The Last Letter

by Kirsten McKenzie

  Sitting back on her heels, Trish answered, ‘I met him at a martial arts course I started after that thing at Christie’s. Oh shite, I completely forgot – you won’t know anything about that!’

  ‘The auction of the katar? Of course. Tell me everything. How much did it go for? And the candelabra? And the sampler? That all slipped my mind. I’m such an idiot. No wonder you could afford to hire an assistant. Wait, they did sell, right? This girl you’ve got working in my shop ... I have enough money to pay her, right?’

  Trish looked at Sarah oddly, ‘You’re worried about how much money you made, after everything that happened there?’

  ‘Look Trish, I don’t know how long I’ve been gone. Obviously it was long enough for you to go ahead and employ someone to run my shop for me, but I’m also not a mind-reader, so you’re going to have to fill me in. I asked you to do that earlier today, and you threw me out of your shop. Now I’m here, helping you set up for your show, so the least you could do is tell me exactly what happened while I was away, and then I can fill you in. How does that sound?’

  ‘Fine. Help me lay out these glasses over here, and I’ll fill you in. It was a nightmare you disappearing like that, but that was nothing compared to when they auctioned that knife of yours. Do you remember that weirdo, Richard Grey? Well, during the auction it turns out he had the matching knife to yours. He had it at the auction, and started yelling all sorts of things about how it was his, and then ...’ Patricia choked up, ‘... and then he stabbed the poor guy who was holding yours.’

  Sarah paled. The mention of the second katar. How had she not connected Grey with Lord Grey, and the pair of katar she’d seen in the study? Of course –the second one must have still existed after she’d taken its mate. ‘He stabbed him?’

  ‘He didn’t just stab him. I was sitting down the back with Andrew, but even we could see the poor man’s stomach, all over the stage. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it for the rest of my life.’

  ‘Oh Trish, I’m so sorry. Did he die? What happened to Grey after that?’

  ‘They say the clerk was dead before he even hit the ground. Grey was arrested, of course, but he has some massively important legal team, so he’s out on bail waiting for his trial. Gives me the shivers knowing I could run into him at any time. Anyway, that’s what happened. So your knife still hasn’t been auctioned, ’cos it’s part of the case against Grey. I think Christie’s is washing their hands of the whole thing. Especially with you missing – you haven’t been here to be questioned as to how you had it to sell in the first place. It’s all a complete debacle. The candelabra sold, and the sampler, so, yes, there is enough money to keep your business going. But Nicole’s done wonders – even without that money, the shop would be doing well. Enough about your finances, we need to look after mine now and get on with this lot. If you’ve finished with the glasses, give me a hand with unwrapping this, I want to put it right up the front here.’

  Without thinking, Sarah grabbed one end of the brown paper covering the long cylindrical parcel and helped Trish carry it to the front of the room. Just as they were lowering it to the ground, the paper ripped, and the rolled-up skin tumbled to the ground, both girls grabbing for it at once. Both girls. As one, grabbing hold of the tiger skin – a skin which had last seen the light of day in an old home in Salisbury, owned and loved by Elizabeth Williams.

  And Ravi, who’d been switching from watching the girls unpacking to playing an absorbing game of Candy Crush on his phone, couldn’t see them on his monitor the next time he looked up. He couldn’t afford to lose this job. Patricia had promised him they’d stick to setting up in that one room; that there’d be no wandering around the rest of the museum. Unbelievable.

  After making a note in the log that he’d lost sight of them, he pushed his chair back, grabbed his keys, and set off to find them, angry retorts swirling around in his head. She’d promised him. This was exactly what happened when you did favours for friends.

  THE MAJOR

  The hail lashed everything in its path, both natural and man-made. Blossoms were stripped from fruit trees, and the mercury plummeted. With visibility reduced to zero, the soldiers hunkered down, miserable on the edge of the road. The ridge was deserted, only the foolish would venture out in this weather. Brutal winds accompanied the hail, damaging more than a dozen villages, and the equivalent number of British soldiers caught unawares outside.

  Major Warren Brooke huddled against the trunk of a baobab tree, having decided that being hit by lightning was less of a risk than death by hail.

  His men were miserable, he was miserable, and the weather served to focus his mind on all that was wrong in his life. Not only was he wet and cold, but he was homesick and lonely too. He’d been in India for years, but now the sudden the pull of England had made itself quite clear. And the catalyst was obvious – a woman.

  It was not as if there weren’t any females to keep him company in India – far from it – but most of them had one goal in mind whenever he spoke to them – marriage. Every time he breathed near a single lady, Simla ran rife with the news he was engaged to be married. Which was why, on most occasions, he preferred being with his men. The likelihood of being shot was preferable to marrying any of the lacklustre social climbers surrounding him. That was how he found himself sheltering under a tree amidst the worst hailstorm in India’s history, imagining he could see the only woman who’d ever fascinated him – Sarah Williams, who’d been bundled out of Simla faster than this hail was hitting the ground.

  The chatter round the troops was about the body they’d stumbled across the day before. It had once been a man, an Indian. His torso had been sliced open, to look much like an overripe peach, burst after dropping from its branch to the ground. India’s eclectic, and overly abundant, assortment of scavengers and insects had done their best to clean up the corpse, rendering it unidentifiable. Captain Doulton and Brooke had been quietly discussing the comparison with Simeon Williams’ body. The wound, though well cleaned by tooth and mandible, appeared identical in length and positioning. Identical enough that both men felt discomfited by the similarities, as if the two men had been killed by the same person. And the identity of that person was still unknown.

  An indistinct shape materialised in the gloom, arms held ineffectually above their head, providing no protection whatsoever from the brutal chunks of ice whipped against them by the howling winds.

  Catching sight of the person, the men broke off their quiet discussion, the dead body a topic for another day. ‘Look at that idiot,’ muttered Doulton.

  Brooke shielded his eyes, peering out, ‘Hell, James, that looks like a woman.’ Brooke charged out into the weather, drenched within seconds. He felt a thousand ice daggers try to pierce his skin. It was only his uniform which saved him from real damage. A uniform usually so unsuited to the Indian climate as to be a continual source of complaint by the men.

  He shepherded the woman under the meagre protection of the tree. Doulton, uncharacteristically chivalrous, abandoned his dry position under a particularly leafy canopy to make room.

  There in the half light, the unmistakable face of Sarah Williams was revealed, forcing the men into a stunned silence.

  ‘Miss Williams?’

  Sarah looked up into the incredulous face of Major Brooke, noting at once the pain in his eyes – pain not caused by the hail.

  Shaking the fuzziness from her head, and a residual headache, she managed to nod, before leaning against the tree for support.

  ‘What in heaven’s name are you doing here, out in this weather? We were told you’d gone back to England.’

  Sarah struggled to work out the timelines of her varied lives. The logistics of travel in the mid-nineteenth century was something of which she had no grasp. If she had gone back to England from Simla, how long would that have taken? And then to come back again? Major Brooke was an intelligent man, would he believe her if she fudged the truth? She was saved from answering by the most unlikely sour
ce – Patricia.

  With the men focused on Sarah, they’d failed to notice a second woman walking the same path as Sarah, a dozen paces behind, hidden by the squall, although this one was half stumbling, crying out in the wind, her voice lost to the mountains around her. Another soldier had ducked out into the weather and, scooping her up like a groom on his wedding night, carried her back under the tree.

  Out of the apocalyptic weather, it took Patricia mere moments to grasp the situation. Growing up, her parents had always referred to her as a ‘smart penny’. Her good humour remained alight, regardless of the weather, and her first comment took them all by surprise. ‘You promised me the weather was better here, Sarah,’ which lifted the mood all round. The biggest problem was not finding enough soldiers to go to India – it was getting them to return to England, and to the universally acknowledged dire weather.

  ‘I can’t begin to imagine what you’re doing this far out of Simla, Miss Williams, but, given how wet you both are ...’ He raised his eyebrows as he took in the fabric clinging to each woman’s body, before averting his eyes to somewhere over Sarah’s shoulder.

  ‘Thank you, Major, somewhere out of this rain and dry clothes would be lovely. We seem to have been caught somewhat unprepared, as you can tell.’

  ‘We weren’t anticipating being caught in this freakish weather either, Miss Williams, and, as far as I’m aware, there’s no shelter close by. We’re out on a patrol, so there’s very little hospitality I can offer other than this tree, and a share in our rations once young Lawrence over there has started a fire.’

  With the bedraggled appearance of the women causing much excitement among the patrol, the men had been directed to start a fire for tea, and to erect whatever shelter they could muster from their packs to give them something to occupy their time. They weren’t equipped for more than one or two nights away from headquarters, so rations and comforts were few. However, like most young soldiers of the time, they took it upon themselves to rally to the comfort of the gentler sex.

  ‘Are you going to introduce us, Sarah?’ Patricia asked benignly, the reality of the situation sinking in.

  ‘Yes of course, sorry. This is Major Warren Brooke, and Captain James Doulton. And these are, what would you call them, your men? Your platoon?’ she asked Brooke.

  ‘My men will suffice,’ Brooke answered, returning to his reticent self, his shock at finding Miss Williams pushed away to be dwelt on later, the only sign of his unease, a subconscious turning of a copper bangle around his wrist.

  Captain Doulton interrupted the uneasy silence, ‘The lads have made you some tea – best get that into you. Once Mrs Abbott finds out that you’re back, she’ll have me court-marshalled if she finds out that we didn’t look out for you.’

  Breaking the tension between Sarah and Brooke, the two officers ushered the women from the meagre protection of the tree, to a canopy rigged up by the men, where a billy was boiling merrily away on a small fire. White enamel mugs were thrust into the women’s hands filled with fragrant tea, sloshing over a little as Doulton lobbed two sugar cubes into each mug, and then his own.

  ‘No milk?’ Trish asked, a smile dancing on her face.

  If the men had noticed the streaks of mascara running down her face from the rain, they didn’t say. A smile renders even the plainest person into a beauty, and her smile lit up the makeshift camp. Before long, Patricia was being quizzed about her accent, making them all guess her origins. Brooke sat back on his hunting stool, quietly sipping his tea, his eyes never once leaving Sarah. If she were aware of his gaze, she gave no sign, bar catching his eye once or twice. Sarah put his staring down to the memory of what had happened to Simeon the last time she’d been in Simla. That memory made her shiver – although, in reality, he’d been no relative – no man deserved to be murdered. Almost no man, she corrected herself.

  With Patricia burbling on about having never visited India before and asking everyone to regale her with the best places to visit, and to avoid, Sarah was spared the anxiety of further questioning about how she’d come to be on that road, when, to all intents and purposes, she was supposedly travelling back to England – which was news to her. The last thing she remembered was picking up the photo frame lying at the feet of her dead ‘brother’. From there, time had whisked her back to the present day, and she knew nothing of the real Sarah Williams’ descent into depression brought on by complete and absolute memory loss.

  It was all well and good sitting under a canopy sipping tea, but to know that her father was so close, and not be instantly on the road to be with him, made it difficult to swallow her drink. Chancing it as a question of no importance, she asked Brooke about her father, ‘Major Brooke, a small question ... is Albert Lester still at the Viceroy’s lodge?’

  Brooke’s long silence scared her. What if her father had moved on? She’d found him by luck once, and she’d never imagined a second chance. To her relief, Brooke answered, ‘Yes, he’s still advising the Viceroy. I had no idea the two of you were acquainted?’

  ‘It was the night of the troubles, when ...’

  The memory of Christopher Dickens’ death stopped her from continuing.

  Brooke noted the catch in her voice, and didn’t ask any further. Leaving her to her thoughts, he conferred quietly with Doulton, ‘Can you send two of the quickest men back to town? At least they could get a carriage dispatched tonight. By the time they get back here, it will be the early hours of the morning.’

  ‘I’d counsel against it, in this weather? Foolhardy at best. What if there’s another hailstorm? With this drop in the temperature, we’re better setting up a proper camp till the morning. I can escort them back with a couple of other men, and we can return for the rest of you before night falls again, depending on the weather, of course.’

  ‘I’d rather they didn’t walk back. Surely there are at least two competent and fit men who can double back to Simla?’

  ‘In this weather, Brooke? That’s madness, man. You can hardly see your own hand in front of your face, and none of them are dressed in winter kit. With all due respect, let’s dig in here, and we can set off at daybreak. These storms never last long, but the sun is already setting, the little of it you can see behind the storm clouds, and the temperature is already plummeting.’

  The two men reached an impasse. Stepping into the weather momentarily, Brooke ducked back under the canopy, shaking the rain from his hair, the moisture making it curl up at the ends. His decision made, he only had to nod at Captain Doulton for his instructions to be made clear to the other officer. Doulton wasted no time in directing the men to make a temporary camp for the night. Years of training kicked in, each man knowing their role as if by some telepathic communication.

  Jackets appeared, and were draped around the women’s shoulders, instantly providing an additional level of warmth. Slowly their shivering diminished. Huddling into each other, they found themselves alone for the first time since they were in the Foundling Museum, blithely unwrapping the stiff tiger skin rug. It finally clicked into place for Sarah – the skin was from the tiger which had attacked the Raja of Nahan, the very same one she’d shot with Christopher’s rifle.

  ‘Do you believe me now?’ she asked Patricia.

  ‘More than you can imagine,’ Patricia replied, her teeth still chattering.

  ‘I didn’t know that this was going to happen. It’s as much of a shock to me as it is to you,’ Sarah offered.

  ‘It is a shock, I’ll give you that. I’ve always wanted to be pelted with hailstones the size of golf balls,’ Patricia quipped, a smile still plastered on her face, despite being wet, cold and hungry. ‘Do you think these boys have any food we can eat?’

  ‘Undoubtedly. They say an army marches on its stomach, don’t they?’ Both women laughed aloud at the absurdity of their conversation – and their situation.

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We try and find my father as soon as we get to Simla,’ Sarah said.

 
; ‘Can’t we go to your house first, get tidied up?’ Patricia asked, her mind already wandering to the luxurious taffetas and silks she imagined were hanging in the wardrobe of Sarah’s doppelgänger.

  Sarah pondered the question, her forehead furrowing as she thought through the possible ramifications of her leaving Simla after Simeon’s death. ‘I don’t think that any of my things would still be there. I have some vague memory of hearing that most of the houses the officers lived in were rented from the locals – well, not the ordinary locals, but the local nobility – like the Raja of Nahan for instance. I think he owned a few of them, and rented them to the East India Company. But I’m not entirely sure, to be honest.’

  ‘Shall we just ask then?’

  ‘No, that would make me look like an idiot! Surely I’d know whether my belongings were still in India or if they’d been sent back to England. It’s best if we just try and find my father as soon as we can, and hopefully he’ll have some idea of how to get us home. For all I know, he may have even found my mother.’

  THE LORD

  ‘Mother, if that’s the woman you’ll have me marry, then that is what I shall do.’ Edward Grey, the young Lord Edward Grey, took his mother’s feathery white hand in his, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  Lady Laura Grey smiled at her son, her lavender scent stronger here in her bedroom, where, over a lifetime, it had been absorbed into the furnishings, making each of them a little part of her. ‘Thank you, Edward, it is such a good match. Marriage wasn’t made for happiness, it was made for convenience and profit. And in this case, both sides profit. They gain our name, and you acquire her money.’