A Tattooed Heart

by Deborah Challinor

  Sod it. Clearly what she was after was downstairs, along with the two servants and, she was sure now, Clement himself.

  Well, there was nothing for it; she’d have to go down there.

  Slipping out of Clement’s bedchamber, she closed the door behind her, dropped to a crouch and peered between the landing rails to the hall below. She saw no one but could still hear women’s voices. Where were they: in the dining room, or out the back in the kitchen? Having done a quick circuit around the outside of the house when she’d arrived, she knew that downstairs were also a formal parlour, a sitting room and a library-cum-study. If Clement didn’t keep his important papers upstairs, they were probably in the latter. She hadn’t seen him when she’d snatched a glance through the window, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t in there.

  Keeping close to the wall, she crept down the stairs, paused for a second on the bottom riser, then darted across the hall to the open doorway of what she thought was the study. Her back flat against the wall, conscious that she was sweating now and praying that none of the servants would appear in the annoyingly well-lit hall, she peeped into the library-cum-study.

  And almost shat herself: Clement Bloodworth was sitting in a high-backed wing chair — which explained why she hadn’t initially seen him — legs crossed, a book in his lap, staring straight at her.

  Then she saw that his eyes were closed and realised he was probably dozing. Her heart pounding wildly enough to sicken her, she watched him for almost a minute — the gentle, fishy pout of his lips as he breathed out, the involuntary twitch of his right hand on the book — then, when she was certain he wasn’t awake, she slipped silently into the room.

  The fire was roaring away and immediately she began to sweat even more. Clement’s own brow glistened and his slack face was bright pink. A half-full glass of amber liquid sat on an occasional table beside his chair, together with a dish of shelled nuts, another of sugared bonbons, and a large wedge of cheese sweating as much as she was.

  That’ll explain your fat guts, Sarah thought as she headed for the nearest painting. There were three on the walls large enough to conceal a safe: a portrait of a po-faced old woman, another of a dreary-looking couple, and an obviously English landscape.

  She looked behind two and just as she was lifting the last — nothing again! For God’s sake! — Clement let out a piggy snore loud enough to jerk himself awake. Sarah ducked and flattened herself on the floor behind a desk in case he turned, but he was soon snoring again.

  She lay thinking. If there wasn’t a safe, the letter would probably be in a drawer, if it was anywhere in the house. But she was running out of time; one of those women was bound to come into the study sooner or later. She sat up and tried the desk. The two drawers at the top weren’t locked so she ignored them — no one kept sensitive or important papers in an unlocked drawer — but the smaller pair at the bottom, on either side of the knee alcove, were. Opening her satchel, she got to work.

  Finally, she found it, a single-page letter from Dr Neville Clayton to Clement Bloodworth.

  31 May 1831

  Dear Magistrate Bloodworth,

  We have not met so I therefore beg your forgiveness for my impertinence, however I am writing to you regarding a matter of the utmost Scientific and Anthropological importance.

  I am an Ethnologist, lately of Balliol College, currently undertaking research in the Antipodes, and last year I commissioned a Sydney businesswoman and her colleague, a Mrs Bella Shand and a Mr Jared Gellar, to obtain for me several preserved and tattooed Maori heads for my Ethnographic collection.

  Now, I am fully aware that this April Governor Darling issued a Government Notice in the Sydney Gazette declaring that the importation of preserved heads to New South Wales is now illegal. I most certainly, of course, do not view such items as mere ‘curios’, and that is not why I commissioned Mrs Shand and Mr Gellar to obtain specimens for me. Indeed, the heads are essential to my research, which will be severely compromised should I not receive them.

  The concern, as I expect you will comprehend, is the ‘shepherding’ of the aforementioned heads through Customs and Excise, now that their importation has been banned. Here is my offer. I am willing to make a contribution of fifty pounds (notes enclosed) to a Sydney charity of your choice, in exchange for the unimpeded arrival of my heads. I am sure that a gentleman of your social and official standing, with no doubt a deep appreciation of the Sciences and the Knowledgeable Arts, will have the appropriate contacts to achieve this aim.

  Please reply by return post to confirm that this arrangement is to your satisfaction.

  I am, Sir,

  Your Most Ob’t Servant

  Neville Clayton (Dr)

  Sarah grinned as she carefully folded the letter and slipped it into her satchel. Aria was going to be thrilled to see this, but Bella wasn’t. Got you, you bitch!

  She locked the drawers again with her skeleton keys — no point advertising that someone had been ferreting around — then, after a quick glance at Clement to make sure he was still snoring away next to his nuts and cheese, she crawled over to the window and pushed up on the sash. For a horrible second she thought it wasn’t going to budge, but finally it did and she wriggled out through the gap into the cool night air and dropped noiselessly to the ground outside. Picking herself up, she padded around to the rear of the house, collected her boots and jacket from beneath a bush, and headed off to meet Friday and Aria on Windmill Street.

  Harrie was waiting for them at the Siren’s Arms.

  ‘Did you get it?’ she asked eagerly the moment they walked into the foyer.

  Friday nodded and put her finger against her lips. ‘Upstairs, my room.’

  They passed Jack on the stairs, who tut-tutted. ‘Up to no good again, eh?’

  Friday whirled on him. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m joking.’ Jack’s hands went up and he half laughed. ‘Jesus!’

  ‘You mind your own business,’ Friday said.

  ‘When do I not?’

  They all stared after him as he trotted down the stairs.

  Harrie remarked, ‘That was a bit mean. He was only joking.’

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t care,’ Friday said as she opened the door to her room.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ Harrie said.

  Aria asked, ‘Why not? Is your husband a distrustful and jealous man?’

  ‘James? No. Charlotte’s been grizzling all day over a new back tooth and no doubt she will at bedtime, too. Daisy’s wonderful with her but, well, she’ll only quieten for me when she’s grumpy. Can I see the letter?’

  Handing it over, Sarah caught Friday’s eye and smiled. Harrie seemed tickled by her ability to settle Charlotte. Being a mother suited her — as, of course, they’d all known it would.

  Harrie skimmed the letter. ‘This is perfect! You are clever, Sarah. When will we confront her? The sooner the better, I say. What about you, Aria? What did you want to do with the letter?’

  ‘I will let you, Friday and Sarah speak with her first,’ Aria said graciously, which Sarah thought was a bit unexpected, as so far Aria wasn’t proving to be a particularly gracious person at all.

  ‘Well, no, hold on,’ she said. ‘That makes it sound like we can talk to her like rational people, but Bella Shand isn’t rational. I think we should wait. I think we need to plan our approach and get it just right. We’ll only have one chance.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Friday agreed. ‘Maybe we should wait. What is it they say? “Revenge is a pudding that tastes better old”? But wait for what, though?’

  Harrie laughed. ‘You noodle. It’s “Revenge is a dish that tastes better cold”.’

  ‘I like that,’ Aria said thoughtfully. ‘I like it very much.’

  ‘I think the best thing to do is to wait till she makes her next demand for money, then we go and see her, show her this —’ Sarah took the letter off Harrie and waved it ‘— and tell her we’ll give it to the governor or to Francis Rossi if she doesn’t s
top blackmailing us.’

  ‘And she’ll say she’ll tell the governor or Francis Rossi we killed Gabriel Keegan,’ Friday reminded her.

  ‘Naturally. But we’ve got proof she’s been smuggling upoko tuhi after it was outlawed — in a letter addressed to the assistant police magistrate, no less. What proof has she got? Only her word, after we’ve pointed the finger at her. How’s that going to look?’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s all we’ve got left, short of killing her,’ Sarah said. In her opinion Bella Shand’s demise would be the tidiest solution to the problem, but she wasn’t a murderer, and neither were Friday and Harrie. Keegan had been different: yes, they’d kicked him to death, but that hadn’t been murder, that had been payback, for Rachel. Aria, though — she might have other ideas. ‘Your turn,’ she prompted hopefully.

  Aria said, ‘You want the Shand woman to stop blackmailing you, I seek utu for the theft of my uncle’s upoko tuhi. We have one tool to use,’ she pointed to the letter, ‘and, it appears, two different goals.’ She paused. ‘Although, in truth, they may be one and the same. It will depend on which form of utu I choose. I may choose muru, the taking of the Shand woman’s personal property as compensation. But I probably will not choose muru. The offence is too severe by far and the mana of my family has been greatly insulted. I am more likely to choose some form of taua to the home of the Shand woman —’

  ‘Hold on,’ Sarah interrupted, ‘what’s a “taua”?’

  ‘It is a —’ Aria searched for a suitable translation ‘— a war party, a hostile expedition, sometimes resulting in the destruction of property, and sometimes in the taking of life.’ Without a flicker of emotion, she added, ‘I believe I am favouring the latter.’

  ‘Aria, no!’ Friday exclaimed. ‘You’ll hang!’

  Both elated and horrified, Sarah said, ‘You will, you know.’

  ‘Only if I am caught.’

  Friday blurted, ‘It’s just a dried-up old head, isn’t it? And this Clayton cove might still have it. We could still get it back.’

  A terrible silence fell. Aria’s eyes narrowed to flashing slits and her top lip lifted to reveal the points of her eyeteeth. In a voice barely above a whisper but thick with suppressed anger she said, ‘An upoko tuhi is not a dried-up old head. An upoko tuhi is an ancestor, the beautifully preserved earthly remains of a nobleman who was a vigorous, brave and respected leader in life, and an object of supreme reverence to be treasured and worshipped. You do not understand. Upoko tuhi give spiritual guidance and inspiration to our warriors and chiefs, and solace to our widows and grieving families. They remind us of those who have gone before us, and of who we strive to become. They are the physical connection between our dead and our living, our present and our past, and to take them from us and sell them as though they are no more than potatoes in a basket is the most hurtful and insulting of outrages.’ She fixed Friday with a deeply disappointed expression. ‘I will forgive you this one time for your blasphemy, because you do not understand and you are my lover, but I do not expect you to utter such an affront ever again.’

  Friday went very pink. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I hadn’t actually thought about it like that,’ Harrie said. ‘What it might mean to you, having your uncle’s head stolen.’

  ‘But you Pakeha do not think about these things, do you?’

  Amused, Sarah watched about five different expressions chase across Harrie’s face, including surprise, realisation and a large dollop of indignation. If she were a chicken, all her feathers would be completely fluffed out.

  ‘That’s a bit of a high and mighty thing to say, isn’t it?’ Harrie countered. ‘You can’t really blame us. How are we supposed to know how you do things? You’re the only New Zealander we’ve really met.’

  Sarah gave a silent cheer. It was such a treat to see Harrie back to her old mildly bossy, ever so slightly self-righteous self, and also an indication of how well Aria was beginning to settle into their crew. Harrie wouldn’t have dared say such a thing a month back.

  ‘Make an effort to learn,’ Aria snapped. ‘I have had to make an effort to learn your ways. Nobody asked me if I actually wanted to. One day the missionaries came, and I just had to. Straight away, they wanted to change us. To live alongside the whalers and traders coming to Aotearoa, we have had to learn new ways. If we want to sell our goods here in Sydney, and we must, to survive, we have to learn new ways.’

  There was another silence. Sarah cleared her throat. ‘So what exactly are you saying you want to do? Sorry, I’m not sure I understand.’

  Aria sat back in the chair in front of the dressing table and crossed her arms. ‘I will wait and see what happens when you take the Shand woman the letter. If she does not stop the blackmail, then I believe I will conduct a taua. Do you see now what I mean when I say our goals may be one and the same?’

  Sarah, Harrie and Friday stared at her.

  Friday said, ‘But who will you have in your taua party thing?’

  ‘Just me.’

  ‘Can you have one all by yourself?’

  ‘I can. I only need me,’ Aria replied and made the most appalling face. Her heavy brows shot up, her eyes opened astonishingly wide to reveal the bulbous whites of her eyeballs, she bared her gritted teeth, gleaming white against the tattooed blackness of her lips, and she dragged a finger slowly across her throat, the violence of her gesture unmistakeable.

  ‘Christ,’ Sarah muttered. She glanced at Friday, who was staring at Aria, her expression a blend of admiration, awe and fright.

  ‘Odsbodikins, Aria, that’s not a pretty face, is it?’ Harrie said.

  ‘It is not supposed to be.’

  Friday’s lip curled. ‘“Odsbodikins”?’

  ‘It’s one of Isaac’s sayings. I think it’s sweet.’

  ‘Sweet? Idiotic, more like.’

  ‘So, we wait for the next demand?’ Sarah asked. ‘Are we agreed?’

  They were.

  Part Two

  Out of a grave I come to tell you this

  Chapter Eight

  September 1832, Sydney Town

  When Elizabeth Hislop opened the door, Leo didn’t bother with formalities.

  ‘Is Friday at work? I’ve got to talk to her.’

  Alerted by his brusque tone, Elizabeth stared at him. ‘She is but she’s with a customer. Why? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Aria’s mother and father have just been in my shop demanding to know where their daughter is. They’re fit to be tied, and they’re blaming Friday. I’ve come to warn her.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Elizabeth stepped aside. ‘She’s in the flogging room.’

  Leo brushed past and shot up the stairs, opening doors until he found the right room. Barging in, he interrupted Friday mid-flog. She was wearing knee-length, black silk pantaloons and corset, black kid boots, and a mask of black feathers, and her muscled shoulders and arms ran with sweat. He could smell the gin coming out of her skin from feet away.

  Bent face down over a stool-like contraption was a man clad in nothing but a loose white shirt and hose, his red-wealed backside presented for the whip. On a chair in the corner behind him sat a girl he vaguely recognised, knitting. Connie, was it?

  Friday plucked off the mask. Beneath it her face was sweaty and pink. ‘Leo. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Tu and Mahuika arrived this morning, looking for Aria. And they’re not happy.’

  ‘Fuck.’ Scowling, Friday rubbed at her temples as though she had a headache. Leo suspected she probably did.

  ‘Aye, fuck. They’re looking for you, too. They think it’s your fault Aria ran away.’

  ‘Well, it isn’t. It wasn’t my idea.’

  ‘That’s not how they’re seeing it.’

  ‘I say, excuse me —’ the man draped over the stool interrupted.

  ‘Shut up, you,’ Leo snapped.

  ‘Where are they now?’ Friday demanded.

  ‘Going round the brothels. They must know you’r
e a whore.’

  ‘That cow Mahuika does.’

  ‘Where’s Aria?’

  ‘Shopping this morning but she’s probably back next door by now. Is it just Tu and Mahuika?’

  Leo shook his head. ‘They had that cove Hoata with them, and the one called Paikea, and some other fellow I haven’t seen before, an older cove. Mean-looking bugger in a dog-hair cloak with all sorts of crap hanging out of his ears.’

  ‘Shite. That sounds like it could be her fiancé. I’ve forgotten his name.’

  The man on the stool whined again, ‘Excuse me, look here, this is —’

  Friday turned on him. ‘Didn’t he tell you to stop blabbering?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So shut the hell up, you grovelling little turd!’

  ‘Yes, mistress!’

  ‘They will find you, you know,’ Leo said. ‘What will you do? When do you finish work?’

  ‘After this.’ Friday shrugged. ‘Go back to the Siren and wait with Aria, I suppose. I don’t know.’ She regarded him, her face creased with worry. ‘Or should we hide until they’ve gone?’ She brightened and said, ‘Yeah! That’s what we’ll do!’

  ‘They’ll only come back again. They’ll not let her go without a fight. Why don’t you ask Aria what she wants?’

  ‘But she might . . .’ Friday trailed off and gazed down at the whip in her hands.

  ‘She might what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  But Leo knew what she’d been about to say: Aria might decide to return to New Zealand with her mother and father, and Friday couldn’t bear that. ‘Lass, she wouldn’t have come in the first place if she didn’t want to be with you. No, better to have it out with them now and be done with it. Do you want me to wait around?’

  ‘No. Yes. Dunno.’

  ‘I’ll wait in the bar, then. I could do with a drink.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  As Leo left, the man on the stool grizzled, ‘Mistress . . .’

  All Friday’s fear, doubt and insecurity surged up in her and she raised her whip and brought it sailing down on his backside with three resounding cracks, far harder than necessary. He shrieked in ecstasy and began to thrust.