Telegram Home

by Kirsten McKenzie

  With the detective gone, Grey eased himself out of his car and peered into The Old Curiosity Shop. He was aware the assistant and her male companion were out. He’d hired an associate to report on their whereabouts, and knew they were at an auction at Christie’s; an auction he would normally have attended, plied with champagne and slavishly served by the minions who worked there. But since the unfortunate incident at Christie’s, his social calendar was as empty as a pauper’s pantry. Grey a persona non grata — no parties, no launches, no interviews. It was galling, but soon this would all be an unfortunate dream. His lawyers would earn their keep and have the ridiculous charges thrown out, proving he wasn’t accountable for a clerk impaling himself on a knife.

  Satisfied that the store was empty, he pushed through the half-open door, taking care to close it behind him. He wanted no surprise visitors.

  Richard Grey wasn’t as perturbed by Sarah’s disappearance as he’d expected. The world was full of mysteries. Unexplainable and unbelievable. It wasn’t for him to question how, but more for him to profit from the knowledge.

  To Grey, the place was filthy, the dust an affront to his particular dislike of dirt. Old photographs lay strewn across the countertop, as if someone had tried sorting the collection, giving up before they’d finished. What he was looking for wouldn’t be on the counter. Now the stories he’d heard about Sarah disappearing started to make sense. He didn’t try analysing it more than required. Somehow she had an advantage, which meant he needed it. Was this how she’d sourced the katar and candelabra? And his family’s embroidered sampler? What other treasures did she have concealed? That the police had searched the premises didn’t phase him, they couldn’t tell the difference between Lalique and Lladro, so an air of calmness suffused him as he cast an appraising eye over the haphazard stock stacked around the room.

  Grey continued his hurried exploration of The Old Curiosity Shop, his cellphone on silent awaiting a text from his associates warning him of Nicole’s return. Grey checked his phone again, nothing. He could search this cesspit for a month and still not find what he needed. The problem was he had no idea what he was searching for. Only Sarah Lester knew.

  Cursing under his breath, he accidentally kicked a box behind the counter, making him swear a second time, the ill-placed kick radiating pain up through his bespoke shoes, breaking a tiny bone in his toe. The carton he’d kicked was full of ugly hunks of carved green stone.

  Grey lowered himself onto the foetid stool, easing his shoe off, and wincing as he peeled away his sock. The swelling instantaneous.

  ‘Damn it to hell,’ Grey muttered just as his phone started vibrating in his pocket. But it wasn’t the message he was expecting.

  He didn’t normally stop to consider the whereabouts of his associates. His network was vast, each man or woman possessing a unique skill set Grey only called upon when he had need. He’d tasked Stokes with dealing to that neanderthal who’d failed to acquire the katar from this very store. Grey had assumed Stokes had completed the job and had carried on doing whatever it was Stokes did when he wasn’t working for Grey. The last thing he’d expected to hear was that Stokes’ putrid decaying body was now in the coroner’s chiller, with the police investigating his murder.

  ‘Damn it, Stokes.’

  Grey didn’t expect the police to link him to the dead man, but a small chance existed. There could only be one culprit, the ruffian with his own vendetta against Sarah Lester. What had he called her? Bell, Sarah Bell? Now Grey needed to decide whether to send good after bad; whether punishing Sinclair for what he’d done to Stokes was worth Grey’s time and energy.

  INDIA

  The Orders

  Albert Lester lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. Would today be when they questioned him about the whereabouts of Major Warren Brooke and Sarah Williams? He’d not slept well, as evidenced by the tangle of bedclothes around him. He’d lost his daughter, again. But this time she wasn’t alone. Wherever she was, the thoroughly competent Major Warren Brooke of the British Army was with her. A grimace distorted his face as he imaged Brooke in modern day London - a London so far removed from what Brooke would have known, what he could have imagined, that a breakdown could be the only outcome. Albert also knew that it was entirely possible that his daughter might not even be home, in her own time, that she could be anywhere.

  His mind going in impossible circles, Albert Lester stared up at the pressed ceiling panels, ignoring the sounds of life outside his room at the Viceregal Lodge. If asked about Brooke’s disappearance, and that of Sarah, he had a story prepared. They’d believe him, so far he’d proven himself invaluable to the Governor General. Although he tried not interfering with what he knew would become history, he did his best to guide the Viceroy, and those around him, to avoid some smaller mistakes he knew they’d make. Of the consequences of his meddling, he tried not to think too hard about. He was doing the best he could in an unfathomable situation. A storm was about to hit the British, and he was more than thankful his daughter had left.

  A knocking interrupted him looping over every potential scenarios. What ifs could drive you crazy given half a chance.

  ‘Come in.’

  A uniformed servant opened the door, allowing another through with a sterling silver tray laden with coffee and cream and toast and jam.

  ‘Good morning, Sir,’ said the man in the doorway.

  ‘Good morning, Sanjay, Naveen. Any news today?’

  The men exchanged a glance.

  ‘Nothing too much, Sir,’ Sanjay replied, closing the door and twitching the curtains open.

  The view from the window was as impressive as always and Albert momentarily forgot about the firestorm on the horizon, breathing in the magnificence of the distant visage of the Himalayas as Sanjay opened the windows.

  Naveen poured the thick black liquid into the china cup, adding a dash of milk with his own peculiar flourish, as if performing for an audience. The tinkling of the silver teaspoon drew Albert’s attention back to the present.

  ‘Nothing too much?’ Albert asked, his eyebrows lifting.

  ‘Thank you, Naveen,’ Sanjay said, opening the door once again, ushering the younger man out. He closed it behind the boy, shutting off the noise of the waking household, limiting the potential for others to overhear his words.

  ‘There are rumours, Sir, bad ones, but they are true. There are things being said about the English. Bad things I think. It’s like your coffee, Sir. You like it piping hot, so it takes longer to prepare it, to get the water as hot as you like it and to keep it hot all the way upstairs. It’s a long way up here and sometimes that water spills, so we have to start again, annoyed by such a little thing as spilt water. We then have to boil the water again, to get it the right temperature. Every time the water spills, we get more annoyed. At ourselves, at you, at the idea that you will only drink very hot coffee. What’s wrong with warm water? Why does it have to be boiling? And the resentment builds, and it builds, until one day, the spilt water becomes a coffee pot flung into the face to the man ordering the coffee…’ Sanjay stopped, aghast at the direction his homily was taking. He turned for the door, eyes downcast.

  ‘Where do you live, Sanjay?’ Albert asked unexpectedly. ‘Wherever it is, go home. I’m more than capable of making coffee.’ Sanjay tried interrupting but Albert held up his hand. ‘I’m not dismissing you, Sanjay. But I can’t ignore the rumours. and I know what it is you are referring to. I’d hoped to have more time to prepare, but we don’t. Go home and look after your family. They’ll need you more than we will. I’ll send your pay on, and you can come back when the troubles are over.’

  Sanjay’s face clouded with confusion before nodding. He had a family — two sons and a wife he adored. He hadn’t told Albert everything, but he didn’t need to. The staff whispered that Albert Lester was a Maharishi - a great seer. It never occurred to them that he was from the future. If Lester said trouble was coming, that was enough for him. Sanjay bowed his head and left the ro
om.

  Alone again, Albert knocked back his lukewarm coffee. Pouring a fresh cup from the pot, he swung his legs out of bed and padded over to the window. From this height he could see the manoeuvres of the detachment stationed at the Viceregal Lodge; men standing at attention, every inch of their uniforms gleaming in light diffused by the mountain air and the early autumnal fog. How many of these soldiers would still be alive after the fight that was coming their way?

  After dressing, Albert made his way downstairs, sniffing the fragrant spices infusing the previously staid English breakfast now served at the Governor General’s residence. A chatter of voices greeted him as he entered the dining room. As usual the table was full of an eclectic mixture of guests — visiting civil servants, favoured foreign emissaries, and a handful of relations of various sorts. The guests changed with great regularity, but they all knew who he was as he took his place to the right of where the Governor General sat if he joined them.

  If Albert noticed any difference in the staffs’ demeanour, he chose not to acknowledge it. He expected a level of circumspection from Sanjay, but it wouldn’t have surprised him if his manservant had shared his forebodings. Bad news spread like a disease, before it infected them all, reaching its tentacles deep into the heart of the Empire.

  ‘Porridge, Sir?’ asked a servant in an impossibly white turban.

  Albert waved, his mind already focussing on the day ahead, plans the foolish military commanders who suggest which he’d try to alter. History had taught him that the British Empire was awash with leaders appointed through bloodlines alone, and not through knowledge or skill.

  A female laugh travelled the length of the grand table as he took a mouthful of porridge, a laugh no true Victorian lady would ever have uttered in front of so many men. His head spun round, Patricia. Sarah’s friend. She’d be the first one to ask him where Sarah was, but she’d also understand if he told her the truth. Did he dare tell her though? She seemed happy holding court, her own plate piled high with kippers and eggs, and what looked like thick slices of cucumber. With sweat already forming between his should blades, he motioned towards the cucumber. Only watermelon was better for cooling the insides of a person, but cucumber was a close second. It hadn’t taken him long to become accustomed to having slices of the liquid-filled vegetable with every meal.

  Patricia didn’t seem interested in catching his attention, or querying Sarah’s whereabouts, so Albert finished his breakfast and excused himself. The Governor General had not appeared, so either he was on the tennis courts or something had happened which was more important than breakfast. Albert hoped it was the former but expected it was the latter, and that scared him.

  The Governor General’s office was a wood panelled ode to masculinity, and a thick fug of cigar smoke obscured the worried representative of Queen Victoria sitting behind the large desk, his head in his hands.

  ‘Bad news?’ Albert asked, taking a seat opposite.

  The other man took his hands from his face, revealing eyes which hadn’t slept and a face which never expected the troubles now facing the British Army.

  ‘You predicted this, Albert. I should have listened to you,’ the Governor General sighed.

  ‘There’s still time to minimise the casualties, both ours and theirs,’ Albert replied.

  The Viceroy considered Albert’s words, shuffling the papers on his leather-topped desk, the deep red reminiscent of the blood they would spill on the summer parched Indian landscape.

  ‘They’ve issued the orders. London is firm on what our response to the uprising will be. Now we wait.’

  Albert’s face portrayed everything he felt. The horror at what was coming because of decisions made by those with no true knowledge of the region and its people. He opened his mouth to respond but closed it, the damage done. He’d thought he had more time. He was wrong.

  The Father

  Albert glanced around him as he unlocked the dilapidated warehouse. Compared to the day he’d been here with Sarah and Brooke, the place was empty save for one Indian lad watching him from beneath the shade of a tree, whittling away at a wooden trinket.

  Concentrating on the task at hand, Albert ignored him and slipped into the dim warehouse. As tempting as it was to close the door behind him, Albert needed the light.

  Small scurrying sounds greeted his entrance. Rodents, or insects the size of rodents had claimed this space as their own. As long as they didn’t cause too much damage, he could tolerate their company.

  The light didn’t penetrate to the back of the warehouse but that didn’t hinder Albert’s activities as he moved with the easy comfort of a man who knew his way around the shrouded shapes and scattered boxes. His methodology in India was no different to how he’d operated back home — he was a collector who found joy in acquiring treasure, often more content in the knowledge of owning something exquisite than the profit gained from selling it.

  Albert’s grand plan had always been to stockpile enough fine furniture and valuable antiquities to provide a safety net for Sarah in a future he’d never see. He had enough money to acquire a building in London, in an area untouched by the WWII bombs. And it was to there he’d arranged to ship the contents of the warehouse. He’d considered every contingency; insurance, council tax, maintenance. There were enough companies still operating in London who had their genesis in the 1800s for him to prepay a century’s worth of expenses. And banks who would hold a letter, only forwarding it to Sarah on a certain date. His plan was foolproof although Sarah’s reappearance (and disappearance) had brought forward the shipping date. The carters were coming tomorrow with their teams of bullocks to haul his future priceless antiques to the nearest port and onwards to England.

  He ran his hand over the heavy cloths protecting the pieces he’d spent the last few years collecting. Mahogany sideboards with delicate inlay. Gilt edged occasional tables with ebony highlights. Ornate towers of carved ivory — as common as pennies in a beggars hand now, but which would one day only exist as museum pieces. The profit from the ivory alone enough to keep Sarah comfortable for the rest of her life.

  He’d planned to travel to London with the shipment, to confirm the arrangements face-to-face, but the troubles made that impossible. The Viceroy needed him. He had to try his best to temper the outrage of the English and dampen the flames of discontent from the locals. The dark circles under his eyes evidence of the struggle between his loyalty to the Queen and his love for his daughter. He’d chosen the lives of the many over the life of his daughter, confident that wherever she was, Warren Brooke was with her, and that he would keep her safe. The missing link was Annabel, his wife. There hadn’t been a single night he hadn’t thought of her, where he’d wished things were different, that she was with him on this adventure, this journey. Gone so long now, that the edges of her memory were hazy, as though someone had taken an eraser to her memory and was slowly rubbing her out.

  ‘Hey, mister, you want a carving?’

  The young man from outside stood in the doorway, basket in hand.

  Albert wiped the moisture from his eyes, interrupted from his reverie.

  ‘They’re good carvings, better than the things in here,’ the carver added, taking two steps inside.

  ‘I don’t need a carving, thank you,’ Albert replied.

  ‘Be worth lots in the future,’ the carver said, swinging his basket in a mesmerising pattern, the sun catching a horrific scar running through his cheek and ending at his jaw.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘The future. People pay a lot for these in the future.’

  Albert stepped towards the young Indian man, who was still swinging his basket as he looked around.

  ‘Be easy to add a statue to this lot.’

  Albert decided the man’s turn of phrase was just that, a turn of phrase. He was seeing shadows and ghosts where there was only flesh and blood. But his skin prickled at the man’s words. There was something…

  ‘Tomorrow. I’ve no money o
n me today,’ Albert dodged.

  ‘You need one for your collection,’ the man insisted, his free hand caressing his scar, an unconscious move to hide the vicious mark but which only drew Albert’s attention.

  ‘I’ve no money now. Off you go, I’m working. Come back tomorrow.’ Albert shooed the man out, flapping his hands the way you would at an insistent seagull. The scar eliciting a modicum of pity.

  ‘Tomorrow then, mister. The perfect gift for your daughter,’ he threw over his shoulder before vanishing down the road.

  By the time Albert registered the man’s choice of words, he’d disappeared, leaving only fine shavings of wood beneath the tree.

  How in heaven’s name did he know about his daughter? Lucky word choice, that was all. He didn’t know the man from Adam. Still, the encounter left him unsettled, as he hurried around closing chests he’d left open ready for any final treasures. There’d be no more treasures until after the troubles ended, if he survived. His history was hazy, but he knew things were about to end badly for thousands of people. Now he’d have to return to buy a mediocre statue he didn’t need nor want. Sarah would call him a pushover.

  The Troubles

  ‘You will have heard the news then?’ the Viceroy said to Albert Lester as he materialised at the polished desk.

  Albert’s face said more than words ever could.

  Two hundred English women and children, butchered at what would become known as the Bibighar Massacre. The man who they’d gone to for aid, turning traitor and joining the mutiny, imprisoning the women and leaving them to their fate at the hands of other more brutal players.