The Last Letter

by Kirsten McKenzie

  Grey swore, slamming his fist against the polished chrome of the table.

  The solicitor barely flinched. Unnecessary shows of strength were commonplace amongst his clients. He wasn’t fazed by the posturing, and continued, ‘It seems she sent a pair of silver candelabra off to auction, and a piece of embroidery. And it’s the embroidery which has proved to be most interesting.’ He paused waiting for the inevitable sarcastic interruption from Grey. When it was not forthcoming, he carried on. ‘The piece of embroidery was purchased by the V & A Museum, at great cost. But recently, a second piece was donated to the museum. Experts believe the two pieces to be made by the same hand ...’

  At this, Grey threw his hands up in the air, ‘Am I in the middle of an episode of Antiques Roadshow? Get on with it. I fail to see how any of this is of any interest to me, or my case.’

  ‘I think you’ll be very interested to know that the police have tracked both pieces of embroidery back to the companion of your great-grandmother, several times removed.’ Leaning back in the chair, he smiled inwardly at the look of utter shock on Grey’s face, the only time he’d ever seen a true emotion on the man’s face.

  ‘And this is the paperwork the police sent through?’

  The solicitor nodded.

  ‘And these are my copies?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very good. You may leave now. I’ll be in touch with further instructions after I’ve read through the paperwork.’ Almost as an afterthought, he added, ‘Thank you,’ which was the only time the solicitor had ever heard him utter those particular words. A miracle.

  THE CALL

  ‘The brief is leaving, standby.’

  The radio call made, the small cohort of undercover officers readied themselves for action.

  After much negotiation, a phone tap had been approved, in addition to the surveillance on Grey. As much as the general populace thought the police could tap phones on a whim, without the slightest bit of ‘just cause’, in reality it was a time-consuming and rigorous judicial effort to obtain permission, which was sparingly given.

  The console in the indistinct tradesmen’s van lit up, as Grey made a call.

  ‘Who’s he calling?’ Fujimoto asked, stuffed in the corner of the van. He had no role to play right now, regardless of his rank. This part of the investigation was for the experts to run. He was there solely to question the data they collected, to make the connections and to steer the direction of the next phase of the operation.

  ‘It’s a number at Christie’s.’

  Fuji leaned forward, ‘A direct line or the switchboard?’

  ‘Direct line.’

  ‘Do we know who it belongs to?’

  The technician rolled his eyes. It didn’t matter which boss was leading the operation, none of them were patient. They’d all forgotten what it was like to sit in a surveillance van for days on end, or behind a wall of Post Office boxes, waiting for someone to pick up a letter. Things didn’t happen instantly. Everything took time. They weren’t miracle workers.

  Then a tinny voice, ‘Good afternoon, Hannah Gardner speaking.’

  A slight delay, then the deep autocratic voice of Grey filled their headphones, ‘Miss Gardner, you have been less than honest with me. How is it that today I find out Miss Lester had consigned other items to be auctioned by Christie’s?’

  Silence filled the van. Fuji nudged one of the technicians, ‘Have we lost our link?’

  ‘Nope, she just isn’t answering.’

  The crew in the van all leaned forward, as if leaning forwards would make the reception better, when suddenly Gardner started speaking.

  ‘Why are you calling me here? Wouldn’t it be better to meet at the club?’

  ‘What club?’ Fuji hissed at Fiona, who was sitting silently at the back of the van. She shrugged, waiting to write Gardner’s words verbatim in her notebook, despite the expensive fact they’d be paying someone to transcribe the tape in the coming days.

  ‘Shush,’ she said, her pen poised.

  ‘No, I want to understand this now, I don’t have time to swan around the tennis club you can only afford to belong to because of me. What else did Sarah Lester auction through you?’

  An uncomfortable silence stretched through every person in the van, before Gardner finally spoke again.

  ‘An old sampler from 1726 – signed by an R. J. Williams. And a pair of silver candelabra by Paul de Lamerie, absolutely lacking any provenance. That’s all. Nothing I considered of interest to you.’

  ‘Nothing you considered of interest to me? And since when have you become an expert in what would be of interest to me?’

  The police collectively raised their eyebrows at the venom in Grey’s voice.

  ‘Do you think Gardner’s in trouble with Grey now? Should we keep an eye on her?’ Fiona whispered.

  Fuji shook his head, fascinated at the insight they were being given. Gaps in their investigation were being filled every minute. Gardner must have told Grey about the katar, but what else had she shared with him?

  Grey continued, without giving Gardner the luxury of answering, ‘The police, Miss Gardner, the police have just told me the sampler has been tracked back to my family. The police. Is that not your company’s job to research the items before you auction them? The police, those bumbling idiots, the ones who couldn’t get jobs in the real world, managed to trace the provenance of a sampler, a scrap of fabric so benign I’m astonished they were able to identify it, let alone trace it back to my family.’

  Silence greeted him at the other end, before Gardner answered, ‘I’m sorry, I had no idea of any connection. Andrew Harvard was dealing with this. It’s not my area of expertise. The computer shows it was sold to the V & A – undoubtedly a hefty donation ought to secure it for you. I don’t know what else you want me to say, or do?’

  ‘I want you to perform the function I’m paying you for ...’

  ‘And I’ve told you, I don’t want to do this any more ...’

  ‘You’ll carry on informing me of anything that comes in that is of interest to me, or your employer will find out about your dealings with me. Now, I want all the details of that transaction. And, for good measure, I want the information on the silverware too. I’ll have to go through my records to see if they were sold off with the rest of the estate. Good day.’

  The call disconnected. The officers in the van all turned to look at each other.

  ‘Wow,’ said Fiona.

  ‘You could say that,’ Fuji replied, running his hands through his hair, his brain firing off in every direction.

  ‘Shall we let Tania have the pleasure of telling Christie’s what Gardner’s been up to?’ Fiona asked eagerly.

  ‘I think we’ll all pay a visit to Christie’s. Fitting, don’t you think?’ Fuji smiled a slow smile.

  THE MOLE

  When Fujimoto, Tania and Fiona arrived at Christie’s they had to dodge an army of workmen in pristine white overalls carting furniture and artworks through the enormous marbled lobby. The concierge hurried forward, ready to ask them to leave, before he was firmly set in his place.

  Flashing his warrant card, Fujimoto announced, ‘We’d like to speak with Don Claire please.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment, sir?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware we needed to make an appointment when we’re in the process of investigating a murder which took place on these very premises?’

  The concierge started to explain that Mr Claire was a very busy man, but Fujimoto had very little time for people who considered themselves above members of the public service and made it abundantly clear that they should be taken to Mr Claire’s offices quick smart.

  Sniffing his displeasure, the concierge swiped his card for the elevator, stabbing at the button for the fourth floor.

  ‘Mr Claire, may we please have a moment of your time?’ Fujimoto announced as he walked straight into the opulent office.

  Don Claire looked up from his computer, and was about to stand, when
he lowered himself back into his chair, gesturing uselessly for his guests to take a seat, which they had already done so.

  ‘Coffee?’ he asked.

  ‘No, but perhaps you’d like us to close the door? We have some rather sensitive information we’d like to share with you?’

  Fiona leapt up to shut out the questioning glances of the secretary, and the concierge who was loitering in the outer office. Fiona smiled sweetly at him, only just refraining from winking at the unpleasant lackey.

  ‘Sensitive information? Should I get my solicitor in?’

  ‘No need for that just yet, but I recommend getting legal advice before you take any action after you’ve heard what we’re about to tell you,’ Fujimoto motioned towards Tania, the youngest person on his team. It was only through her diligence, and possibly a sixth sense, that they’d linked Grey with Gardner.

  Tania beamed, she couldn’t help it. What a triumph it was to be sitting here for this, and all because of her. She opened her notebook, and tried to arrange her face into a more business-like demeanour. As she started talking, explaining her findings, she could feel herself becoming more serious, more grown-up. She needn’t have worried that she wouldn’t be taken seriously – her methodologies were sound, her evidence solid. And by the time she got to the part about the phone call with Gardner, Don Claire had stopped viewing her as a twelve-year-old dressed up as a policewoman for World Book Day. He was now viewing her as the Angel of Death, delivering the worst possible news to a man whose whole life revolved around the people and objects in this building. Every word Tania uttered was another brick sloughing away from the walls, its mortar flaking away until soon there’d be nothing holding up the venerable house of Christie’s.

  THE HOSPITAL

  Warden Price returned to the hospital to find Colin looking decidedly perkier and, whilst still propped up against cushions, he was playing a game of cards with another patient.

  ‘Hope there’s no money riding on that game,’ Price joked with the boys.

  ‘Oh, Mister Price, you came back,’ Colin enthused.

  ‘Of course I did. There’s not many lives I’ve saved, and, given you’re one of them, I thought it best I check on you. Make sure the Surgeon hasn’t knocked you off in his haste to repair you.’

  Colin’s eyes widened, ‘Oh no, sir, he’d never. He’s been brilliant. But he’s very busy, he has to see to the men over at the barracks, and the ladies too. He’s marvellous.’

  Price had a little gem of an idea percolating away in his mind. He needed to keep this lad safe, otherwise he’d end up like his brother. Buried without much ceremony, in a nondescript cemetery which would be lost to time as nature reclaimed the wooden plot markers, and ferns nestled once again in the fertile soil once the settlers moved on, following the gold, leaving the land breathing in relief.

  ‘Did you write to your mam? Like we discussed? To let her know you haven’t been knifed in an alley back home?’ Price raised one eyebrow.

  ‘Oh, yes, but the nurse wouldn’t send it for me. Said she needed money for the postage. But everything I had is at the bottom of the sea now. So what am I to do?’ His voice faltered, revealing once again just how young and alone he was.

  ‘I think we can arrange to post it for you. Happens that I know the lady up at the Manse and, since you tell me the Church taught you your letters, I’m sure the Church can stump up a penny to post your letter to your mam. You give it to me and I’ll sort it out for you. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you again. So don’t you go anywhere until I’ve been in,’ Price instructed.

  As obedient as ever, Colin nodded again, before a short coughing fit took over from his bobbing head.

  ‘As I said, you rest, I’ll see you tomorrow. And while I’m gone, perhaps consider what you might like to do with your life now that you’re not going gold mining.’

  Price left, leaving Colin feebly protesting that gold mining was exactly what he wanted to do.

  Exhausted, Colin lay against his mountain of pillows. He wasn’t allowed to lie flat, had to sleep sitting up. Every time he did try to lie flat, the nurse had to come and help him. It felt like he was drowning all over again. He couldn’t breathe – gasping for air, pain tearing at his throat. He’d given up trying. Sitting up wasn’t so bad. He could talk to the other men. Their stories of how bad it was on the goldfields filled him with a sense of trepidation. Maybe he’d go, just to find Isaac, to see if he was OK, and then he’d get a proper job. The distance to Bruce Bay scared him. How am I ever going to get there without money, and without being able to breathe properly?

  THE FAIR

  Nicole laboured over her handwritten sign, balancing her cellphone between her shoulder and cheek. ‘Hi, Andrew, it’s Nicole at the shop ... no nothing’s wrong, just confirming that the shop’s going to be shut this weekend ... I know it’s the worst possible timing after what’s happened, but this fair is held only a few times a year. It’s one of the best ones in France ... all my accommodation is booked, and the Eurostar ... it’s called La Grande Braderie de Lille, you’d love it. I’ll see if I can find you some old embroidered pieces,’ she laughed, dropping the phone. Picking it back up, she snuggled it back into her shoulder. ‘No, I’m not planning on disappearing while I’m there. Sorry I laughed, it’s just I was imagining what the police would say if I never came back from a buying trip to France. And can you imagine the newspapers? ... I’ll be careful, I’ll have my phone, and you let me know if you hear anything from Trish. Cheers.’

  The call ended, Nicole added the final full stop. She’d never been destined to be an artist, that was clear, but the sign was legible, and clearly stated why the shop would be closed. A trip to the annual Braderie de Lille flea market. Ten thousand exhibitors over sixty-two miles. What an adventure. And she’d thought the antique fair at Alexandra Palace was large. She’d already packed her most comfortable shoes in her largest suitcase, which was essentially empty, except for the slightly smaller suitcase she’d packed inside the larger one. And she planned to fill them both.

  She needed to replenish her stock of militaria; trench art and compasses, medals and maps. It was amazing how many people still collected that stuff, and not just the old guys. She couldn’t keep up with demand. There was a whole area of the market dedicated to books and paperwork, ephemera, so she’d hit there first, then the little dealers who traded just in medals, who had medals from all round the world: Norwegian War medals; Queen’s Visit medals; sterling silver sporting medallions awarded by running clubs and tennis clubs. All those she’d be buying. Right at the end of her trip, she was planning on having a look at the vintage clothes – not because she had any great interest or knowledge in that area, but she thought she might find a couple of old leather flying helmets, or pairs of gloves. Small things, easily identifiable – she’d leave the vintage Dior gowns and Reboux cloche hats to dealers who knew more about that specialist segment of the market, which was a whole different kettle of fish.

  The sign taped to the window, she locked up and climbed into her waiting taxi, ‘St Pancras station please.’

  The time she spent in London traffic was about the same length of time it took the Eurostar to get into Paris, then it was another hour to Lille. Her excitement levels rising, she was like a small child on Christmas Day by the time the train pulled into the station.

  She’d booked into L’Art de Livre, a quiet bed and breakfast in Saint Michel, a short walk from the Braderie. She checked in to the nineteenth century home, eclectically decorated in an Indian style, with pictures of long-dead Maharajas adorning the walls. Leaving her smaller bag there to be filled the next day, and fortified by a strong coffee, she set off to stalk the traders as they set up. Buying couldn’t start till two o’clock, that was the rule, although every guidebook she’d read said most traders would happily sell if you asked.

  The crowds were reminiscent of Hogmanay in Edinburgh, with the same festive air. She wasn’t the only one pulling a large trolley bag. If you w
eren’t sporting a large back pack, or pulling a wheeled trolley bag, you looked out of place. The number of bags at the market would have rivalled a plane load of antipodeans on a Contiki tour.

  Overwhelmed by choice, Nicole tried to stick to her plan, but everywhere she looked she was distracted. Toast racks. For goodness’ sake, there was one trader selling their personal collection of toast racks. They had everything from Georgian silver ones, to novelty toast racks with the seven dwarves as dividers, and the tiny ceramic Royal Winton ones from the breakfast sets, with just enough slots for two slices of toast. She couldn’t help herself, she asked how much the seven dwarves rack was, and if she could buy it now. She didn’t even haggle once she heard the price. As cheap as chips.

  She carried on. She’d only been there seven minutes, and was already the proud owner of one toast rack, and a small pair of brass-tipped bellows. Given open fireplaces were banned in London, she had been amazed at the number of enquiries she had from people looking for bellows in good working order. Perhaps there was a dark underbelly of London where residents lit illicit fires at night? Regardless, when she’d seen this pair she’d snapped them up. So much for the fair not starting till two o’clock. There were deals going on everywhere she looked.

  She stumbled across a militaria stand purely by accident. A large group of American tourists had barged past her, their girth multiplied by their bags and cameras slung round their necks, made passing them impossible, and she’d been pushed into a stall selling various small whatnots, music and folio stands, and a fine collection of canterburies – open-topped racks, originally designed for holding music, but more commonly used to hold magazines ... the right sort of magazines, of course. She’d paused to examine a walnut example with handles inlaid with mother-of-pearl, before she realised that this stall backed onto another stall in a different street.

  Reluctantly leaving the canterbury behind, because how on earth was she going to get it back to London, she focused her attention on the next stall. Large wooden racks, old bakers’ trays, were crammed full of helmets, from every theatre of war in modern memory. British, French, German, Prussian. Bayonets grouped together in an old brass shell casing. And tray upon tray of Perspex-covered medals. Tarnished dog tags were hung around a shop mannequin’s neck, with a Swiss Army helmet balanced precariously on the bald head.