by S. P. Hozy
“So this Annabelle Sweet was his mother and she stayed behind in Singapore?”
“As far as I know, she never left.”
“That’s very strange,” said Maris, “because the letters from Francis were written while she was still in England and he was begging her to come out and marry him. I got the impression she didn’t want to come. He kept telling her they could live a lot more cheaply in Singapore and he could write a book, which is what he wanted to do. If he went back to England, he would have to give up his dream of writing.”
“What I gathered from my father, who didn’t say much about her, believe me, was that she went mad after his father died. According to this writer Moresby, she kept saying she had to stay in Singapore because Francis was there. She cared more about her dead husband than she did about her baby. I don’t understand how she could give up her baby, but apparently she could. Which maybe says a lot about her state of mind.”
“So he never saw her again?” asked Maris.
“Not as far as I know. I’m pretty sure she died while he was still a child.”
“Maybe the other letters will tell us something. I think they’re from Moresby to her.”
It was past midnight so they agreed to go through the letters another time. Maris was seeing Axel the next night, so it would have to wait a couple of days.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Maris and Dinah pulled out the trunk a couple of nights later to read the letters Moresby had written to Annabelle. They had opened a bottle of Chardonnay and were prepared to make an evening of it. Maris had been with Axel the previous evening and had not arrived home until the early hours of the morning, just enough time to shower and change her clothes for a day at the gallery. She wasn’t being paid for her time, but Dinah was giving her free room and board and that was fine with Maris. And Dinah didn’t seem to mind that Maris was spending a lot of time with Axel. She thought they were a good couple, and she was especially pleased that Axel was encouraging Maris to paint again.
“I’ve barely slept the last two nights, I’ve been so excited about this stuff of my grandmother’s,” said Dinah. “I wish I knew why Peter never showed it to me.”
“Well, you know,” said Maris, “he probably hadn’t looked at it or thought about it for a long time, and then came across it when he decided to put his affairs in order. He was probably going to show it to you, but then he was murdered.” Maris realized this was the second time she had used the word “murdered” when referring to Peter. The first was when she had told Axel about Peter’s death.
“How shall we do this?” said Dinah.
“Let’s put them in order first and see what dates they cover.” They untied the bundle and checked the postmarks. All had been sent from England, between 1928 and 1931. There appeared to be three or four letters a year.
“Let’s start with 1928 and read them in order,” said Maris. “We’ll single out anything unusual that isn’t just letter chit-chat.”
“Okay,” said Dinah, and slipped the first letter out of the envelope. In a couple of minutes, she said, “You should read this one.”
August 12, 1928
Dearest Annabelle,
I arrived home a few days ago and can report that Frankie is in fine form. He painted me a picture of himself standing in front of his pony, which he has named Dulcie. Don’t ask me where he got that from!
I was reluctant to leave you, Anna-belle, after all that happened recently, but Dicky assured me he would keep a close eye on you. I hope you will not forget your promise not to do anything like that again. Suicide is not an answer to anything, and your death would break many hearts, mine and Frankie’s uppermost.
I will never stop asking you to return to England. If you ever change your mind, let me know immediately and a ticket will be on its way.
As ever, with great affection,
Sutty
“Suicide?” said Maris. “Did you know anything about this?”
“No,” said Dinah. “I wonder if Peter ever read these letters.”
“I guess we’ll never know,” said Maris. “This next one is pretty straightforward.”
November 26, 1928
Dearest Annabelle,
I was so pleased to receive a letter from you this month. Of course I’ll send you the painting by Frankie. In fact, I’ll get him to paint one especially for you. He asks about you all the time, but I fear you are moving further and further away from him as time goes by. I don’t say this to make you feel guilty — never, never — but only so you’ll know how much you mean to your dear son. He does not forget you. You remain in his heart.
We send our love.
Sutty
The letters from 1929 and 1930 were in a similar vein with Sutty replying to letters from Annabelle, but not always. Occasionally he would drop a note to say he hadn’t heard from her in a while and he hoped she was all right. A couple of times he asked if she needed more money. Once he wrote: I hope you’re not giving the extra money to Dicky because I fear he will only drink it away. I appreciate that he looks after you to some extent and that he is a friend, but I worry that he will inadvertently leave you with not enough for yourself. Do be careful, Annabelle. There are some who might want to take advantage of you. You have heard the expression “fair-weather friends,” I am sure. I’m not saying this is Dicky, just that someone attached to Dicky might not be so reliable. Sorry, I don’t mean to lecture.
Toward the end of 1930, the tone of the letters began to change, indicating that all might not be well with Annabelle.
December 8, 1930
Dearest Annabelle,
I am concerned about the note of dismay in your letter. I won’t say despair, because I truly hope it is not that. People often feel out of sorts at this time of year, with Christmas coming. Especially people who have suffered loss such as you have. Please assure me in your next letter that this is a temporary mood and that you are in fact feeling better.
As to your question whether I would be coming to Singapore in the next year, I had no plan to, but if you would like me to come, I certainly will.
Frankie is looking forward to Santa’s visit and has submitted a long list of suggestions in case Santa’s elves can’t think of anything to bring him. His Grand Maud cannot say no to the boy, and I fear he is becoming spoiled. But he is a boy like no other and life would now be so dreary without him.
Wishing you a good Christmas, Annabelle and, dare I say, a happy one. I am enclosing a few extra pounds for you to buy yourself something special.
Please be well and don’t wait too long to respond.
Yours, as ever,
Sutty
“Well,” said Maris, “for a writer, he’s not the most sensitive guy. I mean, if she was suicidal at one point, and now he senses dismay, shouldn’t his warning bells be going off?”
“Maybe they were,” said Dinah, “but he knew he couldn’t do anything about it. I mean, what was he supposed to do? Jump on the next ship and spend two months getting there, only to find she had PMS that day?”
“I suppose,” said Maris. “It must have been tough being in touch only by letter. No instant communication like now. People might die between letters and you wouldn’t know it for weeks, even months. I guess there was a level of acceptance I find hard to understand.”
“Listen to this,” said Dinah.
April 20, 1931
Dearest, dearest Annabelle,
Your last letter truly frightened me. You tell me you spent a few days in hospital, but you don’t really tell me why. Was it fever? Did you meet with an accident? I wish you would be more forthcoming in your letters. I’m afraid my imagination runs away with me at times and I imagine the unimaginable. You know what writers are like. We are always making things up, especially if we don’t have all the facts.
Anyway, I’m glad you’re feeling better and that whatever was the matter no longer troubles you. But next time you write, be more explicit. Please. If it was “female troubles,”
you don’t have to give me details. Heaven forbid. But better that than what my uneasy mind can conjure.
Sorry to be an old nag.
Frankie, Grand Maud, and I send our love. And I also enclose a new photograph of Frankie. See how fast he’s growing up! Before we know it, he’ll be in cap and gown.
Sutty
“Another suicide attempt?” said Maris.
“If that were the case, she probably wouldn’t say anything. I wouldn’t, anyway. I think I’d want to hide the fact from him. Unless, of course, she wanted him to come right away. It could have been a ploy, but he didn’t bite.”
“Strange relationship they had,” said Maris. “He obviously cared about her, but she didn’t seem to care about anybody. Except her dead husband, of course.”
“And maybe this Dicky character,” said Dinah. “The one Sutty doesn’t trust but has to trust because he’s the only one around.”
The last two letters appeared not to be replies to Annabelle’s letters, but pleas from Sutty to write to him immediately.
October 23, 1931
Dear, dear Annabelle,
What has happened to you? I have heard nothing for months and am frantic with worry. I have booked passage on the P&O leaving next week and will arrive in Singapore the last week of December. Please, I beg you, contact me as soon as possible. I am forfeiting Christmas with Frankie because I am so worried. If he were a few years older, I would bring him with me so we could ring in the New Year together.
This time you must return with me to England. I will not take no for an answer. It’s time you were reunited with your son. He needs you, and I believe you need him.
I am not happy playing this authoritarian role, but you leave me no choice. I am losing patience, but remain
Your affectionate, devoted friend,
Sutty
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Maris showed Dinah some of the stories Sutty had written. “Read these,” she said, “and tell me what you think.”
Dinah read the stories and didn’t say anything for a few minutes. “Wow,” she said softly. “It’s all there.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Maris. “All of these stories seem to follow the same path, but they all end differently.”
“I don’t know the real ending,” said Dinah. “I’m not sure how my grandmother died, but I’m sure she died a long time ago. My father told me he never saw her again after he was taken to England.”
“It’s almost as if the writer, Sutty, was trying to find a better ending. Like he couldn’t accept the real one, whatever that was.”
“I wish Peter were here,” said Dinah. “He might have the answer. Maybe our father told him things he didn’t tell me.”
“Your father might not have known the real story either. Only Sutty knew and he chose to muddy the waters. He never wrote an autobiography, did he?”
“Not that I’m aware of. But there’s been a lot written about him. Some biographers even suggested he was homosexual because he never married and had such a close relationship with his mother.”
“Another possibility,” said Maris.
“All we know is that he never had a long relationship with anybody — except my grandparents.”
“Maybe he was in love with both of them,” said Maris.
Dinah smiled. “Maybe,” she said.
Later that evening, Dinah said, “I have an idea. Why don’t we look for their graves? There’s a cemetery adjacent to the church they were married in. Maybe they’re buried there.”
They decided to go to the cemetery on Monday when the gallery was closed. Again, Maris considered telling Axel and inviting him to join them, but then she thought better of it. Dinah might not appreciate an outsider tagging along.
As they rode the MRT to the City Hall stop, Dinah explained to Maris that there weren’t many old cemeteries left in Singapore. Because of the scarcity of land, most of them had been closed, cleared, or relocated.
“They actually exhumed over a hundred thousand graves,” she said. “The cemeteries board, or whatever it’s called, managed to cremate and relocate a lot of the remains to Choa Chu Kang Columbarium, in one of the few existing cemeteries today. Most of the old cemeteries were closed in the late 1800s or the early 1900s. Or, once they were full, they were not allowed to expand and had to close.”
“So the graves might not exist at all,” said Maris.
“They might not,” said Dinah. “At first, I thought they might be buried at the Fort Canning cemetery, but then I found out that it was closed in the 1860s. I think our best bet is the little graveyard next to St. Andrew’s chapel, where they were married. Not all the churches have graveyards, either. One of the few is the Armenian Church, and that’s not really a graveyard but a memorial garden. When one of the cemeteries, I think it was Bukit Timah, was closed in the late eighties, they sent the remains of some of the more famous Armenians there.”
Maris smiled. “Famous Armenians in Singapore?”
“You’d be surprised,” said Dinah. “Did you know that the four brothers who built Raffles, the E&O in Penang, and one other famous hotel — I think it was in Rangoon — were Armenian? The Sarkies brothers, but don’t ask me their first names.”
“I’m impressed you know that much,” said Maris.
“And,” said Dinah, “Agnes Joaquim, an Armenian who discovered the first hybrid orchid here, Vanda Miss Joaquim, which was named Singapore’s national flower, is also buried there.”
“Get out,” said Maris, “now you’re showing off.”
“Seriously. We learned all this in school,” said Dinah. “We even had a field trip to the church. It’s the first one built in Singapore. And there’s another famous Armenian, too. The guy who founded The Straits Times newspaper. He sold it after a year because he thought it wouldn’t be profitable.”
Maris laughed. “Good instincts, bad judgment,” she said.
The chapel that Francis and Annabelle were married in was part of St. Andrew’s Cathedral, designed in the early English Gothic architectural style and built by Indian convicts. The existing cathedral was actually the second structure built on the site. The first was erected in 1835 (during which time much jungle had to be cleared) and demolished in 1855 after being struck twice by lightning. The second building was begun in 1856 and consecrated in 1862. Dinah insisted on reading this information from the pamphlet provided at the entrance to the church.
“The spire rises 207 feet (63 metres),” she read. “Housed in the spire are the Cathedral’s eight bells, the largest being equal in weight to No. 8 in the peal of St. Paul’s Cathedral, London. Given in memory of Captain JSM Fraser, HEICS, they were cast by Taylor of Loughborough. After installation it was discovered that the foundation of the tower would not stand the strain of ringing. The bells were then permanently fixed, their clappers tied, and they were struck with hammers instead, so that they still ‘chimed.’”
“That’s lovely,” said Maris. “Now, can we get on with it?”
“In a minute,” said Dinah. “There’s more: ‘The small graveyard that lies adjacent to the chapel was originally a walled garden intended for meditation and prayer. But as cemeteries in Singapore began to close in the latter part of the nineteenth century due to the shortage of land, the Bishop of Singapore decreed in 1910 that the remains of church members and clergy could be buried on consecrated ground within the meditation garden. This practice continued until 1942 when the cathedral was used as an emergency hospital before the fall of Singapore.’
“So chances are good that they’re both here,” said Dinah. “Let’s have a look.”
The cemetery was still well maintained, even though it had effectively been closed for more than six decades. Many of the stones, however, had not held up well to time and climate. As they wandered among the graves looking for Francis and Annabelle, Maris and Dinah stopped to read a few of the gravestones.
“Some of them are so sad,” said Dinah. “Look at this one. ‘Here Lies
Amy McCall, Age 19, Dearest Wife and Mother, With Her Beloved Infant Daughter, Mary, Age 3 Months. In Heaven with the Angels.’”
“Over here,” said Maris, pointing to a granite headstone. “Three little boys, brothers, age three, five, and six. How dreadful.”
Very few of the stones marked the graves of elderly people. Most were children or adults between twenty and forty-five years old. Many were “Beloved,” “Cherished,” or “Precious.”
Maris was two rows away reading the headstone of a “Dearly Loved Daughter Taken Too Soon” when she heard Dinah say, “I found them.” Maris turned and walked over to join her. They looked at the two stone markers set side by side:
Francis Adolphus Stone
1890–1924
Beloved Husband of Annabelle
and
Annabelle Sweet Stone
Dearly Loved Wife & Mother
1900–1931
She Died of a Broken Heart
Chapter Thirty-Eight
A few days after their visit to the cemetery, Maris made her decision about Peter’s letter. She would show it to the police. She realized that Peter would not have left the letter for her if he didn’t intend her to do something about it. And if his discovery of the animal parts had led to his death, she owed it to him to get to the bottom of it. She decided she would not tell Dinah — and she certainly would not tell Angela — that she was going to the police. The time for debate had passed. She had made up her mind.
She left the gallery early, telling Dinah she was going to the dentist. She didn’t feel good about lying, but decided she would come clean later and tell Dinah the truth after she had spoken to the police. She took the 197 bus to Neil Road and then walked to New Bridge Road where the Criminal Investigation Department was located. She asked to see a senior officer in the major crimes division. She wasn’t going to tell her story to five different people as she ascended the hierarchy. The police officer at the information desk had to be persuaded that she was reporting a serious crime. It wouldn’t have been worth his job to send her upstairs with a nuisance complaint. Maris refused to budge and he finally phoned someone who instructed him to send her up. An irate foreign lady could make a lot of noise if she wanted to.
