Girl of Shadows

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘There we are,’ Friday said. ‘What a good little girl you are! Now, you be good and stay with Auntie Friday.’

  Clifford snapped at Friday’s face with sharp white teeth, missing her nose by less than an inch.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ Friday exclaimed, holding Clifford out at arm’s length. ‘You’d better hurry up, Sarah, before I’m torn to shreds.’

  ‘Better be quick, anyway,’ Walter said. ‘I dunno how long I can do this for. I’ve never tried it before.’

  Sarah unlaced her boots and toed them off. ‘Come on then, let’s get started.’

  ‘You got a pocket?’ Walter asked Friday.

  ‘What for?’

  He produced a bulging paper twist. ‘Aniseed balls. She loves them. If she plays up, feed them to her one by one.’

  ‘If?’ Friday tucked a struggling Clifford under her arm. ‘God almighty.’ As Sarah and Walter moved off into the deepening shadows, she called after them, ‘Good luck!’

  ‘What sort of dogs are they?’ Sarah asked.

  The animals stood in Bella’s carriageway, ears pricked, watching their every move as they crossed the street. One let out a barrage of barks.

  ‘Dunno, really. Mastiffs? They’re beautiful.’

  ‘They are not. I still say we should poison them.’

  Walter shook his head vehemently. ‘No! It’s not their fault. That bastard’s ruined them. Just give me five minutes.’

  ‘Quick as you can, then.’

  And in case Walter’s amazing dog-wrangling turn didn’t work, she’d brought along two small pieces of raw mutton treated with cyanide, tightly wrapped in oilcloth in her satchel. That would certainly do the trick, though, of course, then Bella would know her property had been broken into when she came home to find two dead dogs in her yard.

  Walter stepped off the roadway, walked up to the wrought-iron fence and peered through; the dogs immediately raced over to him, barking and slavering. Staring calmly at them, he didn’t flinch, his hands wrapped casually around the bars within easy reach of the beasts’ teeth.

  They stopped barking. One sat down, followed by the other. They both tilted their huge heads to one side, whining slightly.

  Seconds ticked past. Sarah couldn’t see, but she was sure Walter was doing his ‘nothing’ face. One of the dogs took a moment to nip at something near its nether regions.

  The whining stopped.

  Walter opened the gate and went inside, hands extended, palms down, fingers curled out of harm’s way. The dogs ambled over and had a good sniff.

  ‘You can come in now,’ he said over his shoulder.

  Her heart pounding thunderously, Sarah crept in and closed the gate, and waited until Walter moved off down the carriageway, the dogs flanking him, rubbing against his legs like a pair of overgrown house cats. Christ, she hoped he knew what he was doing. She followed, and when he’d settled himself on the verandah, the dogs sitting expectantly before him, she set to work unlocking the nearest door.

  It took her less than a minute. Once inside she stood very still, listening, but heard nothing, no sign that anyone remained in the house. She started with the large desk near the far wall — Bella’s, judging by the elegantly feminine desk accessories — picking the locks on each drawer and, lighting the lamp on the desk, going through the papers contained within, but finding nothing that made any mention of a business relationship with Jared Gellar. In fact, she could see nothing that could be used against Bella in any way at all; everything seemed to relate to perfectly legal commercial transactions concerning Clarence’s import company. Which made sense, as Bella was a convict and forbidden from setting up her own business. Sod it. Perhaps she kept her dodgy paperwork somewhere else. Upstairs, or even at different premises entirely?

  She put everything back exactly as she’d found it, relocked the drawers, picked up the lamp, glanced out at Walter to make sure he was still in one piece, and began a tour of the house. Clarence’s desk was in a small library, but also held no documents of use, though letters from his bank indicated his businesses and investments were doing extremely well. She found no other repositories of papers downstairs, and no safe, so in silence she climbed the stairs, hesitating once again on the topmost landing to listen for the presence of anyone else. The upper floor was unlit and as the building was constructed from sandstone there was nothing to hear, not even the creaks and groans of a house settling for the evening.

  She went through each room. Clarence’s bedroom was what you’d expect of a man, albeit expensively and very stylishly furnished, though his wall safe contained bundles of crude and explicit letters signed by several different males. She wondered if Bella knew. Or cared. Bella’s chamber was also extremely tasteful, which was a surprise. Her clothes press overflowed with lovely gowns and gorgeous accessories. She had an entire chest filled with exquisitely soft linen and sateen corsets and demi-corsets, beautifully embroidered lawn shifts and petticoats, and the finest linen drawers; the latter a garment, everyone knew, worn only by wealthy women or those with serious pretensions. Sarah really had to suppress her desire to squat and piss all over the lot.

  Bella’s safe contained some good jewellery, a silver-framed miniature portrait of a fat middle-aged woman, and some letters on yellowing paper that began, To My Dearest Son, on which the signature had been deliberately obscured with blobs of ink. Letters to a brother of Bella’s from their mother? Even Bella must have had a mother. From Bella to her son? Surely not, but if he existed, God have mercy on the poor boy. Sarah was very tempted to read the letters, but the thought of Walter holding off the dogs downstairs stopped her. Again, however, there was nothing in the safe she could use.

  A bubble of panic rose in her chest, and she forced herself to swallow it.

  She crossed to the dressing table, littered with beauty tools and preparations; two extravagant wigs on stands, pomades, creams and salves, skin-bleaching solutions, tweezers, brushes, a mortar with pestle, perfumes, powders, rouge and kohl and tinted balms, plus a range of lotions. Opening a bottle of the latter, she sniffed and winced, recognising beneath the sweet scent of roses the bite of chalk and almonds that indicated quicklime and arsenic, which she knew was used to remove body hair. A bit strong, though, this particular concoction. She’d prefer to have hairy armpits — which, in fact, Adam said he found rather alluring — than scorch herself ragged with this. She smiled slightly as it occurred to her what might have happened to Bella that day on the Isla when she’d burnt her face. Wrong bottle of lotion?

  But, dismayingly, there was nothing here for her. Reluctantly she trotted back downstairs, extinguished the lamp and returned it to Bella’s desk.

  Out on the verandah, Walter was still sitting with the dogs.

  ‘Have you finished?’ he asked, his voice wavering. He didn’t turn away from the animals. ‘I’m getting bloody tired.’

  ‘I’m done. Let’s go.’

  Walter rose and followed Sarah to the gate, the dogs closely flanking him as before. As he and Sarah stepped through, Walter turned and gave the dogs a last hard stare and they lay down with their big heads on their paws, as exhausted as he looked.

  ‘That’s not easy to do, you know,’ he said, wiping his brow as they crossed the street to Friday’s hiding place in the shrubbery. Sarah hoped Clifford hadn’t torn her to pieces.

  ‘I’m absolutely sure it isn’t. I’m very impressed. And grateful.’ She smiled and gave his hand a squeeze.

  Startled, he smiled back.

  Friday wasn’t in pieces but Clifford nearly was, lying on her side, looking very sorry for herself, next to a pool of dog vomit reeking of aniseed.

  ‘What did you do to her?’ Walter exclaimed.

  ‘She was mean to me,’ Friday said, ‘so I gave her the whole lot in one go. Did you get what you wanted?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Sarah said. ‘Not a single bloody thing.’

  Friday’s face fell. ‘Shite. What do we do now?’

  Chapter Nineteen


  June 1831, Sydney Town

  It was Sunday afternoon and Friday, Harrie and Sarah were sitting on a rug in Hyde Park watching well-off people kitted out in expensive riding habits trot round and round the perimeter on smartly groomed horses. It had rained again that morning, though it was fine now, and the sun was drawing a light veil of mist out of the ground, spreading a shimmering mantle over the low, bare hillocks of the park.

  ‘So, what have we got?’ Friday asked, leaning to one side and scratching her bum. ‘The damp’s coming through this rug.’

  Sarah glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one else was close enough to overhear, raised a fist and flicked up a finger. ‘One scared-shitless crook.’ Another finger. ‘Nothing to prove he stole those heads from Bella, or even that he was directly involved in bringing them across the Tasman for her. My money’s on her keeping all her really important papers somewhere they’ll never be found.’ She paused. ‘Or maybe she doesn’t document that side of the business at all. I wouldn’t.’ And finally her ring finger. ‘One husband — mine — we have to get out of Port Macquarie as soon as possible.’

  ‘You know, I really was worried he’d leave after Molly,’ Harrie said. ‘I was so sure he would.’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘Lucky for us he’s such a greedy bastard. Anyone else would have run a mile.’

  ‘She was good, wasn’t she?’ Friday smiled at the memory of Molly’s grotesque, rice-flour-caked face.

  ‘I know we only have hearsay about him cheating Bella,’ Sarah said, ‘but it’s accurate hearsay, and he’ll know it when we confront him with it because he’s guilty.’

  Friday nodded. ‘It’ll rattle him.’

  ‘It has to more than bloody rattle him. It has to make him confess.’

  ‘What if it doesn’t work?’ Harrie said.

  Sarah turned on her. ‘Then Adam’ll rot in gaol for the next five years, won’t he? Why do you always have to be such a doom-monger?’

  ‘Stop it, Sarah,’ Friday said. ‘That’s not going to help.’

  Sarah’s shoulders slumped and she touched Harrie’s knee. ‘Sorry, love. It’s just that I’m —’

  ‘I know,’ Harrie soothed. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘You’re right, though. What if it doesn’t work? It has to work.’

  ‘Well, hang on,’ Friday said slowly. ‘You just said he’s scared shitless of Rachel, so he must think she’s real. What if we tell him she’s told us he pinched Bella’s heads, and that we’ll tell Bella if he doesn’t sign the confession. Rachel’d know that sort of thing, being dead herself.’

  Sarah stared at Friday for a full minute, then her pale face broke into an enormous smile, as though the sun had come out. ‘Friday?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That might just be the best idea you’ve ever had.’

  ‘Really?’ Friday was delighted.

  Nibbling a fingernail, Harrie looked worried. ‘I’m not sure if it works like that, if spirits can know those sorts of things. I don’t know if Rachel —’

  With as much patience as she could muster, Sarah took Harrie’s hand and said very gently, ‘I don’t know if it works like that either, but will you please, just for now, pretend that it does? For me? So Adam can come home?’

  Reluctantly, Harrie nodded.

  Friday let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. ‘Good. Shall we go with that, then?’

  ‘Yes, and I want to confront him tonight,’ Sarah said. ‘There’s no point putting it off. And I’d like you both with me. Can you get away?’

  Harrie and Friday nodded. Harrie added, ‘But not until about half past six. I told Nora I’d help her get a gown cut out later today, even though it’s my day off. It’s an urgent order. Is that all right? I’m sorry, I didn’t know. But I promise I’ll come.’

  ‘Of course it’s all right.’ Sarah squeezed Harrie’s hand. ‘As long as you’re there.’ She reached for Friday’s hand, too. ‘As long as you’re both there. I really don’t think I can do this by myself.’

  Sarah had just finished washing the supper dishes when Friday stuck her head round the kitchen door. As usual, she’d come in through the backyard gate. Sarah could smell alcohol on her breath, but she wasn’t mashed, just a little bright-eyed. She was probably nervous. So was Sarah.

  ‘All set? He’s not gone out, has he?’

  ‘He’s at the table, reading the paper.’

  ‘Harrie here yet?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘I hope she doesn’t change her mind.’

  ‘She won’t. She won’t let you down, Sarah. You know that.’

  ‘I know. I know she won’t.’

  Friday glanced over her shoulder. ‘Speak of the devil.’

  Harrie appeared in the doorway, puffing slightly, her hair escaping from beneath her bonnet. ‘Sorry I’m late. I had to run all the way.’

  ‘You’re not late, love,’ Sarah replied. Suddenly her eyes filled with tears. She dabbed them away with the hem of her apron.

  ‘All right?’ Friday asked.

  Sarah nodded.

  ‘Good girl. So, are we doing this?’ Friday went on. ‘’Cos if we are, we should just get in there, no mucking about.’

  The nervous tension buzzing through them was as discomfiting as it had been the night they’d followed Gabriel Keegan along Phillip Street, but this evening, although there would be no killing, the stakes were higher. Then, their motivation had been revenge — now, they were desperate to secure Adam’s freedom, perhaps even his life.

  Friday pulled them into an embrace and for a moment they relaxed against one another.

  Then Sarah broke away, took off her apron, and led them inside to the dining room.

  ‘Jared?’ she said. ‘We’d like to talk to you.’

  ‘Yes?’ He closed his paper.

  His recent encounters with the supernatural entity that had taken up residence in the house were taking a visible toll. He’d lost weight, the lines of his face now sharp and angular, and his previously energetic curls lay limp against his skull. Instead of the handsome, confident man he’d been when he’d arrived, he was now beginning to resemble a hungry fox; but one that would not let go of the little bird clamped in its jaws. He was wary, too — of every noise, creak and sigh the house made, as though something might lie in wait for him around each corner and in the depths of every murky shadow.

  The girls took seats around the table.

  Sarah said, ‘I have something to tell you, Jared, about Rachel. Well, from Rachel, actually.’

  ‘Yes?’ Jared said again, but much more cautiously this time.

  Something made a scratching sound at the window and he started badly. The sun had set but a ribbon of ruby light remained on the horizon; he rose and drew the curtains against it, turning up all the lamps in the room as he returned to his chair.

  ‘When we were transported here,’ Sarah said, ‘there was a convict on our ship named Bella Jackson. She’s known here as Bella Shand.’

  A tiny flicker of recognition in Jared’s eyes, quickly pinched out.

  ‘Do you know her?’ Friday asked.

  ‘I’ve heard the name.’

  Sarah continued. ‘Well, we certainly know who she is, and so did Rachel.’

  Jared made a circling, ‘get on with it’ motion with a limp hand. ‘And?’

  ‘Rachel sees a lot of things, Jared. Doesn’t she, Harrie?’

  ‘She exists in two different dimensions, you see,’ Harrie explained. ‘And when she isn’t here, she’s with the others. She’s with the dead.’

  An uneasy look from Jared. ‘What’s this got to do with Bella Shand?’

  Friday ignored the question. ‘And sometimes some of those dead folk are upset because they’ve been disturbed. Someone might have, let’s say, stolen their bodies, or even just parts of their bodies? And they might want them back.’

  Jared went very still.

  Sarah let the silence spin out like a long line of silk from a busy spider. Fi
nally, she leant forwards. ‘Rachel knows, Jared. She knows you stole those heads off Bella.’

  Jared’s lips went white and a tic started in his left eye. ‘You’re mad. I did no such thing. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You brought a shipment of tattooed heads back from New Zealand for Bella and kept four of them to sell yourself.’

  ‘I did not.’ The flesh on Jared’s face seemed to have shrunk even tighter over his bones, just like one of the heads he’d stolen.

  ‘Rachel says you did.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  ‘We don’t have to. I’m sure Bella will. When we tell her.’

  Friday shook her head ruefully. ‘She’ll be roaring when she finds out you played the crooked cross on her. Dearie me, I’m glad I’m not walking in your boots.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jared sat back in his seat, eyes narrowing. ‘Oh, I understand now, you trio of conniving bloody bitches.’

  ‘Sticks and stones, Jared,’ Friday remarked.

  ‘This is extortion, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well done.’ Sarah did a couple of slow hand claps.

  ‘In exchange for you not informing Bella Shand about this alleged theft, you want me to … what? What do you want?’ Jared glared at Sarah.

  ‘I want a confession from you in writing,’ Sarah said, returning the glare just as forcefully, ‘stating clearly that you framed Adam. Because you did, didn’t you? You set him up.’

  Another scraping noise came at the window, but this time Jared didn’t seem to hear it. Though Harrie did.

  Jared shrugged, as though fabricating an associate’s complicity in a crime was all in a day’s work. ‘And if I do, you’ll keep your counsel? All of you? About everything?’

  Sarah nodded.

  He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips, stared unseeingly ahead for several moments, then muttered, ‘Get me paper and a pen.’

  Sarah fetched from the chiffonier a sheet of paper and a nib in a holder, lay them before Jared, and stood at his side.

  ‘And it will all end with this?’ he asked.

  ‘You have our word.’

  He scribbled quite a lengthy sentence. Over his shoulder Sarah read: I confess that I, Jared Gellar, planted a coral brooch at the premises of Adam Green, George Street, then anonymously informed the Sydney Constabulary that Adam Green had received said brooch as stolen property.