The Silk Thief (3 page)

Leo fixed him with a pointed stare. ‘Is that the truth, lad?’

‘I swear.’

Friday and Harrie hardly dared to breathe. Leo still didn’t look convinced but at last he nodded, and took a swig of the brandy.

‘Bit early in the day, I admit, but desperate times,’ he said, offering the bottle to Friday, who knocked back several enormous gulps. Returning the brandy to the shelf, he added pointedly to Harrie, ‘You don’t drink,’ and to Walter, ‘and you’re too young.’

There was nothing in the
Sydney Herald
later that morning about a (fresh) body discovered in the old burial ground, but by midday everyone on the Rocks, and no doubt across all of Sydney Town, had heard that a murder had occurred. Perhaps it would be officially reported in Tuesday’s edition of the
Sydney Gazette
.

Yawning her way around the fruit and vegetable hall in George Street market, Harrie overheard a woman telling someone that she had it on very good account that the corpse had been hacked to pieces with nothing less than an axe or a hatchet, and Friday, ducking into the Fortune of War for a quick morning gin on the way to warn Sarah, heard that the victim’s entrails had been drawn out to a distance of ten feet in all directions around the ruined body. Friday made suitable noises of disgusted fascination, but doubted Walter had bothered to hang around to mutilate Furniss to that extent, though he might have harboured the rage to do it. She’d seen it herself, in his eyes.

The bell over the door chimed as she entered Sarah and Adam Green’s jewellery shop just after nine o’clock. Sarah was at a cabinet, rearranging a display of cufflinks and tiepins.

‘How did it go last night?’ she asked without preamble.

‘Is Adam in?’

Sarah tensed. ‘No. Why?’

‘We need to talk.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Sarah closed and locked the cabinet door. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Furniss is dead.’

‘Oh God, Friday, you didn’t.’

‘Not me, Walter.’

‘Walter!’

Friday nodded. ‘He followed me to the burial ground, and after I’d handed the dosh over he stabbed Furniss to death. And took the money back.’

Sarah subsided onto the stool behind the counter. ‘Shit. That means —’

‘Bella’ll be roaring.’

‘Christ,’ Sarah said. ‘What do we do? She’ll think we killed him. She’ll have our guts for garters.’

‘Maybe, but how much do you think she really cared about Furniss?’

‘Not at all, I’d say. Who would?’

‘Exactly,’ Friday agreed. ‘She’ll be more interested in getting her money.’

‘Our money,’ Sarah grumbled.

‘And she won’t get it, will she, if she’s had our throats cut or we’re swinging from the gallows.’

‘So you think we’re safe?’

‘No, but we may have a bit more grace than we think.’

Sarah snorted. ‘I can’t imagine using the words “Bella” and “grace” in the same sentence.’

‘This is all a big bloody game to her, remember,’ Friday said.

‘Is it? Really? How do you know?’

‘If she really hated us, she’d’ve dobbed us in by now, wouldn’t she? Just to see us hang. If you were her, wouldn’t you?’

‘Probably.’ Sarah nodded. ‘Yes, I would’ve. So why’s she buggering about blackmailing us?’

‘I’m sure the money’s coming in handy, but I can’t help feeling she’s playing with us.’

‘Why can’t we just tell her it was Walter?’

Friday stared at her. ‘God, Sarah, that’s a bit mean, even for you. She’d kill him. You wouldn’t really do that, would you?’

Sarah took just a tiny bit too long to answer. ‘No. He’s a good lad, Walter.’

‘Though, actually, we could tell her,’ Friday said after a moment’s thought. ‘He’ll be gone soon and then it won’t matter. But do you think she’d believe us? A twelve-year-old boy murdering a brawny, handy cove like Furniss?’

‘Except Walter did kill him, didn’t he? Why will he be gone soon?’

‘He thinks he might have been seen leaving the burial ground,’ Friday said. ‘And he had bloody Clifford with him. Everyone knows Clifford. Leo’s trying to get him on the next ship back to England.’

‘Well, if Walter was seen, and he’s accused of killing Furniss, won’t we be in the clear as far as Bella’s concerned?’

‘Only if she believes he did it: but what if she doesn’t? He won’t be here to go to trial and be proven guilty.’

‘God.’ Sarah rubbed her hands over her face. ‘Who’s got the dosh now?’

‘I have. I’ll get Matthew to put it back in the bank.’

‘Will we pay it again?’

‘Bugger that. I’ve already handed it over once. It’s not my fault if it came back.’

‘Bella won’t see it like that, though, will she?’

‘So I should run up to Cumberland Street and shove it under her door?’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Sarah snapped.

‘Well, what, then?’

‘I don’t know. Wait and see, I suppose.’

Monday was Friday’s normal day off, so she went home for a sleep, then in the afternoon returned to Leo’s to find out if he’d been able to secure a passage for Walter back to England.

Leo was putting the finishing touches to a sailor’s tattoo — a ship in full sail with
Homeward Bound
scripted beneath it — so she went through to the other room, hung the kettle over the fire, put her feet up and lit her pipe. There was no sign of Walter or Clifford.

Leo appeared half an hour later, wiping his ink-stained hands on a cloth, smelling of fish oil and raw alcohol.

‘Is there any tea in that pot?’

Friday nodded and poured him a cup. ‘Where’s Walter?’

‘With a friend. Can’t stay there, though. And he’s not safe here. Folk know this is where he lives.’

‘Do you really think he’ll be fingered? There was bugger-all moon last night.’

Leo shrugged and pulled out a chair. ‘Can’t be too careful. This is the lad’s life we’re talking about.’

‘Did you get down to the wharves this morning?’ Friday asked.

‘I did, and I can’t get him passage before Thursday, not even with a hefty bribe. So I need somewhere to hide him till then. Any ideas?’

‘Well, that’s easy. My room at the Siren. He can sleep on the floor. Or Sarah might put him up at her house. She’s got a couple of spare rooms.’

‘No, lass. If you or Sarah are caught concealing him, you’ll be charged with aiding and abetting a murderer. You’ll swing beside him. Use your head.’

Friday hadn’t thought of that, and made a face.

Leo laughed. ‘You’ve swanned around pleasing yourself for so long you’ve forgotten you’re a bonded convict, haven’t you?’

‘I have not.’

‘You have. All it’ll take is one foot out of line and you’ll be back in the Factory as quick as you please.’

‘I’m sick of folk telling me that,’ Friday grumbled.

‘But both feet out of line — and harbouring a murderer would definitely be considered both feet — and you’ll be for the gallows.’

Friday was also getting a bit sick of Leo. ‘You think of somewhere to hide him, then. You’re the one reckons you know this town inside out.’

‘Just the arse end of it, lass.’ Leo frowned and tapped on the table with a teaspoon. ‘Trouble is, I don’t want any of my friends caught hiding him. And anyone who isn’t a friend would sell him up the river for the reward.’

‘There’s a reward? Already? Bloody Furniss won’t even be properly cold yet.’

‘Oh, he’ll be cold, all right. I heard he was stiff as a board when they found him. And gnawed to shreds by rats.’

‘Still, it’s a bit early to be offering a reward, isn’t it?’

Leo shrugged. ‘You see my point, though? About where to hide him?’

‘Well, I’m fond of Walter,’ Friday said, ‘but I certainly don’t want to hang just for giving him a blanket and a bowl of porridge.’

‘And I don’t want him caught at all, and this’ll be the first place the police will look.’

‘If someone actually does finger him.’

‘Better to be safe than to mourn him,’ Leo said.

‘What time does the ship sail?’

‘On Thursday? On the late tide. Just after dark.’

‘So, that’s three nights and three days away,’ Friday said thoughtfully.

‘It is. Why?’

‘Can you have Walter in the yard behind the Siren tonight? Better make it just after dark. Bring his travelling things, and food and drink for three days. But don’t bring the dog.’

Friday had an idea.

Chapter Two

Sarah stood against the high wooden fence in the stable yard behind the Siren’s Arms, merging with the shadows, almost invisible. She was good at that. The air was cool again tonight and steam rose off a pile of manure, freshly deposited on the cobbles. Jimmy Johnson, the stable boy, had emerged from the tack room and walked right past her to take the horse, sweating and blowing and skittering sideways, as its rider had dismounted, and hadn’t even seen her. She felt smug. She’d not been out skulking in dark corners for months and was pleased to note she hadn’t lost her knack for melting into the background.

She did wish Leo and Walter would hurry up, though. Her feet were getting cold. She raised her face to the sky, now the deep, dark blue of a very fine Burmese sapphire, and watched as a river of bats streamed overhead, heading north.

At last Leo arrived, Walter trailing after him, his collar up and his cap pulled low over his brow. Sarah stepped out of the shadows.

‘Sarah.’ Leo touched the brim of his hat.

‘Leo. She’s not here yet.’

‘She said near dark.’

Sarah nodded. ‘Don’t worry, she won’t be far away. Got everything you need?’ she asked Walter.

He turned slightly, revealing the sea bag slung over his shoulder.

The gate between the stable yard and the alley leading to Elizabeth Hislop’s brothel on Argyle Street rattled and creaked open. Friday appeared and beckoned. They stepped into the narrow lane and followed her — the white gauze of her flimsy robe almost glowing in the gloom — to the gate at the other end, where she signalled a stop with a raised hand.

‘I’ve drawn the drapes across the back windows, but someone could come out to the bog at any time, so we have to hurry. Plus, I’m bloody freezing.’

‘This might be easier if you told us what you’re planning to do,’ Leo said.

‘There’s a cellar under the house. No one ever goes down there. You get in from the outside but the door’s always locked. That’s why we need Sarah.’

Leo frowned. ‘Is it habitable?’

‘Dunno, haven’t looked. But it must be fairly dry. Mrs H stores furniture in there. Anyway, got a better idea?’

‘No.’

‘Well, there you go. Sarah, you ready?’

‘Always.’

‘The door’s just to the right of the steps. It’s easy to see.’

Friday unlocked the gate and let Sarah through. She crossed the cobbled yard behind the house, passing the whiffy privy and the clothesline, and headed straight for the cellar. On her left, wooden stairs ascended to the brothel’s back entrance; in front of her, two steps led down to a low door set into the house’s sandstone wall. The door had two hefty locks built into it. From her burglary satchel she selected an assortment of tools, and in less than five minutes had both locks cracked, though they were stiff from disuse. She turned and waved at Friday.

Quickly the other three joined her. Friday cautiously pushed the door: it creaked open onto more wooden steps — steep and extremely rickety — and a dense blackness that smelt dryly of dirt and of something vaguely organic, like mushrooms.

Friday dug in the pocket of her robe for matches, lit her lamp and handed it to Sarah, who said, ‘Why do I have to go first?’

‘I don’t like small spaces.’

Sarah had forgotten that. She took the lamp in one hand, gathered her skirts with the other, and carefully descended the stairs, each riser protesting beneath her weight, such as it was.

The cellar had been excavated into the hill on which the house sat, Argyle Street rising with the slope, the raw rock surfaces pointed for stability but nothing more. The remainder of the cellar walls — those not underground — were made from roughly mortared sandstone rubble. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Leo, who was close to six feet tall, could stand comfortably.

The space wasn’t, in fact, small: it appeared to extend to the four corners of the house above and did, as Elizabeth had informed Friday on an earlier occasion, contain a fair bit of furniture. Many pieces were draped with sheeting, giving them a neglected, even ghostly, appearance, but others stood naked, their surfaces dulled by accumulated grime and a dry sort of mould. Visible were three or four nightstands with doors missing, a listing dining table against which were propped several headboards, three battered bureaux, a chaise with exploding stuffing, a cheval looking-glass frame minus the actual glass, a couple of battered travelling trunks piled against a wall, half a dozen wooden chairs in various states of disrepair, two coat stands with broken arms, and a dented and tarnished brass fender.

‘Doesn’t she throw anything out?’ Leo asked.

‘Shush.’ Friday pointed urgently at the floor above. ‘Someone’ll hear us.

‘What’s this?’ Sarah said, kicking a long, rolled-up tube on the ground. ‘Carpets?’

An absolutely
gargantuan
spider shot out the end of it, scuttling straight for her skirts. She let out a strangled squeak and leapt back at least five feet.

‘God, that’s a big one,’ Friday remarked. ‘Hope you’re not scared of spiders, Walter.’

Walter stepped forwards and stamped on it.

Leo said, ‘Lucky Clifford’s not here. She’d eat that. Oh, sorry, lad.’

Shrugging, Walter stared down at his boots.

‘You don’t need me any more, do you?’ Sarah asked. ‘I’ll wait in the alley.’

‘Hang on,’ Friday said. ‘What do we do about the locks?’

‘Nothing. The door’ll look locked when you close it. As long as no one tries it, we’ll be fine.’

‘But if they do?’ Friday persisted.

‘I’ll say I broke in,’ Walter said.

Leo patted his shoulder. ‘Good lad. But it won’t come to that.’

Friday said to Sarah, ‘Well, in that case, you might as well go home. Thanks for your help.’

‘Thank you,’ Walter echoed.

‘My pleasure,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ll come and see you off on Thursday, shall I? Is that all right?’ she asked Leo. ‘Which wharf?’