3 Great Historical Novels (32 page)

Antonia ascended the last few stone steps of the
London Globe
building feeling increasingly nervous. She was convinced that Mr Dillon’s invitation was not a courtesy. He was not a courteous man.

Still, it was a relief to leave Fleet Street behind. There had been a fracas outside the Parcel Delivery Office because a wagon had tipped coming through the archway of Temple Bar. A lone constable was grappling with a band of enterprising urchins who were helping themselves to the parcels.

Inside, the reception hall was not the hushed sanctuary Antonia had imagined. Corridors seemed to run in every direction, and messenger boys and clerks flew past at speed with arms full of type-trays or paper, or commodious ledgers. Studious-looking men with woolly side-whiskers and cheroots gathered in huddles at the necks of the corridors. Everyone had an air of self-importance and a sense of urgency.

Antonia perched on the edge of a bench and smoothed her skirts. She had not worn twilled wool since before her marriage. She found that it cheered her, after all, to surrender to small vanities.

‘Good morning, Mrs Blake.’ Antonia jumped. Mr Dillon was smiling. His cutaway coat was a little dramatic and his long hair was tied back. He looked more like a poet than a newspaperman.

He lowered his voice. ‘In this building the walls are always listening, but there is somewhere quiet, close by.’

Antonia stood, relieved to be leaving so quickly. ‘Then lead the way.’

The press of Fleet Street swept them up immediately, past the tempting window displays of bookbinders, stationers and dealers in all commodities from escritoires and repositories to fancy inkwells and old-fashioned quills. Antonia averted her eyes from the seduction of a patent account book.

Mr Dillon was striding without a sideways glance but he seemed to sense her mood. ‘Fleet Street can be a vexation to the spirit,’ he said. ‘Do you object to entering a church, Mrs Blake?’

‘Is that where you are taking me?’

‘It seems appropriate. The order that built this church had interests in common with your own.’ They were walking through Temple Bar. He could only be referring to one church. ‘I know little about the Templars,’ she said warily. He looked surprised.

‘Weren’t they also persecuted because of their independence and their wealth? I hear that this church was a depository bank and a residence for visiting kings, as well as a place of worship. That sounds very Quakerly to me! There is something pleasingly practical and unholy about the place,’ he finished, with a sideways look at her to see if she was convinced.

Antonia smiled. ‘Then I can enter with conscience.’

Mr Dillon nodded. ‘I can see some of the logic in your faith, Mrs Blake. I suppose it is not easily … impressed by ritual and decoration. But isn’t there innocent pleasure to be had from the vainglorious that is not a distraction from godliness?’

Antonia sighed. How could he know that this was precisely what preoccupied her? ‘It isn’t possible to ignore the material world, Mr Dillon, especially not for my gender. The female eye
seeks out detail and harmony. Quakerism is more a journey inwards than a display of outward devotion.’

‘But you are displaying your own brand of devotion by the very plainness of your dress, and by your code of conduct.’ He was a terrier. He would not let something alone until it was in shreds.

‘We cannot avoid appearances,’ she said, carefully. ‘Even if one turns away from the looking-glass, one’s reflection is always to be seen in others.’ How well she knew it.

He looked thoughtful as they entered at the great medieval doors. The circular nave at the end of the long chancel was almost deserted. The gothic widows of its turret were positioned so that the stone flags and the vaulted arches and marble pillars were lit to their best advantage. Of course, the elegant symmetry was cleverly designed to evoke reverence, but she felt soothed just the same.

Mr Dillon led her to a carved stone bench in a private gallery off the nave, and they sat quietly for a moment before he spoke. ‘I’ve brought you here, where it is peaceful, because what I have to say is … difficult.’

Antonia braced herself. ‘More ill tidings?’

‘It has taken some time to unearth the paperwork at the Jerusalem, but I have evidence that Isaac Fisher and Ryan Mahoney were the signatories on the hire of the barque
Mathilda
on at least two occasions, between Calcutta and Lintin Island. The purpose of both voyages was to ship several hundred caskets of opium resin.’

Antonia’s heart felt like lead. It did not seem possible. He dropped his voice. ‘What I propose is conjecture only. I have no evidence. You may recall that last Christmas Isaac denied knowledge of a letter written by your late husband?’

‘Yes,’ Antonia whispered, afraid of what he would suggest.

‘I suspected at the time that he was lying. If he wasn’t, then he was certainly concealing something. It is
possible
, Mrs Blake, that Isaac thinks your husband’s letter incriminates him. If so, he might also believe that Ryan told both Rhia and Laurence what was in the letter. He may have decided that it was safer to have Rhia out of the way. And you told me yourself that Isaac helped Laurence to secure a last-minute berth on the
Rajah
. It would not be unfeasible to arrange for Laurence to be killed on the ship. The port of Rio is full of mercenaries for hire, if the price is right.’

Antonia’s head was spinning. What treachery would this man suggest next? ‘Isaac could not arrange for the deaths of three innocent men, you do not know him!’

‘I want to be wrong, Mrs Blake. I hope with all my heart that I am. But we both know that Isaac Fisher is in financial trouble, which will make him unpopular with the Quakers and, if he is excommunicated from your faith, it would mean his certain ruin as a trader, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes, but …’ Antonia could think of no defence for Isaac but that she simply could not believe him to be a criminal. He was a liberal, yes, but surely not so much that he would stoop to an immoral trade. If Isaac and Ryan had been profiting from the sale of opium then what had they to show for it? Where was the money? ‘I simply cannot believe it, not until I have seen Josiah’s letter myself.’

Dillon nodded. ‘Of course. The letter.’ He looked like he was weighing something up. Was he deciding what to tell her? He hesitated; then he frowned. ‘I have discovered its whereabouts. I managed to make myself enough of a nuisance to Ryan’s solicitor. As I explained to him, I merely wanted his help with a piece I’m writing on one of the oldest brothels in St Giles, knowing as I do that he is familiar with the establishment. He
quickly admitted that there is a letter that bears the stamp of the postmaster of Bombay in his vault along with Ryan’s will.’

Antonia held her breath. ‘Will he allow it?’

‘He cannot break the law, and neither can we. Ryan’s papers may not be released until a magistrate’s signature testifies that the death was not a case of self-murder. I appealed against that decree, on the grounds of insufficient evidence. I expect Rhia’s pardon will have reached Sydney by now,’ he added, perhaps in an attempt to cheer her. ‘The mail clippers travel much faster than the passenger transports.’ He paused. ‘As to the other matter …’ he trailed off as if he’d had second thoughts about what he was going to say.

‘The other matter?’

‘How is your maid?’

‘She has calmed down. She has always been troubled.’

‘I am intrigued by her case and have posted a notice which is to be circulated to all the newspaper’s regional offices. I have suggested that, should a certain twenty-year-old forging racket in Manchester be dug up, it could warrant an inch or two in the national paper. That’s enough to have many a penny-a-liner looking through the piles of yellowed newsprint in basements.’

Antonia sat with her hands clasped, willing herself to be soothed by the cool air and rarefied light in the nave. She was not soothed, she was anxious and confused. ‘Why should you care, Mr Dillon?’

He looked surprised, then thoughtful. ‘I suppose I have an appetite for justice. It makes me an unpopular dinner guest. My brother was killed by lies. He died alone in an opium den in Canton. And now Laurence. People who don’t deserve to die. You must be careful not to reveal either what you know or what you suspect, Mrs Blake. I’m merely investigating a hunch.
I have other hunches as well, but I’d prefer to keep these to myself for the moment. Tell me, when is Mr Fisher due to return from India?’

‘The
Mathilda
is expected in January.’

‘Later than you anticipated?’

‘Yes. They are detained in Calcutta.’ Antonia put her hand to her mouth. Perhaps they were detained because either
Mathilda
or
Sea Witch
was somewhere between Calcutta and Lintin Island! She looked at Mr Dillon. ‘Do you think we should tell Mr Montgomery? The clippers are jointly owned.’

‘Absolutely not. I insist, Mrs Blake, that this is not to be discussed with
anyone
.’

Antonia shook her head. She still couldn’t believe it. ‘I shall pray for courage,’ she said.

‘If that will help, Mrs Blake, then that is what you must do.’

Elizabeth Street, with its scenic view across Hyde Park, was not a part of town that Michael frequented. It was gentrified, inhabited by solicitors, physicians and clergymen, and held little interest for him. Elizabeth Street was the perfect address for someone he already disliked.

Mr Reeve’s room was easily found. It was in a two-storey timber house with a sign on the gate that read
Rooms available for respectable gentlemen
. On the other side of the glass-panelled front door stretched a long, narrow corridor, along which were several closed doors. On a dresser was a row of letterboxes labelled neatly with room numbers and tenants’ names.

The man looked a little startled when he opened the door to his unannounced visitor. He also looked as spineless as Albert had made him out to be. He was dressed in shirtsleeves and a rather shabby tweed waistcoat and breeches, but he had the air of someone who thought he was important. He was, at a glance, a man with aspirations.

‘Good evening,’ he said to Michael, with a discernible quaver. ‘I was not expecting a caller.’

‘My name’s Kelly. I’m an acquaintance of Rhia Mahoney. May I come in?’

Mr Reeve looked like he might close the door in Michael’s face, so he took the precaution of placing a boot inside the
doorframe. ‘I won’t take much of your time, I’ve only a question or two for you and then I’ll be on my way.’

A flicker of fear lit the young man’s characterless face before it was disguised by a stiff, unnatural smile. ‘Of course, Mr Kelly. Come in.’

The room was not large. It was furnished with a pine bed and a small table. On the table was an enormous book and half a glass of claret. There was a fire in the grate. Piled up on the floor, and on top of a portmanteau against the wall, were a great number of cigar boxes.

Michael had no interest in putting this man at ease. He may as well just get to the point and see what happened. ‘I’ve reason to believe that you stole a portrait from the cabin of Laurence Blake.’

Mr Reeve was clearly afraid now. He began sweating in spite of the chill in the building. These timber frames were built for long, hot summers rather than short cold winters. He hid his fear reasonably well with arrogance. ‘What business is it of yours?’

Michael took a step closer to where the man was standing with his back to the fire. He was not planning on losing his temper, but there was no harm in showing that he had one. ‘The thing is, I’ve made it my business to protect the interests of the Mahoneys. They’re
friends
. But that notion probably isn’t familiar to you. Now, why don’t you go and get that portrait, so I can have a look at it?’

Something in his tone seemed to strike a chord. Reeve cast one last resentful look at Michael before he went to the table and removed a stiff piece of parchment from one of the back leaves of the book. He returned slowly, keeping the image against his chest. Michael held out his hand, but the botanist was staring at him, his eyes darting around with a look of wild
indecision. Michael stepped closer, within striking distance. He felt his fist clench, that reflex. He unclenched it. ‘I’ll only say this once. Hand it over, or I’ll have it my way.’

With a final grimace, Reeve held out the parchment, but just as Michael thought he would relinquish it, he threw it into the fire. It turned the flames blue and green and then it was only a twist of ash. The last expression on the botanist’s face, before Michael’s fist connected with his jaw, was of smug complicity. The blow sent him sprawling backwards onto the floor. Michael didn’t look at him again. He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

As he walked along the edge of Hyde Park, he cursed with frustration for allowing it to happen. Then, with some effort, put the incident firmly from his mind. No point in ruining an otherwise fine evening. He noticed how the pearly crescent of the moon hung behind the row of seedling Norfolk pines. He noticed how neatly the flowerbeds were dug where the rose bushes had been planted, incongruously, amongst ferns and spiky native shrubs. As if you could tame this land. He’d only returned from the bush with Jarrah that morning, and he was looking forward to a draught of stout and a meal that didn’t still have its fur on.

Should he tell Calvin about the missing sailor first, or about an unconscious botanist lying in a bachelor room on Elizabeth Street? Either way it was time to give the Port Authority an update. Calvin would either be at the White Horse on Pitt Street or with a lady friend. The establishment Calvin preferred wasn’t called a brothel; it was a
Gentleman’s Club
, and the prostitutes were a cut above Maggie’s girls. Even Maggie would admit it. They were cleaner, better dressed and more discreet. They were also more expensive.

It was early yet. Cal was probably still at the tavern.

The White Horse was where the wigs and uniforms of Sydney took their drink, and there wasn’t a dusty boot or a dirty fingernail in sight. Sure enough, Cal was settled in a snug with an ale and a broadsheet. Michael got himself a jar and sat down opposite him. ‘Evening, Calvin.’

‘Michael.’

‘It’s a shame to disturb you when you’re off duty.’

‘I’m never off duty.’

Michael nodded. It was true. He told the policeman about the remote squatter’s hut where they’d found evidence of a camp, and how Jarrah pointed out the flattened kikuyu grass and the tracks in the dust; signs that a drover had come through with a herd of cattle. Jarrah probably could have told Michael how many cattle exactly, had he wanted to know. Calvin’s man had camped in the hut for a few nights and then, when opportunity called, had gone off with an overlander. Chances were he wouldn’t get anywhere near as far as the northern plains before he realised droving was no life for a sailor. He’d be back, and Calvin would be waiting for him.

‘That isn’t all,’ Michael said, when he’d completed his report and taken a long draught. ‘I wonder if you’d make some enquiries about a passenger on the
Rajah
for me.’

‘The transport the Mahoney woman came in on? Would this have anything to do with the death I told you about on that transport?’

‘Aye. I might just be going quietly doolally, but I’ve got a hunch there’s a connection between the Quaker who died in Bombay, the murder on the
Rajah
, and Rhia Mahoney.’

‘I hope you aren’t going to tell me she’s in on it, Michael.’

‘Not a chance.’

‘That’s good, because she’s been pardoned.’

‘Jesus. What? Are you sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure. I was at the governor’s office today handing over all my paperwork and I saw her name on the list.’

‘Well I’ll be damned. This just gets curiouser all the time. I don’t suppose there’s a chance you could get your hands on that document; speed things up a little?’

‘Of course I can, Michael. There’s no point wearing a hat like a toy soldier if you can’t bend the rules a little now and then.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Cheers. Here’s to freeing the bloody Irish.’

Michael grinned and lifted his own. ‘Aye. Cheers.’