‘You won’t regret it,’ Friday said. ‘You never know, one day it might even save your life.’
Sighing and blotting the tears on her plump, powdered cheeks with a handkerchief, Elizabeth said, ‘I know. You’re right. It was foolish of me to keep him here all that time. Foolish and dangerous. But I just couldn’t bear to be parted from him. I still can’t.’
‘You won’t be parted from him. You’ll just have to go up the road to talk to him, that’s all.’
Elizabeth nodded, still not entirely convinced, but Friday had made it very clear it had to be done tonight. ‘What do I have to do?’
‘Nothing. Leave it to me. I’ll sort it as soon as we close. You just go to bed and forget about it, all right?’
And that’s exactly what Elizabeth did, which was unfortunate because Friday forgot to ask her for the key to the cellar. It would be, she knew, on the chatelaine Elizabeth always wore, probably at present on her dressing table. Not wanting to wake her, she went looking for Jack, who was still up, waiting to drive her to Devonshire Street. She could have driven herself if she absolutely had to, but the truth was she was frightened of horses. They were so big, and sometimes they did exactly the opposite of what you wanted them to do. If she drove herself tonight, it’d be just her luck if thunder or something scared the shit out of the beast and made it bolt and she ended up in Parramatta. No, she’d feel better with Jack in charge. She found him in the hotel kitchen.
‘God, how can you eat steak and oyster pie at two in the morning?’
‘Easy,’ Jack said, pastry crumbs flying out of his mouth. ‘It’s been bloody hours since supper.’
Friday made a face. She didn’t like oysters at the best of times. ‘Do you know where Mrs H keeps her spare set of keys?’
‘You could try her desk in her office.’
Bloody hell. The brothel was locked now — with the keys on Mrs H’s chatelaine. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any anywhere else?’
Jack nodded, took another huge bite of pie, and pointed at a blue and white ginger jar high on a shelf, inside which Friday found two keys. A few minutes later, she let herself into Mrs H’s office and began to go methodically through her desk. In the bottom drawer she found a wooden box containing a collection of keys, one of which, to her relief, was labelled Cellar.
She also found something else that at first confused her — a gold ring with pearls and a pink stone. It had belonged to her friend Molly Bates, who’d drowned while swimming drunk the previous year. What was it doing here? Molly had worked in the brothel, despite the fact she and Mrs H hadn’t got on because Mrs H had constantly blamed Molly for Friday’s drunken sprees. What a load of bloody rubbish that had been — Friday had never needed an accomplice to go on a spree. For some reason, though, Mrs H hadn’t given Molly the boot.
She slipped the ring on her finger and observed the stone glittering in the lamplight. Had Molly been wearing it the night she’d died? She couldn’t recall. That was the evening she’d been arrested for fighting, and she’d been that drunk she could barely remember anything.
A horrible thought occurred to her, raising the hairs on her arms — had Mrs H been with Molly when she’d drowned, and taken the ring off her? This was swiftly followed by an even worse notion. Surely to God Mrs H wouldn’t do something like that.
Would she?
But she already had. She’d shot her husband.
Friday stood for a long moment staring down at her finger, feeling sick and dismayed. And then it came to her: Mrs H had organised Molly’s funeral. Molly must have been wearing the ring, and the undertaker would have given it to Mrs H when he’d prepared Molly’s body for the grave.
She let out a huge sigh of relief, dropped the ring back in the drawer and let herself out of the house, uneasily ignoring the vexing little voice in her head demanding to know why Mrs H had kept the ring if she’d disliked Molly so much.
In the cellar she set down her lantern and stood looking at the trunk concealing Gilbert Hislop’s remains. There were two, one stacked above the other. The corpse was in the bottom trunk, and when she’d last moved the one above it she’d had a hell of a job. This time, thank Christ, she wouldn’t have to bother putting it back.
Accompanied by a fair bit of grunting and swearing she shoved the top trunk off, wincing as it crashed to the ground, and opened Gil Hislop’s makeshift tomb. He was still in it, of course, grinning ghoulishly up at her with big yellow and gold teeth.
‘God,’ Friday muttered, and shuddered.
Really, she didn’t want to touch him, but unfortunately she was going to have to. She opened the canvas sea bag she’d brought with her, and arranged it on the ground beside the trunk. Reaching in, she grasped a boot, still containing foot bones, then hesitated and glanced at the eye sockets gaping from the brown-stained skull. They were empty, of course, but still somehow accusatory. Did she really want him watching her while she dismantled him?
No, she didn’t, so she gripped the skull. There was a crack as a last flimsy tendon snapped and the thing separated from the neck bones. Trying not to gag, she laid it in the sea bag. The skull felt disgusting, not quite dry — though surely it had to be by now. The peaked cap went into the bag next, then the boots; then she gathered together the hems and the waistband of the stained trousers and lifted, trapping the pelvis and leg bones inside. Giving the trousers a bit of a shake, she dropped them into the bag. Next she folded the sleeves of the long coat, full of arm bones, into the middle and rolled the whole garment up around the top half of the skeleton, handily picking up all the little bones that had fallen out of the trousers.
She stepped back and stretched, easing her back, then fetched the lantern. Most of the hand bones remained in the bottom of the trunk, plus a neckerchief, two gold earrings, and quite a lot of hair. She gathered up the bones and earrings, then used the neckerchief to sweep up the hair as best she could.
Would Mrs H want the earrings as a memento? Probably not. If she had, she’d have taken them off old Gilbert when she’d shot him. Thoughts of rings put her on edge again and she dumped everything, including the hair, into the sea bag and pulled the string tight.
After closing the trunk, she made sure nothing had missed the bag and ended up on the ground, then hauled it up the cellar steps and outside. It was heavier than she’d expected, though she thought some of that might be due to the winter coat.
In the kitchen Jack had fallen asleep at the table, his head on his arms. Friday woke him.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘What time is it?’
‘Nearly three. Come on, I have to get a move on.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Devonshire Street. The cemetery.’
Jack stared at her. ‘What the hell for?’
‘Don’t ask. I mean it.’
It was still raining steadily. Friday waited in the shelter of the stable doorway as Jack led the horse out of its stall already harnessed and backed it into the traces, its iron-shod hooves making a hell of a racket on the cobbles. Nervously, Friday glanced up at the first floor of the pub, but no lights appeared at the windows. Jack raised the gig’s hood and offered her his hand. She passed him a shovel.
‘What’s this for?’
‘Never mind. Just put it under the seat,’ Friday said as she heaved the sea bag into the gig and climbed up after it.
Jack took so long to walk around to the driver’s side that Friday thought he’d gone off somewhere. Finally, he swung up beside her and took up the reins, but the horse didn’t walk on.
‘Friday?’
‘What?’
‘We’re off to the cemetery, and you’ve got a shovel and Christ knows what in that bag. What’s going on?’
Friday sighed but said nothing.
‘It’s a body, isn’t it?’
‘I told you not to ask.’
Jack glanced down at the sea bag with extreme reluctance, one eye screwed shut. ‘Is it a kid?’
‘No, it is not! Christ almighty, Jack!’ S
he dug in the pocket of her cape for her gin flask and took a huge swig. For God’s sake. This was turning into enough of a drama without him making accusations like that.
Jack held out his hand for the flask. Friday gave it to him.
He took several deep swallows, handed it back and said, ‘Well, I’m not taking you anywhere till you tell me, and that’s that.’
She could see he meant it. She took another drink and put the flask away. ‘God. It’s not a child; it’s what’s left of a cove who died years ago. All I’m doing is moving it. As a favour.’
She waited for Jack to say something, but he didn’t. He stared at her for quite a long time, then just nodded. He wasn’t stupid. He flicked the reins and drove down the carriageway beside the Siren’s Arms and out onto Harrington Street.
As they turned onto Argyle, Friday gazed down towards the sea. The rain was so persistent she could hardly see the mast lights on the ships at anchor in the cove. It wasn’t the best of nights to go mucking about in a burial ground. But then, what night was?
George Street was dark and deserted, except for a goat standing on the corner of Market Street. The carriage lamps on the gig barely lit their way. It was very late, or early, depending on your point of view, and cold and miserable out, and anyone with sense would no doubt be at home in bed. By the time they reached the top of Brickfield Hill the horse’s breath was billowing out in great clouds, and Friday was shivering and wet despite her cape.
‘Nearly there,’ she said. ‘Keep going a bit, then turn left into Devonshire, just before you get to the carter’s barracks.’
‘I know where I’m going,’ Jack grumbled.
Friday glanced at him. He’d pulled his hat so far down she could barely see the outline of his handsome face. It wasn’t doing much to keep him dry; rainwater was dripping steadily off the brim and down the back of his neck, soaking the collar of his coat. He must be getting sick of carting her around and doing favours for her and half the time not knowing why. He got a bit shitty sometimes, though when she said she really couldn’t tell him he didn’t push her. He was good like that. She supposed he thought folk were entitled to their secrets. She knew he certainly had a few.
‘Just saying,’ she said.
Jack grunted, then a few minutes later they turned into Devonshire Street, the gig bumping violently through several enormous puddles. ‘Will I go in?’ he asked. ‘There’ll be a gate for hearses somewhere.’
‘Here’ll do. I’ll walk.’ As Jack halted the horse in the black shadows of a dripping tree, Friday lit her lantern and climbed down from the gig, hauling the shovel and sea bag after her. ‘I won’t be long, all right?’
A few yards into the cemetery, she was extremely grateful for the lantern. There were gravel paths but without the light she would only have found them by accident, and would have banged into headstones every couple of feet. She made her way to the Catholic section and, after an increasingly nerve-wracking few minutes, found Clarence Shand’s grave.
Fast Eddie had told the truth — the chest tomb had been erected. It was oblong and about three feet high, each side quite elaborately carved, and the horizontal slab of sandstone had been laid on top. It was so precisely aligned, in fact, that for a few horrible moments she thought it might already have been mortared in place. Setting the lantern, shovel and bag on the grass she placed her palms against the edge of the top slab, shoved for all she was worth, and was rewarded with the tiniest sensation of movement. Thank Christ for that. Obviously, though, she wasn’t going to be able to move it by herself.
Grabbing the lantern, she trotted back to the street and tugged on Jack’s coat. Jack, who had nodded off with his hat over his face, nearly shat himself.
‘Can you come and give me a hand?’
‘Doing what?’
‘I need to shift a slab but it’s too heavy.’
‘Not likely. What’s under it? A corpse?’
‘Nothing, just dirt. Please?’
‘Christ.’
Jack climbed down, tied the reins to a low branch and followed her to Clarence Shand’s grave, swearing under his breath every time he stumbled.
‘What are you trying to do?’ he asked, eyeing the chest tomb.
‘I need to move the top slab, get in there, dig a bit of a hole and bury what’s in the bag, then shove the slab back again.’
‘Why can’t you just dump it in? Why do you have to bury it?’
‘The stonemasons might see it when they come back to mortar the slab. They might have to move it for some reason.’
Jack nodded. ‘Er, where’s the real body?’
‘Six feet under. Miles out of the way.’
‘Whose grave is it?’
‘Clarence Shand’s.’
‘Jesus, you’ve got a cheek.’
Friday ignored him and leant all her weight against the slab. ‘Come on — we haven’t got all night.’
Jack did the same and together, inch by inch, they opened up enough of a gap to allow Friday to sit on the edge of the tomb and dangle her legs inside.
‘A bit more,’ she said, ‘or I’ll get stuck.’
‘Only because your arse is too big.’
‘Fuck off, Jack. I have to swing a bloody shovel in there.’
Rolling his eyes, he said, ‘Do you want me to dig the hole?’
‘No. I said I’d get it sorted, and I will.’
She jumped out, they shoved mightily again, the lid moved another two feet and Friday nodded her approval. She raised the lantern and peered in. The floor of the tomb was the top of Clarence’s grave, a mass of mud and rotted flowers. She was going to get filthy in there.
‘Here, hold this.’
She handed the lantern to Jack, took off her cape, opened the waistband of her skirt and stepped out of it. That left her in her bodice jacket, a knee-length shift and her boots — far more sensible. She hiked her rump up onto the edge of the tomb, swung her legs over and dropped in, her boots landing with a splat that sent mud flying up her calves.
Jack handed her the shovel and she set to digging a hole at one end, only bothering to go down two feet. After all, once the top slab was mortared on, no one would ever be looking into or beneath the tomb. The soil was still fairly loose after Clarence’s burial and it took her very little time.
‘Bag,’ she said.
Jack passed it to her and she dumped the whole thing unceremoniously into the hole.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered.
She filled in the excavation. Lastly she scattered slimy clumps of rotted lilies, carnations, daphnes, lily of the valley and lavender — which she could still smell — over the disturbed soil, and climbed out. She put her wet skirt and cape back on, then they replaced the slab exactly as Friday had found it, and trudged back to the gig.
Neither of them said anything on the way home, except when Jack asked, ‘Did that skeleton belong to who I think it did?’
‘Probably,’ Friday said.
Elizabeth felt bereft, as though Gil had at last really and truly died, and had to close her office door twice so she could have a quiet cry.
The second time Friday walked in without knocking — as usual — and caught her trumpeting into her hanky like an elephant.
‘Honestly, Mrs H, he’s fine,’ she said. ‘All tucked up nice and cosy in a lovely fancy tomb.’ She sat down. ‘The girls want to know what’s wrong. What shall I tell them?’
Elizabeth nodded, sniffed and popped the handkerchief into her bodice. ‘It’s just that I always felt so close to him when he was here. It was a great comfort to me, having him in the cellar, it really was.’
‘I know, you’ve said that. Lots of times. But you were too close to him. Literally.’ Friday frowned. ‘Is that the right word?’
‘Yes, but now I’ll never see him again.’
‘You never saw him before, you silly old goose. And you can see him. Well, not see him. You can just go along to Devonshire Street for a chat, like everyone else.’
‘Yes. Yes, you’re right, I am being silly,’ Elizabeth said, and let out a deep, quavering sigh. ‘You know, some days lately I’ve been feeling every bit of my fifty-five years. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’
‘Nothing at all, probably,’ Friday said, patting her hand.
‘Perhaps I’m just getting old.’
‘You are not. Now, what am I telling the girls?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Tell them I had a letter telling me someone’s died. It’s nearly the truth, anyway.’
‘That’ll do.’ Friday stood. ‘And the flogging room? When does Jack think he’ll be finished the decorating? I can do that sort of thing, you know.’
That made Elizabeth smile. ‘You cannot. He thinks today. And the new drapes should be here this afternoon. Everything else is more or less ready so I’m thinking about opening tomorrow. How does that sound?’
‘Like the best news I’ve heard in ages.’ Friday grinned. ‘That’s only one more day to go.’
‘I thought you’d be pleased. How are you going with cutting down the gin? You’re looking better.’
‘I’ve slowed down a lot, I really have. I’m only having a couple at night now, to help me get to sleep.’
‘Truly?’
Friday nodded. ‘And I feel so much better for it.’
‘Well, make sure you stick to just a couple. Remember what I said.’
‘I will. I have. I promise.’
‘Good girl.’
As Friday closed the door behind her, Elizabeth thought back to the countless times Gil had made, and broken, exactly the same promise.
She desperately hoped Friday wouldn’t turn out to be such a woeful disappointment.
Friday didn’t like lying to Mrs H like that. It gave her the guilts and she resented the old killjoy for making her feel that way. But if she’d just stop going on about the bloody drinking and leave her alone she wouldn’t have to lie, would she? It was none of her business anyway.
Rose stuck her head out of the salon. ‘Your cully’s here.’
‘Yeah, hang on a second.’
Friday rushed into the cloakroom, ferreted in her reticule for her flask and knocked back several large gulps, gin escaping out of the side of her mouth and running down her chin. She wiped it away and licked her hand.
A Tattooed Heart Page 5