‘My passenger lists? Hmm, I can’t say for certain.’ Again he wiped his brow, the distinctly musty smell of unwashed man wafted towards Price and Greene, the younger man furtively bringing his own handkerchief up to his nose. ‘Come sit in my office, while I enquire after these lists. The past week, you say? That may be hard ... hmm, yes tricky. Come sit down, and I’ll see what I can muster up. Busy port this ... yes ... hmm, very busy. Our paperwork, while accurate – yes it’s always accurate – is not always filed right away ... too many arrivals, very little staff ... you understand, yes?’
Price would have preferred to have taken the passenger lists away to examine them in a more congenial environment; a sideways glance at his young colleague confirmed those were his thoughts also. The lad had stationed himself in the chair closest to the door, the furthest away from the lopsided chair the customs officer clearly favoured, spread as it was with a sheepskin rug of dubious colouring and cleanliness.
The spring heat was already seeping through the wooden walls of the newly constructed Customhouse; Price could only imagine the stifling temperature inside the building come the summer months, and what that temperature would do to a man like Mervyn Kendall, Collector of Customs.
An interminable amount of time passed. The two men watched bulbous flies gorging themselves on the remains of a hare pie left half-eaten on the desk – quite obviously the morning tea they had interrupted – the gelatinous chunks of meat entirely unappetising in the warming room.
A great hoicking sound from the corridor startled them. Their stomachs turned even more when Kendall entered the room wiping a glistening glob of phlegm from his mouth. His only redeeming feature was the buff folder clenched under one arm. ‘I had to harry the clerks to find this ... completely overworked down here, yes ... you might mention that when you report back the assistance you received here, hmm, yes? Takes time to gather this sort of information. Time where I should be doing the Queen’s work here, yes?’
Price was taken aback when Greene jumped up to respond, ‘We are most appreciative of your help, sir, I’ll make sure I mention it fully in my report. Anyone just has to look out the window to see how busy this port is. It’s a travesty that you are so understaffed.’ By now Kendall was nodding so hard, and sweating so profusely in agreement that Price feared his head would snap off. ‘It’s probably best if we take these off site, to stay out of your way. We’ll have them back to you by teatime tomorrow. I should imagine that suits?’ Barely giving the public servant any time to agree or otherwise, Greene grabbed his hat, and that of Price, and led the way out of the Customhouse.
‘That was some fine work back there, lad. Who taught you to be such a statesman?’ Price proudly slapped his young colleague congenially on the back. Greene beamed from ear to ear, his face flushing with delight – his standard reaction to both embarrassment and joy.
‘Well, sir, when your voice sounds like mine, and God didn’t see fit to bestow muscles of any note, you learn pretty darn quick how to talk yourself out of situations which might have resulted in a beating. I’ve always been a good talker. Just haven’t had much of an opportunity to show anyone yet.’
Price lapsed into his customary silence as he pondered Greene’s words. Whilst true not all men were created equal, a true man learned to use what he was given to make himself equal to those around him. ‘Can you recommend a good hotel where we can go over these lists? Somewhere not serving hare pie, I think.’
Greene looked at Price, before recognising the older man had made a joke and was chuckling silently. Greene joined in, both still smiling as they entered the Surveyor’s Arms, Port Chalmers’ first public house.
Taking a table under one of the windows, and taking a gamble, Greene ordered two Phoenix ales, an amber beer from the brewery newly established in Reefton which was proving to be a hit with the miners flocking to find their fortunes. Ale was a welcome change from the fortified sherry and ruby port his parents had consumed in vast quantities.
‘Can you read, Greene?’ Price asked, bowing his head over the first passenger list.
‘Yes, sir, I went right through, with the Church. My brothers all went farming, but it was decided that perhaps I would be suited to something more ... well, more office-based. I expect my parents assumed I’d join the Church, but that wasn’t for me. This suits me.’
‘Good,’ Price handed half the papers to him, ‘Run your eyes over these lists.’
‘What am I looking for?’
Price closed his eyes. Of course, he hadn’t given Sarah’s name to the men in the station, only Sinclair’s. His emotions were causing foolish mistakes. ‘Bryce Sinclair, and Sarah Bell. That’s her married name, so also check for Sarah Lester, I think that’s her maiden name. Sinclair had a son, Samuel, so, on the off chance, look for that name too. He’s still in Bruce Bay, but the father may be using his name.’
Turning of pages and the sipping of ale were the only communication at their table. Around them, the busy bar filled and emptied several times over as the day progressed. Occasionally, one or other would start to say they’d found something, then shake their heads, and lapse back into silence. The handwritten records proved as hard to read as they’d been for Merv Kendall to find; the penmanship of the clerks varied widely. Until, finally, Price closed his last folder, ‘Nothing.’ Greene scanned his last page, and shook his head in response.
‘There’s the Cobb & Co. coaches they could have taken? We could try there next.’
‘No, I questioned some of their drivers on my way here. None of them had seen anyone matching their descriptions. They use the same drivers all the time, and I trust their answers. No, we’ll have to look elsewhere. He had his own boat, but left it in Bruce Bay, so perhaps he had a collaborator somewhere on the waterfront, someone who would have let him and Mrs Bell board without any paperwork changing hands. We’ll take these papers back tomorrow and question some of the other workers at the port. We may as well try Dunedin port as well – they could have transferred to a larger vessel from one of the small ones operating out of there. This could be a devil of a job. Anyway, let’s go, I need to freshen up for dinner – Mrs Stewart expects a certain level of decorum in her establishment. Never cross a Scots woman, Greene – let that be a piece of advice to you.’
The ride back to Dunedin was quiet, the roads emptying as people hurried home in time for dinner. The coach stopped to deliver Greene back to the police station. As he was disembarking, Greene’s next words stopped Price’s heart.
‘We could always go and speak to Mrs Lester at the Manse tomorrow, after we’ve been to the port. She could be some relation to your Mrs Bell, and may have had word from her.’
THE REVENGE
The Jowl brothers kept to themselves in the weeks after the altercation in the street. Jimmy never ventured any further than church and, even then, he kept his hat down low there and back, slipping into one of the rear pews with Joe at the very last minute. It was time to concentrate on business. There were to be no female interludes, no harassing of the natives, no fighting. Just distilling and bottling.
Joe Jowl spent an inordinate amount of time in the public bar he and his brother owned, the Shakespeare Tavern. Fortunately for him, habitual drinkers neither knew nor cared about a minor kerfuffle on a public road between their publican, a girl and a native. It was standard fare in a settlement such as this. The churchgoers and English matrons judged him. He could feel their condemnation oozing from every frigid cavity – but they weren’t his customers, so damn them all to hell.
While, behind his wooden counter, polishing cloth in hand, Joe exercised his mouth, carefully questioning all and sundry about the girl and, by extension, the native. Everyone loves talking, and those in their cups more so than others. The girl was proving to be an enigma. Some fancied they’d heard she’d disappeared. Others claimed she’d run off with the native, whose name was variously given as Tau, then Sammy, Winston or Pita. But the name Wiremu was given more than others, leaving Joe
certain that it was a Wiremu he would be hunting down. The issue of the girl he shelved until she surfaced. She would. It was a small country.
He carried on serving his regulars, who travelled miles for his gin; a reminder that the girl still owed him for those bottles. Meantime he’d begun experimenting with brewing beer. Hard liquor was a good seller, but as more British settled in Auckland, demand for a palatable beer had grown. Jimmy was growing the raw ingredients he required – that was about all he could trust his brother to do, so it was up to him to brew an ale worth selling. The bottles he’d ordered were expensive, although he needed them to advertise his wares to other taverns, which were growing like mushrooms in the township. Only in the April, The New Zealander listed fifty-one applications for a publican’s license. Fifty-one in a population of only twelve thousand persons. Or persons that mattered. English, Scots, the Irish. A smattering of Germans and Dutch made up the balance. Of the natives, they mattered not one bit. They didn’t have any coin to buy his grog. If he had his way, they’d all be sold off as slaves.
Two customers were having a heated discussion at the bar. Joe moved closer, ready to defuse any violence before it erupted. Glass was hard to replace, and he wasn’t having any man wreck his place. Those that tried always regretted it in the end.
‘I tell you, the flour was writhing with weevils. The Maori said it wasn’t his flour, that I’d mistaken it for someone else’s. Can you believe it? He questioned whether I knew where my own flour came from?’
‘How’re you meant to make bread with flour filled with vermin? No one’s going to buy that filth.’
‘Filth – that’s what it was. To think I was trying to give a local boy a go. Last time I raise a finger to help one of them lot.’
‘The boys should just shoot the lot of them, specially the ones who think they can do an Englishman’s job. Trying to be a miller. As if he knows anything about it. They didn’t even have wheels before we got here.’
‘I heard they eat their captives. Perhaps that’s what your miller’s been adding to his flour.’
The other man turned apoplectic, ‘What are you saying? You saying my bread tastes like it’s made from dead darkies? You better shut your mouth, or I’ll fucken shut it for you.’
‘Now, now, gentlemen, I could pour you another drink, but I think, Steven, your wife will be wanting you home for tea now, or you’ll be feeding those weevils.’ The men laughed, the sting taken out of the situation. Steven swilled the dregs of his ale, and shrugged on his jacket, its overly patched elbows evidence of where his money wasn’t spent, his florid complexion evidence of where it was.
‘Steven, just before you head off to that fine woman of yours, what’s the name of that miller you were talking about? Need to make sure my flour isn’t coming from his mill.’
‘You wanna steer clear of Wiremu Kepa then. Don’t think he supplies that many bakers – won’t be supplying many more after I spread the word.’
‘Wiremu, eh. I think I know who you mean. Good, he’s not my supplier. You head off now, or you’ll be in the dog box with those hounds of yours.’
Joe carried on cleaning glasses, pouring drinks, and eavesdropping on the conversations that flowed around the bar. He was constantly surprised at the truths he overheard; stories of adultery, theft, abuse, and worse. This was why his life mantra was family business is for behind family doors. And now he knew which door Wiremu Kepa was behind.
THE DINNER
Hastily dressed by silent servants – servants on whose backs the Empire was built – Sarah and Patricia were summoned to dinner. The girls looked at each other, both nervous in their own right. Patricia’s fears were somewhat tempered by the excitement of having been given the most divine outfit of blue and cream panelled silk, with a cunning floral motive spun into it. Ruched lace at the sleeves, and applied in a ‘V’ shape on the bodice, made it a stunningly surreal costume, one she’d have dreams about for the rest of her life.
In contrast, Sarah was wearing blood-red silk, cinched at the waist with a simple sash from the same fabric. A thin line of lace at her demure neckline, and at the short puffed sleeves, completed the outfit.
‘You ready to leave the trenches? Once more unto the breach, dear friend?’ Sarah jested, the fear in her eyes at odds with the forced joviality in her voice.
‘What on earth could go wrong? This will be like acting in an episode of Downton Abbey. Tell you what, you pretend to be the Dowager Countess, and be dire and morbid the whole night, and I’ll play the part of Lady Sybil, all sweetness and light. We’ve got our story straight, your father’s hardly likely to come out and say, “Oh, by the way, these two girls are from the future, and that one’s my daughter,” now is he? For God’s sake, cheer up. It’s not the end of the world, Sarah. Stop being so miserable.’
Having lost all patience with her friend, Patricia walked out of the bedroom Sarah had been allocated, eager to get on with her own grand adventure.
Sarah followed slowly behind, stung by her friend’s words. Am I really dour and miserable? Is that how everyone sees me? Thoughts tumbled over themselves as she rationalised her behaviour. She was acting like a bubblehead. Any other person in her predicament would grab it with both hands and run, singing the Mary Poppins soundtrack while doing so. What do I want? That was the first question she needed to answer. The only question she needed to answer. From there, everything else could be worked out, planned for, and followed through. Still questioning herself, she followed Patricia into the dining room, barely aware of her surroundings.
The room was dominated by the longest dining table either of them had seen outside of Windsor Castle. Surrounded by forty-two chairs, and covered with a snow-white linen tablecloth. Patricia whispered something about the difficulties you’d have fitting it into a washing machine, before they were separated and shown to their respective seats.
The floor of the dining room was covered in a floral carpet, which mirrored the foliage just visible through the windows in the fierce yellows and blush pinks of the setting sun. Arabian fretwork and heraldic shields in the European style jostled for space on the walls, the mixture of heritage oddly working well. One wall was taken up with decorative shelving displaying the most glorious pieces of silver tableware and giant porcelain chargers. Serving dishes were laid out ready for service. The staff, as numerous as the guests, stood patiently behind the chairs as everyone waited for the entrance of the Viceroy and his wife. Here was all the pomp and circumstance expected when dining with the Queen’s representative, His Excellency, the Viceroy of India.
The formalities of the Viceroy’s arrival completed, the dinner service commenced. The bill of fare announced eight courses. All along the table were ladies, young and old, preparing themselves for a feast of which they could partake only sparingly; for their dresses did not allow them to eat to the point of fullness. Sparrow-like, they must peck and scrape at the fine offerings. Hors d’oeuvres were served first; a platter of Devils on horseback made its way down the table, pink pork strips wrapped around dark sweet prunes, a delicacy which was devised and adored by the Victorians – and would be revived fondly at seventies parties. Trays of pork tartlets made with saffron and currants further affirmed the table as one of wealth, already self-evident from the silver serving dishes, the cutlery, and the sheer majesty of the room.
Sarah ran her eye down the menu, her schoolgirl French stumbling over the third course – Cailles aux pommes de terre à l’Indienne. She’d have to wait until it was served before figuring out what on earth Indian ‘cailles’ were.
A creamy tomato soup came next, served in delicate Royal Crown Derby footed Imari soup bowls, the luscious reds and blues made even richer in the flickering candlelight, reflected by hundreds of crystals hanging from the lustre vases adorning the table.
During the soup course, Sarah’s companion on her right finally acknowledged her. ‘Miss Williams, I trust you are now fully recovered from the unfortunate death of your brother. No mournin
g dress for you?’ Major Brooke looked almost concerned as he enquired after her grief.
Sarah laid her soup spoon gently on the Imari saucer, ‘Thank you for your concern, Major Brooke, but, to be honest, I didn’t feel the need to mourn my brother. His behaviour towards me was horrific. I certainly applaud whomever it was that did away with him.’
Stunned into silence at Sarah’s frank opinion, Major Brooke attacked his soup. Her honesty stole all power of speech from him. It had been no secret in Simla that Simeon Williams had hit his sister, and his wife before that. Curious, he chanced another look at the woman sitting next to him. Could she have killed her brother? Leaning back in his chair he pondered the question. He’d seen Simeon’s body; it was a violent death he’d suffered. No woman of Sarah’s stature could have managed that. A knife was a man’s weapon. Women, in his experience, preferred poison or something more subtle. He’d known of several husbands who’d ‘accidentally’ fallen from one of the many lookouts in the Indian hill country. No, he decided, she isn’t a murderer. She wasn’t transparent in her dealings with him, nor with those around her, he was certain of that, but quite why she was back in India he knew not. He’d noted the curious glances Mrs Abbott had been casting Sarah’s way all evening.
The two women had only just missed each other, given how late Sarah had left coming downstairs. Mrs Abbott was almost rabid with impatience that she hadn’t had the chance to quiz Sarah about her return to Simla. She was still ‘miffed’ about the unanswered letters she’d sent while Sarah was ‘recovering’ in Delhi. Unusually for Naomi Abbott, she’d not shared her suspicions about Sarah’s pregnancy with anyone, and was frustrated that she had no view of Sarah’s post-birth waistline – if indeed she had been pregnant when she’d left Simla.
The Last Letter Page 23
