Clara slipped the dead pilot’s letter into his jacket pocket, and packed it away from prying eyes. Hidden and forgotten.
Girls grow up. Some marry, some don’t. Clara never left her farm. Her memory grew hazy, till she couldn’t think to tell her nephews about the young men they’d rescued all those years ago. Men whose families would never know the truth that their sons and husbands, their brothers and lovers, had the touch of a caring heart right at the end.
And like all good things, Clara’s time came to an end. Funny old Aunt Clara, who spoke foolish things –about planes falling out of the sky, and handsome pilots holding her hands, when everyone knew she’d never left her family farm. Their simple spinster aunt, as bland as boiled cabbage. It’s a funny thing when you dismantle someone’s life after they’re gone. You could stumble across bundled old love letters, faded family photographs of relatives long forgotten. But Clara’s nephew could never have guessed the secrets long forgotten in the old farmhouse. If he’d given more thought as to the origin of the dusty box of dog tags, or the carefully preserved flying jacket, he might not have flogged them off so readily to the tinker who came knocking on his door one summer.
THE NIGHT
With Brooke in front of her, in such close proximity, Sarah couldn’t help but admire his sang-froid. There were no hints of panic or wary looks, no surreptitious prayers to God. He’d merely taken in his surroundings, drunk a dire mug of tea, and had taken her at her word.
Every time she’d needed him, he’d been there. On the ship, on the road, after Simeon. Calm, aloof to the point where she’d imagined he hadn’t cared for her. But he’d proven otherwise. Was he her knight in the dashing red uniform of Her Majesty’s army? A uniform entirely impractical. He was in a world he couldn’t possibly fathom. She should grab him now, and march him downstairs, double time, till she found something to send him back. That was the only fair thing to do. She could stay in India, with him. Bugger her father. She could do it. They could live a quiet life. Move back to England, away from the uprisings. She could adjust to the lack of electricity. She’d not miss mobile phones, or neon billboards, Pizza Hut or McDonalds. It would be easier for her than it would be for him.
All these thoughts, and a thousand others flashed across her mind, like meteors.
‘You’re thinking about how I don’t belong here. How you could possibly get me home – is that not true, Miss Williams?’
She flushed, ‘It’s Miss Lester, Sarah Lester ...’
‘Yes, of course, my mistake. You can forgive me one mistake, yes?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Could you forgive two?’
‘What’s the second mistake?’
‘This one’ – and he leaned towards her, kissing her, his unshaven face rasping against hers.
Sarah relaxed, her body answering his question.
Pulling away from her, he grasped her by the hands, and effortlessly pulled her to standing.
‘Am I to assume that society has relaxed her standards somewhat?’ he asked.
‘A little,’ Sarah replied, as he pulled her into his body, nestling against him like a Russian doll.
Brooke nuzzled at her neck, the softness of her cotton T-shirt intoxicating. His hands traced the shape of her waist, and down over her thighs.
Sarah sighed, tilting her head, exposing more of her neck. She’d imagined this, and so it was dreamlike – déjà vu – when he kissed her again.
Sarah broke away from his kiss. Confusion crossed his face, till Sarah took him by the hand and led him to her bedroom.
‘Miss Lester?’
‘You’re in the twenty-first century now, Major Brooke,’ Sarah said, and she pulled off her T-shirt, revealing one of the greatest inventions of the twentieth century, the Wonderbra.
Brooke’s hand moved to cup one breast, his other arm circling her waist, his touch cool against her skin.
‘No corset?’
Sarah laughed, snaking her own hand behind her back, unhooking the bra with the practised hand of a professional.
Brooke’s eyes never once left hers, save a small flick downwards towards her naked breasts.
‘I think I’m going to like this century,’ he murmured, nuzzling back into her neck.
Sarah pulled away, again. ‘You can’t stay here,’ she said, her face in shock at the thought of Brooke running rampant on the streets of London with his Victorian morals and concepts of justice and racial tolerance.
Brooke shook his head, clearing away the lust in his heart. ‘You remain a perplexing creature, Miss Lester. Am I not here now? Am I not flesh? Do I not have a say in this future we are in? A future together?’
‘A future?’
‘Us, together. Is that not what you want?’
Sarah’s mind went blank. She wanted her mother, and her father. She wanted time to rewind back to normality. She wanted this man.
‘Yes, that’s what I want,’ she whispered, ‘But how can we?’
‘Let’s start with this,’ he suggested, ignoring her breasts, instead taking her face in his hands and kissing her, lowering her gently to the tangle of unmade bed, where his hands did find her breasts – his mouth too.
His uniform lay in a crumpled heap next to her bra on the floor, their bodies joining together the way two lovers do after a long time of dancing around their desires.
And then they slept, entwined together, like natural lovers, comfortable with each other, and themselves. Their worries forgotten until the next day.
THE STATION
Annabel Lester trudged up to the police station, a small leather suitcase gripped in one hand, her face pale.
The whole situation was ludicrous. She had never asked for this life. At home she’d barely ever made it to church for Easter or Christmas. The one time she’d tried to go to a Christmas Day service, in Edinburgh, she’d slept in and by the time she’d made it to the cathedral, it was locked up tighter than the Crown Jewels. So much for Christian charity, she’d thought at the time. The same thoughts were going through her head now.
Thrown out of the Manse. No notice period. No pay. No reference. She wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on it. They couldn’t bring her any lower than she was when the Reverend Cummings had rescued her, before he himself had been turfed out on his ear.
At least she’d been allowed to rescue her treasures – completely worthless things now, she thought, grimacing as she calculated how very little she had to get by. Which was why she was about to throw herself on the mercy of the Warden, only she had no idea where he was.
Approaching the desk sergeant, she swallowed her pride, donned her colonial persona, and asked for Price.
The pipe in Sergeant Jock Crave’s mouth stilled as he eyed up the woman in front of him. They had a fair few women come through the station, mainly for the one reason, and not many, if any, had ever sauntered up to his desk, as calm as you please, asking for one of the Queen’s men.
He took his rich-brown puriri wood pipe from his mouth, knocked out the dottle before tightly repacking the bowl with fresh tobacco, while he considered her question, ‘Warden Price isn’t here right now, he’s been reassigned ...’
Annabel’s face fell. If she hadn’t been leaning on the counter she would have crumpled to the floor. No. She was stronger than that. Swallowing, she tried again, ‘Do you know where he’s been reassigned?’ she asked, her voice only slightly betraying her rising panic.
‘Mmm ... mmm,’ Jock replied, a delightful Scottish answer which is neither a ‘yes’ nor a ‘no’.
‘I know where he’s been reassigned to, Mrs Lester, but he’s not gone yet – he’s gone back to his room to pack and settle his bill.’ Greene had appeared behind Annabel, and answered for the sergeant. ‘Best you come with me, and we can catch him before he heads off. I know he was eager to speak with you before he left.’
Annabel averted her eyes from the desk sergeant, who’d allowed his pipe to extinguish – unheard of inattention to his favourite
pipe – and followed Greene from the station, allowing him to take her bag. The chivalrous manners of Victorian gentlemen – well, most – continued to surprise her, and she’d quickly become accustomed to accepting their offers of assistance.
They walked companionably down the road, each lost in their own thoughts.
‘Do you think he’ll mind me turning up?’ Annabel asked as they walked.
‘I’ve not known him long, but this has been the happiest I’ve seen him. You’ve helped put his demons to bed, of that I’m certain.’
‘The weather is turning, it’s going to be very cold soon,’ Annabel added, completely changing the topic.
‘Aye, and this town is going to be full of unemployed men looking for a warm place to sleep, a bite to eat, a job. The goldfields are hell in winter. Soil as solid as ice. Weather that’ll turn your fingers and toes black, if you’ve got any fingers or toes left from the last winter ...’
‘You sound like you’ve lived that life,’ Annabel observed.
‘Not me – my father. Made our lives miserable. Would have been better if he’d stuck to farming, but no, when the fever strikes, it hits hard. My two brothers never followed him, though – saw how it broke our mother. There’s not much you can do when you’re only left with four fingers between your two hands.’
The sounds of progress filled the streets around them, carriages moved sedately down the road, ferrying passengers home or away, to business, or for pleasure. Annabel loved playing the guessing game; who was behind the door? Where were they going?
Her daydreams were interrupted when Greene announced, ‘Here we are.’
Annabel hadn’t really registered where they were, but they’d just walked back the way she’d come, until they were outside Wains Hotel.
‘Best you wait, and I can go up and tell him you’re here,’ Greene offered. Propriety must be observed, regardless of the odd circumstances of the Manse’s housekeeper turning up at the station with a suitcase.
‘No, it’s quite OK, Mr Greene. Thank you for showing me where he is, but I think I will take it from here ...’
‘But, you can’t go up to his room ...’ Greene protested, ‘They’ll think you’re a ...’
‘Should I care what people think of me? Does it matter? I know who I am. One of the best pieces of advice I can give you is, stop worrying about what other people think of you. Their thoughts about you do not matter.’ Then she laughed. ‘But you’ll only realise the truth of what I say when you’re older – advice is wasted on the young. Now, which room is he in?’
Annabel made her way up the carpeted stairs to the first floor. The hotel still had a newness about it, where the skirting boards were pristine; expensive wallpaper, fashionable for the time – stylised oak leaves on maroon background – was unmarked or marred by water stains.
She found herself outside Price’s door. She brought her hand up to knock, when the door opened.
‘Mrs Lester!’
‘Mr Price, I was wondering if I could come in?’
Price hesitated – his landlady had been explicit when she’d told him “No Female Companions”. Given he was leaving today, he considered this minor breach of her rules acceptable. He welcomed Annabel to his room, then shut the world out behind them.
‘I have to be honest and say I never expected to see you here, at the hotel ...’
‘And I didn’t expect to be here either, but things all went a bit pear-shaped after you left.’
Price rubbed his chin, ‘With the Bishop?’
‘In the end, yes, but it was his lackey who fired the first shot. The Bishop didn’t need much persuading.’ She stared down, her shoulders finally sagging with the weight of her predicament.
Taking her suitcase, he directed her to the chair by the window, ‘Sit down. Tell me, where will you go?’
‘I have nothing here to hold me any more. No family. My friends are fair-weather friends from church. They’ll shun me like week-old milk. I have no place here.’
‘Do you have somewhere to go? Back to England perhaps? To your family there?’
Annabel covered her face with her hands, silent sobs shook her body.
‘I have no family here. As for my family there, I have no one any more. No one but you.’ She looked up at Price, her eyes red with tears.
He knelt down, ‘No one, Mrs Lester?’
Annabel looked up at his face. His strong face. His quiet eyes, and replied, ‘Only you.’
Price nodded, heart beating wildly in his chest. What he was about to do went against everything, all he knew.
‘Come with me. We head north, to the Bay of Plenty. I don’t know what awaits us there. It could be war with the natives, or it could be peace. Life will be hard, and I cannot promise you anything, apart from my love.’
THE EMAIL
With Bishop Shalfoon’s auction bid for the small Roman statue the highest, he was confident the piece would be going nowhere in the immediate present. He’d recovered from his almost rash decision of trying to uplift the statue the night the auction ended, which would have caused all sorts of administrative complications. Instead, he’d returned to the apartment he kept in London and had made his nightly call to his mother, sharing with her his frustrations at the business acumen of some sectors of society, with which she naturally agreed. Her clever son, she was fond of telling people.
Instead of making any hasty moves, he’d fired off an email to Gemma at the Art Loss Register, explaining his findings, and requesting she attend The Old Curiosity Shop with him on Monday morning.
Unbeknownst to Shalfoon, his email sent ripples of shock around the Art Loss Register office.
‘Ryan? Can you pop over here for a moment, please?’ Gemma called across the room, causing a small number of meerkat-like heads to pop up from their work stations.
‘What? You’ve never heard me say “please” before?’ she shot back snidely, her morning already way out of balance from the moment she’d read Shalfoon’s message. Admittedly he’d sent it last week, but she’d been on leave, a mini-break to Scotland of all places, for a wedding, so had purposely not checked her email, till this morning.
Ryan walked over to her desk, coffee in hand, ‘Morning, Gem, you’re in a good mood today,’ and he winked at her.
‘Not helping, Ryan. Read this,’ and she pointed at her screen.
‘The Old Curiosity Shop? That’s Sarah Lester’s shop, right. Jesus,’ he laughed, ‘Quite literally, Jesus now. Fuck, this is way too complicated. What are you going to do?’
‘The only thing I can do, hand it over to the police. Because you know why? The way things are going around here, Grey will be involved somehow. I can feel it in here,’ pointing to her head. She closed her eyes, ‘It’s giving me a headache just trying to unravel the links. He makes a pretty convincing case, so we’ll have to get the police involved. And because he doesn’t know what we know about the place.’ Looking at Ryan’s mug of coffee, she held out her hand.
Ryan laughed and handed it to her, ‘I’ll get myself another one. What time do you want to meet him?’
‘I’ll just ring the inspector, make sure he can meet us. I’ll let you know. So, you’ll come with me then?’
‘Of course! I’m not missing this show. Most exciting thing that’s happened since my last murder,’ he joked.
‘Not funny, Ryan, not funny. Well, kind of funny, but not actually funny. I don’t know. At this rate we’ll have to investigate everything that woman has in her shop. The only thing not in her shop is her.’
THE UNPACKING
Nicole unlocked the shop, pulling behind her the two wheeled suitcases she’d lugged on and off trains, the same way the world’s strongest man practised for his competitions. She could have sworn she’d developed similar muscles in the few days she’d been in Lille. She likened her visit to waking up in Ali Baba’s treasure cave, but only being able to bring out a handful of the treasure she knew was there.
She paused – the atmosphere in th
e shop was somehow different from when she left. She shook her head. That was just stupid. But when you’re surrounded with things from the past, they tend to have absorbed the feelings, the emotions, from their previous owners, and then shed them in their new environment. A silly thought really, but it was a vibe she’d had, even when she’d worked at Tamworth Castle.
Flicking the switch on the kettle, she unzipped the first bag. Such a moment of excitement. She may have bought all these treasures thinking they’d be great sellers in the shop, but the real moment of truth, the moment where her purchase decisions made sense – or didn’t – was when they were sitting on the counter, mingling with everything else in the cluttered space.
How do they fit with the overall vibe of the shop? Does their flea market eclectic coolness translate to a little brick shop in London? Will our customers love them?
First out of the case was a box of old keys, long iron keys, the sort a chatelaine would have carried about her person, as she managed her chateau. Hugely popular, and not cheap, even at the flea market. At a minimum, she’d be selling these for ten pounds each. Still, some good profit to be had.
Her system was methodical, and simple – unpack, enter into purchases register, price, move to the side of the counter. That way there’d be no chance of getting into a muddle. She tried not to think of all the stock downstairs, waiting for a home, or space on a shelf. She tried to blank from her mind the possible outcome of Sarah and Patricia’s disappearance. She’d keep working till someone with authority told her not to. Her pay was automatic, so, as long as she kept filling the bank account by selling stuff, she’d keep getting paid. It was a terrifying thought that at any moment a solicitor could walk in here and shut it all down. So she kept that thought firmly locked behind a door in her mind.
Next she unpacked a set of apothecary jars, their gilt labels pristine, cork stoppers intact. It was entirely possible that the cork stoppers weren’t original. There would have been glass stoppers originally, given the corrosiveness of the original contents, but the cork stoppers looked the part, and most people bought the bottles purely for display purposes.
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