Girl of Shadows

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘She was a stupid, fat, greedy old fool. And a troublemaker. But you can’t prove it was me.’

  ‘I can pay someone to say it was.’

  ‘And I can pay someone to say it wasn’t.’

  They glared at each other. At last Bella said, ‘I win, Woolfe. You don’t have anything over me. Nothing that matters. I want that money paid by the end of the week. You’re an idiot if you thought you could come here snivelling and whining and hoping to appeal to my better nature, because I don’t have one. And be warned — I’m not going to stop until I’ve bled you dry and all three of you are in the gutter, where you belong.’

  Friday felt her vision narrow and blood pound in her ears. Her fists clenched, but giving Bella a thoroughly good dewskitch wasn’t going to achieve anything, especially not with Amos Furniss and those filthy animals lurking outside. She might have lost this round, but she wouldn’t lose the next.

  She had a question for Bella, however, before she left.

  ‘Why do you hate us so much?’

  Bella drew in a sharp breath, her startled gaze fixed on Friday’s face, and for a second she looked as though she might answer. She picked up her pen and stared intently at her ledger. ‘By the end of the week,’ she ordered. ‘Now get out.’

  Friday retreated through the French doors, and saw that Furniss was still outside with the dogs. As she stepped off the verandah, she gave him two fingers. This was a mistake as he immediately set the animals loose. Barking explosively, they launched themselves at her. She snatched up her skirts and sprinted around the corner of the house and along the carriageway, boots slipping in the gravel.

  To her utter dismay she saw that the hand gate had been closed, but she threw herself at it anyway, intending to hurl herself up and over. When the first dog to reach her sank its fangs into her left boot, all her weight was balanced on her arms, her hands resting between the pointed finials along the top of the gate; if she collapsed, the finials would plunge through her abdomen. She kicked her left leg furiously, but couldn’t dislodge the growling, slobbering dog, whose teeth she could feel piercing her foot. Her arms trembling madly, she swung her leg, causing the dog to move right, then viciously stamped down on its head with her other foot. It let go but the second dog immediately tore at her right calf. The pain was extreme and she shrieked. Knowing her arms were about to give way, she kicked back at the animal as hard as she could with her free leg, and the moment the dog’s jaws slackened she heaved herself over the gate, tearing her skirt from waist to hem, and landed in a heap on the other side. Barking wildly, the dogs shoved their blunt snouts through the rails at her as she scrambled away, staggering to her feet.

  Blood was pouring down her right leg into her boot — she could feel it — but there was no time to stop and look. She ran limpingly up the remainder of the carriageway and out onto Cumberland Street. She would probably need the doctor, but home was closer. She would go there.

  ‘Dare I ask how this happened?’ James said as he readied his instruments. Normally Lawrence Chandler would have seen a patient from Elizabeth Hislop’s brothel, but Lawrence was busy attending to an emergency and it had fallen to James to treat Friday Woolfe when she’d arrived at the surgery. And, of course, he knew Friday.

  ‘Well, obviously a bloody dog bit me,’ Friday said, lying on her stomach with her bloodied boots and stockings off and her ruined skirt rucked up to her knees.

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ James remarked mildly. ‘What I meant was, what were you doing to make it bite you?’

  ‘Nothing! Walking down the street. It was a couple of those feral dogs.’

  ‘Mmm.’ James squinted as he threaded his surgical needle. ‘That’s what I was afraid of.’

  ‘It’s a worry, isn’t it?’ Elizabeth said, who knew exactly what Friday had been doing when she’d been attacked. She’d got the story out of Friday not long after she staggered into the brothel, leaving a gory trail of blood along the polished floorboards in the hallway, and announced she’d been savaged by dogs.

  ‘It is. As you will no doubt be aware, a dog bite is never good news. There is always the potential for hydrophobia.’

  ‘Shite,’ Friday muttered, and covered her head with her hands. She hadn’t thought of rabies. Until now.

  ‘What did they look like?’ James asked as he wiped away the blood still oozing from the deep, ragged wound in Friday’s calf.

  ‘Big, and sort of brindle.’

  ‘I think what he means, dear, is in what way were they behaving?’ Elizabeth prompted.

  ‘Yes, were either of them agitated? Or slavering or foaming at the mouth?’

  Friday suddenly found it difficult to swallow. ‘Sort of. Yes.’

  There was a long and uneasy moment of silence.

  James bent over her leg. ‘I can stitch this fairly tidily but it will still leave an obvious scar. Is the tincture of opium having any effect yet?’

  Nodding, Friday said yes; she felt drowsy and not unpleasantly disconnected. ‘When will I know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘If I’ve got rabies?’

  ‘Symptoms usually manifest in thirty to forty days, but occasionally not for as long as three months.’

  ‘What exactly are the symptoms?’ Elizabeth asked. If Friday was going to turn into a raving lunatic some time over the next few months, she definitely wanted to know what to watch out for.

  ‘Agitation, chills, fever, a stiff neck, spasms and a buildup of thick mucus in the throat, difficulty swallowing water, uncontrollable and violent bodily movements, delusions, and eventual death.’

  Elizabeth scowled at him. ‘Don’t pull your punches, will you, doctor? Is there no cure?’

  James frowned down at Friday’s calf. ‘Well, that’s the other thing. The accepted treatment is to excise the wounded tissue, taking a liberal amount of unaffected flesh with it. In this case that would mean removing almost all the calf muscle, leaving the patient quite likely crippled and most definitely disfigured.’

  ‘No,’ Friday said abruptly. ‘No, I won’t have that. I’ll take my chances.’

  ‘I was hoping you might say that,’ James said. ‘I personally don’t altogether agree with the treatment. Although it’s often employed, it doesn’t seem to be particularly effective. Patients still die.’

  ‘Fuck that, then,’ Friday muttered, then giggled. ‘If I’m going to die, I’m doing it with nice legs.’

  James turned to Elizabeth. ‘I think the opium is working nicely. Would you care to hold her hand? This procedure will still be somewhat painful.’

  Elizabeth moved her chair to the examination table and gripped Friday’s hand, while James got to work. Friday swore the air blue, but James was quick and very efficient and in no time had cleaned out the L-shaped wound the dog had torn in the meaty part of her calf with a solution of diluted carbolic acid, and sutured it so neatly even Harrie would have been impressed. He then smeared on an ointment containing collodion and a hint of mercuric chloride, a savage antiseptic, and bandaged Friday’s entire lower leg. Turning to the puncture wounds on her left foot, he swabbed them with carbolic acid, applied the ointment and covered them with gauze.

  ‘I’d like you to come back in four days to have the dressings changed,’ he said as Friday sat up. ‘And keep that leg elevated, please. Also, try to limit your walking. I don’t want those sutures to burst.’

  ‘Can I still work?’ Friday asked, tittering again. ‘My legs will be up.’

  Elizabeth hid a smile.

  ‘No, you can’t,’ James said, going red.

  ‘Really? Damn,’ Elizabeth said, not smiling now. ‘How long will she need off? I’ve a business to run.’

  ‘She can’t return to work until I’ve removed the sutures and I’m satisfied that the healing process is well under way. I’m not sure you comprehend the gravity of the situation, either of you. If the wound doesn’t close satisfactorily gangrene will almost certainly develop. Friday, please take your predicament seriously
. Mrs Hislop, will you please ensure she follows my instructions?’

  ‘Of course, Dr Downey.’

  Friday slid off the table and wobbled precariously; James grabbed her arm. ‘Did you come by carriage?’ he asked Elizabeth.

  ‘Clip clop, clip clop,’ Friday sang.

  ‘You did? Good. Perhaps, while you’re not working for the next few days, Friday, you might like to visit Rowie. By vehicle, of course, not on foot. She speaks of you often. I expect she’s accustomed to far more congenial company than I can provide.’

  ‘I could, couldn’t I?’ Friday said, quite taken with the idea.

  ‘Only if you behave,’ Elizabeth threatened. ‘Or I won’t lend you the gig. The sooner you mend and get back to work the better.’

  ‘Now go home and go to bed,’ James ordered. ‘Or at least lie down. You’ve had a very unpleasant experience.’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ Friday agreed soberly. ‘I wasn’t keen on those dogs, either.’

  Chapter Seven

  Friday passed the letter to Sarah. It read:

  To Friday Wolfe, Sarah Morgan, Harrie Clark

  I know what you did.

  If you value your lives, prepare to pay my price. This time it is one hundred and fifty pounds.

  My man will be in the Black Rat at midnight next Sunday. Give the money to him.

  B

  Sarah asked, ‘Have you shown this to anyone else?’

  ‘Of course I bloody haven’t,’ Friday snapped. Her leg was throbbing even though it was propped up on the laundry basket, and the more she thought about what had happened yesterday the more humiliated she felt.

  ‘Not even Harrie?’

  ‘Not yet. Look, the bitch couldn’t even spell my name right. Or Harrie’s.’

  ‘And it was delivered to Mrs Hislop’s?’

  ‘Yes, I said that.’

  ‘And did people notice?’

  ‘They couldn’t help it. I just about shat myself.’

  ‘So what did you say?’

  Friday dug angrily in her reticule for her pipe and tobacco. ‘Stop asking me questions, Sarah. I didn’t send the bloody thing.’

  ‘No, but we’re going to have to pay the money, aren’t we?’

  Sarah’s voice had risen and she glanced over her shoulder at the open back door in case Adam or Esther might have heard. But Adam was packing for his trip to Van Diemen’s Land, and Esther was no doubt too busy chastising him about leaving her while her nerves were in such a terrible state to be eavesdropping.

  Regardless, she lowered her voice and indicated Friday’s leg. ‘Didn’t anyone want to know how that happened? Did they connect it with the letter?’

  ‘What does it matter if they did?’

  ‘But does anyone know you went to see Bella?’

  Friday sucked on her pipe. ‘Mrs H does. She wouldn’t take me to the doctor unless I told her how I got mauled.’

  Sarah looked alarmed. ‘Christ, you didn’t tell her why, did you?’

  ‘What do you think? I just said I had a bone to pick.’

  ‘Why did you go? You know she isn’t going to let us off.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Friday shrugged. ‘I thought we might have done a deal.’

  ‘What sort of deal?’ Sarah persisted.

  ‘I don’t know. I just wanted … to have a go at her, I suppose.’

  ‘So there’s no chance of her letting us off?’

  ‘None. I got the impression she’d rather die.’

  ‘Did you … feel a fool?’

  Friday nodded reluctantly. ‘She enjoyed it, too. I think she’d have been disappointed if I hadn’t gone to see her.’

  ‘Well,’ Sarah said, ‘much as it sticks in my craw to say it, we’ve got the money. We can afford it.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s supposed to be Charlotte’s nest egg, and to support her and Rosie and Janie in the Factory. We’ll have to double our savings schedule to replace it. Then the bitch’ll just demand more and it’ll be gone again.’ Friday’s voice was going up and up. ‘It’ll be a never-ending bloody cycle. Ow, God my leg hurts.’

  Sarah eyed Friday’s bandaged leg as though it might suddenly develop a life of its own, leap up and attack her. ‘When will you know if you actually have been infected?’

  ‘James Downey said a month or so.’

  ‘Christ, Friday, it’s a worry.’

  ‘Maybe. I’m not going to think about it till I have to.’

  Sarah gave Friday’s hand a comforting squeeze. ‘Did Bella say anything about when the next demand would be?’

  ‘No. If we knew that it’d spoil the game, wouldn’t it? Christ, she’s a bitch.’ Friday fired a tobacco-stained gob at the ground. ‘God, who’ll tell Harrie, you or me? She’s already in a state over Rowie and James. She’s in a state anyway, Sarah. I’m worried.’

  ‘I know. So am I. But I’ll be lucky if Esther lets me over the doorstep once Adam’s gone, so can you tell her?’

  Friday nodded a second time. ‘When’s he back?’ She pushed herself stiffly to her feet, the bucket beneath her backside scraping on the cobbles, and reached for her wooden crutch.

  ‘Three weeks, less if everything goes well.’

  ‘Why’s he going?’

  Sarah shrugged. ‘Something to do with the business. Haven’t asked.’

  ‘And this Cole cove is all right?’

  ‘Seems to be.’

  ‘Well, good luck with Her Majesty,’ Friday said.

  She pecked Sarah on the cheek and departed through the shop to Elizabeth’s carriage waiting outside, leaving a trail of pungent pipe smoke to befoul Esther’s hallway.

  After she’d gone, Sarah spread several sheets of newspaper across the dining table and sat down to polish Esther’s precious silver cutlery. When she’d finished here she had plenty to get on with in the workshop, which was good; she’d be much too busy to brood over Bella’s note.

  Bella would never stop, and Sarah knew it. After they’d paid once, demonstrating that they in fact could, she would delight in wielding her power over them, demanding more and more, making them suffer, bleeding them dry. And what would happen to Charlotte, Janie and Rosie, if she and Friday and Harrie could no longer provide them with the money and supplies they needed in the Factory? What would become of the vow they’d all so solemnly sworn to keep Rachel’s child safe?

  In a fit of frustration and anger Sarah hurled the silver-cleaning cloth across the dining room. Stinking of a solution of chalk, alcohol and ammonia, it had made her eyes water and she dabbed at them furiously with the hem of her apron.

  ‘Don’t cry, Sarah, he’ll be back in a few weeks,’ Esther said as she bustled into the room, a coat of Adam’s over her arm.

  Sarah didn’t even bother to look up.

  ‘There’s a button missing from this, and one loose on the cuff. I’d like you to make the requisite repairs. I believe there’s a button that will do in the button box. And hurry up. He’s due to leave shortly.’

  Sarah fetched the button box, stored with the rest of the sewing things in a drawer of the ‘chiffonier’, as Esther called it. Everyone else Sarah knew who owned such a piece of furniture called it a sideboard; Esther was the first person she’d ever met to possess a ‘chiffonier’. She opened the box and sorted through it until she found the appropriate button. In fact, she reflected, in the last five years most of the people she’d associated with hadn’t even owned enough spare buttons to put in a box. They weren’t cheap, good buttons. What was it about Esther’s life that made her think it was so bloody terrible, anyway? She was constantly complaining and doing her best to make everyone else miserable; most women would consider themselves extremely lucky to be married to someone like Adam and living in a comfortable, well-appointed home like this.

  She really does deserve to have the life frightened out of her, Sarah thought. She threaded a needle and jabbed it roughly into the fabric of Adam’s coat. While he was away she was going to bloody well scare Esther shitless.

&n
bsp; When a loud knocking came at the shop door she jumped, pricking herself. Swearing, she dumped the coat on the table and hurried through to the shop.

  It was Bernard Cole, sweating already in the morning’s heat, beaming from ear to ear and carrying a basket packed with goods from the nearby bakery.

  ‘Good morning, Sarah. Not too early, am I? Provisions,’ he explained, presenting the basket.

  ‘Oh. Thank you. Well, we don’t actually open until nine o’clock, but please, come in.’

  She stood aside and he waddled past, reeking from a fresh application of his ylang-ylang-scented Macassar oil.

  ‘Adam still here, is he?’ Bernard asked over his shoulder.

  ‘Upstairs packing.’

  ‘Bernard!’ Adam called from the top of the stairs. ‘You’re just in time. I’m about to leave for the quay!’

  Esther appeared behind him dressed for the street, her handsome face creased in its perpetual frown. ‘Sarah, where’s that coat?’

  Shit. ‘Won’t be a moment, Mrs Green.’ Sarah rushed back to the dining room, put a few more stitches through the button’s shank, then cut the thread.

  Esther marched in and snatched the coat from her. ‘You’d better hope that doesn’t come off!’

  Sarah thought Adam would probably manage if it did.

  ‘Esther, the gig’s arrived,’ Adam said from the hallway.

  Sarah and Bernard followed Adam and Esther outside, watching as the driver loaded Adam’s suitcases into the luggage compartment at the rear of the gig. Before he and Esther climbed aboard, Adam shook Bernard’s hand.

  ‘Shouldn’t imagine I’ll be any longer than three weeks at the most. You’re in good hands with Sarah. I trust her implicitly.’

  This prompted an even less attractive scowl from Esther, who said, ‘I’ll be back by midday, Sarah, and I’m not expecting to see a single smudge or speck of dirt on that silver, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Green,’ Sarah replied.

  Ignoring Esther, Adam deliberately caught Sarah’s gaze. She expected him to say something but instead he gave the slightest shake of his head and narrowed his eyes at her. It was a message of some sort, a warning, but she didn’t understand it. Then he climbed onto the gig beside Esther; the driver gave the reins a gentle flick and the horses headed off, leaving behind a great steaming pile of manure directly outside the entrance to the shop.