The Last Night in London by Karen White (reading list .TXT) 📕

stared at the purse. Precious could have been dying. Dying right now and taking with her not only her memories, but her last chance for salvation. For atonement.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I reached for the purse and opened it. Very carefully, I began to empty out its contents, placing them one by one on the surface of the dresser. First, the familiar cigarette case. Then I reached into the dark interior of the bag, my fingers finding a small, hard object, pulling it out to study under the light.

The crude carving had angles where there should have been curves, making it difficult for me to determine what it was—until I looked at the front of it, saw the smile, and recognized it as a dolphin. It was white and undoubtedly ivory, made long before ivory became a banned material. It was oddly beautiful, and I held it for a moment in my closed fist, feeling its edges, wondering at its significance.

Placing it next to the cigarette case, I pulled out a wadded linen handkerchief. I nearly dropped it, as I hadn’t been prepared to find something rolled up inside. Red and white stones from a brooch reflected the light of the chandelier, the letters “RAF” over a winged emblem I recognized from the patch on Graham’s uniform in his picture.

My gaze fell to the yellowed and crumpled handkerchief, the monogram in dark blue. GNS. Graham Neville St. John. I recalled Penelope saying his full name after Hyacinth called to tell her she’d found Graham in the archives.

I frowned at the collection on the dressing table, my gaze going from one item to the next as I tried to find some connection. To figure out why these were the memories Precious had hung on to. Especially the pin and the handkerchief. She’d given the purse to Eva, so were these Eva’s mementos? How had Precious ended up with them?

Did she know more about what happened to Eva than she’d told us?

A single thought ping-ponged around my tired brain, an idea too outrageous to verbalize, too unreasonable for me to acknowledge as a valid possibility. A single thought that had been floating on the periphery of my consciousness ever since I’d first seen Sophia’s wedding photo. I pushed the thought aside, unwilling to confront it, tucking it away to be examined later in the full light of day.

I picked up the purse again and spread the accordion bottom open as far as it would go, then held up the black interior to the light to see better. I was about to declare the purse empty when I caught a flash of white. A slim pocket, nearly invisible against the black lining of the purse. I gently tugged on the zipper, opening it little by little so I wouldn’t tear the old satin lining. It slid easily, as if it were used to being opened and closed.

Five small envelopes lay nestled inside, all the same size. I carefully slid them out, already telling myself that no matter what was on the outside of the envelopes, I wouldn’t open them. I’d already done enough I’d have to apologize for.

I flipped through the envelopes. They all had the same careful handwriting, and all were addressed to the same person at the same location.

Graham Neville St. John

Queen Victoria Hospital

East Grinstead, West Sussex

I stared at Graham’s name, wondering if it might have been a trick of my tired eyes. All of the searching we’d done to find some record of him, and these five letters had been here the entire time. I blinked, trying to focus on the inked address, on the beautiful penmanship. I thought I’d seen it before, but with all of the letters and handwriting I’d been staring at for the last two weeks, I couldn’t place it. I’d have to show it to Colin, see if maybe he could.

There was no postmark or return address, making me think that the letters might have been hand delivered or included in a care package or some other bundle so that they wouldn’t have gone through the postal system. I flipped the first letter over and found myself staring again, this time at the back of the envelope.

It was still sealed. I quickly looked at the other four and saw they were all identical, unopened. I checked the edges, looking for a slit that might have been made with a letter opener; I examined the sealed edges, searching for any breach in the seal to show that they had once been opened, but there wasn’t any. These letters had never been read.

I carefully replaced them in their pocket, then returned the rest of the objects to the purse, my mind not willing to settle on any one thing. Too many niggling thoughts circled the drain that my brain had become, too many loose pieces that wouldn’t settle into place. I remembered feeling this way when I saw the hatbox of cut-up photographs, being unable to put a finger on what bothered me about them.

Taking the purse, I walked back to the dining room, where the cut photos were. I needed to talk to someone about my discoveries, to discuss my theories. I looked out of the window, at the bubble-gum-colored sky above Marylebone Road as dawn teased the horizon, and pondered calling Arabella. Just as quickly I dismissed the thought, grabbed my phone, and texted Colin.

Are you up?

It took a minute for him to respond. I was about to text him again, when he replied, I am now.

Great. I’ve got something to show you. Is now a good time? I thought I’d catch you before work.

Since I don’t have to be at work for another four hours, now would be fine.

Okay. See you in about half an hour. Any news of Precious?

Nothing yet. Will call Dad in an hour when he’s awake, but no news so far.

As I began to run toward the back of the flat, I had another thought.