Girl of Shadows

by Deborah Challinor

  It looked as though lamps were burning in several downstairs rooms, and at least one upstairs. She removed her cap, jacket and boots and stuffed them under a bush; they wouldn’t be necessary in the house and would be a hindrance if she had to wriggle through a small window or negotiate a drainpipe. She scaled the back fence and dropped noiselessly to the ground, fairly confident she wouldn’t be set upon by guard dogs. Any dogs on the property would have come rushing around to the front when Adam had knocked on the door earlier, just as Bella’s beasts had appeared at her fence. She couldn’t believe she’d mentioned Bella to Adam. What was wrong with her?

  She made her way through the Tregoweths’ rear garden, keeping to the shadows, glancing at the windows every few seconds. And then what always happened when she was about to burgle a house happened: she bloody well had to pee. In the shelter of a bush she undid the buttons on her trousers, pulled them down and squatted, sighing in annoyance as a trickle of warm urine splashed onto the ground, trying not to get any on her feet. But experience had taught her she was far better to do it now than be caught short inside the house for hours on end, her bladder close to bursting.

  Finished, she shook herself, yanked up her trousers and closed the buttons. No — still no one at the windows. It was unlikely, with only the servant girl at home, but you could never, ever be too careful.

  She crept across the remaining few yards of the garden and up onto the verandah. There were a cane sofa, several chairs and a matching low table, positioned to make the most of the verandah’s shady eaves during the summer heat. She tried the back door, which was locked. Both sets of French doors were, too, the rooms behind them dark, though a lamp burnt in the semi-detached kitchen.

  Circumnavigating the entire house once, she calculated the height of every window, looked for drainpipes, and judged the various roof angles in case she found herself up there, which had happened before on occasion, then returned to the front of the house and tried the main door, which wasn’t locked. Shaking her head in disbelief, she wiped her feet on the mat and opened the door a crack. She listened for a moment, heard nothing and slipped into the tiled entrance hall, shutting the door gently behind her.

  The hall was dimly lit by lamplight spilling out from a room farther down on the right; she moved silently towards it, stopping as she reached the doorway. The room, reeking of lemon furniture polish, was a very busily furnished formal parlour containing three large sofas and two plush armchairs arranged around an enormous fireplace. The paintings on the papered walls were of landscapes and miserable-looking people, expensive Turkey carpets covered the floor, and little tables everywhere were crammed with fancy bits and pieces. A lot like Esther’s parlour, but bigger, even fussier and clearly paid for with much deeper pockets. The girl who had answered the door to Adam lounged on one of the sofas, her stockinged feet up on a small table, knitting and drinking straight from a crystal decanter.

  Sarah smiled to herself; at least the girl was savouring a dash of revenge.

  She left her to it and climbed the stairs, looking for the Tregoweths’ bedroom. Or perhaps more than one, if they didn’t share a bed. Adam should have asked if there were any children, but hadn’t. Still, he’d not done too badly, for his first attempt at reconnaissance. And Mrs Tregoweth was very unlikely to have young children at her time of life.

  The upstairs light she’d seen from outside came from several lamps on the hall wall, which lit her way admirably. The first room she entered was a small sitting-cum-sewing room, clearly Mrs Tregoweth’s refuge if the pale furnishings were anything to go by. There was a vast and beautifully decorated papier-mâché sewing box — for which Harrie would no doubt die — sitting open on a table next to a baby’s gown Mrs Tregoweth, presumably, was rather skilfully smocking, and a pile of books on a footstool near the window. Not a bedroom, but she checked behind all the paintings just to be sure. Nothing.

  The room opposite was made up as a bedroom but didn’t look as though anyone slept there. It smelt … empty. There was no safe there, either.

  The next room along was clearly the domain of a male, the bed a massive tallpost with a great slab of a headboard, the mattress covered with a dark quilt, and the yards of mosquito net at present rolled up. The room’s other furniture was equally masculine, and bereft of the pots and bottles and brushes you’d expect to see in a woman’s chamber. A smaller area off the bedroom turned out to be a dressing room filled with men’s clothing, shoes and boots, some of which could do with a good airing. But again, no safe.

  Sarah tried the last door, certain it would be Mrs Tregoweth’s. It was, and what an overdone room it was. Her bed was as big as her husband’s but of white-painted iron, with an elaborately swathed lace net, a pale quilt and perhaps a dozen pillows heaped all over it. Her window dressings were an explosion of lace, a fancy four-branch lamp hung from the centre of the ceiling, and vases jammed with silk flowers perched on every available surface. What an altogether frilly, flowery woman. Silly old trout. The carpet was delicious though; Sarah stood for at least a minute wriggling her bare toes in the luxurious pile.

  In here, too, there were at least half a dozen paintings. She headed immediately for the one she knew would be concealing the safe; the only painting hung low enough to be taken on and off the wall with ease, a picture of a King Charles spaniel with bulging eyes and a gormless expression. She lifted it off the wall and there it was; a metal door about twenty inches square set into the wall. Actually, it wasn’t what she called a safe at all. Nothing like you got in banks and the bigger shops in London, whose owners paid a premium for the incredibly heavy, iron-clad chests guaranteed to be fire- and theft-proof. Unless someone like her came along.

  Putting the dog painting on the floor, she opened her satchel, lit her candle and examined the lock. It was pretty basic but naturally the key wasn’t in it. Using one of her tools, she tapped all over the door, listening carefully; a certain pitch would tell her which skeleton key she should use. This was a real luxury: usually she didn’t have anywhere near this much time to work out how to crack a safe.

  She chose a key, spread a small amount of wax over it, slid it into the keyhole, waggled it slightly, tilted it, and turned. The locking mechanism clicked and the door opened. Inside the box were some papers tied with ribbon, the two jewellery cases and the little velvet bags Mrs Tregoweth had brought into the shop. Both bags were empty, and one of the cases; the only items the woman hadn’t worn tonight were those in the emerald paste parure, which Sarah didn’t want. She pictured Mrs Tregoweth in the sapphire rivière, the cannetille bracelet and the diamond ring, and was surprised she hadn’t crammed on the green glass bracelets, matching ring, earrings, necklace and brooch.

  She replaced everything in the safe exactly as she’d found it, relocked it, checked the time on the watch Adam had given her (ten minutes to nine), blew out the candle, and hung the dog painting back on the wall.

  Now what? They might not be back for hours, or they could arrive home quite soon. She looked around for somewhere to conceal herself. And then she froze; someone was clomping up the stairs, making enough noise to cause the dead to sit up and complain. She ducked under the bed just as the door opened.

  It was the girl, carrying a lamp and humming to herself. Bugger! Would she notice the smell of the just-doused candle?

  Apparently not. Sarah observed the girl’s booted feet crossing to Mrs Tregoweth’s dressing table and heard a drawer slide out. She lifted the edge of the quilt and watched the girl have a good rummage around, then pocket something. She shut the drawer, picked up a bottle of perfume and removed the stopper.

  Don’t do that, you stupid cow; she’ll smell it on you.

  The girl evidently thought better of it and put the perfume bottle down. She disappeared into Mrs Tregoweth’s dressing room, emerging a minute later wearing one of her mistress’s hats and a feather boa, parading about before the full-length looking glass, flinging the feathers this way and that.

  ‘Y
ou look charming today, Josie,’ she said out loud. ‘Thank you, Mr Collier, I think so meself.’

  She curtsied to her reflection and the hat slid off, landing on its crown and breaking off one of the artificial magnolias.

  ‘Shit!’ She snatched up the bloom and shoved it in her pocket along with whatever she’d pinched.

  Hurriedly she returned the hat and boa to the dressing room, collected the lamp and rushed out, closing the door behind her. Sarah waited a few minutes, then rolled out from under the bed, brushed gossamer webs of dust and hair off her shirt and trousers, and looked around for somewhere better to conceal herself.

  The dressing room might be a good bet. About ten feet square it had wide shelving on one wall containing shoes, boots and piles of hatboxes, capes hanging from hooks on the opposite wall, more boxes on the floor, and a window framed by voluminous curtains tied back with satin cords. She pushed up the sash and looked outside, noting to her satisfaction a drainpipe only a few feet away. She had considered hiding in the spare room, but that meant she’d have to open Mrs Tregoweth’s bedroom door and she’d noticed that it creaked quite loudly.

  Drawing down the window again, she left a gap of several inches at the bottom in case she had to leave in a hurry; she didn’t want to risk it jamming. Then she sat down on the floor of the dressing room, ate two new moons of crystallised orange peel, and settled in to wait.

  Elizabeth Hislop shut her establishment at nine o’clock sharp, even though it meant she had to turn away customers. She always closed early on Christmas Eve; some of her girls had family and they all had friends, and, as Friday had said, she firmly believed Christmas was a time best spent with loved ones, not underneath some cove her girls barely knew. She still paid them their full rate, however; God knew everyone deserved a little bit extra at Christmas.

  Friday changed out of her flimsy work costume and into something more suitable for a night out on the jar, and headed straight for the Bird-in-Hand, her favourite pub. She would start there, then pop along the street to the St Patrick’s Inn, then maybe duck into the Spread Eagle to see who was out and about. Then she might go down to the Sailors’ Grave, and after that perhaps move on to the Crown and Angel. And maybe the Whale Fishery, possibly followed by the Saracen’s Head. If she was still in charge of her faculties she’d finish up at the Siren’s Arms, as she only had to crawl up the stairs there to get to bed.

  The Bird-in-Hand was packed, every seat taken at the long table and dozens standing elbow to elbow or perched on stools, a heavy pall of tobacco smoke hovering above the crowd, the talk and laughter loud. Friday slipped in through the front door and, waving greetings, weaved her way up to the serving counter. Many of the regulars she knew, but there were plenty of strange faces as well, likely folk out for the night on a spree. She ordered her usual gin and leant on the bar, looking out into the crowd.

  She quite liked this part of the night, when she was by herself but not alone, but it had taken her a while to get used to it again. After all that time she’d spent with Harrie, Sarah and Rachel, first in Newgate Gaol and then on the Isla, she’d had to learn all over again how to be on her own, and it had been hard. She’d had no choice: Rachel was gone now, and Harrie and Sarah both had proper assignments and only a fraction of the freedom she had.

  Sydney was a strange little town. She’d been working as a prostitute in Mrs H’s brothel for over a year, which as a convict she definitely shouldn’t be doing, and not once had there been even a suggestion that the authorities were aware. She wasn’t alone, either, as Mrs H certainly wasn’t the only madam in town employing assigned convict girls. But not all Sydney’s whores were convicts, despite what you read in the papers — far from it. There were hundreds of tarts and perhaps it was just too hard for the authorities to police. Why would they, anyway? Only operating a brothel was against the law: prostitution wasn’t.

  She certainly worked for her money. And when she wasn’t working, she liked to relax and forget about all that and these days, for her, relaxing meant getting drunk.

  She would much rather spend her free time with Harrie and Sarah, the way they used to. Sarah, though, was busy with Adam now, and it was obvious where that was heading. Sarah swore she wasn’t interested in him, but what a lot of bollocks; she was, and probably she should be. He was a nice-looking man and, it had turned out, a bloody decent one. He knew she’d been robbing him blind and hadn’t done a thing about it. But what it all amounted to was Sarah was drifting away, and while it was a nice thing for her, it made Friday sad. If she were the sort of person to get lonely, she’d say that’s how she was feeling. But she wasn’t that sort of person. Occasionally she did think how nice it would be to have someone special to come home to, but the one time she’d had that — or thought she’d had it — the pain of losing it had been so brutal she’d sworn she never wanted to experience it again. But she’d been younger then, so of course it had been hard. She was older now.

  As for poor Harrie: what on earth were they going to do to help her? She’d always been the calm, sensible one, whose job it was to soothe and mother them all. But these days she fretted constantly — about Bella Jackson, and James, and what they’d done to Keegan. It was so hard to watch, as though Harrie were slowly unravelling before their eyes.

  She’d popped around to the Barretts’ yesterday and Harrie had seemed even worse. Mind you, she’d got a hell of a shock herself when Harrie had passed on James Downey’s revelation about poor Rachel’s head. A brain disease! Jesus Christ. Perhaps they shouldn’t have kicked Keegan to death after all. But they had, and there was no changing things now. And whether or not what he’d done to Rachel had actually killed her, he’d still hurt her horribly. He’d had to pay.

  And now Harrie was in a right state about that. She and James were speaking again, but instead of crossing him off her list of things to fret about, she’d apparently decided she didn’t deserve him because of committing such a terrible sin. She, Friday, had had to sit on her hands to stop herself giving Harrie a good clip across the ear. It didn’t matter what you said to her these days, she seemed mired in melancholy. Admittedly the business with Keegan had been pretty awful — and was even more complicated now — and they were all worried sick about the power Bella had over them, but the strain seemed to be ruining Harrie, wearing her down and fraying her from the inside out, until soon there might be no Harrie left, just a little pile of disconnected threads.

  She finished her gin and heaved out a long, gusty sigh. She feared Harrie was gradually losing her mind, and knew Sarah did, too.

  As she turned to order another drink, someone bumped her newly tattooed arm and she winced. The peacock was finished and it looked fabulous, though it was sore. She thought she might have a little pus developing around the tail feathers, and was finding it very difficult to resist picking her scabs. She was refraining, however, because Leo had explained that if she did, the clarity of the lines would be permanently compromised, so bugger that. There would be no smudged peacock for her.

  The barman slid her drink across the bar and she moved into the crowd, looking for somewhere to sit. A hand shot up and a voice called out her name.

  Friday made her way across to the long table.

  Her voice raised to counter the noise, a pretty dark-haired girl sitting at one end said, ‘It is you, isn’t it? Friday Woolfe?’

  ‘Sally Minto? From the Isla?’ Friday hadn’t seen Sally since the Factory.

  Sally Minto smiled, and shoved along on the bench, making room.

  Friday returned the smile and sat. ‘God, you look well. What have you been up to?’

  Sally really did look good. On the voyage out from England she’d been a skinny girl with pasty, pimply skin and lank hair, and apparently hadn’t possessed the gumption to say shoo to a goose. Now she was positively buxom, her spots had vanished leaving only a few small scars, her cheeks were rosy, and her dark brown hair had the sheen of a well-polished saddle.

  ‘I was only in th
e Factory a week and I got assigned to a baker and his wife on Kent Street, down near Millers Point,’ she said. ‘I’ve been there ever since. Can’t you tell?’ she added wryly, pointing at her small double chin.

  ‘A good assignment, then?’ Friday said, fishing her smoking gear out of her reticule.

  ‘I’m happy. Days are long but the work isn’t too hard, I’ve a nice little room to myself, the food’s good, the master leaves me alone and I get two half days off a week. I’m living better than I ever did back home. Yourself?’

  ‘I’m a housemaid in a hotel. The Siren’s Arms.’

  ‘Are you?’ Sally took a sip of her drink. ‘That’s a fancy dress for an assigned housemaid.’

  Friday met her gaze and held it; Sally knew, and Friday didn’t care. ‘It is, isn’t it?’ She rolled a sliver of tobacco between her thumb and forefinger and tamped it into her pipe.

  ‘It’s nothing like I thought it would be, here,’ Sally said. ‘I thought we’d be in leg irons, getting whipped and fed gruel and treated like slaves. I do miss my family, though.’

  ‘I think it’s different for some of the men,’ Friday said.

  Sally nodded. ‘Mind you, I know a girl, her master’s on her every night, poor thing. And he’s an emancipist himself. You’d think he’d have some sympathy. She’s already had a child to him. It’s in the orphanage now.’

  Friday lit her pipe. Stories like that really annoyed her. Why did the stupid girl put up with it? ‘Do you see anyone much from the Isla?’

  ‘A few of the girls. I don’t know if you’d know them. Lil Foster? The woman who worked in the ship’s hospital? She comes into the bakery occasionally.’

  ‘Really? I must tell Harrie. She liked Lil.’

  ‘Harrie was lovely. How is she?’

  ‘Oh, she’s well. She’s with a nice family and doing quite a lot of sewing.’