3 Great Historical Novels

by Fay Weldon

  Jarrah turned to go. In a blink he would dissolve into the shadows.

  ‘So I’ll see you by the lagoon at dawn?’ Michael called into the dark.

  ‘Yes, boss. I’ll be there.’ Jarrah’s grin flashed before he disappeared completely, and Michael continued on his way to the Rocks. He and Jarrah had a little errand to run for Calvin, tracking the missing sailor who knew something about the dead Quaker.

  Maggie seemed pleased that he’d decided to ‘stay a spell’ even though she didn’t believe it was just to print one more pamphlet. She knew him too well to ask questions, though. The less she knew, the better for everyone, and she wouldn’t even lose her rent when Michael eventually left. The Stanhope was to be taken over by a Belfast penny-a-liner who’d had a desk at the Sydney Herald briefly, before he’d written something cynical about the governor and the cedar trade.

  ‘Evenin’, Michael.’ Maggie had her feet up on the kitchen table and was smoking a cigarillo and reading a copy of Pears’. She imported them for entertainment and loved to tut-tut and shake her head over London frivolity. But at the same time she was examining every detail with deep curiosity; more than was necessary for a woman with such little use for clothing. The slippery cloth of her house gown was hanging either side of her legs, showing her pink stockings and white thighs. Michael couldn’t always command his gaze. His eyes had their own interests.

  ‘Evening, Maggie. What news?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve something you’ll like.’

  ‘That right?’

  One of the girls wandered in wearing only stays and frilly bloomers. She poured a cup of stewed tea from the iron kettle, and winked at Michael suggestively before she left. He sighed heavily. ‘I’m not a fucking saint,’ he called after her, but she just giggled and wagged her arse at him.

  ‘It’s finally picked up down at the junction,’ said Maggie. ‘One of the Smith boys was in seeing Fran, full of rum and talk, and said he needed extra because they’d soon be working all the nights God made and he wouldn’t see a cunny for that long.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Well, Michael, for a boy that age, a week might seem like he’s being a saint, whereas for you, it’s taken years.’

  ‘That’s amusing, Maggie. And thanks for the tip.’

  ‘That’s not all. There’s someone been asking after you down at the quay.’

  Michael was immediately alert. ‘Who?’

  ‘A ship’s boy, according to my man. His name’s Albert and he came in on a transport called Rajah.’

  Michael stood up. ‘That’s something needs attending to directly. I’ll be back before you close your shutters – I’ve some work to do downstairs.’

  Maggie shook her head and tut-tutted. ‘I’ll leave the back door on the latch. Be careful, would you?’

  The Portcullis at Circular Quay was the most popular of the seafront taverns because it was the first to refill its casks with Jamaican when a ship came in from the South Americas. Michael still habitually stayed clear of the public houses along the quay which had once reminded him too much of freedom.

  The room was dim, with too few lanterns hanging from the rafters. It smelt as rank as any place full of seafaring men, in spite of the rum fumes and tobacco. Michael ordered a jar, then packed his pipe and settled in to listen to the talk. There were several barefoot lads in canvas breeches behind him, proud of their adventures on various trading craft and transports, and someone was boasting about an encounter with Chinese pirates. The Rajah was the only vessel Michael knew of that had recently had a run-in with a junk. He sauntered over.

  ‘Evening, lads.’

  ‘Evenin’ to you,’ said the only boy brave enough to speak. The others looked as though they expected trouble.

  ‘Which of you lads came in on the Rajah?’

  ‘James here was the steward,’ said the boy.

  Michael turned his attention to an older, sunburnt lad who looked worried. ‘I hear there was some trouble on your transport?’

  ‘That’s right, but we saw to it,’ he said with false bravado.

  ‘I’m not talking about the pirates, I’m talking about the murder.’

  The boy looked frightened. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’

  ‘Do you know where I can find the ship’s mate, Albert?’

  ‘He’s a wharfie. He’ll be at the last pier. There’s a clipper put in from Ceylon.’

  Michael left the tavern and walked along the quay. The yellow gaslight lent the activity along the wharves an eerie, jaundiced rhythm. There was only one other ship in, besides the one at the end of the quay, but there were still navvies heaving sacks and crates about, and a herd of merino getting in the way of everything.

  At the last pier was a pretty clipper with Oriental characters painted around her prow. It looked as though she was all but unloaded, since a huddle of young wharfies were sitting on the edge of the pier, dangling their legs above the inky, lapping sea and smoking. Michael approached them. ‘Any of you boys called Albert?’

  The smallest narrowed his eyes and looked Michael over. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘My name’s Michael Kelly. Will you take a walk with me?’ Albert was on his feet instantly and, without a backward glance at his scruffy colleagues, fell into step with Michael to the end of the pier and down onto the sand.

  When they were out of earshot, Albert squinted at Michael with the same half-suspicious scrutiny. ‘You a friend of Mahoney?’

  ‘If you mean Rhia, then yes, I used to work for her family back home.’

  Albert nodded. ‘That’s what she told me. She’s gone upriver to Parramatta.’

  ‘Aye, I know that. I heard you’ve been asking after me.’

  Albert hesitated. ‘I’ve a letter for you.’

  ‘A letter? Well I’ll be blowed. I suppose it’s at your lodgings?’

  Albert shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t be safe there, would it?’ He reached deep into the inside pocket of his too-big sailor’s coat and pulled out a piece of cartridge paper, folded into a small square and tied with a piece of string. He handed it to Michael solemnly. Michael untied the string and unfolded the paper. She had a pretty hand, he thought. Unusual ink, though. You didn’t see much sepia. Michael always used black for the press.

  Dear Mr Kelly,

  I asked Albert to try and find you, and to destroy this if he doesn’t. I am guessing that you know of my uncle’s death and of my situation – Thomas told me that he writes to you regularly. I will not waste precious paper trying to convince you of my innocence.

  A man was murdered on the Rajah. Perhaps you have heard. His name was Laurence Blake and he was the cousin by marriage of Antonia Blake, the kind Quaker with whom I lodged in London. Laurence was a photogenic portraitist, and before he died he made a portrait of five gentlemen. The gentlemen did not sit for Laurence himself, and I will not go into the complicated means by which he obtained the negative of the portrait, but it was intended to reach a woman by the name of Eliza Green, the mother of Mrs Blake’s maid, Juliette. According to Juliette (who, I admit, is a little batty) one of the gentlemen in the portrait is a murderer, and only her mother can identify him. I have no idea why, and realise as I write this how unlikely it all sounds. As far as I know, Eliza Green is currently employed as a housekeeper on a sheep station somewhere called Rose Hill.

  When Laurence died, the portrait disappeared from his cabin. The negative was in the safe keeping of Margaret, one of the Rajah convicts, and that too is gone. Margaret herself died before we reached Sydney and before I could discover where she hid the negative. I fear she might have kept it about her person, and took it with her to her watery grave. The disappearance of the portrait is a mystery that may or may not be connected to Laurence’s death. Because the Rajah was close to the port of Rio at the time, it is possible that he was killed for his money, since his purse was also stolen. Perhaps the killer thought the portrait was of some value, since photogenic drawings are still very rare. Without it, w
e will never know if one of the five men really is a murderer, or if Juliette’s nerves have created a phantom. Two of the gentlemen in the portrait were my uncle Ryan and Mrs Blake’s husband, Josiah. It leaves only three alive.

  I was assigned to a botanist as his servant throughout the voyage. His name is Mr Reeve, and he seems to me largely sensible, if dull and irritating. As you see, I am still as intolerant as I ever was. In fact, I am worse. I have confided some of the above to Mr Reeve in the hope that he might be able to help. Perhaps he has discovered something else?

  I hope that we meet again one day.

  Rhiannon Mahoney

  Michael reread the letter while Albert waited, restlessly kicking the sand and smoking. He folded it and put it in his pocket, shaking his head.

  ‘Well, what did she say?’ Albert coaxed impatiently.

  ‘You haven’t read it?’

  ‘Course I haven’t bloody read it.’

  Of course he hadn’t. He couldn’t read. ‘She was telling me about a murder and a certain portrait and a certain botanist.’

  ‘Reeve.’ Albert looked like he’d smelt something rotten.

  ‘You don’t like him?’

  ‘He pretends to be a gentleman but you can tell he isn’t.’

  ‘You know a lot, Master Albert.’

  ‘It’s how I get by.’

  ‘Aye, and me.’ Michael grinned. The boy would be all right. ‘Is there any other reason you don’t like this Mr Reeve?’

  Albert looked uncertain for a moment, then he shrugged. ‘I thought I saw him snooping around on the night Mr Blake got it in the neck, and if he wasn’t so weak-kneed I’d say he might have done the killing himself.’

  Michael looked at him sharply.

  ‘Did you tell any of the ship’s officers this?’

  ‘Course I did. I told Wardell, the Whitehall guv.’ Albert looked down at his bare feet and kicked some sand. ‘Wardell said it would take someone strong and clever, and that that ruled out Reeve. He told me to stop nosing around and stirring up trouble.’

  ‘And did you tell Rhia?’

  Albert shook his head. ‘She had enough troubles, losing her friend.’

  ‘Was Laurence Blake her sweetheart, then?’

  Albert shrugged again. ‘She said he wasn’t.’

  ‘And do you know where this Mr Reeve is now?’

  ‘I heard he’s got lodgings in the bachelor rooms on Elizabeth Street.’ Albert looked at his feet again. ‘If you see her will you tell her I was asking after her?’

  ‘Sure I will.’ Michael stretched out his hand and Albert took it, shaking it firmly. The boy turned away and walked back along the sand. He reminded Michael of someone. It took him a minute, then he realised – he reminded him of his younger self.

  Worsted

  Antonia ascended the last few stone steps of the London Globe building feeling increasingly nervous. She was convinced that Mr Dillon’s invitation was not a courtesy. He was not a courteous man.

  Still, it was a relief to leave Fleet Street behind. There had been a fracas outside the Parcel Delivery Office because a wagon had tipped coming through the archway of Temple Bar. A lone constable was grappling with a band of enterprising urchins who were helping themselves to the parcels.

  Inside, the reception hall was not the hushed sanctuary Antonia had imagined. Corridors seemed to run in every direction, and messenger boys and clerks flew past at speed with arms full of type-trays or paper, or commodious ledgers. Studious-looking men with woolly side-whiskers and cheroots gathered in huddles at the necks of the corridors. Everyone had an air of self-importance and a sense of urgency.

  Antonia perched on the edge of a bench and smoothed her skirts. She had not worn twilled wool since before her marriage. She found that it cheered her, after all, to surrender to small vanities.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Blake.’ Antonia jumped. Mr Dillon was smiling. His cutaway coat was a little dramatic and his long hair was tied back. He looked more like a poet than a newspaperman.

  He lowered his voice. ‘In this building the walls are always listening, but there is somewhere quiet, close by.’

  Antonia stood, relieved to be leaving so quickly. ‘Then lead the way.’

  The press of Fleet Street swept them up immediately, past the tempting window displays of bookbinders, stationers and dealers in all commodities from escritoires and repositories to fancy inkwells and old-fashioned quills. Antonia averted her eyes from the seduction of a patent account book.

  Mr Dillon was striding without a sideways glance but he seemed to sense her mood. ‘Fleet Street can be a vexation to the spirit,’ he said. ‘Do you object to entering a church, Mrs Blake?’

  ‘Is that where you are taking me?’

  ‘It seems appropriate. The order that built this church had interests in common with your own.’ They were walking through Temple Bar. He could only be referring to one church. ‘I know little about the Templars,’ she said warily. He looked surprised.

  ‘Weren’t they also persecuted because of their independence and their wealth? I hear that this church was a depository bank and a residence for visiting kings, as well as a place of worship. That sounds very Quakerly to me! There is something pleasingly practical and unholy about the place,’ he finished, with a sideways look at her to see if she was convinced.

  Antonia smiled. ‘Then I can enter with conscience.’

  Mr Dillon nodded. ‘I can see some of the logic in your faith, Mrs Blake. I suppose it is not easily … impressed by ritual and decoration. But isn’t there innocent pleasure to be had from the vainglorious that is not a distraction from godliness?’

  Antonia sighed. How could he know that this was precisely what preoccupied her? ‘It isn’t possible to ignore the material world, Mr Dillon, especially not for my gender. The female eye seeks out detail and harmony. Quakerism is more a journey inwards than a display of outward devotion.’

  ‘But you are displaying your own brand of devotion by the very plainness of your dress, and by your code of conduct.’ He was a terrier. He would not let something alone until it was in shreds.

  ‘We cannot avoid appearances,’ she said, carefully. ‘Even if one turns away from the looking-glass, one’s reflection is always to be seen in others.’ How well she knew it.

  He looked thoughtful as they entered at the great medieval doors. The circular nave at the end of the long chancel was almost deserted. The gothic widows of its turret were positioned so that the stone flags and the vaulted arches and marble pillars were lit to their best advantage. Of course, the elegant symmetry was cleverly designed to evoke reverence, but she felt soothed just the same.

  Mr Dillon led her to a carved stone bench in a private gallery off the nave, and they sat quietly for a moment before he spoke. ‘I’ve brought you here, where it is peaceful, because what I have to say is … difficult.’

  Antonia braced herself. ‘More ill tidings?’

  ‘It has taken some time to unearth the paperwork at the Jerusalem, but I have evidence that Isaac Fisher and Ryan Mahoney were the signatories on the hire of the barque Mathilda on at least two occasions, between Calcutta and Lintin Island. The purpose of both voyages was to ship several hundred caskets of opium resin.’

  Antonia’s heart felt like lead. It did not seem possible. He dropped his voice. ‘What I propose is conjecture only. I have no evidence. You may recall that last Christmas Isaac denied knowledge of a letter written by your late husband?’

  ‘Yes,’ Antonia whispered, afraid of what he would suggest.

  ‘I suspected at the time that he was lying. If he wasn’t, then he was certainly concealing something. It is possible, Mrs Blake, that Isaac thinks your husband’s letter incriminates him. If so, he might also believe that Ryan told both Rhia and Laurence what was in the letter. He may have decided that it was safer to have Rhia out of the way. And you told me yourself that Isaac helped Laurence to secure a last-minute berth on the Rajah. It would not be unfeasible to arrange for Laurenc
e to be killed on the ship. The port of Rio is full of mercenaries for hire, if the price is right.’

  Antonia’s head was spinning. What treachery would this man suggest next? ‘Isaac could not arrange for the deaths of three innocent men, you do not know him!’

  ‘I want to be wrong, Mrs Blake. I hope with all my heart that I am. But we both know that Isaac Fisher is in financial trouble, which will make him unpopular with the Quakers and, if he is excommunicated from your faith, it would mean his certain ruin as a trader, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but …’ Antonia could think of no defence for Isaac but that she simply could not believe him to be a criminal. He was a liberal, yes, but surely not so much that he would stoop to an immoral trade. If Isaac and Ryan had been profiting from the sale of opium then what had they to show for it? Where was the money? ‘I simply cannot believe it, not until I have seen Josiah’s letter myself.’

  Dillon nodded. ‘Of course. The letter.’ He looked like he was weighing something up. Was he deciding what to tell her? He hesitated; then he frowned. ‘I have discovered its whereabouts. I managed to make myself enough of a nuisance to Ryan’s solicitor. As I explained to him, I merely wanted his help with a piece I’m writing on one of the oldest brothels in St Giles, knowing as I do that he is familiar with the establishment. He quickly admitted that there is a letter that bears the stamp of the postmaster of Bombay in his vault along with Ryan’s will.’

  Antonia held her breath. ‘Will he allow it?’