‘I’m afraid not. We’ve been extremely busy with all the dysentery going about since Christmas. And I’m not sure it’s any business of yours anyway.’
‘Maybe not, but this is. She thinks she’s seeing Rachel’s ghost. And she talks to her, at night. Regularly. Me and Sarah are worried sick.’
James sat at his desk. ‘How long has this been going on?’
‘Ages. Months and months.’ Friday tapped her head. ‘Sarah reckons she’s losing her mind, but I don’t know about that. Nora Barrett says she’s managing her duties perfectly well. Perhaps Rachel really has come back.’
James felt his pulse quicken as he thought back to his last encounter with Harrie. Her behaviour had been rather out of character. ‘Is she demonstrating any other symptoms of lunacy?’
‘I don’t know, you’re the doctor. You’ve seen her. What do you think?’
‘Friday, as I’ve just said, I’ve seen far too little of her of late. I’m asking you for your opinion.’
‘Well, there’s no need to be snippy about it.’ However, Friday recounted to him the precarious state of Harrie’s nerves, and her endless worrying and evident fatigue, but also how lately she seemed to have rallied somewhat, rising to the challenge of supporting Sarah in her time of crisis.
James said, ‘That is her forté, though, isn’t it, giving comfort to others?’
‘Christ, you make her sound like a bloody saint.’
‘In some ways she is quite a paragon of virtue.’
If you only knew, Friday thought. ‘You didn’t think that when she was drunk in Hyde Park.’
‘I had no idea she was suffering such … mental distress.’
‘No, you’re too busy tending to everyone else. Folk you don’t even know. What about plying your trade a bit closer to home, doing some good for someone you actually care about?’
‘I’d be delighted to, if only she’d —’ James stopped, reluctant to discuss his personal affairs any further. Especially with Friday. ‘This note: do I mark it attention of Mrs Elizabeth Hislop?’
Friday nodded.
‘And when would you like to be declared fit for work?’
‘Oh, now, I suppose.’
James dipped his pen into a bottle of ink, wrote the note, then rolled his blotter across the lines. ‘May I suggest the use of sheaths to prevent future afflictions of the type you’ve just suffered?’
‘You can suggest it but it isn’t going to happen. You try and get the buggers to wear them. Apparently it feels like shagging with a Wellington boot on your tool.’
This didn’t surprise, or shock, James; he’d heard such complaints before. ‘Well, please consider the possibility. I’m sure Mrs Hislop would prefer healthy employees.’
‘No, she’d prefer a popular and busy brothel. And we always make the cullies wash beforehand. It’s why our house is so clean and Mrs H can charge such outrageous prices.’
James gave up. Friday wouldn’t, he was sure, comprehend the finer points of a lecture on how venereal diseases could be transmitted. The reason Elizabeth Hislop’s establishment had a reputation for being relatively disease-free was that she didn’t allow her girls to work when they were infected.
‘And you said Harrie is still with the Barretts?’
‘Yes. Why?’
James handed her the note. ‘Good day, Friday.’
He’d make a point of visiting Harrie as soon as he could, busy be damned.
Starving now and regretting chucking her potato at Bella the Bitch, Friday stopped at a street vendor on the way home and bought some hot roast pork and pickles on a bap. It was a warm day, the kind that made you sticky and itchy under your clothes, but thunder clouds were piling ominously in the sky to the west, which likely meant heavy rain before nightfall, and then the streets would stream with filthy water and everything would be slick with mud.
She didn’t want to go back to work. It had been nice having a rest from having to lie under stupid, sweating, grunting pigs. But she had no choice; she had to make money, now more than ever. Well, at least Mrs H would be happy with her return.
She wandered down the carriageway at the side of the Siren’s Arms, licking pickle juice off her fingers, and unlocked the gate into the narrow alleyway leading to the brothel. The cobblestones in the alley were covered with a thin film of moss, and Friday reminded herself to ask Jack to give them another scrape. At night, especially during winter, they could be treacherous. The August before, Hazel had taken a tumble and landed on her arse — she hadn’t been able to sit down for days.
Entering the brothel’s backyard, she stopped short, astonished, then shouted, ‘Oi, get out of there, you mangy bloody goat!’
The privy door banged open and Loulou emerged, rearranging her robe. ‘Who the hell are you calling a goat?’
Friday pointed.
The beast in question — a shaggy, mean-looking billy goat with wickedly curved horns — turned from its dinner of freshly laundered antimacassars hanging on the washing line and stared balefully through evil yellow eyes.
Lou shot back into the privy.
‘Get out!’ Friday whipped off her boot and hurled it. ‘Go on, bugger off!’
The boot bounced off the goat’s rump. It barely flinched.
The back door opened and Elizabeth Hislop appeared. ‘What’s all … oh!’ The door shut again.
Friday sidled around the animal, intending to herd it out of the yard, but Elizabeth reappeared with a pistol and fired it, aiming at the sky. The goat leapt into the air and scrambled for the gate, its hooves skidding on the yard’s cobbles. It left a trail of little dark turds in its wake. A moment later Friday and Elizabeth glimpsed it on top of the wall on the far side of the alleyway, and then it was gone.
Elizabeth broke open the pistol. ‘How the hell did that get in here?’
‘Same way as it got out, I suppose.’
‘Just look at my good linen. Ruined!’
Friday called, ‘You can come out now, you gutless article.’
Lou emerged from the privy, red patches high on her cheeks. ‘Don’t you dare call me gutless! I can’t stand goats!’ Glaring at Friday, she stomped up the steps into the house.
Friday hooted with laughter. ‘You should have shot the ruddy thing,’ she said to Elizabeth. ‘You could have served it in the pub. Goat stew.’
‘I don’t hold with shooting things,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘Gives me nightmares.’
Friday followed Elizabeth inside. ‘Serves Lou right. She’s always in the bog.’
‘She is not,’ Elizabeth said as she unlocked the door to her office. ‘She wouldn’t have time to work if she was. Why does it bother you?’
‘Everything she does bothers me.’
Elizabeth put the pistol in a drawer and sat at her desk. ‘But why?’
‘I don’t know.’ Friday flopped into a chair. ‘She just gets on my tits.’
She couldn’t tell Mrs H the real reason — that she was sure she’d seen Lou with Amos Furniss at the Black Rat — because she’d kept from Mrs H the fact that she, Sarah and Harrie were being blackmailed by Bella, and Lou’s appearance with Furniss could only mean she was also involved. The mystery of who had tried to break into Mrs H’s safe hadn’t been solved, either. But who else could that have been but Lou? Molly had said she’d seen her coming down the stairs as they’d gone into the office that day: perhaps Lou had spied Sarah with the bag containing the Charlotte fund. It was obvious when you thought about it.
‘Well, don’t let her get on your tits,’ Elizabeth said shortly. ‘Try and act your age. Now, how did you get on with Dr Chandler?’
Friday dug around in her reticule for James’s note and passed it to her. ‘I’m fit for work as of now.’
Elizabeth read it. ‘That’s a relief. I’m sick of telling your regulars you’re indisposed with a stomach complaint. They’ve been asking for you constantly.’ She opened her mouth, and shut it again. Then she said, ‘No, bugger it, I will say it. You’ve a
lso had at least half a dozen new gentlemen asking for you. Well, most of them were gentlemen. A couple were tars.’
‘Have I?’ Friday tried to sound enthusiastic.
‘Yes, you have. They were asking for the redhead with the tattoos.’
‘The tattoos you said were cheap and would put the cullies off?’
‘Well, obviously I was wrong. It seems word has spread of your …’ Elizabeth flapped a hand in Friday’s direction, ‘bodily decorations, and it appears they have a certain erotic appeal.’
‘That’s not why I get them, you know,’ Friday said. ‘They’re for … well, they’re for me. And I’m not stopping, either. When this dragon on my arm’s finished I’m getting one on my leg, and after that I’m thinking about a great big one on my back. Except I might have to wait for that because I want Harrie to do it, and she isn’t ready.’
‘She doesn’t do any actual work with the needles, though, does she?’
‘Not yet, but I’ve got a feeling Leo’s going to start her. He reckons she’s born to it.’
‘Well, Leo Dundas always did have an eye for a business opportunity.’
Friday was suddenly alert. ‘D’you think he’d take advantage?’
‘Leo? Not at all, not of someone like your Harrie. He’s far too decent. And soft-hearted. But if she’s as talented as he seems to think she is, they’ll be run off their feet with custom, the sailors that come through this port, and I hear he’s already busy.’
‘Actually, so is Harrie.’ Friday considered how much she wanted to tell her. ‘You know Sarah, whose man’s just been sent up to Port Macquarie?’
Elizabeth nodded.
‘Well, it turns out the cove managing the shop and supervising Sarah is as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. Jared Gellar?’
‘Never heard of him. What does he do?’
‘When he’s not being a lech he buys up ailing businesses and does a bit of importing, without bothering to pay the customs duties.’
‘And Sarah’s husband put him in charge of her?’ Elizabeth was horrified.
Friday decided to tell her everything. ‘Keep this under your hat, but Sarah thinks he’s the one who framed Adam. Adam owes him money and he threatened to call in the loan if he wasn’t put in to manage the business when Adam was arrested. Sarah hates him. He’s slobbering all over her, the dirty bastard, and she and Adam are convinced he’s going to skim the profits off the shop until it goes bankrupt, then buy it up cheaply. Or something. I don’t really understand it myself.’
‘I do,’ Elizabeth said.
‘But she won’t leave. She could go back to the Factory, but she won’t.’
‘Good on her. She’s a strong girl, that Sarah. But what’s this got to do with Harrie?’
‘We’ve both decided, me and Harrie, that we have to help her.’
‘Of course you do. You’re her friends.’
‘So we’re going to scare the shit out of Gellar by pretending the ghost of our mate Rachel’s come back from the dead to haunt him. That’ll keep the bugger in line.’
Elizabeth looked sceptical. ‘And how do you propose to do that?’
‘There’re ways. You’d be surprised. A lot of work, though, so I’ll be pretty busy as well.’
‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Friday. This Gellar sounds like quite an unpleasant character.’
‘He is. That’s why we’re doing it.’
‘Well, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your duties here.’
‘It won’t.’
‘Good. Will you start back today?’
Friday nodded. ‘I’ll go and get dressed.’
She went to her room in the hotel to change into her work costume, wash and make up her face, then returned to the brothel to wait in the salon. Lou appeared and folded herself elegantly into an armchair, her tiny satin-slippered feet tucked under her backside.
‘Back from your holidays, then?’ she asked.
‘Don’t be a bitch, Lou,’ Hazel said. ‘She had the clap. She couldn’t work.’
‘That’s what she says.’
‘No, I definitely had it,’ Friday said. ‘And I’m sure I caught it off one of your cullies. Still, that’s what happens when you hang around the Black Rat. Isn’t it, Lou?’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to the Black Rat in my life.’
‘Are you sure? Didn’t I see you there on Christmas Eve?’
‘Certainly not. But perhaps that’s where you caught it?’
Friday said, ‘Oh, shut up, Lou. You’re getting on my goat.’
Hazel, Molly and Esmerelda roared, because they’d all observed the little drama in the yard through the house’s rear windows.
Too busy glaring at each other, however, Lou and Friday barely noticed.
Sarah had just scrambled down from the attic when Jared arrived back from one of his frequent visits to the bank. She’d been up there drilling tiny holes alongside the beams in the ceiling of his bedroom with an auger she’d purchased from Mr Skelton, and hoped there weren’t tell-tale cobwebs in her hair or clinging to her clothes.
He stuck his head into the workshop. ‘I’m back. You can prepare my dinner now, thank you.’
She went out to the kitchen and arranged on a plate a cold collation of meat loaf, hard-boiled eggs, shop-bought pork pie, bread and cheese, and took it in to the dining room, together with a tankard of ale.
‘It’s on the table,’ she told Jared in the shop.
‘Thank you, Sarah. I’ll lock up for thirty minutes.’ He regarded her reflectively. ‘I’ve the most raging appetite today.’
Sarah ignored him, opened the cupboard beneath the stairs, found the feather duster and headed for the parlour, which hadn’t been dusted since Adam had been taken away.
‘Aren’t you eating?’ Jared asked from the doorway.
‘Not hungry,’ Sarah replied.
She leant across the sofa to flick dust off a vase on a table behind it, when suddenly she was shoved face down onto the couch and her skirts hauled up over her back. Jared’s hands were all over her bare bottom and she felt the pressure of his knee as he attempted to separate her legs. Twisting like a cat, she curled up, turned over and struck out at him with the duster, jabbing him in the eye with the wooden handle.
He clapped a hand to his face, stared down at her for a second, then lurched out of the room.
Slowly Sarah sat up, shaking wildly. She thought she might vomit, and where his hands had been on her bum felt … filthy.
She hiccupped, swallowed hard, and held her hand over her mouth for the longest time until she was sure nothing was going to come out. No spew, no sobs, no crying out for Adam.
When her heart had slowed and she knew she could walk without her legs failing, she made her way out to the dining room. Jared was at the table, eating his pork pie. His eye was watering furiously.
He paused, a forkful of pie halfway to his mouth, and looked at her.
Sarah pointed the duster at him. ‘If you ever touch me again, I swear to God I’ll kill you.’
The following day both Sarah and Jared were attending to customers in the shop when Walter arrived. He waited quietly just inside the door, his scruffy little dog at his feet, until Sarah was free, then wordlessly handed her a note across the counter and left.
It said simply, News. L.
‘Not bad tidings, I hope?’ Jared asked, trying to look over her shoulder. All morning he’d behaved as though yesterday’s horrible incident had never occurred.
Sarah refolded the note and slid it down her bodice. ‘Not at all. But I do need to go out, just for an hour. Harrie needs my help. May I?’ It stuck in her craw to have to ask permission, but in practice Gellar was her master, so ask she did.
Jared withdrew his watch from his pocket. ‘Well, it’s almost midday. I suppose I can find myself something to eat. Yes, go on.’
Sarah shot off to grab her bonnet and reticule, and was out the door before he could change his mind. She hurried down
George Street, arriving at Leo’s shop at the same time as Walter. As he politely stepped back to let her through the door first, his dog nipped at her heels as though she were a tardy sheep, however one sharp look from Walter sent it scampering into the back room.
Leo was finishing with a customer. ‘Won’t be a minute. Go through, put the kettle on.’
Sarah didn’t want a cup of tea so she stood in front of the hearth, making menacing faces at Walter’s horrible, growling little animal.
‘You’ll only aggravate her, doing that,’ he remarked as he put the kettle over the fire.
‘Doing what?’
‘Making them ugly faces. If you want her to settle, you have to make a nothing face.’
‘Who says?’
Walter shrugged. ‘Dunno. Just works.’
Sarah settled her features into what she thought was a perfectly neutral expression. The dog exploded into a fusillade of barks.
From the other room Leo shouted, ‘Shut that bloody dog up!’
Walter giggled. ‘No, like this.’ His young face went smooth and blank.
The animal immediately stopped barking and rolled over on the floor.
‘Walter the dog boy,’ Sarah said sarcastically. ‘Has it got a name?’
Walter nodded. ‘Clifford.’
‘Clifford? But isn’t it a bitch?’
‘She is.’
‘Clifford’s a man’s name.’
‘I know.’
‘Well?’
‘I like it. And it suits her.’
Sarah shook her head.
Leo appeared. ‘Right, I’ve another customer shortly, but I heard something last night you could well be interested in, Sarah.’ He lifted the teapot, only to find it empty. ‘Walter, where’s my cup of char?’
Bugger the tea, Sarah thought. ‘What was it? What did you hear?’
‘I was in the Crown and Angel yarning to a cove, and he was telling me he’d had a very interesting chat with someone in the Welch Harp concerning your mate Gellar. So I trotted along there and found said cove, bought him a tankard or five and God knows how many Jamaica rums, and got the story out of him. This cove, who could barely stand up by the time I left him, reckons he’s paid now and then by that barrister fellow Augustus Evans to do the odd bit of dirty work, rent collection and evictions and the like, and the scuttlebutt coming from that quarter is Gellar did frame your man.’
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