A Tattooed Heart (3 page)

In a funny way, love had cured her. The love of Friday and Sarah, and of Nora, Leo and Charlotte, and most of all, James. Honestly, it all would have been a lot easier if she'd married him years back.

Having spent four hours in her favourite pub, the Bird-in-Hand, it was almost dark by the time Friday staggered back to the Siren's Arms hotel. She made her way unsteadily along the alleyway connecting the pub to the brothel on Argyle Street, determined to speak to Elizabeth Hislop.

She knocked on Elizabeth's office door, didn't wait for an invitation, and barged in.

‘I've had the cleverest idea,' she blurted.

‘Good evening, Friday. Please, do come in,' Elizabeth said tartly.

‘Ta.' Friday flopped into a chair.

Elizabeth fanned her face theatrically. ‘For God's sake, girl, have you been in the pub all day?'

‘No, just the afternoon. I was at the burial ground before that, watching old Clarence Shand get planted.'

‘You take some risks, don't you? I can't think of anything more likely to irritate Bella.'

‘Don't worry, she didn't see me.' Friday leant urgently forwards, almost fell off her chair and grabbed wildly at the edge of Elizabeth's desk. ‘Whoops. Listen to this, though. Bella might be getting Clarence a chest tomb. What do you think of that?'

‘Lucky old Clarence.'

‘No, I mean, think what we could put in it. Or should I say who?'

Elizabeth shook her head, the auburn curls of her wig quivering. ‘I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about. As usual.'

‘Yes, you do. Gil!'

Appalled, Elizabeth stared at Friday. ‘Are you saying we should put my husband in with Clarence Shand's corpse?'

‘Well, Gil's a corpse, too. And not exactly a fresh one either. Anyway, I don't mean right on top of Clarence. He'll be in the ground. I just mean in the tomb bit. It'd be a lot better than keeping
him here in your cellar. You'll hang, you know, if the police ever raid this place and find him.'

‘Yes, I do know that, thank you very much,' Elizabeth snapped.

‘Keep your wig on. I'm only trying to help.'

Elizabeth rubbed her hands over her face. ‘Yes, sorry. I know. It's just that I'm so used to having him near me. I . . . well, I draw comfort from him.'

Friday couldn't think of anything more bizarre than keeping the shrivelled remains of the bullying husband you murdered in your own cellar, much less drawing comfort from them, but each to their own, she supposed. She knew Elizabeth had had a long, difficult and complicated relationship with Gil, and it wasn't her place to cast judgment.

‘You still could. You'd just have to go to Devonshire Street to do it.'

‘You mean stand in the middle of a graveyard and talk to thin air?'

‘Isn't that what you do here? And it's what everyone else does in a cemetery.'

‘But I'd be standing over a grave with someone else's name on it.'

‘Stop splitting hairs.'

‘And how on earth would I get him there?'

‘Let me worry about that.'

‘Oh, I don't know, Friday.'

‘You do so know. You can't keep him here. It'd be like me keeping Gabriel Keegan's corpse under my bed.'

Elizabeth's worried expression suddenly turned into a scowl. ‘Hang on, you said he
might
be getting a chest tomb. I'm not worrying myself sick about something that hasn't happened. It could be a whole year before that woman puts anything on her husband's grave.'

‘It won't be,' Friday said with the supreme confidence of a pissed person.

‘How do you know?'

‘Bella likes to be — what's the word? — continuous with her money.'

‘Conspicuous.'

‘Yeah, that. If she can throw it around, she will. She won't leave Clarence's grave covered in shitty old weeds if she doesn't have to.'

‘Most folk wait twelve months. It's the tasteful thing to do.'

Friday barked out a laugh. ‘Well, there you go. There'll probably be a dirty great marble pillar with a ten-foot statue of God on it by dinnertime tomorrow.' Then she frowned. ‘Mind you, we put a headstone on Rachel's grave straight away. Well, Harrie did. And she's not tasteless.'

‘That was different,' Elizabeth conceded. ‘Also, you're supposed to wait for the ground to settle after a burial. It subsides, you know, the soil.'

‘Wouldn't think that'd matter, if you're having a chest tomb. They're pretty solid.'

‘But you don't know if she actually is.'

‘I can find out. And if she does, will you let me move Gil? Please? It's for your own good.'

Shaking her head and rubbing at an eye, slightly smearing her carefully applied kohl, Elizabeth said, ‘Christ almighty, I never thought I'd see the day when
you'd
be telling
me
what's good for me.'

‘But will you?'

Elizabeth sighed. ‘I'll think about it.'

The following morning, before she started work, Friday hired a carriage to drive her back to Devonshire Street cemetery. She couldn't be bothered walking again after yesterday's trek, and anyway the weather was closing in. Just past Devonshire Street, outside the carter's barracks, she told the driver to stop, and to wait for her.

‘It'll cost you extra,' he warned as she climbed down.

‘Fine. Just don't bugger off, all right?'

The driver squinted up at the sky. ‘Mind you hurry. I'm not sitting out here in the pouring rain. I've not got me cloak.'

Whose fault's that, then? Friday thought as she tossed him a shilling. The carter's barracks smelt even more pungent as she passed through the gates, though the central yard was swept clean. She could hear the mournful lowing of bullocks — the source of the pong — somewhere in the bowels of the maze of stables and sheds.

‘Hello! Anyone here?' she shouted.

An elderly man appeared, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘You don't have to yell, girl. I'm not deaf.'

‘Sorry. Morning.'

‘What?'

‘I said good morning.'

‘'Tis, 'cept for them black clouds. What can I do for you?'

‘I was hoping to engage your services,' Friday said, her attention momentarily diverted by the sight of a lad staggering across the yard under the weight of a massive bullock collar. Reaching the far side, he dumped it on the cobbles and crouched, fiddling with a buckle, pretending not to eavesdrop.

‘What was that?' The man planted a work-roughened hand behind his ear.

‘Your services!' Friday almost bellowed. ‘I want to pay you to do a job!'

‘All right, all right, there's no need to shout. The tariff's one pound eight shillings a day for a team of four, and two pounds for a team of six. I can supply a bullocky, but that'll cost more.' The man scratched his grizzled beard. ‘If you want horses, that's another kettle of fish altogether.'

‘No, look, I don't want to hire your bullocks.'

‘You want to watch your language, young lady.'

Christ, the deaf old bugger. Friday pointed, though the cemetery wasn't actually visible from the carter's yard. ‘You know the burial ground? Over there?'

‘Of course I know it.'

‘Well, I want to pay you to go over there every day,' Friday went on, speaking slowly and miming wildly to reinforce her message, ‘and check something for me. I'm expecting a headstone or tomb to go up on a grave, and I want to know as soon as it does.'

‘In the burial ground?'

Friday refrained from rolling her eyes. ‘Yes. In the burial ground.'

‘How much are you paying?'

Given that he was probably well off enough, Friday offered him a very generous five pounds.

His jaw waggled back and forth. ‘Which part of the burial ground?'

‘The Catholic bit.'

The man's expression changed and he spat violently. ‘Damn Papists! You'll not catch me treading on ground full of mouldering left-footers. No, find someone else.'

And he flapped an irritated hand at her and stomped off.

Friday swore spectacularly. She was just about to climb into the carriage — there was a brewery on Albion Street at the other end of Devonshire, she might be able to bribe someone there — when she heard the sound of running feet.

‘Wait! Hey, missus, wait!'

The boy from the carter's was trotting towards her. He whipped off his tattered cap. ‘I'll do it. I'm not scareda no Catholic ghosts. Gotta be for the fiver, but.'

‘Can I trust you?' Friday asked.

‘Can I trust you?' he shot back.

Friday suppressed a smile. ‘Cheeky little chavvy. Did you hear what I said to your master?'

‘Think the whole world heard it. He's deaf as a post, old Mr Coombs.'

‘So tell me what I want.'

‘You want to know when they put up a headstone or something on some dead cove's grave.'

‘I want to know the minute they start.'

‘Why?'

‘None of your beeswax. And I want you to keep out of sight. I don't want anyone to know you're watching. Can you do that?'

The boy made a rude noise. ‘They don't call me Fast Eddie for nothing.'

‘You sure they don't call you Cock-and-Bull Eddie?'

‘Eh?'

‘Well, you can't be that fast. You got transported, didn't you?'

‘Yeah, but only the once.'

Friday wasn't sure whether to trust him or not. ‘I'll give you two quid now, and the rest when you tell me what I want to know.'

‘Four now.'

Friday shook her head.

‘What if bugger all happens and I spend the next six months hanging round with all them dead folk? I could get the life scared right out of me.'

‘You just said you're not scared of ghosts. You only have to go in once a day and have a quick look.'

‘Three then.'

Sighing, Friday said, ‘Three, and that's it. And if nothing's happened in, say, twelve weeks, I'll pay you the other two and we'll call it quits.'

‘It's a deal.' Eddie stuck out his hand.

Friday took it and squeezed until she felt his bones grind together. ‘It had better be, sweetie, because if I find out you're not earning your pay, and I will, you know, I'll tear your ears off. Do you hear me?'

Wincing, Eddie nodded vigorously until she dropped his hand. He tucked it gingerly into his armpit. ‘You can trust me,' he insisted, all traces of bravado gone from his voice.

‘I hope so. Now, come with me.'

Friday showed him to Clarence's muddy grave, the mound of fresh dirt still covered with the now drooping floral tributes that had masked the smell of his decomposing body while he'd lain for several days at home.

‘Who was he?' Eddie asked.

‘Just a cove,' Friday said, then told him where he could find her when the time came.

‘Friday. That's a funny name. Why'd your ma call you that?'

‘She felt like it. Why'd your ma call you Eddie?'

‘She didn't. She called me Edward.'

‘Well, Edward, I meant what I said. Keep your side of the bargain, and we'll be fine. If not, you'll end up as deaf as your boss. Fair enough?'

‘Fair enough.'

As Friday was setting out for Devonshire Street, Leo Dundas and Serafina Fortune were having a leisurely breakfast at Serafina's little house on Essex Street. Over toasted bread, marmalade and tea, Leo was reading the previous day's
Sydney Herald
while Serafina flicked through the morning's edition of the
Sydney Gazette.

Jamming half a slice of toast into his mouth, Leo nearly choked as he turned a page and read what was written there — a letter published by the police.

To the Sydney Constabulery

I confess to the murdur of Amos Furniss on 10 July 1831. I did it. I stabbed him to Death in the Old Buriel Ground. He were my Lover but he were not faithfull to me and I could not bare it, so I took his Life. He deserved it.
He were an Evil man. But I have suffered terribel gilt and by the time this letter is red I will be at Eternil Peace with the Lord. May the Lord have Mercy on my Soul.

Respecfully,

A S Cryer (Miss)

‘Have you seen this?' he demanded.

‘What?'

Leo stabbed the paper with a buttery finger. ‘This letter about Amos Furniss's murder.'

‘The confession?'

‘This woman's saying
she
killed him. Why would she do that?' Leo looked at the signature on the letter again, then, astounded, back at Serafina. ‘A S Cryer. A scryer?
You
wrote it?'

‘I did nothing of the sort,' Serafina said calmly, turning a page of the
Gazette.

Leo didn't believe her. He glanced at Walter Cobley's tatty old scarf, left hanging on Serafina's coat stand since the boy had stayed a night with her before he'd left for England a year earlier. Had she used it to glance into his future? What did she know about him?

‘Are you sure?' he asked.

‘Of course I'm sure,' she snapped. ‘Look, if some madwoman wants to confess to a murder she didn't do, let her. Don't worry about it, Leo. You worry too much.'

‘It says here the police have closed the case.'

‘Well, that's good, isn't it? Pass the marmalade, will you?'

After a moment, Leo did.

Adam lit the last of the shadowless Sinumbra lamps and resumed his seat at the workbench. It was another very grey day and although the workshop window was unusually large, the room was still gloomy. It was pleasantly warm, though, thanks to the furnace cooling from yesterday's melting of a small amount of gold. Then,
it had been too hot, and he and Sarah had sweated uncomfortably, fanning themselves and grumbling.

‘Is that better?' he asked. ‘Can you see properly now?'

‘Yes, thanks.'