‘I know what you’re thinking, Major Brooke,’ Sarah interposed.
Brooke almost choked on his mouthful of soup. ‘I beg your pardon, madam? I think not.’
Sarah lowered her voice, ‘You’re wondering if I killed Simeon. I can see it in your eyes. You’d make a useless poker player, Major.’ She leant back into her seat to make way for her soup bowl to be cleared – to make room for the unfathomable Cailles aux pommes de terre à l’Indienne.
The conversation around the rest of the table was the self-righteous talk of the preservation of peace in India; the difficulties with servants – all said within earshot of some of those selfsame servants – and how to better deliver the proper British way of life to the people of India, regardless of whether they wanted it or not. Sarah part-listened to their conversations, murmuring appreciatively to comments made by her companion on her left, a district administrator invited to dine as a favour for his work enticing English coffee growers to his district, while she chased the quail around her plate.
‘You perturb me, Miss Williams,’ Major Brooke broke his silence, her social simpering galling him. To him, she was playing a part to which she was ill-suited. How different she seemed from the other ladies at the table, their conversations as flippant as their dresses, all lace and froth, no substance.
Sarah gave up on her quail and potatoes. Aligning her cutlery perfectly on the plate, she turned to face Brooke, ‘I’m not perturbing, Major. As we discussed, I am merely a woman and of no consequence.’ She challenged him with her eyes to query her further. The service of the next course delayed his answer. Salmon with a shortcrust pastry; herb sauce oozing out between layers of salmon, pooling on the plate, flavouring the peas served with it.
Brooke stabbed his pie violently. No other woman vexed him as much as this one. He didn’t understand her, yet he couldn’t thrust her from his mind. He devoured mouthfuls of pie, the currants tart on his tongue – each mouthful bringing him closer to uttering some other inanity towards Miss Williams.
Naomi Abbott wasn’t the only one confused, looking at Sarah. Albert Lester, despite being seated close to the Viceroy, shot glances down the mile-long table with great regularity, causing his neighbours on both sides also to look in the same direction, trying to guess who was captivating their dining companion. He could almost predict the conversations those ladies would be having after dinner. This was not the future he wanted for his daughter. He didn’t want her stymied by the Victorian way of life: the gossip; the social constraints; and the Christian judgement. Why can’t she understand that?
Chicken with watercress, artichokes stuffed with sage and onion quickly followed, along with asparagus in sauce. Sarah waved that away, turning up her nose with a small murmur of disgust. At the far end of the table, Albert Lester laughed, completely out of synch with a story with which he was being regaled, about the dire state of the road leading out of Simla. Sarah had never liked asparagus; it was a long-running family joke. Suddenly he was hit by an overwhelming sense of loss. He’d made his decision and this was his life now. He’d come to terms with it, and he’d resigned himself to the grief he’d felt, before Sarah had returned to his life. But ... but during moments like these, all he wanted to do was hold her hand, and tell her stories again, like when she was six years old, and her whole life was still ahead of her.
‘Asparagus not to your liking then?’ Brooke observed, mentally kicking himself for such a frivolous observation. What must this woman think of me? For, now, he was viewing her as a woman. The silks and laces disguised the certainty that this woman was a diamond; her facets yet to be exposed to the light, her elusive nature as much of an attraction as her blunt answers. So he took a gamble. ‘Perhaps I could call upon you and we could take a walk together?’
Sarah coughed, covering her shock. ‘Are you asking me out on a date, Major?’
‘The date? Sorry, tomorrow, Friday the tenth.’
Sarah laughed, the context of her question lost on this man. She’d had more advances in India than she’d had her entire life, and that amused her. Where were all these dashing men in the modern world? Or had all charm and charisma been bred out of the modern man by a diet of reality TV and sub par American sitcoms? She took a bite of Le pudding ā la diplomate; candied fruit cloyingly sweet with custard; essentially a trifle, something her mother would have served at Christmas in her best Webb Corbett crystal bowl.
Sudden clarity hit her. Thoughts of her mother cleared her head. If this life was good enough for her father, then let him live it. Although every girl needed her father, she knew where he was, and he seemed happy. As much as she needed him, she also needed her mother. What is life without a mother in it? Wiping her mouth decorously with the napkin, she returned it to her lap, finally meeting the dark eyes of Major Brooke, ‘Absolutely, but may I suggest we walk past my old house – there are some items that were never sent back to England, and I’d like to find out where they might be. Perhaps after dinner tonight?’
Brooke nodded, his world erupting into one of opportunity.
THE INVESTIGATION
Inspector Fujimoto pressed the rewind button on the digital player and watched the footage again, ‘So you’re telling me no one has tampered with this footage – that this is exactly what happened? They just disappeared?’
The IT technician replied enthusiastically, ‘That’s exactly right. There’s no evidence of anyone tampering with these files. The guard’s notation in the security log about losing sight of them is out by a couple of minutes, but it still gives us a good frame of reference for his time of death, and their disappearance.’
Fujimoto looked on incredulously. ‘You can’t be serious? When we take this to court, or to a judge to ask for a search warrant, or whatever, am I to say, under oath, “Your Honour, the women just disappeared”? I can tell you now, that’s the last thing I’ll say. Take these files and run them again. I’m not an idiot, so don’t try and play me for one. Those women didn’t just vanish, any more than the guard shot himself in the back of the head.’ Tapping the screen where the shadow of a person could be seen at the edge of the frame where the body was found. ‘And this image, work on that. Get me something I can use.’
The technicians hurried off, back to their computers and their coffees, to deliver the impossible once again.
Inspector Victor Fujimoto raked his slender fingers through his thinning hair. This case would be the end of him. Two missing women, one murdered night guard, and no suspects. What made it even more perplexing was that nothing had been stolen; nothing the Foundling Museum had been able to identify, anyway. There was barely anything of value in the museum – the tokens left by distraught mothers were mostly worthless trinkets, not worth any burglar’s time, and certainly not worth murdering over. No, it must have had something to do with the two women. His thoughts were interrupted by his cellphone ringing, ‘Fujimoto here ... yes, that’s my case ... how can I help? ... yes, we think we’ve identified one of the women ... yes, Patricia Bolton ... it’s possible the other woman is a worker from ... hang on while I just check ... ah, The Old Curiosity Shop ... no, no I didn’t know that, thank you ... yes, yes I’ll let you know. I have the boyfriend coming in to ID her from the video footage ... yes, I’ll let you know, thanks.’ Ringing off, he sat looking at his phone, as if all the answers he needed were contained within its intricate operating system.
‘Victor? What’s up?’ asked one of the team.
‘Can you pull up all we have on The Old Curiosity Shop, an antiques place in London.’
‘In the market for an invalid’s cup for your old age, Fuji?’ joked one of the uniformed staff. The office erupted in laughter.
Fujimoto self-consciously stroked his thinning hair, ‘That’s enough of that, just pull the files. I want a photo of the woman who owns the shop, a Sarah Lester. The Met have a Missing Persons file open for her, and for both her parents. So this may all be connected.’
Silence filled the office. Victor scribbled in his notebook. R
egardless of all the technological advances in the world; all the smart phones and tablets, Apple watches and ‘the Cloud’; nothing beat a good old-fashioned notebook. This development could well be the lead he was looking for, the reason the guard lost his life. Homicide rates in London had been plummeting, with only eighty-three recorded for all of the previous year, which meant any new ones were guaranteed maximum media coverage. If the media then linked that murder to a ‘missing persons’ case ... well, he wouldn’t be able to leave headquarters without being mobbed.
‘Here’s a picture of Sarah Lester. Pretty good looking for a tinker,’ Corporal Sean Jones proffered a printout of Sarah’s licence.
Victor gazed at the picture of the woman in the printout. Lifting his eyes to his computer screen, to the frozen image of two women unrolling what looked like an animal skin. One of them was definitely Sarah Lester, proprietor of The Old Curiosity Shop; reported as missing; and wanted for questioning about a knife used in a murder at Christie’s auction house for which a man had been arrested and was currently awaiting trial. ‘This is a pile of shit we’ve waded into,’ Victor announced to no one in particular.
THE SAMPLER
Eliza gazed adoringly at both samplers, laid out side by side on her workroom table. The stitching was identical, as were the colours, and the style. They were undoubtedly done by the same girl, and now they were both hers. I won. And that bloodsucker Harvard didn’t. That was the best part.
In her mind she pictured how she might display them. In her world they needed their own display, something befitting their coming together after their separation back in time.
Her musings were interrupted when two police officers were shown into her office – she thrust her self-centred dreams to the back of her mind.
‘Mrs Broadhead?’
Flustered, Eliza fluttered her hands ineffectually as she tried to cover up her tapestries, as if she’d been caught in the act of manufacturing methamphetamine. ‘Just a moment ... one minute please, I’ll just ...’ she trailed off. The officers’ faces were impassive in the stark fluorescent lighting. ‘Right, well then, how can I help?’ Wheezing, she sunk down into her office chair, the sheepskin rug on it enveloping her in a woollen hug.
‘Mrs Broadhead, we are investigating the disappearance of the woman whose goods were recently purchased at auction by the V & A ...’
Eliza interrupted, ‘Well I’m hardly in a position to help with anything, am I?’ The haughty dismissiveness in her voice irritated the police officers immensely.
The sergeant stepped forward, trying to make her face appear relaxed. This woman’s attitude was unfortunately becoming more and more common, regardless of the type of enquiry. What’s happened to turn the general populace against us? A perennial question.
‘Mrs Broadhead, we’re just interested in the sampler you purchased recently from Christie’s, the one by R. J. Williams. Mostly we’d like to see any paperwork that may have come with it, and to know if you’ve uncovered anything else about the sampler since acquiring it. As you may appreciate, this is a very loosely related to the disappearance of Miss Lester, but we have to follow all lines of enquiry.’
Mollified, Eliza smiled painfully, heaving herself up out of her seat, and over to a historic filing cabinet, where she retrieved a folder from the drawer marked “Acquisitions”. Returning to her workbench, she uncovered the two samplers, before taking to her chair once more, perspiration beading on her forehead.
Clutching her jet necklace for emotional support, she opened the folder. She knew the contents by heart, but made a show of leafing through blindly – a stupid power play, when there was no benefit at all from such amateur theatrics. Clearing her throat, she replied, ‘There’s not much I can tell you. The V & A put up the funds to purchase this sampler, given its superior condition. We weren’t given the seller’s details – that just isn’t the done thing in the auction world – although I certainly asked one of their staff if the seller had put up for sale any similar items, which they hadn’t. It did not come with a provenance, which is annoying, but not unusual. And there’s really nothing more I can add. I was just this minute trying to decide how the museum would display it in an upcoming exhibition, and ... well, that’s all I can tell you.’
One of the officers peered at the sampler on the workbench, tugging gently at the plain calico covering up the second sampler. ‘This one has the same name embroidered on it – that’s unusual, isn’t it?’ Both officers examined the samplers, side by side, the constable taking a quick snap of the samplers with his phone.
‘Now really, that is quite unnecessary, and please don’t touch the fabric. I’ve told you everything I know about the sampler from Christie’s. We had to pay a fortune for it. Daylight robbery, that house. If only the country recognised the treasures they were allowing to be sold into private ownership. It’s a travesty, and that’s the crime you should be investigating.’ Eliza slammed the folder shut.
‘Mrs Broadhead, we really can’t comment on the antiquities laws of Britain, but we would like to know about this second sampler. They are both done by the same person, yes?’ Sergeant Foster smiled politely as she asked her question, her finger resting lightly on the second sampler, almost sending Eliza into cardiac arrest.
‘Don’t touch the fabric, you have no idea what damage you could do,’ Eliza squealed at the woman.
Tania Foster’s smile stretched even further, but she removed her finger, ‘The second sampler, Mrs Broadhead?’
Huffing, Eliza responded, ‘Fine. I had to fight for that one. Physically fight. Against one of those cretins from Christie’s, Andrew Harvard. He’s one of the worst. All gussied up in his expensive suits, swanning about the Embroidery Guild meetings and exhibitions, like a leech. Well, he didn’t get his hands on this one. It was donated to the V & A. Donated. Not purchased. Makes such a difference. You should probably speak with him. About the assault.’
‘Right, we’ll do that, thank you. Ah, the name of the person who donated the sampler please? I presume that’s in the folder?’
Eliza was starting to thoroughly dislike Sergeant Foster’s false smile. Women were meant to be on the same side, against the misogynistic men who thought they ruled the planet, and yet here was one of her ‘sisters’ giving her the third degree about the sampler she’d had to fight tooth and nail for. Is there no justice in the world?
Huffing again as she reopened the file, she violently leafed through the pages. Sergeant Foster smiled at the constable, who was himself making a show of taking comprehensive notes, adding to Eliza’s discomfort.
‘Here,’ Eliza shoved a sheet of self-carbonating paper at Foster. Details of the donation were barely legible.
Frowning, Sergeant Foster turned the sheet over in her hands, ‘Where is the top form, with the original details on it? This one clearly states “Copy For Donor”.’
That was it. That was the final straw for Eliza. Throwing her hands in the air in a gesture of defeat, she shrieked, ‘What am I? A miracle worker? I don’t do the filing. I don’t keep track of the donors. Why aren’t you on my side? I’m not the criminal here. Just leave. Just leave now.’ Thrusting herself up out of her chair, she attempted to usher them from her office, her sanctuary.
Sergeant Foster was not so easily swayed. Planting her regulation uniform black boots firmly on the floor, she spoke calmly, ‘Mrs Broadhead, you really are making this much more difficult than it needs to be. If you could just provide us the legible name of the person who donated this sampler to the museum, we’ll be on our way. Simple really. Alternatively, Inspector Fujimoto, the head of this investigation, will have to make enquiries with the museum director.’
Unfazed, Eliza puffed out her chest, firing her own volley. ‘Then I suggest you get your slant-eyed inspector to contact the Director. He’d be most interested to know you were in here without a warrant.’
Tania Foster’s face lost her smile, replaced instead with steel, ‘Mrs Broadhead, do I need to remind yo
u that England has very strict anti-discrimination laws in place, which also cover racial slurs? We will be back. Thank you for your assistance. Have a good day.’ The officers left, leaving Eliza pale-faced in her office doorway, the recipient of inquisitive looks from nearby workstations.
‘What are you all looking at?’ Eliza screamed at them, before subsiding into a hacking cough, and slamming the door in their faces.
THE MUSEUM
‘Fiona, write it up on the board. Would’ve been nice if we’d got the file earlier from the Art Loss Register. Not that they’ve made any progress either.’
‘Are the IT guys right, Fuji? It hasn’t been tampered with? They really did disappear?’ Fiona Duodu couldn’t keep the incredulity out of her voice.
‘Of course they didn’t disappear. But at the moment, the tech guys can’t figure how the footage was manipulated – they will, they just need time. Let’s work out again who is involved and how. Write them up, Fiona, as I call them out. We’ve got Ravi Naranyan, he’s the dead night guard from the museum. Put a column next to him. Patricia Bolton, our fashion designer, setting up for her fashion show; and then next to her Andrew Harvard, boyfriend of Patricia, employee at Christie’s. After this it gets complicated, and links two, if not three or four other cases. My head hurts just thinking about it.’ Running his fingers through his thinning hair, he thought hard about the next name for the board. ‘Put up Albert Lester next. Write his name in a different colour, to show he’s a missing person – a different file, but still interconnected. Right underneath him, write Annabel Lester. His wife. Same colour. She’s a missing person too.’ He stood frowning at the board. Pointing to the empty left hand side, he spoke again. ‘Draw a line down there, then write the name Sarah Lester, and then next to that write up The Old Curiosity Shop – lines between the shop, and all three Lesters. Somehow Sarah Lester is the key. I don’t know why, but it’s something to do with the murder at Christie’s.’ Pointing to Ravi’s name, he instructed Fiona to write the murdered Christie’s clerk’s name up there too, Leo Hayward.
The Last Letter Page 24
