart from a pile of filthy clothes on the floor, and the usual detritus any woman accumulates on her own. She should know, she was now single herself – not that she’d dwell on that. Not the fact that she’d uprooted her entire life for the miserable git, who couldn’t comprehend what commitment meant, even if he’d had it tattooed on his arm. After that, she’d gone online, trawling through the various sites till she found she was rereading the same cut and paste paragraphs. Journalists were about as useful as her ex.

  So now she waited. She toyed with the idea of tidying another shelf, but didn’t want to get dirty. She almost hoped no customers would bother coming in today – she was too rattled, and didn’t want to be seen by any of her regulars talking to the police, in case they got the wrong end of the stick. This new development would catapult The Old Curiosity Shop straight back into the headlines, once they released Sarah’s name, and Patricia’s, she supposed. So, instead, she wiggled closer to the fan heater, trying to soak up what little heat it put out while she waited for the police to arrive.

  THE SHIPMENT

  Robert Williams sat alone at his usual table in the Savoy dining room, mulling over the news from his sister Jessica. The appalling behaviour of the younger brother to Lord Grey didn’t perturb him greatly, but it had rocked his sister’s world, and that was the world he wanted for his daughter. So, if Jessica had deemed the match unacceptable, unacceptable it was, and he’d instructed all arrangements to be called off – which still left him with a headstrong, intelligent, unmarried daughter, who stood to inherit everything once he died. He only hoped Jessica would come through with another option before he travelled to India to secure a large government contract for the exportation of indigo dye from India to Britain. Why on earth it can’t be agreed here, in this country! Governments – no better than a local church fair committee; made up of argumentative, egotistical layabouts, with nothing more on their minds than their dinner and the date of the next hunt.

  His wealth allowed him access to sublime restaurants and high end hotels. He had a carriage at his disposal, staff, a country manor which wasn’t crumbling around his ears. In all, one could say his life was perfect. For the most part it was, but this trouble with Customs was wearing him down, and he had a nagging suspicion nothing would change until Meredith was sorted out and moved on, or sideways. Put where all he was allowed to count were lumps of coal in Newcastle, or somewhere equally as far from his business as possible. The man was a power-hungry nincompoop, incapable of progressing any further up the ranks due to a lack of interpersonal skills and his shambolic management style. But this lunch would put an end to problems with Clifford Meredith.

  Samer strode up to the elegantly laid table set for three, and slipped into his usual seat. An odd couple they made – the one dark, stubble barely kept at bay by his fine razor, eyes as dark as coffee beans. A total contrast to the blue eyes of his partner –.Robert, as white as an Englishman could be, sitting on his left. But their minds were equal, making them a formidable trading partnership.

  ‘We’re expecting someone else?’ Samer asked.

  ‘Yes. At a dinner last night, I had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of the Surveyor for London. Quite intriguing, our conversation. I invited him to join us for lunch today, ostensibly to discuss proposed tariff changes – but should our conversation steer towards staffing issues, or the timeliness of clearances, it would be remiss of us not to raise the issue of the unacceptable delays at the port. What do you think?’

  ‘Cunning, Robert, hardly transparent at all ...’

  Robert lit a cigarette, offering one to his companion. Samer shook his head, already swathed in tendrils of cigarette smoke from a dozen other tables, the bitterness of the American tobacco an astringent to his palate.

  ‘So we’re all finalised on the offer we’re going to make once I reach India, then?’ Robert queried, summoning the waiter to order a second scotch while waiting for Samer’s reply, and their tardy lunch guest.

  ‘When do you leave? Surely you’ll wait till after Elizabeth’s wedding?’

  ‘Yes, well there’s been a development on that front. It’s off, apparently. “Unsuitable”, according to my sister. It’s done now, we move on. Jessica will sort something out, so I’ve brought my trip forward. I leave next Tuesday on the steamer, the Jelunga.’

  Samer pulled the crumpled newspaper advertisement from his pocket, smoothing it flat on the table between the two men.

  ‘What’s this then?’ Robert asked, pulling his spectacles from his pocket, settling them on the bridge of his quintessential Roman nose.

  ‘It’s a business opportunity. I’ve been corresponding with him for some time now, and it sounds promising. If you’re leaving Tuesday, I’ll take a trip up north, and see if we can arrange things face to face instead of this tedious backwards and forwards via post. With you in India, we should be in the perfect position to act on this before anyone else ...’

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the Customs Surveyor, Alan Bullard; a man whose girth was almost as wide as the spacious corridors at the Savoy. As he was shown to his seat, Samer and Robert stood up to shake the man’s sweaty hand.

  ‘Mr Bullard, such a pleasure you could join us today. This is my business partner, Samer Kurdi. Samer, this is Surveyor Alan Bullard, for London.’

  Introductions made, the three men sat. Bullard wiped his hands, and then his face, with the linen napkin, uncharacteristically hot in the unfamiliar environment. His club was one of the better ones in London, but it didn’t rival the opulence of the Savoy. He was under no illusion as to why he was here. It amused him that people underestimated him purely because of his girth. As if being fat was synonymous with being stupid, but he was happy to play their game.

  ‘Marvellous place this,’ he enthused. ‘Not the sort of place a civil servant would normally eat,’ he joked, accepting one of the proffered cigarettes, allowing the hovering waiter to light it for him.

  A bowl of Tortue Claire, turtle soup, was set before each man. Garnished with thin slices of carrot and turnip, the consommé rich and salty. In direct contrast, the conversation was light and jovial. The men compared childhoods, holiday spots, horse breeds and clubs. Mutual acquaintances were compared as their second course arrived; a lobster timbale. Bullard was more than happy with the bill of fare, it made what he expected would become an oblique request for a favour that much more palatable.

  By the time the pêches cardinal were served – the peaches drenched in a sweet raspberry puree – Robert had made his thrust. They’d moved on to discussing the problems of finding good employees – employees who wouldn’t steal from you, or who weren’t as lazy as the beggars on the streets – when Robert dived in with a pointed remark about the personal vendetta of some officials; Clifford Meredith, for example.

  Bullard swallowed a mouthful of ripe peach, juice trickling down his chin. He wiped his face before answering, ‘Well, yes, some officers don’t necessarily understand the workings of a business, they become blinkered by their role – not necessarily a bad thing,’ he replied politically.

  ‘Yes, of course, it is the nature of the job to apply the rules, but what of the impact on legitimate businesses? What of the cost of goods left rotting at wharves, prey to thieves and corrupt officials? Are we to let
them run riot over our futures?’ Robert countered.

  The sweat had returned to Bullard’s brow. He was all for looking the other way when it came to importers and exporters needing a shipment moved quickly, or a tweak to the tariff for the odd shipment, if the inducement was tempting enough. But the criticism of another officer, even an overzealous one, sat uncomfortably with him. There was a limit to his sang-froid. ‘I am sure he’s just doing his job. Shipments are delayed all the time. We cannot be responsible for every delay at the port. They have their own issues with lax staff that we all face. The unions are developing a stranglehold down there, and it won’t be long before their calls for a strike will find fertile ground. Then we’ll all know about shipments rotting on the wharf. What is it that you’d have me do, gentlemen? Please, be blunt, before this fine meal is ruined by misunderstandings.’

  ‘I think maybe you don’t understand the severity of the situation. Every one of our shipments has been delayed. Every one. It is not random, it has been done at the behest of Meredith, and now has financial implications for the future of our business. He has a vendetta – he’s extracting retribution for the court case he lost ...’

  Samer interrupted his friend, before all the goodwill they’d garnered over lunch was extinguished, such was the power of poorly placed words. He offered instead, ‘A small word in his ear, advising that we are a legitimate business wouldn’t be amiss in this instance. Perhaps he is due a rotation to a different work area, something more suitable to his tenacity?’