A Tattooed Heart

by Deborah Challinor

  Matthew said good night and, feeling a lot better now that he knew Walter was more or less safe, walked to Harrie and James’s house.

  James answered the door, just as Matthew remembered that James didn’t — and couldn’t — know anything about the trouble Walter was in.

  ‘Matthew! This is a surprise.’

  ‘Er, yes. I’m afraid I’ve been booted out of my lodgings. Do you think I might stay here for a couple of nights?’

  ‘Well, of course, but why?’

  Stepping inside and flapping his hand as if what he was about to say was almost too silly to mention, Matthew said, ‘Oh, for some reason Mrs Vincent’s got it into her head that I’m a molly and I was asked to leave.’

  ‘What? A molly?’ James laughed heartily, then stopped. ‘But you’re not. Are you?’

  ‘Of course I’m bloody well not.’

  ‘No, right, didn’t think so. You can have Lucy’s room. She moved out the other day.’ James stuck his head out the door. ‘Where are your things?’

  ‘I’ll have to send for them.’

  ‘In fact,’ James said, ‘stay as long as you like. I’m sure Harrie won’t mind.’

  Tempting though the invitation was, Matthew thought it was probably time he finally got around to doing something about buying himself a house.

  Leo still wasn’t entirely clear about what he intended to do when he found himself knocking on Bella’s door the next morning — and looking nervously around for those vicious bloody dogs of hers — but he’d dithered shamefully since Walter’s return, and now Matthew’d lost his lodgings.

  The door was opened by the same moon-faced woman as the last time he’d been there.

  ‘What?’

  ‘And a good morning to you, too, flower. Is Mrs Shand at home? If she is, tell her Leo Dundas wants to talk to her.’

  A long, suspicious look, then, ‘Hold on.’

  The door was shut in his face. Leo stood with his back to it, waiting tensely for the approaching scrabble of eager claws on gravel.

  When the door opened again he nearly fell inside. ‘She says you can have ten minutes.’

  Bella Shand was once again at her enormous writing desk in the lovely reception room downstairs, making Leo wonder if she ever went anywhere else in the house. He couldn’t help staring at her: it was barely past nine o’clock on a Tuesday morning and her face was painted like a tart’s, though she was wearing a fancy dress and a string of jade beads Serafina would give her eyeteeth for. But she looked sick — skinny, hollow-faced and weary.

  She put down her nib and stared back. ‘Mr Dundas.’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Shand.’

  She continued to gaze coldly at him. Eventually she said, ‘Well?’

  Oh God. Leo felt sweat prickle in his armpits and in the small of his back. With dread, he confessed, ‘Walter Cobley’s back.’

  Bella’s perfectly arched eyebrows went up. ‘The boy who ruthlessly murdered my helpmeet?’

  ‘Your henchman, you mean.’ Careful, Leo warned himself.

  ‘Why are you telling me? He’s your little catamite, isn’t he? Don’t you want to keep him safe?’

  Leo ignored her jibe though it angered him enormously, given what Furniss had done to Walter. ‘I’m here to make a deal.’

  The muscles in Bella’s lean face tightened. ‘No. No deals. That little cutpurse stole money belonging to me. I will not have it. He has to pay.’

  Leo took a leather pouch from his pocket and tossed it onto Bella’s desk. It landed with a heavy clink. ‘I’ll pay. Seventy-five pounds in British sovereigns in exchange for Walter’s life. A fortune.’

  Bella crossed her thin arms. ‘To you, perhaps. Not to me. And the code is an eye for an eye: you should know that. It’s the way of the world.’ Then she smirked. ‘I really don’t know why you care. Surely you can just trawl the gutters the next time you feel like a fresh young boy?’

  Leo was around the desk before he’d even realised he’d moved. Bella made a wild grab for her letter-opener but he knocked it out of the way, then planted his hands on her throat, stifling her enraged bellow as he squeezed. Beneath his thumbs the lace of her high collar slid and the cords and sinews of her neck strained, her long-nailed fingers scrabbling at his with a terrible, desperate strength. Bent over her he pressed down, squeezing even harder, her face beneath the white powder darkening, her eyes beginning to bulge, and suddenly he understood.

  At once he loosened his grip and stepped back, panting.

  Slumped in her chair, she glared up at him, wheezing and massaging her throat. There was a tiny rip in her collar but the triple loop of beads was still intact. Her face, however, was mottled with suffused blood, and with fury.

  Leo saw that she knew he’d realised, and that now she hated him for it. But his nerves, and his fear, had gone.

  She tried to speak, couldn’t, cleared her throat, then said hoarsely, ‘Get away from me. Go on. Go back to where you were.’

  He obliged.

  Inspecting her nails for damage, then rearranging her beads over the curve of her bosom while he watched and waited in silence, she said flatly, ‘You wanted to do a deal.’

  Leo hesitated, his mind in dreadful turmoil. He definitely could do a deal, but one that would free Harrie, not Walter. Oh God. Would Bella even consider it? He felt a prickle of sweat break out under his moustache. Harrie or Walter? Who was more in need of his help? Who was most alone in the world? Who did he hold closest in his heart?

  ‘Aye,’ he said at last, ‘seventy-five pounds for the boy’s life.’

  ‘I’ll take ten. That’s all he’s worth.’ Bella paused, then added, ‘Ten pounds, and a guarantee from you that nothing will be said. To anyone.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘Any of this.’

  Leo reached for the pouch, took out ten sovereigns, and put the rest back in his pocket, which sagged visibly. ‘You have my word.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Bella said. ‘If you break it, I’ll slit both your throats.’

  Leo didn’t doubt her at all, especially as the dogs were let loose the moment he was out of the house.

  He only just made it to the gate in time.

  The next morning Leo put the closed sign on his shop door and went up George Street to see Sarah, arriving just after she’d opened the jewellery store and was sweeping the footway outside the front door.

  ‘Morning, Sarah,’ he said, touching the brim of his hat. He hadn’t tied his hair back and was wishing he had now; the wind had come up and blown it all over the place, and he preferred to look ship-shape when he went out. When you were getting on in years you couldn’t afford to look untidy — it only made you look even older.

  ‘Hello, Leo.’ Sarah leant on her broom. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I just came to tell you that you don’t have to worry about Walter any more.’

  ‘Why?’

  Leo heard the fear in her voice and saw it on her face. ‘Don’t worry, lass, nothing’s happened to him. I paid Bella a visit and we came to an arrangement.’

  ‘You bribed her?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘And she actually agreed?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘Bloody hell. How much did it cost you? Your soul?’

  ‘Not as much as you might think.’

  ‘Well, why the hell not? That woman doesn’t have a merciful bone in her body.’ Sarah frowned so deeply her brows almost met in the middle. ‘What’s she playing at?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care as long as she leaves Walter alone.’

  ‘Do you trust her?’

  ‘Not as a matter of course, but I don’t think she was too bothered about losing Furniss, and she got her money in the end, didn’t she?’

  Sarah nodded.

  ‘So from her point of view there wasn’t that much harm done. I don’t think she’ll renege on this.’

  ‘She’d better bloody not.’

  ‘Can you let Friday
and Harrie know?’

  ‘I’ll pop down and see them later on today, providing we’re not too busy.’ Sarah smiled, her grin lighting up her face. ‘Thanks for coming to tell me, Leo. And thanks for . . . whatever deal it was you did with the bitch. What a relief. Harrie and Friday’ll be thrilled.’

  ‘It’s a relief all right,’ Leo agreed, though he thought Harrie might not be quite so thrilled if she ever discovered he’d chosen Walter over her. But she had Friday and Sarah and James, and Walter really only had him. And Serafina.

  As he left, he decided he might not go straight home. Far more cheerful now that Walter was safe, he realised he was hungry and . . . horny.

  He thought he might go and say hello to the loveliest fortuneteller this side of the Equator.

  For the second time Sarah nervously went over the contents of her burglary satchel. She hadn’t used her screws in quite a while and it would be disastrous to discover halfway through the job that something wouldn’t work because of a tiny flake of rust. First rule of the black art: a good crackswoman always looks after her tools.

  ‘Are you worried?’ Adam asked. ‘Because I bloody well am.’

  ‘No. Yes. I’m always a bit nervous before a job.’

  They were waiting for Friday and Aria to collect Sarah in Elizabeth’s gig and drop her off on Windmill Street. From there she would work her way along the side of the hill above Fort Phillip behind the houses on Fort Street, where Clement Bloodworth lived, and enter his property from the back while Aria caused a distraction at the front. The darkening night would certainly help, and so would Sarah’s customary house-breaking outfit of boys’ black trousers and black shirt, boots and cap, but once she was inside the house only her wits and probably quite a lot of luck would keep her from being caught.

  ‘They’re here,’ Adam said, peering out through the shop window. He gathered Sarah to him in a tight embrace, stroking her hair and kissing the top of her head. ‘It scares the shit out of me when you do this. For Christ’s sake, be careful.’

  ‘I’m always careful,’ Sarah said into his chest.

  Adam reluctantly let her go, opened the door and gave her long dark plait a final, gentle tug. ‘I love you, Sarah Green.’

  ‘And I love you.’

  And then she was outside and climbing into the gig, squeezing in next to Friday and Aria.

  Aria’s costume made her smile. She was wearing a tatty old patched dress, an apron, a torn woollen shawl and a scarf over her gorgeous hair, and looked most unAria-like.

  ‘Delightful outfit.’

  Friday laughed as she turned the gig around, but Aria scowled. ‘I do not believe it suits me.’

  ‘All set?’ Friday asked.

  Sarah nodded and patted the satchel slung over her shoulder. ‘Have you had a look?’

  ‘About an hour ago. Two servants in the house as far as we could see, fat old Clement, and the coachman mucking about in the stables.’

  ‘And you know what to do?’ Sarah asked Aria.

  ‘Of course.’

  It would be up to Aria to create the diversion, as Clement Bloodworth knew what Friday looked like from her appearance in court.

  They drove in vaguely apprehensive silence to Windmill Street, where Sarah slipped out of the gig and darted off like a little black cat into the shadowed bushes. Friday and Aria headed up Fort Street and parked four or five houses along from Bloodworth’s elegant two-storey home.

  Kissing Aria’s cheek, Friday said, ‘Good luck.’

  ‘I do not need luck,’ Aria said, climbing down. ‘I will be very good at this. But thank you.’

  ‘Don’t forget this.’ Friday passed down a basket of assorted fresh herbs — lavender, thyme, mint, rosemary and the like — tied with coloured ribbon.

  Aria adjusted her scarf, took the basket and strode purposefully off along the gravelled street, not looking back. She opened the hand gate in the fence surrounding Clement Bloodworth’s house and, hoping Sarah had had enough time to get where she needed to be, lifted the brass rapper on the front door and banged it energetically.

  Nothing happened for several minutes, then it was finally opened by a grumpy-faced girl in a brown dress, a white apron and a silly little hat like a scrunched-up pile of white lace handkerchiefs.

  ‘Yes?’

  Aria smiled charmingly and, in Maori, said in a quiet and humble tone, ‘Good evening. Would you like to buy some of these boring old herbs while my colleague is breaking into your house?’

  Bewildered, the servant girl stared at her. ‘What?’

  Her sweet smile broadening, Aria continued in her native tongue, ‘Herbs. They are very useful in cooking, and I understand that you white people also use them in preparations to disguise the stink of your unwashed bodies.’

  Her face screwing up, the girl said, ‘I can’t understand a word you’re saying. And anyway, trade goes round the back.’

  She moved to shut the door but Aria thrust her boot in the gap, stopping her. ‘I really do think you should at least consider buying some. Or we can just stand here for ten minutes. I do not care.’ She lowered her gaze and shrugged apologetically. ‘In fact, make some noise and bring everyone else to the door. That would be even better.’

  ‘Look, speak English, will you? Or bugger off.’

  ‘No, I am sorry, I cannot do that.’

  The girl turned and shouted down the hall, ‘Mrs Bird, there’s one of them New Zealand natives at the door and she can’t talk English and I can’t get rid of her!’

  A moment later a short, fat woman appeared and bustled along the hall, wiping floury hands on her apron. Aria wondered if Sarah was in the house yet, and if she wasn’t, whether this would give her the opportunity she needed.

  Mrs Bird demanded, ‘Now, now, what’s going on here?’

  ‘It’s her!’ the girl wailed. ‘She won’t go away!’

  ‘Oh, get a hold of yourself, Libby Todd.’ Addressing Aria now and peering into her basket, Mrs Bird said, ‘Round the back if you’re selling, but I don’t want any herbs. We’ve a perfectly good kitchen garden. Go on, be off with you.’

  Smiling prettily again, Aria replied, ‘I do not think so. Not yet.’ Then, at the far end of the hallway, she caught sight of a small shadow darting in through the back door and heading for the stairs. Quickly thrusting a sprig of fragrant lavender under Mrs Bird’s nose, she said, ‘At least sniff this, you parsimonious old witch. Everyone likes lavender.’

  Batting it away, Mrs Bird exclaimed, ‘Get off me, you dirty big gin! And get off Mr Bloodworth’s front verandah. Go on, before I call the watch!’

  ‘I don’t think she’s a gin,’ Libby said. ‘I think she’s one of them New Zealanders.’

  ‘Shut up, you, and get inside.’ Mrs Bird jerked Libby back by her collar and slammed the door in Aria’s face.

  But that was all right, because Aria had just seen Sarah flit up the stairs.

  Hearing the door bang shut on the ground floor Sarah sent Aria a silent thank you, and allowed herself a quick smile. She was in, she was upstairs, and so, she hoped, were Clement Bloodworth’s most precious documents. Of Clement himself there was no sign, though he could be in a bedroom or downstairs. She would have to be very careful. She’d seen the two female servants, of course, and there was also the man Friday had seen cleaning tack in the small stables.

  A wall lamp burnt on the landing, but the upstairs rooms seemed to be in darkness. If Clement was up here, he was probably sleeping, though the hour wasn’t at all late. She carefully pushed the first half-open door she came to, waited, then stepped into the room on silent feet, the landing lamp throwing her blurred shadow across the floorboards. Her senses fully alert, she strained to detect the presence of another in the dark, oddly cavernous space, but felt nothing. Relaxing a fraction, she opened the door wider and saw that the room was indeed very big, and contained five single beds and a cot. Obviously the children’s room and not a likely location for Clement’s safe. She backed out and left the do
or as she’d found it.

  The next room was another bedchamber, decorated in a style a woman might favour. Henrietta’s? If so, Sarah didn’t blame her for not wanting to sleep with fat old Clement, though they’d obviously shared a bed on at least six occasions. She crept in and methodically checked behind each painting, then ran her hand down the back of every moveable piece of furniture, but found nothing suggesting a hidden safe. That was all right — she hadn’t really expected to find anything in Henrietta’s chamber.

  A narrow flight of stairs no doubt led up to the attic rooms where the female staff probably slept, but there’d be nothing up there. That left one more place to look on this floor — behind the closed door to her right. She grasped the smooth brass door knob and turned it, the retraction of the latch making a hell of a noise, to her ears at least. She froze, hearing murmurs then a muffled burst of feminine laughter from downstairs, but nothing else.

  Opening the door inch by inch, she peered into the darkness, and was immediately assaulted by a particularly herbaceous and woody eau de cologne. Or was it hair oil? Blinking, she thought, God, Clement, a little less of that wouldn’t do any harm. Poor Henrietta! Trying not to sneeze, she stood in the doorway till she was sure she was alone, then pulled the door almost closed behind her and waited while her eyes adapted to the pale moonlight slanting into the bedroom through the window.

  Clement’s bed was an enormous tall-poster with drapes, piled high with soft pillows and finished with a fancy comforter folded across the foot. Very luxurious. Sarah felt a terrible urge to jump on it, but refrained. Again, she checked behind the paintings, both bureaux and both nightstands, and slid her hand behind the massive clothespress. Nothing. Then she rolled both ends of the heavy carpet and swept her hands across the floorboards. Still nothing.

  Shit.

  She quickly checked that no one had come upstairs, then picked the locks on the drawers of a small writing desk beneath the window. Private letters, yes, but nothing mentioning Bella. Bugger, bugger, bugger.

  Next she went through every drawer in the room — undergarments, hose, collars, cravats, gloves, handkerchiefs, waistcoats and shirts — followed by the clothespress, which held nothing more interesting than trousers, coats, hats, shoes, boots and several wigstands.