The Silk Thief (12 page)

Mrs Doyle made a face while she worked it out. ‘Eleven days ago? Or was it twelve?’

Which had still given him well over a week in which to visit her. And he hadn’t. And he’d said he loved her.

‘How long will he be away, do you know?’ Harrie asked.

‘Oh, I never know that,’ Mrs Doyle said. ‘Sometimes it’s three months, once it was nearly a year. It depends on the captain’s cargo.’

Something had been bothering Harrie. ‘Mrs Doyle, how old is Mick?’

‘Seventeen. Why?’

Harrie winced. Two years younger than her. But he’d looked so much … more of a man. She shook her head and turned to go, but Mrs Doyle put out a hand and stopped her.

‘Are you well, dear?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Are you feeling well?’

She knows, Harrie thought. ‘Yes, thank you.’

‘If you need help, you come back,’ Mrs Doyle said. ‘I mean that. You’re welcome here any time.’

Friday lay face down on a padded bench, her cheek resting on her folded arms and her skirt pulled up past her bare knees. Leo was working on the bat tattoo Harrie had designed and then drawn onto her calf at the start of July, before Walter had killed Furniss and everything had come so close to disaster. Had that only been seven weeks ago? It felt more like a year.

Leo had completed the bat’s outline then, and now he was tattooing the complex and colourful patterns that filled the outstretched wings. His needles hurt, especially where they stabbed into the fresh scar tissue where Furniss’s dog had torn into her, but she relaxed into the pain, embracing it, letting her mind drift free of everything that was worrying her.

‘I thought I might start Harrie on the needles,’ Leo said, breaking into her pleasant state of detachment.

‘Is she ready? She’s not, er, I don’t think she’s that well.’ Friday didn’t want to say outright that she and Sarah thought that once again poor Harrie’s mind was coming unstuck.

Leo dipped the brush he held in his left hand into a tiny pot of pigment. ‘No, I don’t think she is, either. That’s why I thought I’d start her, to give her a distraction.’ He touched the needles to the ink-saturated brush, and bent over Friday’s leg again. ‘She was good there for a while, during that business with Jared Gellar. I thought she was coming right.’

‘She was. She did come right.’ Friday thought about Harrie’s ongoing belief that she could see and talk to poor dead Rachel. ‘Well, sort of.’

‘So what’s set her off again?’

‘I don’t know.’

Leo applied an extra hard jab of the needles.

‘Ow!’

‘You must do. You and Sarah know her better than anyone.’

Friday considered for a moment; she most certainly couldn’t tell him about Harrie’s guilt over Gabriel Keegan. ‘Well, there’s the blackmail. Also, when we handed over the last lot of money, a girl was at the burial ground to collect it. I thought it was Lou, from Mrs H’s. I told you about her?’

Leo nodded.

‘But it wasn’t her. It turned out to be someone called Rowie Harris, who was James Downey’s housegirl.’

‘The doctor cove who’s been after Harrie?’

‘Mmm.’

‘So this Rowie’s been working for Bella Shand?’

‘Yes, the bitch. And I bet feeding Bella everything James knew about us.’ As well as everything I’d told her about how much money we’ve got, Friday thought guiltily.

‘And that upset Harrie?’

‘It gave us all the shits. We had no idea. She even worked for Mrs H for a while. She was supposed to be my friend.’

‘So how did she end up working for James Downey?’

‘Oh, long bloody story, and I don’t even know now if it was true.’ Though when Friday thought back, Rowie’s physical problems probably were real. How could she have faked something like that? ‘She was always on the rag and couldn’t work. Mrs H fired her but found her a job with James.’

‘And
that
upset Harrie?’

‘Shut up, will you? I’m trying to tell a story here. I think Rowie might be a bit mad.’

‘Like Harrie’s going mad?’ Leo interrupted again.

Friday was silent. No one had said that out loud before, not in such a matter-of-fact way, except for Harrie herself, and it sounded shocking. Brutal. ‘I don’t know. Yes, I suppose. It’s different with Harrie, though. Harrie’s ours.’

Leo said, ‘I’m sure it is different when it’s someone you love. Why do you think Rowie’s mad?’

‘She said some bizarre things.’

Leo snorted. ‘Then we’re all mad.’

‘She told Harrie she’s been shagging James.’

‘She probably has. He’s a bachelor, isn’t he?’

‘You don’t know James, Leo. He’s one of the few men I know decent enough not to fuck the servants.’

‘Thanks very much.’

‘And he thinks the sun rises and sets on Harrie. No one else’d ever be good enough. He wants to marry her.’

‘But she believed this Rowie?’

‘Yes, she did. And she’s been all over the place mood-wise ever since. She was flat as a pancake for a couple of days afterwards no matter what me and Sarah did to try and cheer her up, then she was so chirpy and bright we thought she’d been on the jar, except she doesn’t drink, and then she was miserable again, but even worse. Frightened, even. And that’s the way she’s stayed.’

‘She was in yesterday with some new flash,’ Leo said. ‘They’re good, very good, but, well,
disturbing
I suppose is the best word to describe them. I’ll show you when we’re finished.’

‘No, show me now.’

Leo sighed, wiped away the blood oozing from the flesh he’d just tattooed, rose and opened the cabinet where he kept his papers. On top sat a leather folder, which he gave to Friday. Propping herself on her elbows she opened it and thumbed through the drawings inside. The theme was skulls and bones: skulls wearing crowns of cypress, with Harrie’s trademark bats flitting from empty eye sockets or gaping jaws, and crossed bones wreathed in lobelia or surrounded by other beautifully rendered flowers.

‘Christ,’ she said, slightly taken aback. ‘I know cypress represents death and despair, but what are these other ones supposed to mean?’

‘Wormwood is bitter sorrow and I think marigold is cruelty and jealousy.’

‘And the love-lies-bleeding?’

‘Hopelessness.’

‘God, she’s really gone to town, hasn’t she?’

‘But with such tremendous skill. These will have real appeal.’

‘Really? Flowers? To rough-as-guts tars?’

‘Sailors take their tattoos seriously, lass, you know that, and these are art. No one else’ll be doing the Jolly Roger like this.’

Friday reached down and poked an itchy bit on her new tattoo. ‘How do you know about what all these flowers mean, anyway?’

‘You’d be surprised, what I hear sitting on this stool. Folk talk about anything and everything. That’s why I think Harrie should start on the needles. It’ll take her out of herself, give her something to think about other than whatever that cove Downey has or hasn’t done.’

‘You don’t like James, do you?’

‘I’ve never met him.’

‘You don’t, though, do you?’

Leo sat down again and picked up his brush and needles. ‘No. I don’t.’

‘Why not?

‘If he fancies Harrie as much as you say he does, why doesn’t he just marry her? What’s stopping him?’

‘Silly bloody Harrie is.’

‘Is she? Why?’

‘Have you got all day?’

‘Give us the abridged version.’

Friday tried to think of the best way of describing to Leo, without letting any cats out of bags, everything that had contributed to Harrie’s loss of faith in herself, and couldn’t, except for saying, ‘She thinks she’s not worthy of him. Though naturally she doesn’t want anyone else to have him, because she loves him.’

‘Not worthy? Just because she’s a convict?’

‘No, it’s more than that. And now there’s this business with Rowie.’ Friday looked back at Leo, her eyes hard. ‘The next time I see that two-faced bloody cow I’m going to give her such a dewskitch.’

‘Keep still, will you?’ Leo said as he tapped rapidly at Friday’s skin with his needles. ‘So, what are we going to do about it?’

‘Rowie Harris?’

‘No, bugger her. I mean Harrie. She can’t keep going the way she is.’

‘Well, if you want her to spend more time here, learning how to tattoo, you’ll have to do some sort of deal with Nora Barrett. She is Harrie’s boss, don’t forget.’

‘George Barrett, more like. He’s the coney-catcher in that family. It’s him who’ll be demanding compensation. Nora won’t see a penny.’

‘Who signed Harrie’s papers?’

‘George. I already pay him a retainer for Harrie’s services.’

‘On top of what you pay her for her drawings?’

Leo nodded, forgetting that Friday couldn’t see him.

‘Leo?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You think a lot of her, don’t you?’

‘I do,’ Leo replied.

‘She doesn’t spend any of that money on herself, you know.’

‘I know. You told me. She’s got a warm and generous heart, Harrie,’ Leo said. ‘Just a very messed-up head.’

The last time Friday, Harrie and Sarah had visited the Parramatta Female Factory together, at the end of February just after Sarah and Adam’s wedding, they’d had a very unpleasant argument on the way. Then, as now, Elizabeth Hislop had kindly lent Friday her landau, and Jack Wilton to drive it. It had been summer then and they’d all sweltered in the heat, especially poor Jack, perched outside on the driver’s seat. It was much cooler this time, and the girls were grateful Mrs H had left a pair of woollen rugs folded on the seats. So was Clifford, curled up on the edge of the one Sarah had spread over her legs.

Usually at least one of them went out to see Janie and the babies every few weeks, but with the Furniss business and everything, their regular pattern of visiting had been disrupted. Feeling guilty because no one had been for ages, they’d included extra treats in the swag they had today.

An hour into the journey, Friday waved her hand in front of her face. ‘God, Sarah. Was that you?’

‘Hardly!’ Sarah replied. ‘It’ll be her.’

Friday glared at Clifford. ‘What have you been feeding her?’

‘It’s not what I feed her. She eats anything. Even carrion.’

‘Christ.’ Friday raised the shade on the window, letting in cold but blessedly fresh air. ‘I don’t know why you had to bring her, anyway.’

‘Adam won’t look after her by himself. He says she gangs up on him.’

‘How can one dog gang up on someone?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Could you draw the shade again, please?’ Harrie asked. ‘I’m cold.’

An hour later Sarah asked Harrie if she was feeling all right. ‘Is it Clifford? Do I need to put her outside with Jack?’

‘No, it’s not her.’

‘You look very pale.’

‘It’s the carriage,’ Harrie said. ‘It’s rocking a lot.’

Shortly after that she lunged wildly for the door, thrust it open and vomited. Friday grabbed the back of her skirt so she wouldn’t tumble out onto the road while Sarah hastily knocked on the wall to alert Jack. The carriage stopped and they heard him jump down, then swear as he almost stepped in a puddle of spew.

‘She’s sea-sick,’ Friday explained as she helped Harrie out of the landau.

Inspecting the door for traces of vomit, Jack said, ‘We’re not at bloody sea.’

‘Funny, you weren’t sick last time.’ Sarah climbed down after them. ‘What’s happened to your cast-iron stomach?’ Clifford bounced out of the carriage behind her and trotted off, head down, happily following the long trail of sick.

Wiping her mouth on her handkerchief, Harrie shook her head. ‘I must have eaten something. Do we have anything to drink? My mouth tastes awful.’

‘There’s Janie’s stout,’ Friday suggested.

‘That’s for her breastfeeding,’ Sarah said.

‘We’ve a dozen bottles. One less won’t go amiss.’

‘I don’t drink stout,’ Harrie said. ‘It’s alcoholic. You know I don’t drink.’

‘It’s that or gin,’ Friday said.

Harrie made a face. ‘The stout, then.’

‘You’re not going to do it again, are you?’ Jack asked. ‘Mrs H’ll have me balls if you spew in her carriage.’

‘I don’t think so. Perhaps I should eat something, just in case.’

Friday climbed back into the landau and rummaged around in various bags until she found a bottle of stout and a fresh bap. She pulled the cork out of the bottle with her teeth and handed the bottle down to Harrie.

She took a few cautious sips — the stout was very strong but was better than the taste of sick — and swished it around in her mouth then spat it out. She upended the bottle to tip out the rest but Friday snatched it off her.

‘Oi! That’s perfectly good beer! Swap you for this.’

Harrie exchanged the stout for the bap and they all got back into the carriage.

Jack held the door. ‘All set? Are we off again?’

‘No,’ Sarah said. ‘Where’s Clifford?’

Friday laughed. ‘Quick, let’s go.’

‘Don’t be so mean,’ Sarah said.

‘You actually like her!’ Friday was amazed.

‘I do, sort of.’

‘She’s all we’ve got left of Walter,’ Harrie reminded her.

‘I suppose that’s true.’ Friday leant past Jack out the carriage door, put two fingers to her mouth and gave an ear-piercing whistle.

Seconds later Clifford appeared from the bushes at the side of the road, twigs stuck in her hair, bounded up the carriage step and collapsed on the seat, panting.

‘Remember,’ Jack said to Harrie, ‘if you’re going to heave again, for Christ’s sake, bang on the wall.’

Harrie knew she wouldn’t be sick a third time today — there was very little left inside her to throw up. As the carriage started off again, she nibbled the edge of the bap, trying not to catch the eye of either Sarah or Friday.

Friday took a swig of stout, then grinned. ‘If you weren’t so prim and proper, I’d be wondering if you were knapped.’

‘Oh, don’t be so stupid,’ Sarah said. ‘She’s obviously eaten something that hasn’t agreed with her.’

Harrie kept her eyes on her bap.

The rest of the journey out to Parramatta passed uneventfully. Jack dropped them off outside the Factory’s high wooden gates, then drove into town to the nearest pub to refresh the horses and himself.

Friday banged on the wicket until the porter grumpily let them in.