A Tattooed Heart

by Deborah Challinor

‘You mean stand in the middle of a graveyard and talk to thin air?’

  ‘Isn’t that what you do here? And it’s what everyone else does in a cemetery.’

  ‘But I’d be standing over a grave with someone else’s name on it.’

  ‘Stop splitting hairs.’

  ‘And how on earth would I get him there?’

  ‘Let me worry about that.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Friday.’

  ‘You do so know. You can’t keep him here. It’d be like me keeping Gabriel Keegan’s corpse under my bed.’

  Elizabeth’s worried expression suddenly turned into a scowl. ‘Hang on, you said he might be getting a chest tomb. I’m not worrying myself sick about something that hasn’t happened. It could be a whole year before that woman puts anything on her husband’s grave.’

  ‘It won’t be,’ Friday said with the supreme confidence of a pissed person.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Bella likes to be — what’s the word? — continuous with her money.’

  ‘Conspicuous.’

  ‘Yeah, that. If she can throw it around, she will. She won’t leave Clarence’s grave covered in shitty old weeds if she doesn’t have to.’

  ‘Most folk wait twelve months. It’s the tasteful thing to do.’

  Friday barked out a laugh. ‘Well, there you go. There’ll probably be a dirty great marble pillar with a ten-foot statue of God on it by dinnertime tomorrow.’ Then she frowned. ‘Mind you, we put a headstone on Rachel’s grave straight away. Well, Harrie did. And she’s not tasteless.’

  ‘That was different,’ Elizabeth conceded. ‘Also, you’re supposed to wait for the ground to settle after a burial. It subsides, you know, the soil.’

  ‘Wouldn’t think that’d matter, if you’re having a chest tomb. They’re pretty solid.’

  ‘But you don’t know if she actually is.’

  ‘I can find out. And if she does, will you let me move Gil? Please? It’s for your own good.’

  Shaking her head and rubbing at an eye, slightly smearing her carefully applied kohl, Elizabeth said, ‘Christ almighty, I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be telling me what’s good for me.’

  ‘But will you?’

  Elizabeth sighed. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  The following morning, before she started work, Friday hired a carriage to drive her back to Devonshire Street cemetery. She couldn’t be bothered walking again after yesterday’s trek, and anyway the weather was closing in. Just past Devonshire Street, outside the carter’s barracks, she told the driver to stop, and to wait for her.

  ‘It’ll cost you extra,’ he warned as she climbed down.

  ‘Fine. Just don’t bugger off, all right?’

  The driver squinted up at the sky. ‘Mind you hurry. I’m not sitting out here in the pouring rain. I’ve not got me cloak.’

  Whose fault’s that, then? Friday thought as she tossed him a shilling. The carter’s barracks smelt even more pungent as she passed through the gates, though the central yard was swept clean. She could hear the mournful lowing of bullocks — the source of the pong — somewhere in the bowels of the maze of stables and sheds.

  ‘Hello! Anyone here?’ she shouted.

  An elderly man appeared, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘You don’t have to yell, girl. I’m not deaf.’

  ‘Sorry. Morning.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said good morning.’

  ‘’Tis, ’cept for them black clouds. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I was hoping to engage your services,’ Friday said, her attention momentarily diverted by the sight of a lad staggering across the yard under the weight of a massive bullock collar. Reaching the far side, he dumped it on the cobbles and crouched, fiddling with a buckle, pretending not to eavesdrop.

  ‘What was that?’ The man planted a work-roughened hand behind his ear.

  ‘Your services!’ Friday almost bellowed. ‘I want to pay you to do a job!’

  ‘All right, all right, there’s no need to shout. The tariff’s one pound eight shillings a day for a team of four, and two pounds for a team of six. I can supply a bullocky, but that’ll cost more.’ The man scratched his grizzled beard. ‘If you want horses, that’s another kettle of fish altogether.’

  ‘No, look, I don’t want to hire your bullocks.’

  ‘You want to watch your language, young lady.’

  Christ, the deaf old bugger. Friday pointed, though the cemetery wasn’t actually visible from the carter’s yard. ‘You know the burial ground? Over there?’

  ‘Of course I know it.’

  ‘Well, I want to pay you to go over there every day,’ Friday went on, speaking slowly and miming wildly to reinforce her message, ‘and check something for me. I’m expecting a headstone or tomb to go up on a grave, and I want to know as soon as it does.’

  ‘In the burial ground?’

  Friday refrained from rolling her eyes. ‘Yes. In the burial ground.’

  ‘How much are you paying?’

  Given that he was probably well off enough, Friday offered him a very generous five pounds.

  His jaw waggled back and forth. ‘Which part of the burial ground?’

  ‘The Catholic bit.’

  The man’s expression changed and he spat violently. ‘Damn Papists! You’ll not catch me treading on ground full of mouldering left-footers. No, find someone else.’

  And he flapped an irritated hand at her and stomped off.

  Friday swore spectacularly. She was just about to climb into the carriage — there was a brewery on Albion Street at the other end of Devonshire, she might be able to bribe someone there — when she heard the sound of running feet.

  ‘Wait! Hey, missus, wait!’

  The boy from the carter’s was trotting towards her. He whipped off his tattered cap. ‘I’ll do it. I’m not scareda no Catholic ghosts. Gotta be for the fiver, but.’

  ‘Can I trust you?’ Friday asked.

  ‘Can I trust you?’ he shot back.

  Friday suppressed a smile. ‘Cheeky little chavvy. Did you hear what I said to your master?’

  ‘Think the whole world heard it. He’s deaf as a post, old Mr Coombs.’

  ‘So tell me what I want.’

  ‘You want to know when they put up a headstone or something on some dead cove’s grave.’

  ‘I want to know the minute they start.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘None of your beeswax. And I want you to keep out of sight. I don’t want anyone to know you’re watching. Can you do that?’

  The boy made a rude noise. ‘They don’t call me Fast Eddie for nothing.’

  ‘You sure they don’t call you Cock-and-Bull Eddie?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Well, you can’t be that fast. You got transported, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, but only the once.’

  Friday wasn’t sure whether to trust him or not. ‘I’ll give you two quid now, and the rest when you tell me what I want to know.’

  ‘Four now.’

  Friday shook her head.

  ‘What if bugger all happens and I spend the next six months hanging round with all them dead folk? I could get the life scared right out of me.’

  ‘You just said you’re not scared of ghosts. You only have to go in once a day and have a quick look.’

  ‘Three then.’

  Sighing, Friday said, ‘Three, and that’s it. And if nothing’s happened in, say, twelve weeks, I’ll pay you the other two and we’ll call it quits.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’ Eddie stuck out his hand.

  Friday took it and squeezed until she felt his bones grind together. ‘It had better be, sweetie, because if I find out you’re not earning your pay, and I will, you know, I’ll tear your ears off. Do you hear me?’

  Wincing, Eddie nodded vigorously until she dropped his hand. He tucked it gingerly into his armpit. ‘You can trust me,’ he insisted, all traces of bravado gone from his voice.

&nbs
p; ‘I hope so. Now, come with me.’

  Friday showed him to Clarence’s muddy grave, the mound of fresh dirt still covered with the now drooping floral tributes that had masked the smell of his decomposing body while he’d lain for several days at home.

  ‘Who was he?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘Just a cove,’ Friday said, then told him where he could find her when the time came.

  ‘Friday. That’s a funny name. Why’d your ma call you that?’

  ‘She felt like it. Why’d your ma call you Eddie?’

  ‘She didn’t. She called me Edward.’

  ‘Well, Edward, I meant what I said. Keep your side of the bargain, and we’ll be fine. If not, you’ll end up as deaf as your boss. Fair enough?’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  As Friday was setting out for Devonshire Street, Leo Dundas and Serafina Fortune were having a leisurely breakfast at Serafina’s little house on Essex Street. Over toasted bread, marmalade and tea, Leo was reading the previous day’s Sydney Herald while Serafina flicked through the morning’s edition of the Sydney Gazette.

  Jamming half a slice of toast into his mouth, Leo nearly choked as he turned a page and read what was written there — a letter published by the police.

  To the Sydney Constabulery

  I confess to the murdur of Amos Furniss on 10 July 1831. I did it. I stabbed him to Death in the Old Buriel Ground. He were my Lover but he were not faithfull to me and I could not bare it, so I took his Life. He deserved it. He were an Evil man. But I have suffered terribel gilt and by the time this letter is red I will be at Eternil Peace with the Lord. May the Lord have Mercy on my Soul.

  Respecfully,

  A S Cryer (Miss)

  ‘Have you seen this?’ he demanded.

  ‘What?’

  Leo stabbed the paper with a buttery finger. ‘This letter about Amos Furniss’s murder.’

  ‘The confession?’

  ‘This woman’s saying she killed him. Why would she do that?’ Leo looked at the signature on the letter again, then, astounded, back at Serafina. ‘A S Cryer. A scryer? You wrote it?’

  ‘I did nothing of the sort,’ Serafina said calmly, turning a page of the Gazette.

  Leo didn’t believe her. He glanced at Walter Cobley’s tatty old scarf, left hanging on Serafina’s coat stand since the boy had stayed a night with her before he’d left for England a year earlier. Had she used it to glance into his future? What did she know about him?

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ she snapped. ‘Look, if some madwoman wants to confess to a murder she didn’t do, let her. Don’t worry about it, Leo. You worry too much.’

  ‘It says here the police have closed the case.’

  ‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Pass the marmalade, will you?’

  After a moment, Leo did.

  Adam lit the last of the shadowless Sinumbra lamps and resumed his seat at the workbench. It was another very grey day and although the workshop window was unusually large, the room was still gloomy. It was pleasantly warm, though, thanks to the furnace cooling from yesterday’s melting of a small amount of gold. Then, it had been too hot, and he and Sarah had sweated uncomfortably, fanning themselves and grumbling.

  ‘Is that better?’ he asked. ‘Can you see properly now?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  Sarah was still having to squint slightly, and had a horrible feeling she might be approaching the point at which she would require spectacles for close work, but wouldn’t admit it. She was far from vain, and a large proportion of her job necessitated staring at tiny little things, but for some reason she couldn’t tolerate the thought of having to wear spectacles. Adam wore them in the workshop and for reading and, frankly, looked really rather appealing in them. The juxtaposition of the scholarly wire frames against the severe planes of his handsome face and heavy dark hair was somehow intriguing. She thought so, anyway. But she just knew spectacles wouldn’t have the same effect perched on her slightly sharp little nose.

  ‘Has Friday heard anything from her friend?’

  Sarah sighed. ‘No. And she’s sent at least a dozen letters. I should know. I wrote them for her.’

  ‘Do you think the girl may have been a little less, er, taken with Friday than Friday might have inferred?’

  ‘No, I really don’t think she’d have gone to all that trouble with the Christmas present if she wasn’t really quite seriously “taken”, do you? And don’t keep calling her “the girl”. Her name’s Aria.’

  ‘Then why hasn’t she replied?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘You said the g— Aria’s mother was a bit of an old bag. I wonder if she’s withholding them?’

  ‘I don’t know, I said.’

  Under the workbench, Clifford whined at the sharp tone in Sarah’s voice.

  ‘There’s no need to snap at me.’ Adam looked up from the ring he was polishing. ‘Why are you being so grumpy? I’m only asking.’

  Sarah suddenly felt mean. ‘I’m sorry, Adam. It’s just that I wish I did know what was going on. I really do. Friday would be so much happier if Aria’s mother was withholding the letters, because that would mean Aria wasn’t deliberately ignoring her. She thinks she’s forgotten her. She’s heartbroken and now she seems determined to drink herself to death.’

  ‘She always was, though, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s got worse lately. A lot worse.’

  Adam thought for a moment. ‘If she loses her job, what will happen the next time that Shand woman demands money from you? Didn’t you say most of it comes from Friday?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Adam, I don’t care about that!’ Though, actually, Sarah did. He had an excellent point. If Friday didn’t work, how would they pay Bella? ‘I want her to be happy and stop drowning herself in bloody gin.’

  ‘Well, you should care. If you don’t give that woman what she wants, she could go to the police.’

  Sarah ground her fists into her tired itchy eyes. ‘I know! I know, I know. Do you think I don’t?’

  ‘It scares the shit out of me, Sarah, it really does. This blackmail business can’t continue. It’s insane. And you and Friday and Harrie seem to be just going along with it, and I don’t understand why.’

  ‘We are not just going along with it! We tried to do a deal, but she double-crossed us. And I’ve been all through her house and I couldn’t find a single thing we can use against her.’

  Adam gaped at her, aghast. ‘You broke into her house?’

  ‘While you were at Port Macquarie. I looked everywhere but there was nothing. But —’

  ‘Christ, Sarah, what if you’d been caught?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t, was I? And it was better than just sitting on our arses “going along with it”. Let me finish. Friday knows someone who knows a cove who has a letter we think might point the finger at Bella for illegally importing goods.’

  ‘What sort of goods?’

  ‘Banned tattooed Maori heads. I told you about that.’

  ‘You once gave me some very sketchy details involving Bella Shand and that bastard Gellar, but you’ve never told me the full story.’

  ‘We don’t know the full story. We’d heard — well, Leo did, actually — that Bella and Gellar were bringing in the upoko tuhi —’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Upoko tuhi. The heads. And we’re pretty sure Amos Furniss was involved, too. We don’t know any of the details, though, how they got them or who from or when. But now there’s this letter and, if it says what we hope it does, we can threaten to give it to the governor or the police if Bella doesn’t stop blackmailing us.’

  ‘How long have you known about it?’

  ‘The letter? Six months or so.’

  Adam frowned. ‘So why don’t you have it? What’s stopped you from just pinching it? It’s what you do, after all.’

  Sarah eyed him for signs of sarcasm, but there weren’t any. He meant it. And he was right:
it was what she did. She made a face of her own. ‘It’s not quite that easy. We think the cove who has it keeps it at his house and the place is constantly full of servants, night and day. They’re everywhere. The old bastard must have at least half a dozen, not to mention his bloody great brood of kids scampering about.’

  ‘You’ve had a look?’

  Sarah nodded. ‘Quite a few, actually.’

  Removing his spectacles, Adam rubbed at the dents they’d left on the bridge of his nose. ‘Who exactly is he, this cove?’

  ‘Clement Bloodworth.’

  Adam blanched. ‘Not the —?’

  ‘Assistant police magistrate, yes.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Sarah!’

  ‘I know. So I need to work out how to get in there and have a good look around without getting caught. Obviously. And I haven’t done that yet. Getting past Bella’s dogs and inside her house was easy compared to what this’ll be like.’

  ‘What dogs?’

  ‘Bella has a couple of guard dogs. But Walter worked his magic —’

  Hearing the word ‘Walter’, Clifford let out a mournful little whine. Sarah picked her up, settled her on her knee and stroked her comfortingly. The fractious little dog had mellowed — very slightly — in the months she’d been living with Sarah and Adam, but it was clear she hadn’t forgotten her first beloved master.

  ‘And we got past them all right,’ Sarah went on. ‘But none of this helps with what we’re going to do about Friday, does it?’

  ‘Surely if the blackmail stops, she won’t have to work in the brothel any more? I know she hates it.’

  ‘And then what would she do? Work as a housegirl or a laundry maid? Can you really see Friday doing a job like that? No, she’s got a trade. She’s a prostitute, and a bloody successful one, except for the fact she keeps getting drunk. Of course, she’ll drink no matter what she does.’

  ‘That’s not because of Aria, though, is it?’

  ‘No, but having her heart broken certainly hasn’t helped. You know, I’ve a good mind to get on a ship and go to New Zealand and talk to Aria myself. She’s probably just as miserable as Friday.’

  ‘You can’t. You’re not allowed to leave Sydney.’

  ‘You can, though. You’ve got a conditional pardon. You went to Van Diemen’s Land.’

  ‘That was different. That was for business. I can’t go to New Zealand.’ Adam’s voice softened. ‘Look, I know how fond you are of Friday, and I am, too, but honestly, is her love life really any of our business?’