Girl of Shadows

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘She must miss Friday, though,’ Matthew said. ‘And the other girls at the brothel. I know you don’t approve of brothels, but I expect the ambience there must be quite jolly at times.’

  ‘Jolly!’

  ‘Well, you know, all those young girls together.’

  ‘I think the sooner you marry, the better, Matthew.’

  ‘The company, James. She must be quite lonely, stuck in the house with no one to talk to but you.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much.’ James folded his napkin and lay it on the table. ‘She does get visitors, you know. There’s a woman who comes to see her after hours fairly regularly. I’ve glimpsed her passing the front window but Rowie’s never introduced her. And she has other friends.’

  ‘No male suitors?’

  ‘If she has any I don’t see them.’

  Matthew stifled a burp behind his hand, then set his knife and fork neatly across his plate. ‘So, what are you going to do about Harrie?’

  ‘I don’t know. Yet.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sarah had thought deeply about Serafina Fortune’s answers to her secret questions, and though they’d been positive, the woman had also said her predictions didn’t always come true and that they were only one potential future outcome. There was also the possibility she’d been making the whole lot up, though Sarah — despite her inherent mistrust of people who told fortunes for a living — didn’t think this was likely, given the accuracy of her readings of their pasts.

  But she’d also talked of losses still to come, and Sarah was convinced she’d been concealing bad news from them. It made commercial sense, really. If Sarah could see into the future, she wouldn’t go about telling people their friends and loved ones were about to drop dead, which would certainly guarantee an end to any repeat business.

  Still, Serafina’s answers had given her hope, something to hold on to during the darkest hours of the night, when she couldn’t sleep and everything seemed at its most bleak.

  Gellar was well and truly frightened now, but was showing no signs of leaving. He must want Adam’s business very badly. Her hate for him was such that the mere sight of him made her gorge rise, but she was able to summon the strength to behave in a moderately civil manner towards him, and remained determined to continue the charade of the house being haunted for as long as necessary. What she had to do now was extract from him a confession to the effect that he’d framed Adam, one she could present to Police Magistrate Captain Rossi in the hope of having Adam’s conviction for receiving quashed.

  A lot easier said than done, of course. Why the hell would Gellar admit to it? She certainly wouldn’t if she were him.

  Jared thumped down the stairs and strode through the dining room to the back door.

  ‘No time for breakfast. God, what’s that smell?’ he said as he thrust his stockinged feet into his long black boots. ‘I’ve an early meeting this morning.’ The harried expression on his face changed abruptly and he withdrew one foot from a boot. ‘Is this …?’

  Sarah turned away, terrified she would laugh.

  ‘Christ, it is! It’s dog shit!’

  There was a clatter as the other boot flew off.

  Sarah looked; Jared was staring down, appalled, at the shite squashed all over his feet and trouser hems.

  ‘How did that get in my boots!?’ he demanded.

  ‘Rachel?’ Sarah suggested. ‘She did that before, to Esther.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’

  Jared tore at the buttons on his trousers, yanked them down over his hips and stepped out of them, revealing a pair of fine linen knee-length drawers that hugged the considerable mound of his genitals, and kicked viciously so the trousers sailed off to a corner of the dining room. Sarah tried to avert her eyes, but, mesmerised by the spectacle of Jared’s tantrum, found she couldn’t. His hairy but shapely lower legs were encased in short, white silk stockings, held up by gay red garters. He ripped them off, hurled them after the trousers, and stomped off back through the hall and upstairs, his bare feet leaving shitty prints behind him.

  Sarah remained at the table, hands over her mouth, stifling her giggles.

  When Jared reappeared — in clean trousers and another pair of boots and reeking of lavender soap — he said in a tight voice, ‘The water in the bowl in my room is filthy. And will you please launder my clothes. Thank you.’

  When he’d gone, Sarah fetched a stick and flicked his dog-shite-laden clothing and boots out the back door, congratulating herself on a job well done, even if she did have to clean up the mess herself. It hadn’t brought her any nearer to getting him to confess, though, had it? What she needed was some form of threat that would put the wind up him even more than being haunted did, and that would render him thoroughly malleable. He was already very much on edge — what could she produce that would tip him over?

  And then, in a blinding flash of enlightenment, it came to her. She recalled several snippets of information Leo had given her, something she’d seen among Gellar’s papers, and a scene from her wedding day, and it all fell into place, leaving her wondering why she hadn’t thought of it before.

  She had to talk to Friday.

  ‘Bloody dangerous,’ Friday said, whipping up her skirt to reveal the purple scar on her calf, as yet untattooed. ‘Look what happened to me.’

  ‘That was just bad luck,’ Sarah replied.

  ‘No, that was Furniss’s sodding rabid dogs.’

  ‘They weren’t rabid. You’d be in your grave now if they were. Anyway, and no offence meant, I’m a lot better at sneaking round houses than you are.’

  They were in Elizabeth Hislop’s office, which she’d kindly offered them yet again so they could speak privately.

  ‘But why? What are you looking for?’

  Sarah said, ‘Something that will connect both Gellar and Bella Jackson to this business of trafficking native heads from New Zealand. He’s been there recently, that’s obvious. He has ships’ manifests from trips across the Tasman, and he gave Adam and me a piece of greenstone on our wedding day — two-faced bastard — and Leo said he heard that Bella’s masterminding stealing the heads to order. If I can prove a connection, we can blackmail him into admitting he framed Adam.’

  ‘Can’t we just blackmail him now, without you having to break into Bella’s house?’

  ‘There’s nothing specific in his papers, nothing that says, Pinched and smuggled to Botany Bay, one dozen Maori heads, by order of Bella Jackson. He’s not that stupid,’ Sarah said. ‘Unfortunately he’s not stupid at all.’

  ‘Bella isn’t either, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I do know that, thank you.’

  ‘What if you don’t find anything?’

  A little burst of panic spurted behind Sarah’s ribs: she didn’t want to consider that. ‘Stop asking me all these questions.’

  ‘Don’t snap.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You are. But what if you don’t?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Even the very prospect of not finding anything flooded Sarah with desperation and despair. ‘I really don’t. I think this might be my last chance.’

  Friday made a worried face. ‘You’ll have to get into the bloody house first. And, more to the point, out again.’

  ‘I know. Obviously, it’ll be far easier if the place is empty, but even if Bella and Clarence and Furniss aren’t there, those dogs will be, won’t they?’

  ‘Well, that’s their job, terrorising trespassers. I should know,’ Friday said sourly. ‘Actually, they mightn’t be home this Saturday night. Apparently there’s some sort of reception in town for toffs.’ She laughed. ‘Not the dogs, I don’t mean. Dogs don’t go to receptions. But Clarence is a snob, he’s bound to go, and he’ll take Bella. That’s why he married her.’

  ‘Furniss, though?’

  ‘Dunno. Doubt he’ll be driving them; Bella’s already got a driver. With any luck Furniss’ll be in the Black Rat frittering his money on pox-raddled whores.’
>
  Sarah thought about it. ‘The servants. They’ll still be there.’

  ‘Probably. You can creep around them, though, can’t you?’

  ‘Of course I can. So that just leaves the dogs.’

  ‘Rather you than me.’ Friday shuddered. ‘What we need is one of those coves from the travelling menagerie who tames lions and bears and other mad animals.’

  Sarah started to smile. ‘We’ve got one.’

  When Sarah arrived home the mail had been delivered and there among the business-related bits and pieces was, to her utter delight, a letter from Adam. She left the CLOSED sign on the door — to hell with customers — and hurried through to the dining room.

  She yanked off her bonnet, dropped it on the table, sat down, cracked the seal on the letter and … froze.

  What if he was horribly sick? What if he’d been assigned to a really back-breaking job and it was killing him? What if he was starving to death? Could she bear to know any of those things?

  But she had to. She had to know.

  Slowly — warily — she unfolded the letter and began to read the cramped writing:

  10th of May 1831

  My Beloved Sarah

  I am surviving here. The worst aspect of my Incarceration is that I cannot be with you. I miss you desperately and think of you every minute of every day. My Heart feels as though it has been torn out. I had no idea I was to go before Rossi the day I did, and I tried so hard to get a message to you. I am so sorry, Sarah.

  When I arrived I was confined to Barracks for a month. They refer to it here as ‘Acclimatisation’ but the inmates call it ‘breaking your spirit’. This practice is just for Specials — those educated Recidivists, of which, apparently, I am one, the authorities fear are too clever and too fond of stirring the political pot to remain in Sydney.

  Food rations in Barracks are meagre and leave a fair bit to be desired, but there is a vegetable garden attached to the Barracks in which many of the lunatic and crippled prisoners work, so at least we won’t die of scurvy. The Barracks, as expected, are foul, crowded, and infested with the usual assortment of fleas, cockroaches and rats. Fortunately, most of the truly nasty inmates were shipped off to Moreton Bay and Norfolk Island when the Town was opened up for settlement last year, so I suppose I should be grateful. There is also a newly built Female Factory here, where the poor women apparently bash away making nails all day.

  I have recently been assigned to the Deputy Assistant Commissariat as a Clerk, hence this letter. I now have access to as much paper, ink and nibs as I can safely steal, though I had to pay a Premium to have this posted by the Convict who works in the position above me.

  I have also written to Arthur Hocking asking him to begin preparations for an appeal against my Conviction. I greatly fear, though, that an appeal will not be successful. But I must try. I know how busy you must be in the workshop by yourself, Sarah, but have you discovered anything that might be of assistance to me? If you have, tell Bernard and he can inform Hocking.

  I will write again as soon as I am able. If you have written to me I won’t have received your letter — Specials are not permitted to either receive or send correspondence in case their literary plottings bring about the Downfall of the British Empire.

  I love you and miss you desperately, and I would give anything to be at home with you. However, I am slowly coming to terms with the likelihood that I will be here at Port Macquarie for the full five years. Five years is a long time. I am not an unreasonable man and although I feel as if I am stabbing myself in the heart as I write this, I don’t expect you to wait for me, Sarah. Should you receive an offer from someone with better prospects than mine, you should take it. I will understand, but I hope with all my selfish heart and soul that such an offer never arises.

  Yours Now and Always,

  Adam

  In a fit of pain and rage Sarah flung the letter as far away as possible. No! She would not go off with some other cove! What a bloody stupid idea. She would wait for him. For five years — or for ten, or for twenty, if she had to.

  She struggled to swallow the enormous, burning lump in her throat. He was giving up, letting the prison suck the life out of him, and the thought of it made her want to shriek at the top of her voice. And he hadn’t received her letters. Where were they? Stuffed in some officious bloody commandant’s drawer?

  She stood up and kicked the table leg as hard as she could, then sat down again, took off her boot and cradled her toes, tears streaming down her face.

  No matter what it took, she was bringing him home.

  Friday rose from the bed, but her customer, a regular named Ralph Kidd, grabbed her wrist and pulled her back.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Just to the window, to close the curtains.’

  ‘Leave them. I like being able to see the night sky.’

  Friday sank down beside him again, and let him draw her head onto his chest. She didn’t mind Ralph Kidd. He was perhaps in his early thirties, and had been coming to see her every week for ages despite being married and the father of four young children. He was tall and thin, though his shoulders were wide, and if she had to describe him in one word it would be ‘blond’. His hair, cut close, was so pale it was almost white, and his skin was fair. When his face was composed he looked grim, but a rare smile revealed good, white teeth, which Friday appreciated as healthy teeth meant pleasant breath.

  He always booked an hour with her, though he only used half of that for sex. During the remaining time he talked and so, to her enduring surprise, did Friday. While he discussed his ship-building and refitting business, his children, whom he loved, and his wife, whom he also loved — though she wouldn’t do the things in bed he wanted, which is why he came to see Friday — she told him about what she’d been doing, though never anything too personal or private. He knew she had a friend whose husband had been sent to Port Macquarie, and another assigned to a family on the Rocks, and that she was committed to supporting the child of yet another who had died. He told her he thought she was amusing, honest and generous in the way she gave herself to him sexually, but they both knew she had to — it was her job.

  ‘How’s the one going with the husband in the penitentiary?’ he asked, stroking her hair. Friday had never told him Sarah’s and Harrie’s names, and she never would.

  ‘Not very well. Desperate to have him back.’

  ‘I can imagine. And there’s no way she can prove his innocence?’

  Friday shook her head, her hair sliding against his skin.

  ‘Why doesn’t she approach his solicitor or barrister and seek an appeal?’

  ‘That’ll be the day. The barrister he had in court, some cove called Evans, was bent and working with the bastard who framed him.’

  ‘Augustus Evans?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘I know him. I see him socially sometimes. Who did frame your friend’s husband? Or aren’t you in a position to tell me?’

  It suddenly occurred to Friday that Ralph Kidd could be more than just a cully with fresh breath. ‘Jared Gellar. Oily bugger fancies himself rotten? Has businesses all over town and does a bit of importing.’

  Her heart sank as she felt Ralph shake his head.

  ‘I don’t know him personally. I have heard his business dealings are somewhat shady, however.’

  ‘But you know Evans?’

  ‘Yes. But I did hear Gellar’s name mentioned recently.’

  Friday sat up and faced Ralph, her heavy breasts bouncing. He raised a lazy hand to stroke a nipple.

  ‘To do with what?’

  ‘I was at a private soirée the other night and I wasn’t actually part of the conversation, but I did happen to overhear something to the effect that he may have played a little fast and loose concerning some import deal involving Bella Shand. Or was it her husband?’

  Friday’s pulse quickened. ‘Who was saying this?’

  ‘Eli Chattoway. You won’t know him. Oh, actually, you
might.’

  ‘Don’t think so. And how did everyone react?’

  ‘There wasn’t an “everyone”, there were only two people having the conversation, Eli and someone else. But they both laughed. At Gellar’s expense, I gathered, not Mrs Shand’s.’

  ‘Do you think this Eli cove would talk to me?’

  Ralph ran his fingers down Friday’s belly to her pubic hair. ‘Possibly, but you might have to pay a price. He’s a bit of a roué, old Eli. Have you got another customer after me?’

  ‘No one booked.’

  ‘Do you want another five pounds?’

  ‘That’d be nice,’ Friday said, trying at that moment, but failing completely, to see a difference between Ralph Kidd and dirty old Eli Chattoway.

  When she finally went downstairs, she went straight to Elizabeth’s office.

  ‘Do you know someone called Eli Chattoway?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need to talk to him.’

  Elizabeth gave her a suspicious look. ‘What about?’

  ‘It’s … I just do. Do you know him or not?’

  ‘I hope you’re not in some sort of trouble, Friday.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes.’

  ‘Where would I find him?’

  ‘Either drunk somewhere, or stuffing his face, or terrorising some poor girl. A deeply unpleasant man, Eli Chattoway. I banned him from here years ago. I don’t think you do want to talk to him, Friday.’

  ‘I do. Where does he live?’

  Elizabeth sighed, and told her. ‘I’m not happy about this, Friday. And don’t go into his house. The man’s a pig.’

  Friday didn’t waste time. The following day she wasn’t due to start work until one in the afternoon, so at ten she set out to walk over the hill above the Rocks to Fort Street on the other side, overlooking Darling Harbour, where Chattoway lived. It had been raining all morning and the road had turned to shite, but she was wearing her sturdy boots and took care to avoid the worst of the mud and puddles, though once she almost ended up on her arse.