Shalfoon stared at Fujimoto, mouth opening agape, his face the colour of fire.
‘I am a bishop. A representative of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and through him, God. Are you saying that my word is not evidence enough?’
‘We all know how good the church’s word is,’ Fiona muttered under her breath.
Fujimoto shot her a filthy look. ‘We are aware of who you are Bishop Shalfoon, but now is an appropriate time for you to take your leave. We will be in touch,’ Fujimoto said, his arms crossed.
Bishop Shalfoon looked ready to explode, but managed, through the grace of God, to rein in his anger. Instead he let his silence speak for him before striding from the shop leaving only a hint of expensive aftershave behind.
Nicole Pilcher broke the mood by packing away the paper she’d prepared for wrapping the statue.
‘I’ll still need that statue, Miss Pilcher,’ Fujimoto said, running his hands through his hair. ‘Miss Lester,’ he sighed, ‘I have an exorbitant number of questions for you, so the sooner you’re ready, the faster we can get this over with.’
‘I will come with you,’ Brooke said.
‘No you won’t,’ Sarah said. ‘Nicole, this is my friend Warren Brooke, and I know this puts you on the spot but can you look after him?’ Sarah asked, her eyes pleading with Brooke to understand.
‘Sure, but there’s an auction—’
‘I do not need looking after, I will come too,’ Brooke said, grabbing Sarah’s hand.
‘You don’t understand. I need you to stay here,’ she pleaded.
‘No, I need to be your side, to protect you.’
‘Sorry folks, but it’s just Miss Lester who’s coming to the station with us,’ Fujimoto interrupted, checking the battered watch on his wrist.
‘I’m ready, let’s go,’ Sarah said, pushing past Fujimoto and ignoring the anger on Brooke’s face.
Flanked by Fiona Duodu and Inspector Fujimoto, Sarah Lester walked out of The Old Curiosity Shop, hands in her pockets, resisting the urge to run back into Brooke’s arms. Fiona opened the door to the unmarked police car, slamming it shut after Sarah slipped into the plastic-coated back seat. Fiona and Fujimoto climbed in the front, and the car pulled away from the curb.
Swirling around in Sarah’s head was the utter fear that Brooke too may disappear. It burrowed its way deep into her, gnawing at her until she shook uncontrollably and tear ran down her face.
Fujimoto glanced in his mirror.
‘It’s only questions, you aren’t under arrest,’ he said, placating the sobbing woman in his car.
‘Not yet, anyway,’ Fiona said, calmly jotting notes into her hardcover notebook.
‘Not helpful, Fiona,’ Fuji snapped back.
With the police gone, Nicole stood behind the counter fiddling with the statue which, unbelievably, they’d forgotten to take, and examined the barefoot man in front of her — his vintage uniform trousers and shirt not as out of place as they would have been in most other shops. Pulling her eyes from the man she was babysitting, she addressed the two other people standing in the aisle.
‘How can I help?’
‘We’re here about the Roman statue online—’ Ryan Francis began, until Nicole’s laughing shamed him into silence.
‘Join the queue,’ Nicole said. ‘This little guy isn’t going anywhere, other than back to where I found him. They’re causing far too many problems.’
‘They?’ asked Gemma Dance, the tiny battle-axe from the Art Loss Register.
Gemma was gripping Ryan’s arm so hard, he winced as he prised her talons from his arm.
‘Are there more like this one? More Roman statues?’
‘I think this is a conversation I should have with the police sorry, not you,’ Nicole said, placing the statue on the shelf behind her, tucking it between a bag of broken ivory chess pieces, stained red, and a carton of damaged mother-of-pearl card cases, potential replacement fragments rattling around in the bottom — a puzzle of a thousand shattered shards.
Gemma’s face turned white. ‘You can’t just leave it there,’ she protested.
‘I can, and I am. And now I need to ask you both to leave. The shop won’t be open today, for obvious reasons. I’ll lock up behind you.’
Nicole stood firm, refusing to engage when Gemma tried arguing with her.
‘The lady asked you to go,’ Brooke said, the officer in his voice unmistakable.
‘Come on, Gem. We’ll find out direct from the police. You’re flogging a dead Roman here,’ Ryan said.
Gemma sniffed, facing off against Nicole’s frank stare. It wasn’t that she wanted the insufferable bishop to have the Roman statue, it was more that she couldn’t stomach the idea that she’d been so close to finalising a case, mere feet away from unravelling a mystery. Success was so close, that walking away felt like defeat. And Gemma Dance hated that feeling more than anything.
‘Fine, whatever,’ Gemma tossed out as she sailed from the shop.
‘Sorry, she gets…’
‘Obsessive?’ Nicole offered.
‘That works,’ Ryan replied. ‘Here’s my card, if you… well, if you want to tell us anything about the statues.’
‘Statue,’ Nicole corrected.
‘Right, well thanks,’ said Ryan, before following Gemma’s disappearing act, leaving only Brooke and Nicole in the shop, and an uneasy silence.
‘Do you want a coffee?’ Nicole asked.
Brooke stared at Nicole. ‘They’ve taken Sarah away and you offer me coffee?’
Nicole shrugged, aimlessly rearranging stock, moving a heavy brass stag ornament to a more prominent position.
‘Why is this statue so important?’
‘I’ve got no idea,’ Nicole replied.
‘Seems I have plenty of time, tell me what you know about it and maybe we can work it out,’ Brooke said, his tone more conciliatory.
Nicole sighed. ‘Lock the door and I’ll make us a coffee, although we might need something stronger than that.’
With the door locked, and two steaming mugs on the counter, Nicole filled in the gaps as best she could. The statue’s origins as much a mystery to her as they were to Sarah, and Nicole suspected that even Sarah’s father — Albert Lester, wouldn’t have known the true sources of the box of statues in his basement.
‘Albert Lester?’ Brooke asked.
‘Sarah’s father, he’s been missing for years though. Her mother too but I can’t remember her name. Anna or Isabelle? No, that’s not right, it’s Annabel. A huge mystery but I presume Sarah has told you all about that?’
Brooke nodded, Albert’s name echoing around in his mind. Albert Lester, the Viceroy’s chief advisor, his right-hand man, with no family and no past. The mysterious man who lived on the periphery of the army, always there, quietly in the Viceroy’s ear with an omniscient opinion on the best course of action. Advice so logical, so correct, it was as if he knew what parliament would decree before the orders ever made it to India. Albert Lester was Sarah’s father? The idea was too fantastical, but every fantasy has a basis in fact, and yet here he was in a time not of his own. He hadn’t just crossed an ocean, he’d travelled through time and reality fell like dominos as every strange utterance, every peculiar word, all Albert and Sarah’s odd mannerisms suddenly made sense.
‘Albert Lester?’ he asked again.
Nicole reached behind her and pulled a framed newspaper article from the shelf where she’d filed it during one of her innumerable tidy-ups. The headline heralded the up-and-coming young Steptoe, and highlighted the changing tastes of 1970s England, and detailed some of Albert Lester’s more interesting antiques - a mounted shark jaw and a narwhale tusk - the unicorn of the sea, a taxidermy kiwi from New Zealand, complete with an absurdly large egg, and a pair of solid sterling silver stirrups, clearly made as a folly for the original owner. The man photographed for the article was young, younger than Brooke was now, and showed a face full of excitement for the future, a face identical to that of Albert
Lester, confidant of the Viceroy of India.
The Auction
‘Next up, three wooden tea chests full of fabric swatches and late nineteenth century fashion sketches. Removed from the Crawford Market in Mumbai before its recent restoration, we are honoured to present this unique glimpse into Mumbai’s past. Sadly, we’ve lost the name of the designer to time, but most of the sketches are in excellent condition making them a valuable resource for any costume designers or historical researchers. We start the bidding at three hundred pounds. Do we have any advances on three hundred pounds?’
And so the bidding carried on, hands raised, paddles lifting a fraction of an inch, fingers tapped, and the auctioneer magically tracking the various bidder’s unique signals, whilst also incorporating bids from the telephone and over the internet. A good auctioneer is like the conductor of an orchestra, using an extraordinary skill set to keep the whole performance from descending into a toneless disaster. The hammer fell a smudge over eight thousand pounds, plus the buyer and seller’s premium. A price far exceeding the guide of one thousand pounds in the auction catalogue.
There were no surprises that the successful bidder was the venerable Victoria and Albert Museum, although the American museums had done their best to buy the treasure trove of fashion history.
‘And next up is a carte de visite photograph album, and assorted ephemera, featuring hereto-unknown images of the Viceroy of India, his officers and unnamed associates and correspondence from the same period. There has been considerable interest in this item, also unearthed in the basement of Crawford Market at the time of their recent restoration work, and entrusted to us to auction. Do I have any starting bids?… Yes, sir, two hundred pounds? I’ll take your bid. Do I have a… three hundred pounds, thank you, madam. Four hundred, do I have… three hundred and twenty pounds, yes Madam, I will accept your bid. These funds will go towards the upkeep of the historic Crawford Market in Mumbai, established by Arthur Crawford, the Municipal Commissioner of Bombay, now Mumbai, in 1868, although these photographs predate that by eight or so years. It will probably always be a mystery how they ended up in his basement. Do I hear any advances on three hundred and twenty pounds? Going once, twice… the bid is with you, madam, paddle number 772… and a new bidder. Yes, madam, three hundred and fifty pounds, thank you. Any advances on three hundred and fifty pounds?’
The previous bidder shook her head as the auctioneer tried his best to cajole more profit from the crowd.
‘Sold, for three hundred and fifty pounds to paddle number 405. Thank you, madam.’
Nicole Pilcher, the holder of paddle number 772, made a small notation in her catalogue before turning the page to await the next lot she was interested in — a collection of cabinet cards from a Victorian photographer in Liverpool.
She hoped that these two lots would swell her collection at The Old Curiosity Shop, keeping her regular collectors sated for a few weeks. It was disappointing to lose the first lot, but even at three hundred and twenty pounds she’d exceeded her own budget, so couldn’t stretch the extra thirty quid. It was so hard finding good stock these days, that it was a miracle she’d caught wind of these lots. There’d been an increase of interest in old cabinet cards, although most people mixed up cabinet cards and cartes de visite, it didn’t worry her too much, there was money in both of them, which was the point.
Meanwhile, the owner of paddle number 405, Eliza Broadbent, was fanning herself with an antique ivory and silk fan, overjoyed with her purchase. The price she’d paid was of no concern. Bidding was easy when the money wasn’t your own.
Despite Sarah expecting Nicole to babysit him, Brooke had refused to attend the auction with Nicole, preferring instead to wait outside where he cut a peculiar figure, dressed in his uniform, leaning against the brick building watching the modern world pass.
The world had changed. It wasn’t the roaring vehicles belching black smoke, or the flashing street lights and shop windows lit up like the sun that surprised him the most. It was the way the people carried themselves in their revealing clothing and public displays of affection. But the casualness of life astonished him the most. The future world was one of bare legs and electrical light, of an abundance of vehicles and almost a complete absence of joyful life on the streets.
During the two hours of the auction, Brooke decided he couldn’t bear to live a life in this time. Pacing outside the auction house, he deliberated on the best way to tell Sarah. He assumed she’d be happy to leave, to be back with her father, safe. They could marry and live their lives together away from this madness.
By the time Nicole found him outside, he’d almost worn a path he’d spent so much time pacing, mulling over his decision.
‘We need to get back,’ he said.
‘Don’t you want something to eat first, I’m starving?’
‘Sarah will have returned, we should go back.’
Nicole checked her watch. ‘There’s no guarantee she’s back yet. I’ll ring the shop and check.’ She dialled the shop phone hanging on until the answerphone kicked in. ‘She’s not back yet.’
‘There must be something wrong. Try again,’ Brooke ordered.
Nicole dialled again. No answer. ‘We’ll go for a cup of tea and something to eat. No doubt she’ll be back then. Come on.’
Brooke trailed after Nicole, his vintage uniform drawing second glances from everyone they passed but Brooke didn’t notice. Nicole sat him at a table in the nearest cafe and went to order their drinks. Seated at the table, he tapped his foot against the floor, and drummed his fingers on the table top. He wanted to return to Sarah. Although he knew she was with the police, he felt uncomfortable, unable to shake the feeling that something was coming to threaten them.
‘They’re bringing it over,’ Nicole announced, slipping into her chair with a contented sigh. ‘Just bought the most amazing collection of photos from India at the auction. It’ll be fascinating to go through them. I only had the chance to look at the top ones,’ she said. ‘Are you okay?’
‘There’s something wrong, with Miss Lester. We should return,’ Brooke said standing.
Nicole sighed. Babysitting a grown man was not what she’d been expecting to do today. ‘We’ll go straight back after our tea. Can you sit down, everyone is staring.’
Brooke lowered himself back into his seat, his jaw set firm against Nicole’s words.
Nicole stared at Brooke, ‘Your uniform?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The uniform you’re wearing, where’s it from?’
Brooke checked himself. ‘My uniform? It’s that of my unit. Why?’
Nicole had her auction programme open to the centre illustrated page, and her finger hovered above the picture of the lot she’d just won. She pushed the glossy brochure towards Brooke. ‘It’s the same as the one in these pictures, isn’t it?’
Brooke took the book from Nicole, his heart beating faster. He’d accepted he was in a time not of his own; that he was in the future, but now he held in his hands a direct link to his past — a photograph of the Viceroy together with Albert Lester, Captain James Doulton, and standing to the left of the trio in partial shadow a familiar face, his own.
‘Do you have this photograph with you?’
‘I can pick it up tomorrow, with the rest of the lot. There are more photos in the album and knowing more about the uniforms would help sell them.’
Brooke closed the auction catalogue and handed it back. ‘I can’t help you,’ he said. ‘Can we go now?’ He needed to get back to India, his India, with Sarah.
Nicole sipped her drink, the look on her face discouraging any further comment from Brooke. He toyed with his own cup, his unease rising with every minute they remained in the cafe, and when Nicole finished her tea, he leapt to his feet.
‘Come on then,’ Nicole said.
The Interview
‘Coffee?’ Inspector Fujimoto asked Sarah Lester.
‘Please.’
‘Fiona, can you get the cof
fee?’
‘So much for gender equality,’ Fiona muttered, scraping back her chair and stalking from the interview room.
‘She does that a lot, doesn’t she?’ Sarah commented.
‘You get used to it and most of the time she means no harm,’ Fujimoto replied. ‘We’ll wait till she gets back. Are you sure you don’t want a lawyer with you?’
‘Can’t think why I’d need one,’ Sarah said.
With coffee in hand, Fujimoto flicked the switch on the decades-old video interview equipment, fiddled with the dials and flinched when a screeching alarm sounded.
‘Sorry, it’s old and temperamental. We’re waiting for a new machine. Are you ready?’
Sarah nodded, and the interview began.
As the interrogation progressed, it was clear the various threads of the investigation were far from interwoven.
‘We need to return to your answer regarding your whereabouts for the past several months. You said you were in India?’
‘That’s right.’
‘There is no record of you having left England, by plane, boat or train, nor of you returning.’
Sarah shrugged. So far she’d told the truth, not the whole truth, but enough to sustain her inquisitors.
‘We’re not getting everything from you, Miss Lester. Which can only mean that you are hiding something from us, so I’ll ask again, do you want a lawyer, here, with you in this interview?’
‘Look, I’m fine. We returned from India last night and I’m tired and hungry and I know nothing about the statue. My father was a hoarder who loved buying things. He loved selling things too, but he couldn’t help himself — if there was a bargain, he’d buy it and store it away for later. For a rainy day. You know more than I do. I haven’t even talked to Nicole about the shop, or anything. It’s not my fault your system hasn’t recorded my travel.’
Fujimoto looked at Fiona scribbling in her notebook. They would make a complete transcript of the interview for the file, but it was Fiona’s nature to record a whole interview in her peculiar shorthand. She often picked up on subtleties a written transcript missed.
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