by S. P. Hozy
How long did Axel think he’d be in Singapore? He couldn’t say for sure. Would he go back to Sweden when his job was finished? Probably for a while. But then he might be given another assignment somewhere else. Was Maris going to stay in Singapore now that she was painting again?
“It feels like home to me,” she told him. “I don’t know why exactly. It’s not anything like the place I grew up in. We lived in a small town, a village really, in one of the most beautiful places in the world. I wouldn’t exactly call Singapore beautiful, certainly not in the sense that British Columbia is beautiful, but there’s an energy here that I haven’t found anywhere else. And it’s not like I’m crazy about all the glass and steel office towers and the rows and rows of high-rise apartments,” she said. “But the trees and the gardens are wonderful and restorative and they feed my soul. I feel free here.” She laughed and shook her head. “In a place where it’s against the law to chew gum.”
“Maybe it’s because you’re so far away from everything you grew up with,” said Axel. “That can be liberating. I always feel a little bit freer when I’m away from home. Nobody knows me, and they can’t point to the man and see the boy he once was. I can shed that skin and be whoever I want to be.”
“Does that mean you’re not really the man you seem to be?” she said, looking at his naked body.
He laughed and pulled the sheet up. “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” he said, reaching for her. “What you see is what you get.”
Later, much later, they took a taxi to Clarke Quay for something to eat. It was one of Maris’s favourite places in Singapore, especially at night when all the little cafés and bistros were lit up and full of people. The former colonial row houses were brightly painted, the patrons were young and eagerly enjoying their food and friends, and former fishing boats went up and down the river with tourists and locals out for a night of entertainment.
Sitting opposite Axel, drinking a glass of wine, Maris tried to imagine them growing old together. Maybe they would be in a place like this, talking about their children, or even their grandchildren, or a trip to Greece they might take in the spring. They would share memories, finish each other’s sentences, taste each other’s food, and walk home arm in arm. They would be content.
Silly, she thought. Nothing lasts forever. She watched the boats on the Singapore River, their twinkling lights reflected in the water. But then again, she thought, some things do last a lifetime.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Maris continued to be obsessed with the contents of Peter’s trunk. She had dragged it halfway around the world and back again and still had not figured out what it meant. Whenever she had a chance, she read the stories by E. Sutcliffe Moresby, she studied the paintings of Chinese women by the mysterious AS, and she read the letters that were tied in bundles with blue ribbon.
It still baffled her why Peter had left these things for her. She picked up one of the first editions and started riffling through the pages. It was pristine, as if it had never been read. She picked up another and another; they were equally immaculate. Then she noticed one that appeared less perfect. She picked it up and turned it over in her hand. It was The Severed Edge, a book she had read years ago in school and one that Peter clearly had also read. She opened the book to Chapter 1 and an envelope fell out. It was addressed to her and contained a single sheet of paper. Peter’s stationery was instantly recognizable by its colour, a deep taupe, and its heavy, linen-like texture. The note was in his handwriting.
Dear Maris, she read, If you’re reading this letter, it’s probably because I’m not around anymore. I have bequeathed you this trunk and its contents in my will, which I hope will not be read for a very long time. (Maris looked at the date on the letter; it was written just two months before Peter’s death.)
I have made a disturbing discovery, he continued, and I’m not sure what to do. When I was unpacking a shipment the other day, I accidentally dropped a ceramic jug from China — one with a lid, traditionally used to hold herbs and dried medicines — and discovered that it was not empty, as I would have expected, but contained several dried artifacts. They appeared to be small animal parts: paws with the fur still on and possibly organs or dried snake meat. I’m pretty sure they’re not ancient, like the jug, but fairly recently dried.
I spoke to Angela about it and suggested that she talk to her supplier. He (or she, Angela doesn’t tell me who her contacts are) may not be aware that contraband is being shipped along with antiquities. He (or she) could be in a lot of trouble if these were discovered somewhere en route.
Angela thought it would be a bad idea to alert him (she admitted it was a man). She said it was probably a mistake and had been meant for another shipment. She felt it would be best to leave it alone and say nothing. She didn’t want her supplier to know that she knew he was dealing in contraband. Or, if it was a mistake and had happened further up the chain, she didn’t want to get her supplier into trouble. These were dangerous waters (her words) and it was best not to swim with sharks.
I have been uneasy ever since the discovery, and have decided to write it all down for someone else’s eyes (yours, in fact) should anything untoward (meaning, not favourable, adverse, or unseemly) happen to me. Not meaning to be morbid, but just cautious.
By the way, if you’re eighty years old and reading this, ignore all of the above.
With much love and affection, and many thanks for a true friendship (in case I forgot to tell you), I remain
Yours,
Peter
Trust Peter to be funny when he was obviously upset and disturbed by his discovery. It seemed that Angela’s warning about a possible Interpol investigation was not unfounded. But she hadn’t mentioned anything about her conversation with Peter. Well, that wasn’t surprising. Angela never told her or Dinah anything related to the business end of things. It was typical of her to keep something like this to herself.
Maris’s first impulse was to show the letter to Dinah and see what she wanted to do. It would have given her a lot of satisfaction to show it to Angela and watch her reaction, but somehow this didn’t seem like the wisest choice. Angela would probably want to destroy the letter, while Maris wanted to keep it. It was personal, in a way, and it was between Peter and her. Did it have any connection to his death? Should she show it to the police? Doing that would definitely involve the gallery in some kind of investigation — not something she relished, and nor would Dinah and Angela, she was certain. Peter hadn’t named any names in the letter and the police would surely want to know who the supplier was, at the very least. She knew this would infuriate Angela.
The next morning she took the letter into the gallery and showed it to Dinah. She watched as Dinah read the letter then closed her eyes to hold back her tears. When she opened them again, her lashes were wet, and she wiped them with the back of her hand.
“Well,” said Maris, “what do you think?”
Dinah thought for a moment, read the letter again, and said, “I think we should go to the police.”
“Really?” said Maris. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
“But that would mean an investigation and Angela will be furious.”
“Too bad,” said Dinah. “I don’t care if Angela bursts into flames. This letter might help solve Peter’s murder. It could be a clue.”
“I agree. It could be a clue, but it’s pretty vague. I mean, he doesn’t name names and obviously the jug is long gone, as, I’m sure, are the contents. It’s pretty flimsy evidence. They could say that Peter was just being paranoid.”
“They could,” said Dinah, “but Angela knows who the supplier is. She would have to reveal him. It’s a start.”
“So I guess that means you want to show the letter to Angela.”
“I sure do,” said Dinah. “And I can’t wait to see her expression.”
“Wow,” said Maris. “You’re one tough cookie. I’d have bet money you’d want to keep the lett
er secret.”
Dinah looked at her. “I want to find out what happened to Peter,” she said. “And if someone killed him, I want them punished.” She paused for a moment. “Don’t you want justice for Peter?”
“Of course I do,” said Maris. “But I don’t want to see the gallery destroyed in the process. This gallery is your future, and possibly mine as well. It’s not about Angela; it’s about you and me.”
“No,” said Dinah. “It’s about Peter.”
They showed the letter to Angela with predictable results. She was dead set against going to the police.
“No, absolutely not,” she said. “That letter must be destroyed. Don’t you understand what it would do to my reputation and the reputation of the gallery? Just the mention of contraband animal parts and the stink will hang around us. We’ll always be suspect. My contacts will refuse to deal with me. We’d have to close the gallery. No,” she repeated, shaking her head. “Destroy the letter. Right now, in front of me.”
“It’s my letter,” said Maris, “and I’ll decide what to do with it.” Even though she knew Angela was right and she didn’t want to see the gallery destroyed, it annoyed her that Angela was being so imperious. She didn’t like being told what to do, especially by Angela.
Dinah, on the other hand, disagreed with Angela for different reasons. She held to her belief that this was an important clue to Peter’s murder and that they owed it to him to find out who killed him.
“The police have been useless,” said Angela, “and this letter won’t make them any more efficient. Besides,” she said, “they can pull my fingernails out and I won’t tell them who my supplier is.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” said Dinah. “The police don’t have to resort to torture; they can probably arrest you for obstruction of justice or something and you’ll have to testify at your trial.” Secretly, though, she wouldn’t have minded if they tortured Angela. She was fed up with her management style. Angela had no right to tell them what to do.
Ultimately the choice had to be Maris’s. The letter was addressed to her. Peter had relinquished the information to her because he expected her to do the right thing. He could not have known what the future held, although clearly he feared that something might happen to him as a result of his discovery.
Maris thought about showing the letter to Axel. They had become intimate and she trusted him. She valued his opinion and would have liked his advice in the matter. But she wasn’t sure this was the right time to introduce something this emotionally upsetting into their relationship. On the one hand, it would test Axel’s commitment to her, but on the other hand, it could also drive him away. They were still in the early courtship phase of their relationship, she figured. Not the time for a big ordeal.
So what should she do? When in doubt, she thought, wait. Nothing was going to bring Peter back. There were a lot of things to consider and her decision would have consequences for all of them and the gallery. Would Peter have wanted her to bring about the end of the gallery? Something that had been his life’s work? Was there a way she could do this and not have it ruin the gallery? Was there any way to separate Peter’s life — and death — from the gallery?
Chapter Thirty-Five
That evening, Maris decided to show the contents of the trunk to Dinah. She thought it might help her make a decision about the letter. Since opening the trunk with Ray, she hadn’t wanted to share the contents with anybody else, but she thought it was time and Dinah was the right person.
“You know Peter left me this trunk of stuff,” she said, “and I want you to see what he left me. Maybe you can help me understand why he left it to me.”
She opened the trunk and began to remove the items, starting with the books by E. Sutcliffe Moresby. “I’ve been reading my way through them, starting with the stories. I only found Peter’s letter by accident when I opened the cover of this book and it fell out. Otherwise I don’t know how long it would have taken me to find it.”
“Maybe that’s why he left you this stuff,” said Dinah, “so you’d find the letter.”
“He was taking a chance,” said Maris. “I might not have found it for years.”
Dinah laughed. “He probably knew curiosity would get the better of you and you’d comb through the whole thing looking for answers.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Maris. “But it’s a strange collection of stuff and I can’t figure out the connection.”
Next she pulled out the portraits of the Chinese women and showed Dinah the initials AS in the corner of each of them. “They’re quite beautiful, aren’t they?” she said. “I’m fascinated by them. I mean, who’s AS, why did she paint them, and why did Peter leave them to me?”
“I think they’re wonderful,” said Dinah. “Those faces are so expressive on the one hand, and yet so hidden on the other. They reveal everything and nothing, if that’s possible.”
“I agree,” said Maris. “In trying to hide themselves, they actually seem to be telling us a lot. I think they were probably prostitutes, don’t you?”
“Yes, probably,” agreed Dinah. “Just from the amount of makeup. And also, there’s a kind of hardness in the faces, even though they look terribly young. A pampered young woman might wear makeup but she would have a softness that these women lack.”
“But why only prostitutes? And why only faces?”
Dinah shook her head. “And was the painter a man or a woman?”
“Ah,” said Maris. “I think AS was a woman. There are two packets of letters, as well, and they’re addressed to Annabelle Sweet. At least, the ones I’ve looked at are written to Annabelle Sweet from Francis something.”
Dinah looked at her and her eyes widened. “Annabelle Sweet and Francis Stone?” she said. “Those were my grandparents. Peter’s and mine. Our father’s parents.”
“Stone,” said Maris. “Of course. I wondered about the name when I first saw the letters, but then I completely forgot about it. I figured if he was related, Peter would have left them to you. I guess I just put it out of my mind. That was when I was back in Canada, so I didn’t follow up on it at the time. Well, duh. How stupid am I?”
Dinah was shaking her head. “I didn’t even know Peter had this stuff. He never showed it to me.”
“Tell me about your father.”
“What I know is that he was taken to England as an infant by a writer who was a friend of his father, my grandfather. He, my grandfather, died of fever before my father was born, and his mother, Annabelle, refused to leave Singapore. I think she went a little crazy,” said Dinah, “after her husband died. Anyway, she was terrified that her baby would die of fever like his father, and she let this writer — who I now realize is probably this guy, E. Sutcliffe Moresby — take him to England to be raised by his mother.
“They — the Moresbys, I guess — had money and he received a public school education. Then he joined the air force during World War II. After the war, between about 1945 and 1955, he spent time in India and Ceylon, learning the tea trade. He became a successful tea merchant and married Henny in 1955 in England. I have pictures of them in an album Peter gave me.
“Peter was born in 1959 in England, but the family came to Singapore in 1960, after Malayan independence.” Dinah paused as if considering whether she should elaborate on this, then continued. “A few years later, my father took a Chinese mistress and I was born in 1969.”
“I never knew any of this,” said Maris. “I don’t recall Peter ever talking about his parents. For that matter, neither did you.”
“Our father, Peter’s and mine, was like two different men,” said Dinah. “The father Peter knew was married to an Englishwoman, Henny, who spoke her mind and took what came her way with a stubborn kind of courage and tenacity. I never knew her, of course, but I remember seeing her a few times. She was very tall and slender. Kind of like Lady Mountbatten — remember her?”
Maris nodded. “Yes, I’ve seen films of her and Lord Mountbatten in India bef
ore the partition.”
“Yes,” said Dinah, “very elegant and aristocratic. Although what I remember of Henny — and don’t forget, I was a very young Chinese kid who was raised by a Chinese mother — Henny was cool, you know, cold. Not friendly or approachable, like Lady Mountbatten seemed to be.
“The father I knew lived with a Chinese woman, my mother, a nameless, faceless nonentity who bowed to his will and was subservient in every way. Because her family disowned her, she had even less of an identity — no ancestors to worship, no parents or parents-in-law to serve. I had very mixed feelings toward my mother,” said Dinah. “I didn’t like the way she kowtowed to my father and kind of shrank from people, never speaking unless spoken to, that kind of thing. But in many ways we were very close. She didn’t have any friends and neither did I. We were kind of shunned and that pulled us together. I felt very loyal to her, and protective, too.
“I think my father didn’t really like women or their company. He didn’t really leave Henny so much as withdraw from her. He forgot she was a person with feelings. He never considered her pain or her humiliation over what he did to her. Even though I didn’t know her, I believed that what had happened had been my father’s fault. I never heard my mother speak against Henny or demand that my father divorce her. She wouldn’t have dared.”
“Your father probably did it — you know, held on to everything — because he could,” said Maris. “That generation of men felt entitled. He had the best of both worlds.”
“Yes,” said Dinah. “And in Singapore, it was common for a man to have a mistress, especially if he could afford it. I think the only woman who ever meant anything to him was Moresby’s mother, the one who raised him. But because she was always old to him, he never really comprehended young women’s passion or their vitality. Never saw them as creators and sources of life. I think that comes from never having a mother or possibly from being abandoned by his mother, which he was, in a way. She gave him up, after all, gave him away to Moresby. That probably left some scars.”
