The Silk Thief (42 page)

Come on, come on, she said to herself, glancing at the ornate clock on the mantel above the fireplace. Both shoulders hurt now, and she could absolutely murder a tankard of ale. She changed hands again, noticing that she’d developed a blister on her right palm. For God’s sake, this wasn’t supposed to be hurting her!

‘Oh, hurry up, you stupid old shit!’ she exclaimed, and brought the whip down with an almighty, zinging crack across Mr Meriwether’s bum.

He spasmed violently, his back bowing, chest and feet off the mattress, and let out a long, loud groan. Then he collapsed, his face buried in the pillow.

Friday stared down at him, wondering for a very unpleasant moment if he’d had a heart attack. It’d be a bit of a problem if she’d killed him. ‘Mr Meriwether? Are you all right?’

He turned his head and opened an eye. ‘I’ve never been better, my dear. That was truly invigorating. And you were magnificent.’

Friday grunted and tucked her breast back into her corset. ‘Your arse looks a mess. There’s blood.’

‘Truly, a small price to pay. Why don’t you go and get changed into your street clothes and put the kettle on, while I tidy myself?’

Sighing, Friday freed him from the manacles, collected her gear and clacked back to the study in her noisy boots. She should have known she’d be the one to end up making the tea. By the time she’d changed, packed her things in her case, found the kitchen at the back of the house and boiled the kettle, he’d also dressed, and appeared in the kitchen.

‘There you are,’ he said. He opened a cupboard and indicated a tray on which sat a cake, a plate of biscuits and various tea things. ‘Would you mind carrying the tray through to the study?’ He waved his cane. ‘I’m afraid I can’t. A damned nuisance, this.’

‘You go through,’ Friday said resignedly. ‘I’ll bring it all.’

She dumped tea leaves into the pot, plonked it on the tray and carted it down the hall. Mr Meriwether had cleared some space on his desk and moved a chair closer to his.

‘Please, sit down,’ he said when she’d deposited the tray. ‘Do you take milk? I think Mrs Wright bought some yesterday, but it goes off so quickly in this weather.’

Friday shook her head. ‘Sugar, though.’

‘Cake?’

‘Yes, please.’ The cake looked delicious, and so did the biscuits. Obviously Mrs Wright was a good cook.

Shovelling cake into her mouth, Friday feared that the next fifty minutes would crawl past and she’d have to stifle her yawns, but she was pleasantly surprised. Mr Meriwether showed her his pressed flower albums, and some of his books filled with illustrations of strange animals and plants from all around the world. Prior to his retirement, he told her, he’d been a natural historian with a particular interest in botany and birds, and had gone on many expeditions to exotic locations such as India, the Bahamas, the Mosquito Coast, Jamaica, Guiana, Dominica, Gibraltar, Tangier and some of the British-owned territories in North America. Friday was astounded to hear that his wife, Florence, had accompanied him at times, as she couldn’t think of anything worse than traipsing through mud, or a jungle, or across a desert, or a mosquito-infested swamp, just to look at a boring little plant, and said so. Mr Meriwether said yes, actually, he wished that Florence hadn’t, because she’d contracted malaria, which had severely weakened her constitution. On physicians’ advice they’d immigrated to New South Wales for the warmer weather, but it had been too late — ultimately Florence had died from her illness. And he’d been lonely ever since.

Friday’s eye was caught by a row of glass domes on a shelf, under which were forever captured an assortment of stuffed birds. Most were small and brightly coloured, like jewels, but under one dome was a pair about the size of crows with gleaming black plumage and orange wattles. One had a short, stout ivory-coloured beak while the other had a long narrow beak that curved downwards. Their tail feathers looked familiar — long and tipped with white.

‘What are those?’ she asked.

‘The black specimens? Striking, aren’t they? They’re huia birds, native to New Zealand. Curiously, they mate for life. Very highly prized by the Maoris, too. They view them as sacred. Only those of high rank are entitled to wear the feathers or skins. I’m told they’re occasionally given as tokens of esteem, respect and love.’

Friday felt a warm glow spread though her chest, and a burst of goodwill towards Mr Meriwether. She decided she didn’t mind keeping him company, as long as he was paying for her time — which he was, and very handsomely, too.

At five minutes to four he withdrew his watch and said wistfully, ‘Oh dear, I see my treat is coming to an end. But what a delightful way to finish the year. Thank you, Miss Friday. I trust you will be back soon?’

‘When would you like to see me?’

‘In a fortnight? I’ll send word.’

‘As long as you give me plenty of notice. I’m usually quite booked up.’

‘I’ve no doubt you are.’ Mr Meriwether took her hand and kissed it. ‘Will you forgive me for not seeing you to the door? I’m afraid I’m feeling a little, er, battered.’

‘I can see myself out,’ Friday said, standing. ‘Have a nice New Year, Mr Meriwether.’

‘A happy New Year to you, too.’

Closing the front door behind her, she hurried down the path, pleased to see Jack waiting on the street in the gig. She slid her case under the seat, hoisted her skirts and climbed up, settling herself beside him.

‘How’d it go?’ he asked.

‘Bloody hard work, actually. Afternoon tea was nice.’

‘Mrs H says to remind you you’ve got a customer at half past four.’

Friday hadn’t forgotten. ‘Well, get a move on then.’

But something caught her eye as they neared Bella Shand’s establishment, farther south on Princes Street — Bella’s distinctive midnight-blue curricle emerging from the carriageway at the side of her house.

Friday grabbed Jack’s arm. ‘Stop!’

‘Now what?’

‘Just do it, Jack.’

Sighing heavily, he did.

Friday squinted to pick out the driver of the curricle, who appeared to be wearing a dress. It looked like — it was! Louisa Coutts. Louisa drove the curricle onto the street and parked in front of the house. A moment later, Bella appeared from the shadows, her hand at her brow as though shielding her eyes from the sun. And she was carrying a cane. She crossed the shallow verandah running along the rear of the house, which faced the street, descended the three steps, and walked unhurriedly to the curricle. She wasn’t limping, merely using the cane a little for support. She seemed perhaps a hint slower than usual, but alert as ever, her back straight and her head held high. Friday’s heart sank.

Louisa jumped down from the curricle and helped Bella to climb up onto the seat.

‘Go,’ Friday urged Jack. ‘I want to see her up close.’

Jack flicked the reins and the gig moved parallel to Bella’s vehicle. Friday leant out past Jack and stared. Slowly, so slowly, Bella turned her head. She wore a hat with a brim that cast a shadow across her features, but Friday could still see her face. She was as thin as usual, her nose as prominent as a shark’s fin, but, disappointingly, there was no evidence in her features of some terrible, life-sapping disease. Her eyes remained twin pools of glittering jet, rimmed, as usual, with the kohl she favoured, and full of her sharp, detestable intelligence. The ringlets of her wig gleamed in stark contrast with her white-powdered skin, and long, heavy gold earrings visibly stretched her earlobes. Friday noted with satisfaction that neither the slash of red lip rouge nor the deep purple of Bella’s expensive dress and matching silk scarf at her throat complemented her pale complexion. But then, she never seemed to wear colours that suited her.

Bella sneered, her curled upper lip revealing yellowing teeth and, Friday was sure, a new gap at the side. Good job.

‘Slag,’ Bella mouthed.

‘Bitch,’ Friday responded, and raised two fingers.

Knowing Friday, and what would surely happen next, Jack gripped the reins and urged his horses forwards. Mrs H would kill him if he didn’t get Friday back to the brothel on time, or if he delivered her late and with a black eye.

But instead of berating him as they tore off down the street, the horses’ hooves scattering gravel, Friday sat beside him, deep in thought.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘She might not be dying, Jack, but her teeth are falling out and she’s using a cane. I suppose that’s better than nothing.’

‘Is it?’ He had no idea what she was talking about.

‘Yes. It is.’

Chapter Fourteen

January 1832, Sydney Town

Harrie saw him coming and tried to get away by weaving through the crowd in the market shed and ducking out the door at the far end, but she wasn’t fast enough. He caught up with her just as she got outside, and grabbed hold of her basket, almost tugging it from her grasp. She thought of screaming at the top of her voice in the hope that folk would think she was being assaulted, which in a way she was, but was loath to draw so much attention to herself.

‘Wait, stop,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you.’

She stood perfectly still, eyes cast down, hoping that if she said nothing, eventually he would go away. This had been a mistake, coming to the market by herself — a terrible one — just as James said it would be.

‘Can you hear me?’ Jonah Leary said loudly, as though she were deaf or slow. ‘It’s Mary, isn’t it?’

‘No, Harrie. Please let go of my basket.’

He did. ‘That’s a strange name for a girl.’

‘Please go away.’ Bands of panic tightened around Harrie’s chest. ‘I don’t know anything about another tattoo, and neither does Leo. So leave me alone. Leave us both alone.’

Leary nodded gravely, giving every indication of seriously considering her request, then leant towards her, as though he were about to share a confidence. Harrie stepped back; if he was, she didn’t want to hear it. ‘Granted, I might have made a mistake about the second tattoo,’ he said. ‘It turns out me brother, Bennett that is, could be here in Sydney after all. Hale and hearty, I mean. And if he is, me other brother Malcolm wouldn’t have had bits of him tanned or floating in a jar, would he?’ He smiled. ‘So, I’ll ask you this. Do you know Bennett Leary?’

‘No!’

‘You’ve never heard of someone with a map tattooed on his back?’

‘Only your brother, Malcolm.’ Oh, why will he not believe me? Harrie thought. Could he not see she was telling the truth?

‘Then ask everyone you can think of. You work for a tattooist. I’m betting someone with an eye for tattoos will have seen or heard of him.’

Harrie looked wildly around. No one was watching them. The way Leary was standing now, one hand casually on his hip, hat dangling from his fingers, a smile on his face, was giving the impression that they were having a nice, friendly conversation in the sunshine. But they weren’t. Couldn’t anyone see?

Summoning all her courage, and praying her voice wouldn’t wobble, she said, ‘No, I won’t. It’s nothing to do with us. He’s your brother. You find him.’

Slowly, Leary shook his head, though his smile never slipped. ‘Oh dear, what a shame. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do this. I’m that sorry.’ But he didn’t sound sorry, not at all.

Harrie’s legs suddenly didn’t want to support her. ‘Do what?’

‘That little girl you’re so fond of in the orphanage. Charlotte? I know how upset you’d be if something bad happened to her.’ He paused for a second, watching her, then added, ‘You would be, wouldn’t you? Very upset.’

Harrie’s heartbeat roared in her ears and her throat was suddenly as dry as old bones. ‘How do you know about Charlotte?’ she whispered.

‘It’s surprising what five shillings will buy.’

Not Mrs Duff, surely? Harrie thought, horrified. ‘Please, don’t hurt her. She’s only a baby.’

Leary put his hat back on. ‘I won’t have to, will I, if you find out where me brother is.’

‘But I told you, I don’t know him! I don’t even know where to start!’

The smile finally left Leary’s face. ‘Then talk to your boss.
He’s
not stupid.’

He walked off, leaving Harrie staring at the ground, her fists clenched, hot tears welling in her eyes. He’d threatened Charlotte, and she didn’t know what to do. And he’d implied that she was stupid. She wasn’t stupid.

Was she?

Forgetting about the shopping, and convinced that Leary was following her, Harrie went straight down to Leo’s and told him what had happened.

Furious, Leo said, ‘But how did he find out about Charlotte in the first place?’

‘I don’t know!’

‘Did he follow you out to Parramatta, do you think?’

‘No, I would have known. Surely?’

Leo frowned. Over the past four or five months, there’d been times when Harrie wouldn’t have known who was in the room with her, but he didn’t say as much. ‘And he suggested that something bad would happen to her if you don’t track down this Bennett?’

Blowing her nose on one of Leo’s enormous handkerchiefs, Harrie nodded. ‘He’ll do it, too. I know he will. Look how little he cared about his other brother.’

‘Aye, lass, I hate to say it, but I think you might be right.’ Leo patted her shoulder in a manner he hoped would be comforting. ‘I also think it might be time to tell that man of yours about everything that’s been going on.’

Harrie froze. ‘Everything?’

God, Leo thought, she looked so frightened. But then, Jonah Leary was a bloody frightening cove. ‘What harm can it do? This business with Leary isn’t your fault. Tell James what’s happened. He might be able to help.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. And neither will you until you talk to him about it.’

Leo splayed his hands and looked down at the words
HOLD
and
FAST
tattooed across his fingers. He did know how James could help; it was obvious to everyone — including, no doubt, James — except for Harrie herself. Poor, sad, unwell, stubborn and bloody exasperating little Harrie.

Deliberately changing the subject, Harrie said, ‘What if we do find Bennett Leary? We can’t tell his brother. We don’t even know where he’s staying.’