Page 47 of The Last Postcard

TANGIERS BLUE BLAZER ANNUAL SAILING RACE

1927 WINNER

ARTHUR LANGHAM

Arthur, poor man, Lillian had said. A. L. Arthur Langham.

So this was his house, Sam thought, staring at the trophy. Or – his neck prickled – it still is …

A noise made him leap, the trophy clattering back on to the shelf. He listened, eyes wide, to a faint repetitive thudding that echoed through the house, to a squeal and clank that sounded like antique plumbing. His eyes began to sting with panic. There was someone here.

Carefully, he turned around, as if any movement might give him away. The sounds were coming from the other side of a thick, wooden door. What if someone discovered him, and called the police? The argument that he was only there to write a book probably wouldn’t cut it. I should get out, he thought feverishly, I should go back to the front gate and ring the bell, I could send a letter instead, like a normal person.

But none of that would work. There was no bell on the gate, and no postman in Tangier, no matter how experienced, would be able to find this place. He stopped, one foot out of the glass door, even as every sensible thought yelled for him to hurry.

But who was in the house? A man with dark glasses and an old-fashioned hat? A man who signed his name only A, but was truly Arthur Langham, the owner of a lost writing case, a forgotten suitcase? And if so, who on earth was del Potro? Before he lost courage, Sam crossed the room and opened the door.

Beyond was a long hallway, cool and dim and tiled. Sounds were coming from the other end: the rattle and clank of metal, the splutter of water, a scraping noise. As he stood there with every nerve bristling, a scent drifted to him, sharp above the must.

Onions. Someone was frying onions. The smell reached for his belly and dragged him forward, one step at a time. He passed a half-open door and glimpsed a book-lined room, but he didn’t stop, he kept walking towards the sound, towards the smell, towards whoever was there, cooking and clanging and whistling a tune from another era.

Noiselessly, he pushed open a door.

It was a kitchen. Although faded like the rest of the house, it seemed lived-in, welcoming. Copper pans glowed against the peeling walls, bunches of herbs stood in jam jars on the windowsill. In the centre of the room, an enormous wooden table was littered with baskets, plates and open books, and amongst it all a chopping board, where something oozed red.

He took a step further and a figure before the stove came into view; a tall, slim figure with messily cropped black hair, and cool olive skin, who tapped the pan with a wooden spoon and began to call out in Spanish—

‘I,’ he blurted, stepping forwards, ‘I’m sorry …’

The pan of onions clattered to the floor.

A young woman was staring at him, her eyes huge. A second later he held up his hands, because she had snatched a meat cleaver from the table.

‘Sorry,’ he stuttered again, ‘I didn’t mean – I didn’t know there was anyone here.’

‘What are you doing?’

She asked it in English, her voice rough with shock. She wore a stained apron, jeans, bare feet. She looked furious.

I heard about this place in a letter. I wanted to return the writing case to Mr Langham. I have his things. I have to meet him. I’m writing a book.

‘I … I found the gate. It was open.’

‘No.’ She was shaking her head, coming towards him with the cleaver. ‘No, there is nothing for you here. You have to leave.’

She knows who I am, Sam realized. The next second she had grabbed him by the wrist and was dragging him towards a back door that gave on to the gardens.

‘You don’t understand,’ he said, trying to free his arm. She had a strong grip, her fingers bloodied from meat, sticky from the onions. ‘I’ve got to see him, please.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The old man who sent me the letters. A. Arthur Langham!’

The woman stopped. Her expression changed, anger and confusion giving way to fear. ‘No,’ she said, shoving him forwards. ‘No, you must go now.’

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ He was babbling. ‘It was you who I chased earlier, you collected the letters. Why won’t you talk to me?’

‘Please, please, just go, before—’