The Case of the Missing Letter

by Alison Golden

  Now he turned to her, blinking, confused. “Hurt anyone?”

  “The guard. The one who died,” she said quietly, careful not to sound accusatory. “It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

  Don’s mouth fell open. “Died?” he stuttered. “What?”

  “What did you want with the desk, Don?” Charlotte persisted. “Why were you there?”

  Don’s hands were fixed, vice-like, on the stone wall of the fortress, as if he feared a strong gust of wind might blow him from the battlements and into the Channel.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he repeated. “I didn’t hurt anyone. Do you really think I’d risk a criminal record, my life, all over your vile father’s lump of old wood?

  “Then why are you here? On Jersey?”

  “It was something my mother said,” he managed to utter through gritted teeth. “The day she died.”

  “What did your mother say about it?”

  “She said your father was always sitting there. At the desk, working. I just wanted to see it for myself. Yes, I went to the museum to see it, but in daylight. I never laid a finger on any guard.”

  “So that’s all this is, Don? A trip? A quest to satisfy your curiosity over something you’ve never professed to be interested in before and one I can’t fathom why you’d be interested in now?”

  She turned to leave, but Don caught her arm. “Off back to that quaint, oh-so twee constituency of yours? Market Ellestry isn’t it?” he said sweetly, drawing breath. “More campaigning to do?”

  Charlotte shrugged. “Actually, I thought I’d stay around here for a couple of days,” she said, lifting her chin and looking down her nose at him. Then her tone changed and her face became a dark scowl. “Enjoy your little break.”

  Charlotte wrestled her arm from Don’s grip and stalked back to the doorway, the steps down to street level unfurling behind it. She left Don alone with the wind, the bright, sparkling ocean, and his own gnawing worries. It was time to take a different tack.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  GRAHAM BEGAN A third page of notes, flipping through another volume on eighteenth-century furniture until he found the section he needed. Amid the peace and quiet of a space intended only for learning and research, he was dedicating an hour to understanding the context of the object in this case. It made a pleasant change from interviewing low-rent criminals and calming upset and irate members of the public. His general knowledge was broad. He could usually answer eight out of ten questions on Mastermind, even the specialist rounds, and on more than one occasion, he had found himself banned from Jersey pub quizzes after inordinate solo successes. Nevertheless, he was ignorant on the work of Ezekiel Satterthwaite.

  The records showed that the desk by which Nobby had been found was one of only three Satterthwaite ever made. The others resided in the private study of Emperor Akihito of Japan and in the opulent Sultan’s Palace in Brunei. At auction, a Satterthwaite Desk would, according to one estimate, fetch at least $1 million and perhaps much more.

  Graham tutted when he read this. Displaying an asset worth that much without investing in comprehensive security measures or even informing the local police of its value was negligent bordering on the criminal. No wonder Adam Harris-Watts was such a wreck.

  “Are you finding everything you need?”

  Graham set aside his reading glasses and saw that Laura had returned to his table for the fourth time, seemingly to check on his progress.

  “Do you have anything on Captain J. R. D. Forsyth of the Royal Jersey Militia?”

  “Let me look,” Laura replied.

  Graham watched Laura walk away to consult the library’s computer. She returned a few minutes later carrying five books, all with bubblegum pink sticky notes poking from between the pages like garish tongues.

  “Excellent, thank you,” Graham said. “I’m almost finished, in fact. Once again, I must congratulate the library on its collection. For a place so small,” he said, glancing around, “it really is well stocked.”

  Laura beamed at him. “I’m glad,” she said. “Do let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

  “Actually,” Graham said as Laura began to turn to head back to the distribution desk, “there is.” He had spoken without much thought and now felt committed. A wave of anxiety froze him for a second, but then he saw her smile once more and the words somehow came out. “I wonder if you’d like to have coffee with me sometime.” His chest thumped. “If you’re free, of course.”

  Laura’s face showed many emotions in a busy split-second. There was surprise, as though this were the last thing she’d expected. She was flattered, he could tell, but there was something else; a kind of worry that seemed out of place. Graham expected that she would have thought such an invitation possible or even likely, but his request left her silent for so long that he began to chastise himself. She was new to Gorey, and he didn’t know what kind of romantic situation she might already be involved in.

  “Yes,” she said finally, and laughed. “Sorry, it’s been a while since anyone invited me out. I’d love to.”

  “Well, splendid,” Graham said, finding his words far too formal as soon as he’d said them. “Great,” he tried instead. “Let’s set a time up tonight.”

  “I’ll be working, but you can always text me.”

  Laura glanced around for a moment, as if afraid of being seen giving her number to a library patron – a handsome, single one, at that. She quickly jotted it down and delivered one more sunny smile before returning to her work.

  Graham quietly finished his research and returned the hardback books to the correct shelf. He strode out into the afternoon sunshine, feeling as good as he had in a long while. He considered his next step. He’d consult his junior colleagues back at the station. Perhaps one of them might teach him how to send a text.

  Lillian paced angrily around the front room of her spacious town house, listening to the repeated tones of Charlotte’s phone. There would be the requisite six rings, and then the all-too-familiar invitation to leave a voicemail. She almost screamed at the sound of Charlotte’s recorded voice, promising that the call would be answered, “Just as soon as I am able.” Deciding against leaving her fourth message of the day, Lillian considered violently pummeling one of the violet pillows that adorned her couch. Instead, she lit a cigarette and headed for the back bedroom where she found it therapeutic to yell at the two young volunteers she had drafted into working for Charlotte’s campaign. They had already found that negotiating or debating with Lillian – or worse still, trying to placate her or calm her down – was utterly futile and likely only to result in further outbursts of incandescent rage. They constantly kept an ear open for her footsteps on the stairs in order to brace themselves for an onslaught while feverishly discussing walking out on the job and whether or not they were brave enough to do it.

  Back downstairs, Lillian called Charlotte again. “How in the name of Margaret Thatcher am I supposed to help you,” she growled as the phone rang yet again, “if you won’t even speak to me?”

  Then the miraculous happened. “Lillian?” Charlotte said. “Sorry about that. Busy day. How are you?”

  Rather uncharacteristically, the sheer relief of getting hold of her client after hours of radio silence prompted Lillian to take two deep breaths before answering. Her tone was measured and reasonable, which was a long way from how she truly felt. “I do hope,” she said through gritted teeth, “that you’ll be good enough to pick up the phone when the Prime Minister calls on election night to congratulate you.”

  Charlotte remained silent. She had anticipated a few moments of acidic fury from her campaign manager.

  “I demand that you come back to Market Ellestry right away. Your constituents need you. There’s a lot to catch up on. Come home now, and I will deal with Don English. Then we can forget this little jaunt ever happened.”

  There were five seconds of resulting silence that did nothing to lower Lillian’s sky-high bloo
d pressure. “I need a couple more days,” Charlotte finally said, “I’m in the middle of something very important.”

  “Oh, good!” Lillian replied with feigned brightness. “I’m so glad it’s important. Something about a desk, wasn’t it? Doing a little antiquing, are we? Attending the odd roadshow?”

  Charlotte ignored Lillian’s sarcasm and got to the point. “Lilly, I need you to do something for me…”

  When the call ended, Lillian sat on her couch for a while, feeling the anger coursing through her. Only after a couple of minutes did she look down and notice that her unconscious squeezing of the cellphone in her hand had left a sharp indentation in her palm. She stood. She had things to do, but she would do them in a moment. First, she returned upstairs to do the only thing that might help her mood: vent some more of her ceaseless fury upon the utterly petrified, blameless volunteers.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  FELIPE SAT DOWN slowly. He took off his glasses and poured himself another cup of thick, strong coffee from his battered, metal flask. He rubbed his eyes and blinked a few times, noting again just how tiring this close, exacting work could be. He had found sleep nearly impossible the night before. Instead of disturbing Rosa with his tossing and turning, he had headed down to his workshop to continue examining the Satterthwaite Desk and plan the layers of varnish which would salve its unfortunate injuries.

  The damage could have been worse. The wood was slightly bent but not chipped away, and there were no signs of structural faults to the desk itself. Such a heavy impact could have knocked the desk’s delicate features out of alignment or cracked one of the internal braces which buttressed the piece. Happily, such severe damage had been avoided.

  Felipe was deeply disturbed by what he had found the day before. Whenever he stood and took a moment’s respite from his work, he found his thoughts bothering him. A repair that should have been the pleasure of a lifetime had now become a taxing, debilitating ordeal.

  Still, he was making progress. The security guard’s blood was all gone from the wood, and the area had been carefully but comprehensively disinfected. On arriving at his workshop just after four o’clock this morning, Felipe had once again checked the workshop’s temperature and humidity. They had held steady overnight, and the initial layer of varnish had dried perfectly, just as he had hoped. The second layer was drying now, and he was already preparing the third, a darker tone of polish mixed from three sources. He would need only a tiny amount, but every layer was important. If the underlying work wasn’t perfect, the newly varnished corner would reflect light incorrectly and have a different feel under his fingertips.

  As he drank his coffee, Felipe’s mind wandered yet again. His were painful memories. Eventually, he shrugged them off. There was work to do, and this desk demanded his very best. He knelt by the damaged corner once more and applied a third layer of varnish with the care and attentiveness of a heart surgeon. During those moments, nothing in the world existed but the damaged surface and his brush. He watched every hair, every movement, every millimeter of the application. After fifteen minutes, he stood slowly, rubbing his aching knees, and found himself reminded again of the strange discovery this fine desk had brought.

  While the layer dried, he made more coffee and searched on his cellphone for information on the desk’s former owner. He learned that Sir Thomas Hughes was a hero to some and a villain to many. One photo of him working at the Satterthwaite Desk survived. Hughes’ hair awry, his back to the camera, he was working amid piles of papers strewn all over, while a black spaniel, seated by the chair, looked up imploringly at his frantically busy master. In that single snapshot, Hughes seemed to be a man possessed.

  “Was it guilt?” Felipe asked the photograph, in the silence of his workshop. “Is that what was driving you?” He pictured Hughes trying desperately to atone for a life of compromises and selfishness, an existence motivated far too much by greed and not nearly enough by compassion. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, and as he read what he had found once again, he reminded himself just how complex a man Sir Thomas must have been.

  The fourth coat of varnish went on smoothly, raising the damaged layer a little further. Once it dried, it would offer a solid base for the next coat as he built up the marred section of wood. Absentmindedly, Felipe reached for his flask. He needed more coffee. Finding the container empty, he turned toward the tiny kitchenette he’d built in the corner of the workshop and set the flask in the sink before reaching into the cupboard for a bag of coffee beans. He heard a rip as a seam in his workman’s jacket came undone.

  Rosa knocked on the workshop door.

  “Si, mi amor?” he said, as he always did.

  “Are you busy, Felipe?” she replied through the door.

  “Just stitching my jacket, my love.”

  “There’s a phone call for you. It’s about the desk, but they would not say more,” she told him.

  Felipe frowned and opened the door, itself a product of his fine craftsmanship. “The desk?” he asked and took the cordless landline from his wife. She shrugged. She had known Felipe for enough years to know when a project was weighing heavily on him, and she knew this desk was providing a unique challenge even for a man as skilled as he. Felipe smiled at her fondly and closed the door.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Barrios, I’m grateful for a moment of your time.” It was a strange voice, slightly metallic and false, with no sense of gender at all. “I understand that you’re repairing the Satterthwaite Desk.”

  “That’s correct,” Felipe responded guardedly. “Who is speaking, please?”

  “I’m an antique collector and a big Satterthwaite fan. Could I possibly arrange a visit so that I could see the desk for a few moments? It would be a huge privilege. Would this afternoon be convenient?”

  Felipe’s frown deepened. “Ah, no. I’m afraid not. Visitors are not allowed in the workshop. And this is a sensitive matter, I’m sure you understand,” he said.

  “Quite so,” the voice said. Felipe thought it most odd that it contained neither male nor female markers. It was more like speaking with a machine. It was chilling, and it did not dispose him well to this unexpected caller, who hadn’t properly introduced themselves. “I wonder, how are the repairs progressing?” the caller asked.

  There seemed no harm in answering honestly. “Quite well. The damage was not as severe as it might have been. But, I must ask again, who is this speaking?”

  “That’s good news. Very good,” the voice said. “Did you find anything unusual?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something inside the desk?” the voice asked.

  There were perhaps ten seconds of silence. “No. Nothing,” Felipe finally said.

  “I understand,” the voice intoned. “It is not something that is easy to discuss on the phone. Perhaps we could meet this afternoon? Outside your workshop, if you prefer.”

  Felipe found his courage once more. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. I am fully committed to repairing the desk, and I don’t know you at all. You have not told me who you are.”

  “I believe,” the voice said, its tone changing slightly, “that you’ll find meeting with me worth your while.”

  “No,” Felipe reiterated. “I’m sorry. I’m not able to help you.”

  “Come now, Mr. Barrios. I have an offer to make you. Shall we say,” the voice proposed, “thirty thousand pounds for the letter?”

  Felipe’s eyes widened. “There is no letter,” he said steadily. “I don’t know who you are, but there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “Ah,” the voice said. “Well, just so there’s no misunderstanding, shall we call it forty thousand?”

  Madre de Dios… “There is,” Felipe repeated, “no letter.”

  There was a metallic sigh. “Very well, but please take time to reconsider. It would be in your best interest. I will be in touch. In the meantime, good luck with your repairs.” Click.

  Felipe dropped the phone
from his ear and carefully placed it on the workbench. He leaned against the side, the heels of his hands taking his weight. He bent his head as he took in the implications of the call. At length, he returned to polishing the desk, using the focus required to block out his anxieties, but not before re-checking that all his windows were bolted and the door firmly locked.

  Felipe worked late again, and by two o’clock in the morning, the fifth layer of polish was drying. A cat mewled loudly outside, and he heard a scratching, scrabbling sound from the back of the workshop. “No mice for you tonight, Leo?” he said.

  He paused for a second, trying to calculate just how much coffee he had drunk during this long, complicated day. “Too much,” he muttered, but he knew that he had to work. His painstaking restoration of the desk was the only way to occupy his troubled mind.

  There was a creak behind him. He started to turn, but too late he felt a tremendous thump on the back of his head. His forehead crashed into the counter, and his knees collapsed beneath him. The weight of his lower body forced his head back, and as gravity exerted its force, his chin again hit the countertop. The floor came up to meet him and there he lay prone, helpless, a small trickle of blood zig-zagging from the corner of his mouth down to the tile of the workshop floor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  JIM ROACH SHIFTED in his swivel chair behind the reception desk so that he could place his aching ankle on the lowest shelf to his left. The ice packs were helping, but he couldn’t remember taking a more ferocious whack to the shin than the “defensive tackle” he had endured a few nights before.

  “Still in the wars, Jim?” Sergeant Harding asked as she came out from her small office.

  “Didn’t even get a foul out of it,” Roach complained. “If the referee could have seen a replay, he’d have given the guy a yellow card. No doubt about it.” The bruising had peaked in the form of an angry, dark purple oval.