Bullard nodded at the Arab. For a foreigner, he was damn sensible, and made it easier to be persuaded that any action he took regarding Meredith could be construed as a reward for his work ethic. He wasn’t one for causing a scene – he knew the way to run an empire was through lunches such as these.
Sensing his mistake, Robert smiled at the civil servant, ‘Getting back to your club ... you were saying they don’t even run a shoot any more? I could invite you to our next shoot at Hurlingham? By all means, bring your own rifles, but there will be plenty spare for you to use.’
Bullard smiled; this was more like it, ‘Lovely. I’ve just recalled that they do need a man in the Stationery Office to deal with the papers from the new Merchant Shipping Act. It’s taking a while to settle things down, he may be just the man.’
THE PRIEST
‘Where on God’s good earth is my water? I can’t be expected to drink this. If I wanted to live like a heathen I’d rip off my clothes, tattoo my face, and prostrate myself in front of the local savages. This tastes like you’ve sourced it from the local night soil collector.’
Annabel recoiled from his vitriol. For a religious man, he hadn’t bought into the Love Thy Neighbour rhetoric at all. Bishop Dasent was one of the most vile men she’d ever encountered. If she’d been in her own life, she’d have told him to fuck off a hundred times now. She’d have walked out, relying on family and friends for a place to stay. But here – here it was a different story. Here she choked down her anger, swallowed her disbelief at his misogynistic attitude, and she carried on, for a roof over her head and food on her table.
‘I can go to Sutton’s General Store, to replenish your bottled water?’ she offered, through barely gritted teeth.
The Bishop waved her away, calling after her retreating back, ‘Be quick, Mrs Lester, be quick.’
Annabel muttered to herself as she gathered her things from the kitchen. It wasn’t as easy to ‘pop out to the shops’ as it had been back in England, where there’d been a store on every corner, as prevalent as pubs and curry houses. No, to go to the shops now, she needed to find enough coins from the housekeeping money, a hat, the right boots for the appalling roads, and a basket to carry everything. And nothing was light ... everything weighed a ton. She had biceps like an Olympic wrestler from the regular shopping she’d had to do.
After replacing her indoor shoes for more sturdy lace-up boots, she finally left the Manse, lifting her face to enjoy the sunshine. Catching herself, she hurried off. Without a doubt, that creep Norman Bailey would be watching her, waiting for her to mess up so he could tattle to the Bishop. She wouldn’t give him that luxury; she’d enjoy the sun around the next corner, or the next. Hurrying down Manse Street, she let her mind wander – although, today, it wasn’t her former life she thought about, it was more about the strange man she’d bumped into, last time she’d come this way. A stranger. She’d seen him at church, his head swivelling like it was on a pole. Tall, dark and handsome. He’d make a fine cover of a Mills and Boon romance, with long black lashes the envy of every woman in the congregation. Younger than me, but not by much, she thought, as she allowed herself the luxury of imagining his hands running over her hips, her back, her breasts. A dog of uncertain parentage raced in front of her as she passed yet another building site, and she stumbled. As she fell, an arm shot out, catching her before she fell into the muddy roadside. Her momentum carried them both into the morass of mud piled by the edge of the building site. Far from rescuing her, his bulk pinned her to the rubble.
‘Jesus Christ, get off me,’ Annabel screamed, her hands scrambling at the dirt.
A deliveryman outside Sutton’s General Store abandoned his drayhorses and cart, and rushed to her assistance. Edwin Sutton himself deigned to come outside to see what the fracas was. The builders, always eager for a scrap, bounded over, hauling the woman’s attacker off her. One of these burly Scotsmen threw in a couple of punches, until a well-timed uppercut to his jaw found him suddenly on his back amongst the building materials, eyes dancing in their sockets. Dazed, he could only watch as his colleagues converged on the man who’d put him in the woodpile.
Annabel Lester, covered in the filth of the building site, hat crushed beyond recognition, fled to the safety of Sutton’s doorway. An all-out brawl was the last thing she thought she’d experience on her way to the store. The man who’d assaulted her was giving the remaining builders, and the deliveryman, a good drubbing. She actually wasn’t sure anyone knew who they were fighting, nor why. Men.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Edwin Sutton said gruffly, before using a galvanised bucket to scoop water from the horse trough, and threw it over the men.
As the men came up for air, Annabel gasped. There on the ground was the stranger from church. One eye already closing from a thwack to the face, knuckles bloodied, coat torn, he was still recognisable. The builders were hauled back to the site by their foreman who’d conveniently appeared at the end to the fight. The concussed builder staggered off with the support of one of his friends. Edwin Sutton was loudly chastising the deliveryman for shirking his duties – time was money, and the bloody cart wouldn’t unload itself, being the general gist of the conversation. Leaving Annabel alone, warily watching the man dusting himself off.
‘Are you all right?’ she called out from the safety of the doorway.
William Price looked over, struck again by the woman’s similarities to Sarah. The slope of her eyes, the way she held her shoulders, further back than most women, as if there was an air of confidence built into her bones. He looked back at the sleeves of his coat. They were torn and covered with blood – his own, from wiping the cut by his eye. ‘I’ll live, madam,’ he replied.
‘Can I help?’ Annabel ventured a few hesitant steps towards him. ‘You’re bleeding?’ A question, not a statement.
‘Am I? I’m surprised you care, madam.’ He couldn’t help snapping back at her. She’d tripped, he’d tried to catch her, they’d fallen, then he’d been attacked. He was hardly feeling generous towards her.
‘I’m sure Mister Sutton wouldn’t mind if we used his kitchen to clean you up ...’
‘After what just happened, Mrs Lester, I’m not sure that being alone in your company is exactly good for my health.’
Annabel thought she saw a smile crease the corner of his one good eye, but it was as fleeting as a fantail through the bush, and she dismissed it. She’d had enough of men being tossers in her life, and this man she didn’t have to be polite to. ‘Well then, bleed to death, I don’t care.’ She bent to pick up her wicker basket, just as Price bent down to pick it up for her. Their heads collided. And their dual laughs split the air.
‘Seems the loss of vision has affected my perception, so sorry. Did I hurt you?’ Price asked.
‘Only a little,’ she laughed. ‘Come on, I’ll clean it up for you. You’ll be a menace if I let you loose on the streets like that. You’ll likely be locked up for causing a disturbance. This town is so straight-laced, I’m surprised any of them can breathe.’
Price gazed at her face. Up close, she really was beautiful. So like Sarah, yet older, and there was something else indefinable. An acceptance of life? She was a woman not searching for anything. Comfortable in herself. And that was a powerful force. Powerful and rare in a woman. He allowed himself to be led through Sutton’s shop, the dusty smell of flour mingled seamlessly with that of strong carbolic soaps and sweet Jamaican rum.
Sutton showed them through to his kitchen, and left them to it. Customers and their coin were of far greater interest than an injured man consorting unchaperoned with the widow from the Manse. Annabel set to rummaging through cupboards to find the things she needed, a bowl for water, clean cloths. It took no time at all before she had the kettle boiling over the black range.
Price removed his coat, mournfully perusing the damage to one sleeve.
‘I can fix that for you too, if you like. My sewing isn’t fantastic, but I can do it, if you want ...’ She
blushed. What am I, twelve? Tongue-tied in front of a man, at my age.
‘I can sew. Yes I’m a man, but I’ve been on my own long enough that to know how to sew is one of life’s requirements.’
‘Your wife isn’t with you then?’ Pouring the tea, she couldn’t believe the words coming from her own mouth, the flush on her cheeks not from the heat of the boiling water.
Not overly loquacious in normal circumstances, he replied, ‘I’ve not had that good fortune.’ Like a true gentleman he didn’t comment on her blush as she passed him a mug of tea, the porcelain the same colour as her skin, an English rose.
Pulling up a three-legged milking stool, she set to cleaning his eye, dabbing carefully around the cut. Cleaning the dried blood revealed a decent gash. ‘This should probably have stitches,’ she mused.
Price didn’t comment, his good eye following her every move.
Annabel hadn’t been this close to a man since she’d arrived in Dunedin all those years ago. And nothing could have prepared her for the impact his proximity made on her. Like a flower opening under the summer’s sun, she bloomed, the cares of her life swept away by his lashes. The possibilities of life suddenly seemed endless.
‘I was on my way to see you,’ he interrupted her ministrations.
‘Me?’ Her heart skipped happily in her chest.
‘I was hoping we could speak about Sarah – Sarah Bell? I was led to believe she was a relation of yours.’
Annabel froze, all illusions shattering with those words. ‘I have no relations here.’
Price frowned, ‘But she looks just like you, as if you were sisters, or you her mother.’
Annabel’s eyes widened, the mirror image of Sarah’s eyes. ‘I had a daughter, in England. She’s not here. I have no one. I’m sorry, I have to go, I was on my way to get some water for the Bishop.’ She fled the kitchen, pausing only to fill her basket with bottles of Thomson’s aerated water for Dasent. Struggling, she manhandled the basket down the road, tears streaming down her face. Angrily, she wiped them away with her arm, but still they fell. Oblivious to the curious stares at her racking sobs, she stumbled up the road, bottles clanking in the basket, which grew heavier with every step, just like her heart.
An arm reached out, relieving her of the burden, her physical burden. Annabel stopped. She knew, without even looking, who it would be. Price placed the basket on the ground, and turned her slowly with his hands. She was tall for a woman, like Sarah. She towered over the Bishop, and his minion. To Price, she was the perfect height.
‘Perhaps she tried to find you, but didn’t know where you were? We all fall out with our families, but running away from them isn’t the answer. I will be honest and say I was trying to find her for personal reasons.’ He ran his hands down her arms, stopping at her hands, holding them in his. ‘It felt personal at the time, but we had no understanding. It’s entirely possible I was under an illusion cast at the time.’
THE POLICE
‘Here’s the warrant – I want the shop searched from top to bottom. The insides of books. The basement. Any cavity you find. I want all stock records brought back here, and I want you to go through every one of them. I want to know where that knife came from. The Lesters are the key to this, and whoever sold them the knife. Grey is giving an Oscar-winning performance of being a mute, and I can’t touch him till the trial, bastard.’ Facetiously he carried on, ‘The judge graciously signed a second warrant prepared for the shop next door, Bolton’s clothing shop. I want that searched too. Let’s go.’ Victor Fujimoto shooed his team out, the way you would a gaggle of geese. He was about to rake his hair with his fingers, before vanity reminded him this habit was contributing to his premature hair loss. He reached instead for his cold coffee, its temperature not even registering in his crowded mind.
He turned back to the whiteboard, his eyes tracing the lines connecting the players together. It galled him that The Old Curiosity Shop had never been searched before. There’d been more than enough probable cause: the disappearance of three people; a murder using an object owned by the proprietor. He’d uncovered a file note from months ago where Patricia Bolton had reported gunshots at the shop, but with nothing stolen, and no persons located on the premises, no further action had been taken. It was one giant cluster fuck. That would be rectified today.
* * *
Fiona Duodu nosed the unmarked car into the empty loading zone behind the shops – an unmarked car which screamed ‘police’ to those who needed to know. The back door was opened by a uniformed policeman, barely old enough to be in the job. ‘They’re waiting for you, Sir,’ he mumbled, every word carefully chosen in case he messed things up for his first ever search warrant.
Fuji smiled at him, remembering back to his first days on the job, where he was even more cowed by the experienced officers around him. ‘Thanks. You can shut it and lock it now; don’t want anyone sneaking in while we’re all busy somewhere else.’ He moved through like a tidal wave, with Fiona trailing in his wake. The sheer scale of the task ahead daunted her, and she wasn’t even going to be doing the searching, just the exhibits register, and that scared her.
Nicole stood defiantly behind the desk, the warrant clutched in her hands, eyes wide at the number of police who filled every inch of aisle space in the cluttered shop.
‘Miss Pilcher?’ Fujimoto edged his way behind the counter, proffering his hand to the apprehensive woman. ‘Inspector Victor Fujimoto. I presume you’ve had the search warrant explained to you? You don’t need to be here. You’re welcome to leave at any time – you’re not being detained. Was that explained to you?’
Nicole made a show of reading the warrant before looking back at the inspector. ‘Can I wait here, or should I go upstairs? It’s just that, well, upstairs is Sarah’s flat, and I’d feel a bit funny waiting there. Should I ring anyone?’
Fuji shook his head, ‘We’re just looking for anything which can help find Miss Lester and Miss Bolton. I know you’ve already been interviewed, and I’ve read over the transcripts, but have you thought of anything else which might be useful?’
Nicole shook her head. This dream job is turning into a nightmare. Maybe she was destined for a life in her uncle’s hotel, serving wealthy Germans and new-money Russians. What a thought. She shivered. ‘I could find all the stock books then – your warrant specifically mentions them. Would that help?’
Fuji nodded at Fiona, who replied for him, ‘That would be fabulous. I’ll come with you till anyone finds anything. They’ll give me a yell when they need me.’
Nicole smiled gratefully at the warmth in Fiona’s voice. ‘The most recent ones are here.’
Fuji left them to it, Nicole grateful to do something with her nervous hands, and Fiona in her element surrounded by tangible files, figures and words – her area of expertise. He wandered around the shop, pausing to randomly pick up a Shelley vase, or tap the unmoving hands of a barometer, firmly stuck on “Change”. This was a whole different world. He briefly wondered how many of these treasures were languishing on a list of stolen articles. A small Roman statue caught his eye. Picking it up, he was surprised by its heft, and its smoothness. Intuitively he knew this piece belonged more correctly in a museum than a shop, destined to be ferreted away in a private collection, where people like him, public servants, would never get to see it again. He turned to ask Nicole about it, but she’d disappeared with Fiona, leaving a small stack of stock books on the counter, waiting to be logged as evidence and taken away.
He left the statue there, content to ask Nicole about it later, and his attention was taken up by an officer with a query.
A small knot of bystanders had gathered outside, drawn by the police cars and the flurry of simultaneous activity between the two shops. Standing amongst them, a priest, listening to the excited mumblings of those around him. They paid no attention to his nimble fingers dancing over the screen of his phone. Message sent, he left the curious to their voyeurism.
Fuji wandered around Sara
h’s flat, his eyes taking in the plethora of reference books bending the shelves of the wall-length bookcase in the lounge. Derby Porcelain, Staffordshire Portrait Figures, Coalport, Shaker Furniture, Antique Golf Collectibles. The list was endless, and they all looked well-used, held together with tape, and in some cases, rubber bands. The flat was noticeably devoid of antiques, as if the owner wanted nothing to do with them in her private life. It was by no means luxurious; ‘Spartan’ would be a better word to describe it. He poked his head into her bedroom. Once you’d searched one twenty-something’s flat, you could pretty much predict what was going to be in all the others. Piles of dirty laundry, half-read books by the bed, an over-abundance of scented toiletries of dubious age. What you didn’t normally find were nuggets of gold, and one hundred and fifty-year-old letters.
The letter had been bagged up and sealed for safety. The nugget was in its own bag, sequentially numbered.
‘The boys thought it best we didn’t leave this lying around for someone to nick,’ Fiona informed him, writing it up in the exhibits register.
Fuji turned the bag over in his hand. This was worth more than his annual salary. It was crazy, but he’d attended more than his fair share of armed robberies where gold was all the criminals had been after, given the sky rocketing gold price. ‘Why’d she have this next to her bed,’ he queried.
‘You think that’s weird, look at this stuff. I think she’s into re-enactments or something. You know, I was once up at Vindolanda and this busload of Italians turned up, dressed to the nines in Roman centurion costumes. Amazing, but bizarre at the same time.’
‘What were you doing there?’ Fuji asked, sensing a side of his colleague he’d never seen before.
‘I did a year of archaeology before quitting to do this. Biggest mistake of my life,’ Fiona laughed.
‘You need to come and look at this statue downstairs then. Looks like the real deal,’ Fuji offered, slipping the nugget into the evidence box.
The Last Letter Page 29
