The Last Letter Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Last Letter

  THE PACKAGE

  THE BAY

  THE WARDEN

  THE SHOP

  THE EXPERTS

  THE ADVISOR

  THE VISITOR

  THE MOTHER

  THE INKWELL

  THE LETTER

  THE CELLAR

  THE ANTIPODEAN

  THE WINDOW

  THE ASSOCIATION

  THE RETURN

  THE WAR

  THE ARGUMENT

  THE PRISONER

  THE INVESTIGATION

  THE ARAB

  THE OFFICIAL

  THE TOWN

  THE WARDEN

  THE PLAYER

  THE CAPTIVE

  THE CUSTOMER

  THE CANDELABRA

  THE ENVELOPE

  THE NATIVE

  THE RESPONSE

  THE HOUSEKEEPER

  THE ESCAPE

  THE MILLER

  THE SHOP

  THE DESIGNER

  THE ASSISTANT

  THE RAJA

  THE WOOD CHOPPER

  THE BISHOP

  THE PHONE CALL

  THE TRADERS

  THE OFFICER

  THE LETTER – PAGE 2

  THE AUCTIONEER

  THE LANDING

  THE KNOCKER

  THE MEN

  THE JOURNEY

  THE DOLL

  THE VILLAGER

  THE ACCIDENT

  THE ROMANS

  THE MORNING

  THE RUG

  THE ARTIST

  THE FAIR

  THE BROTHERS

  THE VAN

  THE AMERICAN

  THE AUCTION

  THE FAMILY

  THE STAFFROOM

  THE TOWN

  THE SCHOOL

  THE SERMON

  THE SHOW

  THE MAJOR

  THE LORD

  THE DELIVERY

  THE INTRODUCTION

  THE PILOT

  THE LODGE

  THE BOYFRIEND

  THE MARRIAGE

  THE SEARCH

  THE REVENGE

  THE DINNER

  THE INVESTIGATION

  THE SAMPLER

  THE MUSEUM

  THE ADZE

  THE DEAL

  THE INTERVIEW

  THE SAVOY

  THE JOURNEY

  THE LETTER – PAGE 3

  THE POLICE

  THE WALK

  THE CHURCH

  THE WEBSITE

  THE PURCHASE

  THE SHOPPERS

  THE GERMANS

  THE SICKNESS

  THE EMPLOYEE

  THE SHIPMENT

  THE PRIEST

  THE POLICE

  THE DATE

  THE TICKET

  THE RETURN

  THE MOTHER

  THE STATUE

  THE BUYER

  THE SON

  THE LUNCH

  THE BOAT

  THE PATIENT

  THE MISSION

  THE SAMPLER

  THE FIGHT

  THE WIFE

  THE DOWNFALL

  THE CALL

  THE MOLE

  THE HOSPITAL

  THE FAIR

  THE WAREHOUSE

  THE LETTER – PAGE 4

  THE SHOP

  THE TRADER

  THE INVALID

  THE RUSE

  THE GOLD

  THE GIRL

  THE NIGHT

  THE STATION

  THE EMAIL

  THE UNPACKING

  THE ROUGH

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Dedicated to everyone who ever dared to dream.

  THE PACKAGE

  Annabel Lester sat at the scrubbed table, her nervous hands unusually still in her lap. The leather-bound bible sat open in front of her, the spidery ink on the page brighter than it should be.

  Trembling, she traced the words with her fingers. ‘Impossible’ she whispered, rereading the text.

  “To Sarah,

  It is with the greatest love that I gift this to you.

  May your soul be filled with the word of God, and with the light of this country.

  May God bless your footsteps through His land, from this day on, and for all your days, wherever those steps may take you.

  With Love, Christine Young,

  Fifteenth of March, 1864”

  There must be a hundred Sarahs ... no, she corrected herself, a thousand Sarahs. Laughing, she passed a hand across her brow. There was no possibility that this Sarah was hers. Absolutely none that it was her daughter. The laughing, tousle-haired daughter she’d left in London. Then, her heart constricted as she remembered the moment she’d left.

  She slammed the bible shut, smoothing the brown paper wrap, folding it into smaller and smaller squares. She’d find a use for it another day, no doubt. She wound the twine from the package onto a tatty ball of string sitting on the mantle. The bible she left on the table, a misdirected piece of mail sent to her based solely on her surname. It was nothing to do with her daughter she decided, lifting her chin as she left the room, casting no glance back at the unwanted book.

  THE BAY

  Christine worried at the cuff of her shirt, the once-white cotton slightly grubby, though not for lack of laundry skills, more for lack of soap.

  Christine Young, wife of the only minister in Bruce Bay, on New Zealand’s west coast, sat in her parlour, curtains drawn against the winter cold. She’d been waiting in the front room for nearly four hours, refusing even the cups of tea offered to her. Samuel Sinclair sat at her feet, his pale, freckled face gazing up at this woman who’d taken him in, after his father Bryce had disappeared with the peculiar Mrs Bell so many months ago.

  Together they waited for the Reverend to come from his meeting with the local Maori tribe. Troubled times in the region meant Christine couldn’t be sure he’d return, at least not in one piece.

  Footsteps on the wooden porch steps startled them both – so much so that Samuel uttered one of the choice swear words he’d learnt from his abusive father. Uncharacteristically silent, Christine didn’t rush to admonish him like she did on an almost daily basis. Although he had been improving – his swearing was limited to a couple of times a day now, at least within her hearing, and he almost never swore in front of the Reverend.

  The front door opened, allowing a swirl of damp air into the house. Samuel hugged his knees closer to his body. Half a year ago he’d been all angles and bones, starved by his father, and beaten into submission like a dog. The Reverend and Mrs Young had given him the first home he’d truly known. They’d shown him more love in six months than he’d had in the rest of his short life.

  Christine half stood, hovering uncertainly, not knowing whether it was her husband returned or one of the other men bearing bad news. The brass door handle turned, and Reverend Gregory Young slipped into the room. Samuel launched himself at the minister, wrapping his arms around the man’s muddied legs. Christine collapsed onto the couch, biting back any cry she might have let slip if they’d been alone. Protecting Samuel from the terrors of her thoughts was an overwhelming priority.

  ‘There, there, young Samuel, calm yourself. There’s nothing to be upset about. Look at Mrs Young, as calm as a summer’s day. Now, Christine, I think it’s best if we have a nice cup of tea together and I can tell you all that’s happened today – my goodness, I hope never to have another day like it.’ He collapsed on the opposite chair, seemingly mesmerised by the swirls and whorls of the ivy patterned carpet.

  Christine straightened up – a cup of tea was something she could manage – and returned moments later with a wooden tray filled with steaming t
ea and buns still warm from the range. Samuel sniffed appreciatively as he hurried to help Christine with the tray.

  ‘Ah, much better my dear, that will hit the spot. Nothing like a good cup of tea. It’s what the Empire was built on young, Samuel, tea. Blessed be the men who made it so. After God, and my good wife – and you, of course – it’s the one thing I love more than anything else.’

  He lapsed into silence, sipping his tea, eyes glassy with thought. Samuel returned to his spot on the floor, devouring one of the warm buns Cook had lathered with freshly churned butter before loading the tray for Christine.

  Christine was not as patient as her young ward, ‘Gregory, tea may well have built the Empire but, unless you tell me straight away what happened this afternoon, the Empire may have to do without one of its ministers.’

  ‘Such an eloquent way of asking me to hurry up, one of the things I love about you. Yes, well, the natives were most generous towards us. They’ve heard about the troubles up north, and they’re most uncomfortable. We’ve been very fortunate with our relationship with the local iwi and I tried to reassure them that as far as I knew, no British troops were being sent here. It took a long time. The new Premier seems eminently more sensible than the last one, but time will tell.’ Pausing to drain his cup, he continued, ‘There’s been no reason for a military presence here. The militia has kept the miners in check, and since Seth and Isaac died, and Sinclair disappeared, there hasn’t been any further trouble. I’d say most of the troublemakers have found their way to the northern goldfields now, although that won’t be helping the situation up there. All those men.’

  Christine had crossed herself at the mention of Seth and Isaac. She’d had no time for Seth, but Sarah Bell had talked fondly of Isaac, seeming to believe that he’d been led astray by the older man. She shuddered at the memory of the blood at her front steps.

  Although her husband appeared happy with the situation in Bruce Bay, Christine was far from reassured. His natural acceptance of the word of others was a constant source of frustration. How can someone be so trusting?

  ‘Samuel, perhaps it would be best if you went to help Cook in the kitchen, whilst I talk further with the Reverend?’ she suggested, mindful that his ears were too young for the words she was about to share with her husband, no matter that he was a man of the cloth.

  Samuel scurried from the room, pulling the door shut behind him, then shivering along the hallway.

  ‘So they’re not about to murder us in our beds then?’ she grumbled, bustling around the room, tugging at the curtains to check they were properly closed, as if armed warriors were peeping into their Victorian parlour waiting for an opportune time to strike.

  ‘Hardly, my dear – they’ve enough of their own troubles to contend with. We’re not doing them any harm. I’ve told the Church that our lot aren’t keen to have their souls saved, and other than acknowledging that our silverware was lost, they haven’t even bothered to contact us ...’

  Christine interrupted, ‘We didn’t lose it, Sinclair stole it, right from under our noses – and Sarah. I shudder to think what’s become of her. How do we know that that “our lot”, as you call them, haven’t eaten both Sarah and Sinclair, and sold our silver to boot?’

  ‘You’ve read too many novels. The Maori don’t eat people. They may shoot us with the guns we’ve traded with them, but they won’t eat us. I think you’re confusing them with natives in New Guinea. They eat their captives. Dreadful practice. No, my dear, we are completely safe here. I can’t say the same for all those in our flock, given some of the stories I heard today about the goings on all over country. Oddly, I feel that we’re in the safest place in New Zealand right now.’

  THE WARDEN

  For a man content with a solitary existence – a man who spent his working time breaking up fights, mediating between natives and settlers, and answering to the Crown – losing Sarah Bell was one of the most bewildering experiences of Warden William Price’s life. After she disappeared with Bryce Sinclair, he’d spent days searching for information about their whereabouts: combing the bush; haunting the wharf questioning the miners flooding out of Bruce Bay for the newly discovered goldfields in the North Island of New Zealand; and manhandling every reprobate he knew. Despite his years of experience, he couldn’t find any trace. Exasperated and exhausted he’d retreated to his cabin, descending into a dark depression.

  With Price’s temper turning volatile, in a town already struggling under a cloud of alcoholic dependency, mistrust and greed, Christine had suggested he travel to Dunedin, to call on the woman to whom she’d sent the bible – the bible Sarah had left behind. She’d suggested it more as an attempt to save his life than to actually find the girl. But Price believed it would be futile – no, his place was here in the Bay.

  Price sat morosely at a table in Sweeney’s Bar. Miners came and went; the hardcore losers of the mining world. Too poor to leave town, they were stuck working the remnants of the West Coast goldfields. Anything they earned, they poured down their throats, either here or at one of the other half dozen bars in town. Most were destined to become ‘Hatters’ – men too old or sick to continue panning for gold. And if they weren’t drinking in the bars, they were buying it out the back of someone’s shack, although that supply had shrunk considerably when Bryce Sinclair vanished.

  The stench of strong alcohol and unwashed men churned through the room every time the door opened. Incessant rain and insidious conditions fuelled gloomy emotions, giving rise to the vilest behaviour. The pervading air of despair manifested itself in front of Price, with a scuffle between a scrawny Scots redhead and one of the Irish boys. Sweeney had his rifle cocked behind the counter as the brawl ranged across the floor, and their fellow drinkers placing wagers on the potential outcome.

  ‘Come on, Mac, kill ‘im.’

  ‘Don’t let a feckin’ Scotsman thrash ya, Paddy.’

  The jeers were coming thick and fast, as fast as the fists were being thrown. Price let them go. As long as Fred Sweeney wasn’t too concerned about the mess, he was loath to intervene. He’d learnt early on that it was better to let the frustration play out, than to intervene, unless it looked like someone was going to die.

  Sweeney nodded at Price, who stood up, and tipped his ale over the two fighters. Gasping and spluttering, they stopped brawling long enough for Price to haul the scrawny Scot off Paddy, who, despite his bulk, had been on the losing end of the fight.

  Margaret Sweeney peeped round the corner from the stairs, a wrapped infant sleeping in her arms, unfazed by the ruckus in the bar. Friends lifted Paddy up into a chair, one of his eyes already swelling closed. Sweeney poured another handle of ale for Price, and, with barely a ripple through the room, peace was restored, money changed hands, and Margaret slipped into the room. Fred unashamedly kissed the forehead of the sleeping bundle, ‘Where are you off to, love?’

  ‘Mrs Young invited me round this morning, to discuss the Easter celebrations and, I reckon, to see wee Jillian again, although she only saw us two days ago.’

  ‘Do you need me to walk with you?’ he asked, trying to sound casual.

  Margaret Sweeney looked up into the broad face of her husband, trying to gauge the level of his concern, ‘Not unless you don’t think it’s safe ...’ she trailed off.

  ‘No, I’m sure its fine. I was ... well, I was just offering in case you wanted my company,’ he shrugged.

  She looked around the bar: spilt ale seeping into the kauri floorboards; two broken chairs, tangled together like the roots of the trees they’d been born from.

  ‘Best you clean up here, Fred. I shan’t be long. I’ll be back in time for lunch.’ Kissing his cheek, she tugged baby Jillian’s knitted hat further down over her ears, and ventured outside, using her free hand to lift her skirts over the worst of the churned mud, shivering at the deep cold carried into town by the West Coast winds.

  ‘You think it’s still safe here, Price?’ Sweeney asked as he watched his wife make her w
ay up the road, hems forgotten in her efforts to keep the wind off their child.

  Draining his ale, the Warden handed the glass to Fred, ‘She’ll be fine, no harm will come to her at the Reverend’s. Not now, anyway.’ The unspoken message was that, since Sinclair had gone, everyone was safer – everyone except Sarah Bell. Price pulled on his oilskin coat and stepped out to the chill air, ‘It’s as safe as anywhere, Fred. As long as you’ve a good shotgun and someone to watch your back.’

  Plunging his hands deep in his pockets, Price trudged down towards the wharf in the vain hope that today there’d be word of Sarah Bell’s whereabouts.

  THE SHOP

  Bryce Sinclair stared at the shattered wood in front of him. Astonished, he’d expected to see the remains of Sarah Bell’s head after he’d shot her. In panic he fled.

  * * *

  After their first meeting, Richard Grey had kept his word, and once Sinclair found his way to the address on the card he’d been given, he was met by a couple of Grey’s associates, who’d frisked him, furnished him with a mobile phone, and issued orders to stay close by and await further instructions.

  Sinclair had no idea what the small black object was. He’d assumed it was some obscure modern day weapon, so pocketed it without any further thought. The last thing he wanted was to look stupid in front of the other men. He'd had enough of that back in New Zealand.

  It hadn’t taken him long to find out the name of Grey, the man he’d followed from The Old Curiosity Shop to the George and Vulture Inn. That pub hadn’t been his cup of tea. It’s clientele looked askance at his rough clothes and pugilist face, and after settling into the apartment provided by Grey, he promptly ignored his orders, and went out to find a bar more to his liking. A mock-Tudor travesty called the Jolly Farmer, complete with condom vending machines, stained carpets, and a bartender whose blindness to the goings on around him was legendary. It hadn’t taken Sinclair long to find more of his ilk in the bar’s dark corners, and, like a lord, he held court there.

  Grey had allocated Sinclair a minder – a goon called Stokes – a short weaselly man with a pinched face and close cropped hair who held a much higher opinion of himself than anyone else did. Sinclair had found a kindred spirit – both enjoyed inflicting pain on those who crossed them, and the men spent an enjoyable evening preying on tourists who accidentally stumbled into the pub, before Sinclair finally scored a pistol from a thug who’d mistaken them for gumby tourists who’d wandered off course. His bloodied corpse would later be identified by forensic dental work, the only recognisable feature left.