Dr Clayton held up a hand. ‘Yes, yes, stop, all right. I admit it. I did ask Bella Shand to obtain some prime examples of heads for me, but for purely scientific purposes, I can assure you. I’m no mere souvenir hunter. I believe it vital that we ethnologists learn as much as possible about the world’s primitive races before such peoples die out completely.’
Such peoples? Aria thought. That is me he is talking about. She gave him a long, hard stare, then said again, her voice glacial, ‘Where are they now?’
‘In England. I sent them home to England.’
‘Then get them back.’
‘I can’t. I sold them, three to the British Museum and, er, one to a private collector.’
The shame, rage and dismay that filled Aria’s chest and throat almost choked her. ‘You sold the upoko tuhi of my uncle?’
‘With all due respect, and pardon me for being indelicate, but how do you know one of those heads was your uncle’s?’
‘I know when it was stolen and I know who stole it, and that man worked for Bella Shand.’ Aria allowed her eyes to close for a second. This was hopeless, and so bitterly disappointing. If she wanted Uncle Whiro back, she might well have to go to England and fetch him herself. But perhaps she could salvage something. ‘I want you to write a letter stating that you commissioned Bella Shand to obtain the upoko tuhi, and that she imported them to New South Wales after they had been banned, and the relevant dates.’
Dr Clayton waved at the letter in Aria’s hand. ‘If I remember rightly, that’s all in there, isn’t it?’
‘It is not clear enough.’
‘Not clear enough for what?’
‘My purpose.’
‘Does that purpose involve informing the governor or the police?’
‘Not at this point.’
‘And if I choose not to?’
‘Then I will bring the wrath of my extended family down upon your head.’
Dr Clayton went off to fetch paper, ink and a nib.
Maryjane had everything from the trunk emptied out on the floor of her single, rented room. The clothing and accessories would definitely bring a good profit once they’d been cleaned and mended, and so would the trunk itself, but the real windfall was what she’d discovered in the little purse inside the reticule. Not money, though that would have been nice, but perhaps something even more useful — a short letter. Addressed to Francis Rossi, Superintendent of Police, it read:
Dear Mr Rossi Sir,
I beg leeve to inform you that I beleeve Missus Elizabeth Hislop of the Sirens Arms Hotel has done a Murder. I work for her and I was in her celar not a month ago when I come apon a Trunk, I opened it and hiden in it I found the Skelton of what I beleeve to be a man. It was an old Skelton, very dryed up with mostly only the bones and a few peeces of the clooths left.
I beleeve as the Police it is your duty to look into this Crime of Missus Hislops. She is an Evil woman and shood not be alowed to go free. Who nows how many others she coud of Murdered?
Begging Your Indulgince,
A Concernd Citzen of Sydney Town
The letter was dated 16 September 1831, so it had been in the purse, or somewhere, for quite a while. Over a year. She wondered who’d owned the trunk before John had bought it, and supposed he’d been lucky there hadn’t been a body in that, too. She let out a cackle. This bloody town — it brought out the worst in everyone.
What to do? Blackmail this Mrs Hislop, or sell the information to the police? She’d dabbled in a bit of extortion in the past with not altogether satisfactory results — in fact, that’s how she’d lost four of her teeth — and she was far too frail these days to protect herself if it all went wrong this time, so perhaps not, tempting though the idea was. And she knew the police would pay for information, probably quite handsomely, too, if it concerned an unsolved murder.
She’d go along to the police court tomorrow.
Sarah said, ‘Friday’s drinking again.’
Harrie sighed, finished pouring Sarah’s tea and pushed her cup across the table. ‘How do you know?’
‘She and Aria came into the shop a few days ago and I could smell it on her breath.’
‘Do you think Aria knows?’
‘Of course she does. She’s not stupid. And when I screwed up my nose she gave me one of her looks.’
‘Aria did? Oh dear, not one of her angry ones?’
‘No, one of her “I don’t want to hear a word about this” looks.’
‘I’m really disappointed,’ Harrie said. ‘I thought she’d stay stopped this time.’
‘More fool you.’ Sarah blew on her tea. ‘I think there’s trouble between those two, and I suspect it’s about more than just Friday’s drinking.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘You know in Newcastle when Friday and Aria came back late before we went to Iris Kellogg’s house? I’m sure something had happened. I asked Friday and she told me to mind my own business.’
‘Why don’t you ask Aria?’
‘Why don’t you ask Aria?’
‘No, thank you.’
Daisy brought out Charlotte, sat her on a chair, pulled it up to the table and set down a plate of peach slices. ‘She says she wants to eat on the verandah with the grown-ups, and she doesn’t want her highchair.’
‘You won’t be able to reach,’ Harrie warned.
‘Will,’ Charlotte said, standing up on the seat.
‘Sit down, you’ll fall.’
‘Won’t.’
‘Has she been all right since, you know?’ Sarah asked, nodding at Charlotte.
‘Not entirely, to be honest. She’s cried more than usual and had a few nightmares, but James says that’s to be expected. He thinks she’ll come right, though, with time. He says they’re very resilient at that age, and I do think Iris Kellogg looked after her quite well.’
‘Iris,’ Charlotte said.
‘So you and James are all right now? Robbie told Walter, who told me — those boys are such gossips — that he was absolutely roaring.’
‘Oh, of course we are. You and Adam?’
‘We’re good.’ Sarah took her watch out of her pocket. ‘When were Friday and Aria supposed to be here?’
‘You know they’re always late.’
Charlotte grasped a slice of peach and hurled it at Angus the cat, who was strolling past the table. It landed squarely on his back, and he twitched violently but it stayed where it was, so he wore it across the lawn and into the undergrowth. Charlotte shrieked with laughter.
‘Sweetheart, that wasn’t very nice.’
‘I am sorry we are late,’ Aria said, appearing around the side of the house, Friday in tow. ‘Something has happened.’
‘Oh God,’ Sarah muttered.
‘Hold on, I’ll take her in.’ Harrie tucked Charlotte under one arm and grabbed the plate of peach slices. ‘Daisy!’
‘Nooooo!’ Charlotte bellowed. ‘Outside, outside!’
‘Much as I love her, sometimes that child can be a complete pain in the arse,’ Sarah remarked.
‘Were you not, when you were that small?’ Aria asked.
‘No. I wasn’t allowed to be. So what’s happened?’
‘This.’ Friday flung a note onto the table.
Sarah opened it, had a quick read, sighed and tossed it back. ‘Christ, that’s all we need. Greedy bloody bitch.’
‘Well, we’re not fucking paying it,’ Friday said, crossing her arms. ‘Not this time. She can go to hell.’
‘What’s happened?’ Harrie asked, taking her seat.
Sarah said, ‘Another blackmail demand from Bella. Bloody three hundred pounds this time.’
‘But we’re not paying it.’ Friday worried at her head.
Harrie said, ‘Don’t pick your scabs. Why aren’t we paying it? Not that I want to.’
‘’Cos we also have this. Show them, Aria.’
With a flourish, Aria produced the confession she’d forced Neville Clayton to write.
‘When did you get this?’ Sarah asked, reading it.
‘A few days ago. I went to see him. I thought he may still have the upoko tuhi of my uncle, but he does not. He has sent it to England. He has sold it, as though it were a bag of flour or some other everyday commodity of absolutely no consequence.’
The others looked at her, silent in the face of her distress.
‘I will never be able to take him home now.’
‘We’re really sorry about that, Aria,’ Harrie ventured, and they all were.
Friday gave her a hug. ‘We might. We might go to England one day and get him. You never know.’
Aria nodded, as close to tears as they’d ever seen her.
‘Who’s got the other letter Clayton wrote?’ Sarah asked.
Friday put it on the table. ‘Do you think it’ll be enough? I do.’
‘To stop Bella?’ Harrie said. ‘It proves what she was up to, doesn’t it? And probably still is.’
Sarah said, ‘But will the governor care? More to the point, will she believe he will? Because there’s no point threatening to tell him, or the police, if no one really gives a shit about these heads coming in. No offence meant, Aria.’
‘Well, we’ll find out, won’t we?’ Friday’s hand wandered up towards her head again.
‘Leave those damn scabs alone!’ Harrie snapped.
Sarah asked, ‘Who’s going to write the note?’
Harrie volunteered and, after several false starts, they had something they were happy with.
12 October 1832
Bella Shand,
We will not be paying your Blackmail demand for £300, or any further demands. We have clear proof that, despite the ban in April 1831, you have been illegally bringing Preserved Maori Heads into New South Wales. If you persist in attempting to Blackmail us, we will inform the Governor of the above.
FW, SG, HD
Turning the wax over the taper until it was soft, Harrie sealed the letter in the middle. ‘Will we deliver it, or will we pay a boy?’
‘A boy,’ Friday said. ‘Those dogs give me the shits. Though I might go with him to the gate.’
Harrie added an extra seal at each end.
‘That’s that, then,’ Sarah said.
Lucy Christian jammed another gladioli spear into a vase and stifled a sigh. She had been stuck with flower arranging: Miss Vance, the usual tutor, had pricked her finger on an early rose thorn and was now, very unfortunately, gravely ill with sepsis in the Macquarie Street infirmary.
‘See how I’ve placed the tallest bloom in the middle, girls?’ she said. ‘That will give you a good starting point, and your arrangement a pleasing symmetry.’ She frowned. ‘No, Grace, not out to the side. Your vase is bound to topple.’
‘It won’t, Miss Christian. I’m putting lots of pebbles in the bottom.’
This was followed by a clatter, a splash of water and a ripple of giggles around the craft room.
‘Never mind, dear. Mop it up with your apron.’
The less intellectually gifted students attending Gertrude Armitage’s Finishing Academy for Girls focused on the craft-oriented subjects, such as embroidery, painting, table craft, singing or playing a musical instrument, while the smarter ones polished their writing skills, read the latest literature (providing it was appropriate, of course — nothing racy allowed for the daughters of Sydney’s well-to-do), and wrote poetry and music. To Lucy, it was all mind-numbingly dull. There wasn’t a book on mathematics in sight, never mind Euclid, and every time she tried to sneak in a hint of Latin, Mrs Armitage, who’d decided against it, told her politely but firmly to pull in her horns. Why would her girls have use for such an archaic language in these modern times?
So, day after day, Lucy came home from work burdened with the sense that she was sending girls into the world armed with no skills other than how to warble the latest songs, embroider pillowslips, paint and write insipid poems, none of which would help them should they become widowed, or their husbands fall on financial hard times, or their babies die, or some other disaster befall them. Or even, God help them, should they simply become bored and want to do something meaningful with their lives.
The Acacia Boarding Establishment for Ladies was getting on her damned nerves, too. She was sure there were a couple of prostitutes renting the rooms above hers. Not that she minded what they did for a living, and they didn’t bring their work home, but they came in at one or two every morning, clacking about in their noisy, high-heeled boots and waking her up. She’d complained to Mrs Lovett, the proprietress, who’d sworn black and blue they were respectable ladies who paid their board regularly, but no respectable lady worked that late at night. Lucy just wished they’d remove their footwear at the front door when they came home.
Also, she was lonely. She knew she was welcome at the home of Harrie and James Downey, but after the dreadful kidnap business they’d probably prefer time together as a family, though she still visited for her lessons with Sophie and Anna. She’d given up on Robbie, by mutual agreement all round. And while she liked her students, even the stupid ones, she couldn’t confide in them.
There was Matthew, of course. She saw him frequently, but had found herself lately going to some lengths to suppress her feelings for him, and she knew why. She had declared to all and sundry that she didn’t want to marry, and she hadn’t wanted to, but that was before she’d got to know Matthew. She believed she was falling in love with him and would be happy to marry him. But if she were to, and she suspected he would be more than amenable to the possibility, she would have to give up her dream of ever running her own school. No man would tolerate a wife who owned her own business. Oh, it was perfectly acceptable in the labouring classes. Nora Barrett, for instance; she had her business as a sempstress and her husband didn’t seem to mind at all. And Sarah Green worked side by side with her husband. On the other hand, Sarah was a bonded convict, so that was a little different. It was all a little different, here in New South Wales.
But Matthew was very clearly more than labouring class: he was an educated professional with money in the bank and, now, his own house. He wouldn’t want a wife who worked. He would want a woman who stayed at home and cooked his meals, starched his shirts, swept his hearth and raised his children. There was nothing wrong with children, but she wanted her school first. Was that too much to ask?
Grace’s vase fell over again, and this time it broke.
‘Grace, what did I tell you?’
‘It’s not my fault, Miss Christian,’ Grace said, kicking wet and broken gladioli spears across the floor. ‘I don’t even like flowers. I don’t even like this school. I’d rather be out riding my horse.’
‘Well, why don’t you speak to your mother and father about that?’
‘Because I’m supposed to be learning to be a lady.’
That was the trouble with these Currency girls and boys, Lucy thought. Their parents were trying to raise them to be junior English swells, but they weren’t. They were something quite different, something altogether new.
She laboured on until everyone had something approximating a floral arrangement, though most wouldn’t have looked out of place in Grace’s horse’s hay bag, then ended the class, the last of the day, thank God. She collected her reticule, cape and hat, and set off for George Street. She was meeting Matthew later; he had a surprise for her, he’d said, though she had no idea what it might be.
She glanced towards the west. The sun was low and the shadows drawing out, but it was still full daylight. Matthew wouldn’t finish work until after five, so she might as well do a little shopping. Mrs Lovett prepared an evening meal every night as part of her tenants’ board, but Lucy wasn’t overly fond of mutton and cabbage. In fact, even the smell of it now made her feel queasy. It was much more fun, and a far more satisfying culinary experience, to go out with Matthew, and when she didn’t do that, she preferred to dine in her room on cheese — which was shockingly expensive, so she only treated herself to a sliver — bread an
d smoked sausage from the butcher on the corner. She couldn’t eat cheese and sausage for supper forever, of course, but for now it would do. At least she had a job, and a teaching job at that, and could actually afford to buy food. She must remind herself to be more grateful with her lot.
She bought another minuscule wedge of Cheshire (made in Australia, as the imported cheeses were just too costly), a cob loaf, a yard of towelling for new sanitary rags, and a tin of tooth powder. Not very exciting purchases, but all essential. At twenty minutes past five, she headed for Matthew’s house on Clarence Street.
He was already there, waiting in the doorway, beaming.
‘There you are! I thought you might not come.’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’ She pecked him on the cheek.
He took her parcels from her, popped them on the table, grabbed her hand, and said, ‘Come and see.’
She followed him through the house, which he was slowly but surely decorating, and really rather nicely, too, and out the back door to the expansive yard.
‘Look!’ he said, pointing.
Lucy couldn’t discern anything except the new privy, which she’d already seen, and in fact used. ‘I’m sorry, Matthew, what?’
‘The pegs. In the ground!’
Oh, yes; four pegs marking out an enormous oblong, halfway between the privy and the house. ‘Oh, I see them.’
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘Very nice.’
Matthew gave a squeaky and nervous-sounding laugh. ‘You don’t understand what they’re for, do you?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t, no.’
This time he took both her hands. For some reason his were shaking. ‘Do you promise you won’t run away or say no automatically or otherwise have some sort of negative and really disappointing reaction? Because I’ll . . .’ He stopped. ‘No, I won’t say that. It’ll only . . . No, I won’t say that either.’
A Tattooed Heart Page 31