The Silk Thief (28 page)

‘Good morning,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Do you have a girl by the name of Friday Woolfe here?’

‘We’ve got a girl. Don’t know her name. She’s insensible.’

‘What’s she done?’

‘Drunk, disorderly, assault and biting a constable,’ the policeman said, pointing irritably at his bandaged hand.

Elizabeth’s heart sank. Drunk and disorderly
might
have seen Friday released in the morning when she’d sobered up, but not assault, and certainly not biting a policeman. Stupid,
stupid
girl. ‘Are you alone?’

‘Why?’ the man asked suspiciously.

Bugger, Elizabeth thought. If he wasn’t, that would be two bribes. ‘May I see her?’

‘Why?’

‘I might know who she is.’

The policeman thought for a moment, then crossed his arms. Elizabeth opened her purse and gave him a crown, well over a day’s pay. He stepped aside and let her in.

Friday was on her side on the filthy floor of the cell, snoring her head off. Her jacket was torn, a huge bruise was developing on her cheek, her knuckles were skinned and red, and there was vomit on the ground and matted into her rat’s-nest hair. Elizabeth could smell her from outside the cell.

‘Well? Do you recognise her?’ the policeman demanded. ‘She wouldn’t give her name. Too busy cursing and screaming.’

‘Would you be amenable to a bribe for releasing her? I’d make it worth your while.’

‘Like hell. The bitch nearly bit my hand off. She can go up in front of the magistrate later today.’

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’d make it
very
worth your while.’

‘I don’t give a shit.’ The man raised his hand. ‘If this goes poisonous, I’m a dead man. What use will money be to me then?’

‘Then good luck trying to get her name out of her when she wakes up.’ Elizabeth swept past him. ‘And I do hope your hand gets better.’

When Friday dragged herself into consciousness some time after the sun rose, the first thing she did was vomit again, into the bucket this time, the pressure almost bursting her pounding head. Then she turned around, lifted her skirts and, hovering on violently quivering thighs, emptied her bowels into it. The smell was horrific and made her throw up again. She wiped her burning backside with the hem of her shift, stripped off, covered the bucket with the shift, put her skirt and jacket back on, and lay down again, shivering uncontrollably, as far from the bucket as she could get. Her belly hurt, her hands hurt, her arse hurt, her head hurt and she couldn’t remember how she’d got there, but all that paled in comparison to the pain of knowing that Aria had gone. Nothing mattered any more. Nothing. If she had a pistol, she’d happily have blown her own brains out.

She heard footsteps, opened her eyes and saw a man’s boots on the other side of the cell bars.

‘God almighty, you stink.’

Friday said nothing.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Friday Woolfe,’ Friday mumbled.

‘What? Speak up.’

‘Friday Woolfe.’

‘Ha! That was easy!’ the constable said. ‘You’ll be up in front of the magistrate this afternoon, then you’ll be sorry.’

I’m bloody sorry now, Friday thought. ‘What did I do?’

‘You bit my bloody hand, you savage bloody cow. And beat the daylights out of a couple of poor judies in the Fortune of War.’

‘Will you send a message to Elizabeth Hislop on Argyle Street?’ God, it was such an effort to talk. ‘Tell her where I am? She’ll pay you.’

‘Like hell I will.’

Prick, Friday thought, but her heart wasn’t in it.

But Elizabeth arrived anyway, accompanied by Jack staggering under the weight of clean clothes, soap and towels, a hairbrush, a boiling-pot filled with hot water, food, plus — thank God! — laudanum, gin and ale for Friday’s horrors. And a fat five-pound bribe for each of the constables on duty at the watch house. For that, while one stood guard, they allowed Elizabeth into the cell to empty the filthy bucket, and help Friday bathe and make herself presentable, Friday well beyond caring who the hell was watching. The laudanum muffled her headache and other aches and pains, ale replaced the fluids that had shot out of her mouth and backside, and the gin postponed her dreadful horrors. Nothing, however, could be done about her grotesquely bloodshot eyes.

Jack managed to winkle out of the guard the fact that Clement Bloodworth was the sitting police magistrate; unfortunately, not Francis Rossi, as Elizabeth had hoped. Though she’d used up the favours Rossi had owed her when she had asked him to release Adam Green from Port Macquarie, she’d been expecting she could prevail on his better nature to let Friday off with just a warning, but that wouldn’t happen now. She would likely be convicted of assault, and sent to the penitentiary at the Female Factory.

At midday Sarah arrived, Elizabeth having sent word.

‘For God’s sake, Friday, what were you thinking?’ she said, her hands on the cell bars.

Friday shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

‘Well, what happened?’

‘I don’t
know
. Me and Molly went to the Fortune for a few drinks, and I can’t remember anything else. Ask her.’

‘I will. What time are you due at the police court?’

‘Dunno.’ Friday shrugged again.

Sarah stared at her. ‘Look, I know you’re upset about Aria, but you can’t just give
up
!’

‘I’m not.’

‘You are. But don’t. We need you. Especially Harrie.’

The policeman leaning against the wall made a silly, girlish noise.

Sarah whirled to face him. ‘And you can shut the fuck up.’ She hated the police, a sentiment compounded since they’d manacled Adam and dragged him into the street for a crime he’d never committed.

‘And you can get the fuck out,’ he shot back. ‘Now. Visiting time’s over.’

‘No, I haven’t finished.’

The man took hold of Sarah’s arm and propelled her roughly out the door. Over her shoulder Sarah shouted, ‘I’ll be there this afternoon! And so will Harrie. Don’t worry!’

Friday raised a hand, but she didn’t think it would matter who was there to support her. She’d be going back to the Factory for sure, if not the gaol on George Street. And she didn’t care.

Sarah knocked on the front door of the brothel on Argyle Street.

When Elizabeth Hislop answered, she said, ‘Afternoon, Mrs Hislop. I’ve just been to see Friday. Thanks for letting me know.’

‘Oh, my pleasure, dear. I really don’t know how we’re going to get her out of
this
one.’

‘Is Molly at work? She was with Friday last night. She’ll know exactly what happened. Maybe she can speak in her defence.’

Elizabeth nodded. ‘I thought the same thing, but I haven’t seen her since she finished yesterday evening.’

‘Is she still in her room sleeping it off, do you think?’

‘I’ve looked there. No, she isn’t.’

‘Oh.’

‘But I’ll talk to her as soon as I see her. She may have slept somewhere else last night. She does that. I am a little worried, though. And annoyed. She was supposed to start work at ten.’

Friday was taken via cart to the police court on George Street just north of the old burial ground, driven through the gate in the high wall surrounding both the court and the central police station, and locked in a cell to wait her turn in the dock. When a court staff constable came to fetch her, she’d fallen asleep, stretched out on the cell’s wooden bench, her manacled wrists crossed over her chest. There would be no lawyer to represent her — she was expected to defend herself.

The constable rattled the keys against the cell bars. ‘Hoi, you, wake up! Time to go in.’

Friday sat up, yawned, and rubbed her hands over her face. Her headache was nowhere near as bad as it had been in the morning, though she did wonder if someone had broken into her head and stolen her brains. Perhaps she’d overdone the laudanum. She stood as the guard unlocked the cell.

He led her down a corridor, made her wait with him in an antechamber, then escorted her into the main courtroom. The public gallery was full, as she knew it would be. A day at court was always a worthwhile entertainment. She saw, too, that police magistrate Clement Bloodworth was ancient, and looked like a bulldog in a wig.

The constable ushered her up into the dock, reminding her of the last time she’d stood in one, at the Old Bailey in London. That seemed such a long time ago now. She lifted her gaze to the public gallery and immediately spotted Sarah and Harrie, and Mrs H and Jack and Ivy and a few of the girls from work. No Molly, though. And there was Leo, and Nora Barrett! And was that …? Yes, it was — Matthew Cutler. How had he found out? It was nice of him to come, though. Of all of them. She waved, feeling the tiniest bit better.

She cast her eyes more widely and the nice feeling instantly disappeared; there, in the top row of the gallery, sat Bella Shand and Louisa Coutts. Bella, her face pale against the deep green of her high-necked gown, smiled unpleasantly, raised a hand and slowly ran a long-nailed finger across her throat. Normally Friday would have retaliated with a gesture of her own, but today she just couldn’t summon the energy. Let the bitch sit there and gloat. She held Bella’s gaze for no more than a second, then looked away.

Below her sat the counsel for the prosecution. The Clerk of the Court had a small desk of his own, and in rows on either side were various folk, including police and scribes from the newspapers. Opposite, Bloodworth presided in his elevated perch. Today the jury bench was empty, indicating that no capital or very serious crimes were to be tried.

The clerk stood and read out the charges, which were public nuisance, public drunkenness, violent and riotous behaviour, damage to property, assault of two women, and assault of a constable. Two women? Friday vaguely recalled having a go at Rowie Harris, but who had the other person been? She had no memory of biting the policeman, either. She must ask Molly what had happened to Rowie. Their business wasn’t finished.

Counsel for the prosecution called the bitten policeman to the witness box. The constable from the Harrington Street watch house stepped up, his arm suspended in a sling and heavily bandaged from fingers to elbow.

Someone — a woman — shouted from the gallery, ‘Charlatan! Shame!’

The questioning began, and Friday lost interest. She had no idea whether the constable was lying or not. She did, however, notice when a nondescript person rose from a side bench and passed a note to the Clerk of the Court, then left the courtroom. The counsel stopped his questioning as the clerk handed the note to the magistrate.

‘You may continue,’ the magistrate said.

The counsel did, even though it was obvious Bloodworth wasn’t listening, too busy cracking the seal on the note. After a moment he folded it and slipped the single sheet inside his robe.

Two male witnesses from the Fortune of War were called, though, to Friday’s faint surprise, neither Rowie Harris nor the other woman she was supposed to have assaulted made an appearance.

Finally, the magistrate said, ‘Friday Woolfe, do you have anything to say in your own defence?’

‘No.’

A few badly stifled groans of dismay came from the gallery.

There was a short, puzzled silence. Bloodworth said, ‘Nothing at all?’

‘No.’

‘Could the truth be that you were grievously provoked by the two women you are alleged to have assaulted?’

‘I really can’t remember.’ Why didn’t the silly old shite just hurry up and sentence her?

‘Perhaps you feared for your life and it was a matter of self-defence?’

‘Look, I just don’t know. I was drunk!’

‘Hmm.’ Bloodworth glanced down at his notes. ‘Then in that case, I find the defendant not guilty.’

The entire courtroom was utterly quiet for a moment, then the gallery burst into applause, though there was also a grumble of muttered confusion.

Fully resigned to going back to the Factory or even gaol, Friday’s heart was halfway down to her boots before she realised what he’d said.
Not
guilty? That couldn’t be right. She glanced uncomprehendingly at the court staff constable.

His face was impassive as he opened the gate to the dock, and gestured for her to present her manacled wrists. ‘You’re free to go.’ She stuck out her hands. He clicked the key into the lock and the manacles fell away. ‘Out that way, not through the front door,’ he ordered.

Feeling extremely odd, she wandered off in the direction he’d indicated, down another corridor, and outside into the bright sunshine. Nearby was a gate — a guard opened it, and she was out onto George Street, free.

Chapter Ten

October 1831, Southern Ocean

Malcolm Leary had been bored shitless for the past eight weeks, and was almost wishing he’d paid for a passage in steerage rather than a cabin all to himself. At least then he’d have the company of other men to help pass the time. He’d brought two books with him —
Confessions of an English Opium-Eater
by Thomas De Quincey, an inebriate, which had turned out to be bloody boring, and
The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner
, written anonymously and which he’d thought would be about sex but was instead a whole lot of shite about religion, though there was an all right bit about a murder. He was a very slow and hesitant reader — and the first to admit it — but he was that bored he’d persevered and read them from cover to cover.

The food was all right, better than he’d ever got as a crewman, but the price he had to pay for eating it was the expectation that he’d dine at the captain’s table, which was a pain in the arse. The other cabin passengers didn’t seem to like him, and he knew why, too — they thought he was rough. Well, he was, and he didn’t care. If he wanted to pick his nose or eat off his knife or scratch his balls, he would. He was paying. Sometimes now, though, he took his meals in his cabin, but that only made him feel even more bored and isolated, so he made a point of dining with the rest of them at least three times a week, just to stop himself going mad.

They were in the Southern Ocean now; the westerlies at this time of year had dropped into the high forties and the captain was holding the ship just above the forty-five degree line, so the weather wasn’t too vicious. You’d think it was end of days, though, the way the passengers — steerage and cabin — were bleating on. On a few occasions when the captain had dipped below forty-five and things had got a bit hectic, he’d offered to lend a hand on deck. He hadn’t even asked for a fee. The captain was running the crew shorthanded, cheap bastard, and hadn’t been in a position to say no. That had been marvellous, like the old days before he’d had to retire. He’d lost a fair amount of fettle since then, though, and gained a bit of extra weight. Too much time spent on his arse in Liverpool. By the time he’d come down from the rigging the second time he’d helped out, he was short of breath, dizzy and had a Godawful pain in his side, like you got if you ran for too long, but it went away after a while.