The Last Letter

by Kirsten McKenzie

  Assuming Sarah was dead, her body was most likely hidden deep in the impenetrable bush covering this land, slowly decaying, returning her to nature. He only hoped Sinclair was quick about it. He would surface, Price was sure of it. With the candelabra, unless they’d been melted down already. That, of course, was a possibility –they could be little more than misshapen lumps of silver, minus their assay marks.

  ‘When will you leave?’ Greene asked, his shoulders slumped forward.

  ‘In a couple of days. There are some things I need to sort out here first.’

  ‘Mrs Lester?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Everyone knows you took her out. How do you think I found you the other day? There’s no secrets in this town. She needs to be careful though – the Bishop’s man doesn’t like her. You’ll need to be careful he doesn’t get the pip that their housekeeper is entertaining a man ...’

  ‘She’s a grown woman. Widowed. Taking tea with an employee of the Crown. Hardly cause for any gossip. I thought we’d escaped that sort of society by leaving England?’

  ‘You don’t know the Bishop. Any smear of impropriety, and he’s all over it. He’s still new to town, but there’s hardly anything he doesn’t have his finger on. He’s actively trying to shut down anything that’s ...’ Greene was interrupted by the Sub-inspector entering the room. Most of the constables were assembled already, and the general noise ebbed away.

  ‘Right, lads, be on the lookout for a Samuel Beeby – seems he assaulted a constable last night who was trying to question him about a break-in at Simpson’s store. He took off, with two or three accomplices. We’ve not been able to track him down. Constable Swan is recovering at home, and will be back on board tomorrow but, all things considered, it’s your priority today to locate Mr Beeby and bring him in for questioning. Last night, a cart was backed into Mr Solomon’s shop, his front window broken, its framework damaged. You’ll remember his shop was robbed earlier this year, being that he is a gold assayer and jeweller. The earlier robbery remains unsolved, and it’s possible this latest break-in was by the same persons,’ the Sub-inspector went on to allocate various officers to the crime, and other such cases which were ongoing.

  Price listened to it all. Crime tended to be the same regardless of where you lived. Criminals followed the money, and gold was an easy portable target. Alcohol was nearly always the culprit for petty misdemeanours and public nuisance complaints. If you outlawed alcohol, and eliminated greed, life would be utopian.

  The room was dismissed, and like a wave, ranks of blue serge-wearing colonial men flowed out of the room, their ruggedness an echo of the land they inhabited.

  ‘I’m off too – I’ve a letter I need to get to the Manse,’ Price said to Greene.

  ‘Don’t forget what I said about the Bishop, and his man,’ Greene replied. ‘Probably better to use a boy to deliver it for you,’ he suggested helpfully.

  ‘It’s not from me – it’s a letter from the lad in hospital, to his mother. I was rather hoping to utilise the goodwill of the Church to post it for him, given the Church has taken the time to teach the boy his letters.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Greene said, eyebrows raised.

  Price laughed, ‘Fine, you don’t believe me. Off you go now, you’ve a robbery to solve. I’ll catch up with you at midday. Remember what I said the other day, follow the money. After the robbery of a jewellery shop, they’ll be wanting to get rid of the jewels as quickly as possible. Most criminals don’t have the wherewithal to hold onto their ill-gotten goods till the heat dies down. Back when I was in New South Wales, one jeweller was robbed, then two weeks later, another member of the gang unknowingly tried to sell some of the stolen jewellery back to the original shop.’

  ‘How’d that happen?’ Greene asked, perplexed.

  ‘Simple case of the left hand not knowing what the right is doing. Ended up arresting all of them. Jeweller got back some of his things, and a fist-sized lump of gold – they’d already melted most of it down. That’s another thing to look for, someone who has the right gear to melt gold; a crucible, and extreme heat. And you don’t find those on every street corner. Be smart about it, Greene, and you’ll find the stuff before I’m back from my errand.’ Price shoved his hat back on his head, and left, leaving Greene writing furiously in his notebook.

  Price slowly made his way to the Manse, marvelling again at the rate of progress in what had been, only a few short years ago, a tiny Presbyterian settlement. In his paper this morning, there’d been adverts for an operatic performance of The Barber of Seville, and billiard games, and a ball for the Benevolent Society – all activities previously considered unseemly by the strictly religious founders of Dunedin, and the Otago province. There had also been an advert for the auction of a four-roomed verandah cottage, complete with vegetable garden and fruit trees, well adapted for a respectable family. And he wondered, will I ever have a respectable family?

  Arriving at the Manse, he walked up the path. Its garden was a mere shadow of what it had once been under the green thumbs of Reverend Cummings. The autumnal chill was now attacking the flowers left in once-glorious beds either side of the path. Would a respectable family cottage have a path lined with flower beds,Price mused before his hand reached for the gleaming brass door knocker.

  Annabel answered the door before his heartbeat had even reached a count of ten.

  ‘Warden Price,’ her eyes darted back behind her, checking the gloomy hall for any sign of Bailey.

  ‘Mrs Lester, sorry to call upon you so early in the day, but I had hoped to ask you for a favour?’

  Annabel’s eyes widened. The longer the door was open, the greater the chances Bailey would discover her talking to Price. While parishioners often called, they were usually middle-aged women with pressing concerns about the state of the settlement. Those discussions were usually full of gossip and vitriol, which the Bishop lapped up like a cat with cream in its saucer.

  ‘Sorry, William, but you being here really isn’t great timing ...’

  Price’s heart thumped at the use of his first name, a touch of familiarity he was entirely unprepared for.

  ‘I assure you, it’s with the best intentions. There’s a young lad in the hospital, he’s no family here. I haven’t the heart to tell him his brother died in Bruce Bay ...’

  ‘The poor boy. But I don’t see how I can help. Really, I think you should probably go. You’ve no idea what they’ll do if they see me fraternising with you at the door-’

  ‘Hardly fraternising, Mrs Lester. Please, I just have this letter that I’d ask you to add to your outgoing post. It is but a small favour I ask,’ he pushed Colin’s letter towards Annabel. She automatically reached for it.

  ‘Mrs Lester, why not invite our guest inside,’ came a voice from beyond the gloom.

  Annabel jumped.

  ‘It’s nothing, just a delivery. She stuffed the envelope into her pocket, her eyes apologetic as she hurriedly closed the door on Price, the brass knocker clanking, terminating the conversation. And the relationship?

  Annabel turned to face the disembodied voice.

  ‘A delivery? But I see nothing in your hands?’ Norman Bailey was positively foaming at the mouth. The whore had been entertaining the man from the café, and at the door of the Bishop’s house, a place second only in holiness to the church. The nerve of her. Wait till the Bishop heard.

  ‘Perhaps I wasn’t clear – it was a query about a delivery. The man wasn’t sure where he should be delivering it, here or the church. It’s sorted now.’

  ‘All lies, Mrs Lester – filthy lies, straight from the mouth of Satan. The Bishop will hear of this as soon as he returns. Mark my words, you’ll be gone, on the streets, with naught but the clothes on your back. And not a second too soon for my liking.’ Smirking, he watched her stride down the hall. No, Not natural at all. Too tall. Too bold. Sent by the Devil.

  THE RUSE

  Albert Lester blinked. Unease settled around him, much
like the dust they’d disturbed when they’d entered the warehouse. He spun around, distress gripping his heart. This is bad, the worst possible outcome.

  He did a quick circuit of the warehouse – nothing. He thought back, trying to recall what she’d touched. Of course, that idiot Brooke passed her a handkerchief. Of all the bloody stupid things, a scrap of fabric. Stupid.

  Lester found the open carton. His hand hesitated above the stack of starched white squares. Should I? He knew the ramifications. What good would come of his return? His hand shook, wavering in midair like a mirage in the desert. What would his life be? Full of questions about his absence, his wife and child, his business.

  Lester closed his eyes, trying to bring up the face of his wife. It had been so long. Her face out of focus now, an old movie shuddering on its reels, the film itself decaying from age. Wherever she was, she wasn’t his any more.

  Lester snatched his hand away. No. Going back wasn’t the answer. Spinning on his heel, he strode from the warehouse. He’d have to deal with the consequences of their disappearance, but it could be done. India lent itself to disappearances. It was still a dangerous country. Wild animals abounded. Deserters hid in the shadows. And elopements were de rigueur.

  He pulled the warehouse door shut behind him, slamming the padlock shut. The locals paid no attention, focused as they were on sharing a bowl of dates in the sun, whilst studiously ignoring anyone who looked vaguely like they might want them to do some work.

  Taking a deep breath, he smoothed his jacket down. His decision had been made. That warehouse need never be opened again. Sarah’s friend was an unlucky consequence. I can tell the truth to her, later – much later. She seemed happy enough living out the fantasy that was Victorian India. He was pragmatic, but not heartless, despite what his daughter must think of him. She would always be his daughter, but this life was his adventure now. His parenting duties were over. She was a grown woman, and she didn’t need him now.

  Summoning a passing rickshaw, still a new phenomenon in Simla but a welcome one, he climbed up, giving the puller his destination. Straight back to the Viceregal Lodge. The natives wouldn’t comment on whether they’d seen Brooke and Sarah leave the warehouse, and he wouldn’t raise the alarm until someone else mentioned them. He had his own neck to protect. God knows, they’d all need protection in the coming months. The rebellion was coming.

  THE GOLD

  Aroha stumbled from the hospital, baby Sophia in one arm, and a brown paper bundle in the other. Her face was emotionless, heartbroken. Wiremu’s body, as equally broken as her heart, was to be consigned to the Municipal Burial Ground, to the north of Symonds Street. By rights, he should be taken to his ancestral home, but she had neither the funds nor the support to transport his body. With great reluctance, she’d left him in the care of the nurses, and with him she’d left her heart. There was nothing in her now except a foul anger.

  Looking vacantly down the street, she finally spied what she was looking for, a pawnbroker. Wiremu’s clothes, his good suit, wrapped in paper and pressed into her hands by the nurses, would give her enough, hopefully, to travel home. She’d wanted Wiremu buried in his best suit, but one of the nurses, an elderly sort, imminently more practical than emotional, suggested his suit was more valuable to her than it was to him. He’d be dressed appropriately for his burial, the nurse had promised, just not in his best suit.

  Swallowing her pride, she entered the premises of Henry Neumegen, Pawnbroker.

  The proprietor stood behind the polished counter in person, his bald head framed by impressive bushy sideburns and full moustache. His face remained impassive – he saw all sorts here, and it was not his place to judge his customers. Native women were, however, rare visitors to these premises.

  Placing the package on the counter, Aroha forced herself to meet the eyes of the man in front of her.

  ‘I have a gentleman’s suit I should like to pawn,’ she said, shifting the sleeping form of her daughter to a more comfortable position now both arms were free.

  ‘Of course,’ Neumegen replied. A recent immigrant, he’d quickly built up a reputation as a scrupulously honest dealer, one in which even the police had faith. Unwrapping the suit, he ignored the dark stains on the black material, fingering instead the weave of the fabric, examining the quality of the workmanship. Made by Archibald Clark and Sons, it was a suit of fine quality.

  ‘It is a fine suit, madam, but what of the man to whom it belonged? May I enquire as to his well-being?’

  Gathering her strength, Aroha replied, without emotion, ‘He has passed on, suddenly, and I am to return to my family, but lack the funds.’

  Neumegen ran his hands through the pockets of the suit. You never knew what gentlemen left there. He pulled out a handful of pounds.

  Aroha’s face lit up, her eyes darting from the notes to the pawnbroker’s face, and back again.

  ‘These must belong to you,’ Neumegen said.

  Aroha reached mutely for the notes.

  ‘They killed him for nothing,’ she said softly.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The Jowls, they killed him for nothing.’

  Neumegen looked to his door, shifting uncomfortably behind his counter.

  ‘Madam, I know nothing of what you speak, but may I be frank in my advice to you? Take this money, and leave. Tell no one of your good fortune. Never again mention that name. It will do you no good, and will not bring him back. Come now, put your money away ...’ he implored her to hide away the cash as he fastidiously repackaged the suit, trying to pass it back to her, wanting nothing further to do with the transaction. Almost every businessman in Auckland knew to steer clear of the Jowls. It did you no good to be on their wrong side.

  Almost pushing her from his shop, he directed her to the Redan Hotel, where the horse bus would return her to Onehunga on the half hour. Furtively he checked the street, before he shut the door, closing away the trouble which could have befallen him and his business.

  THE GIRL

  With a countryside torn to shreds, one more plane coming down was of no great consequence to anyone other than the pilot.

  As his mangled legs lay lovingly entwined with the metal wreck of his plane, Phil prayed to all the gods who’d ever lived, to end it quickly.

  His short life was but a blip on the timeline of the world. His lasting imprint would be nothing more than words on paper, and the tattered dreams of his widow.

  Closing his eyes against the pain, Phil imagined the children he’d never have; the love he’d never feel again; the touch of Elizabeth. He let the tears fall, their saltiness diluting the deep red of the blood staining his flying overalls.

  Slipping away, to that safe place we all have within ourselves, the place where pain can’t find us, where heartbreak has no entry. A place filled with life’s treasured moments, a kiss, a kind word, good deeds, sunsets. Phil was oblivious to the furtive figures running towards his plane, materialising out of the night, as if their clothing were made from the darkness itself.

  Wooden handled tools in their rough hands attacked the plane. Wrenching, pulling, gouging the canopy. Prising it off. The Spitfire under siege by these apparitions. Muffled curses, quiet orders. As one, this group operated like surgeons on a patient, till Phil’s useless legs were freed, his body plucked from the wreckage, spirited away. To safety. Then the plane was raped, for anything of value, of use. Done in silence, in orderly fashion, a production line of destruction. Then, like a mist, they disappeared. Back to their beds, their farms, their families.

  Tonight one French family would have a new member, although he was waiting patiently outside the gates of heaven. Waiting for the moment he would be allowed to enter, free of pain, of fear. Released.

  Clara Bisset bathed the blood from the Englishman, the light of the stubby candle enough to see that he wouldn’t be with them for long, just like the others who’d been spirited to their home in the middle of many nights during this war. A stupid war run by stupid men,
for stupid reasons. But she was just a girl, what did she know?

  She’d stripped him of his jacket and overalls. The overalls, unsalvageable, had been cut into ribbons, rolled up and squirrelled away. They’d be of use at some stage. His jacket, she’d slipped on – the sheepskin lining making her the warmest she’d been all winter – and she snuggled deeper into it as she watched her patient in the flickering candlelight, oblivious to the crinkling of a letter in the pocket.

  Phil struggled through the night. His mind a flickering film of his life. Childhood memories wrapped up in sunlight. Warm dinners served with laughter and joy. The lightness of freedom as he took his first flight. His first kiss – his last kiss.

  That kiss a reminder of what he was about to leave behind. He struggled through the blanket of death settling upon him, forcing his eyes open where they focussed on Clara at his side, her eyes telling him what he already felt.

  ‘A letter, will you write a letter for me?’

  Clara scrabbled for a pen and paper in the candlelight.

  Haltingly, Phil dictated his last letter, which began with “Darling Elizabeth, this was not meant to be the last page of my letter to you; not the end of our story ...”

  The letter finished, Clara stretched her cramping hand. She tried to give solace to the man, the man with so much love in his heart for another.

  He closed his eyes. His letter done. And took his last breath.

  Clara and her family dug a new grave, a private grave. Unmarked to anyone’s eyes except theirs. Dog tags carefully removed, secreted in a tin under a floorboard. His location concealed.