A Tattooed Heart (35 page)

‘Good morning, Constable Durrant,' Elizabeth said, removing her hat and patting the curls of her wig into place. ‘How nice to see you. I'm so sorry I wasn't in. What can I do for you?'

‘Good day to you, Mrs Hislop. I have cause to inspect your cellar.'

For an awful second Elizabeth thought her legs were going to collapse and send her crashing to the floor. Christ almighty, Friday had been right. She made herself take a step, then another, and another until she was walking to the bar. ‘Al, get out the good brandy, will you? Constable Durrant, a tipple?'

‘Not for me, thank you.'

‘Lads?' Elizabeth asked the junior constables, who eyed each other, grinned and nodded keenly. ‘My beer cellar, Constable Durrant?'

‘Yes,' he said, ‘unless you have others.'

Elizabeth gave a little laugh. ‘No, just the one. May I ask why you need to inspect it?'

‘That I can't say at this point.'

‘Well, then, please, go right ahead. Jack, please show Constable Durrant down to the cellar.'

Cellar, cellar, cellar! Every time she said or heard the bloody word she saw in her mind's eye Gil, folded into his lead-lined tomb, the rotted remnants of his clothing draped over his disjointed bones. Thank
God
she'd finally let Friday move him. The fact that he'd been hidden beneath the brothel and not the Siren's Arms didn't lessen her shock and fear. The police were
so
close. And who had told them? Not Friday, surely.

‘Much obliged for your cooperation,' Durrant said. ‘And put that brandy down, you two.'

She followed them down to the beer cellar, half imagining (dreading) that Gil and his trunk might have magically appeared down there.

But he hadn't. There was nothing but barrels of beer, and hogsheads of brandy, gin, whisky and rum arrayed on sturdy shelves.

‘Mind if I have a look around?' Durrant asked.

‘Feel free.'

He wandered along the larger of the barrels, tapping as he went. Does he think I pickled him? Elizabeth wondered. Then he peered into corners, moving aside piles of sacks and stamping on a couple of cockroaches and a monstrous spider for good measure. The floor was rock and beaten earth, but he had a good stare at it anyway.

‘Nothing underneath this?'

‘Only hell.'

‘Indeed.'

Durrant took out a notebook, wrote something in it, then put it away again. ‘Well, thank you for your time, Mrs Hislop.'

‘You're welcome, Constable. Might I ask now what you were looking for?'

‘You can ask but I can't tell you.' Durrant touched the brim of his hat. ‘We'll see ourselves out.'

Jack saw them off the premises anyway. When he came back he found Elizabeth sitting at the bar, halfway through a brandy.

‘What the fuck did they want?' he said, pouring one for himself.

‘I really don't know.'

He looked at her sideways. ‘You do, though, don't you?'

Elizabeth's elbows slid forwards and she covered her face with her hands. ‘Look, Jack, just don't ask, all right?'

‘Nothing at all?' Bloodworth asked. He tossed the badly written letter onto his desk. ‘The work of a crackpot, then. I said as much.'

Durrant pursed his lips. ‘Not necessarily. I was inclined to believe William Butler when he said he thought Elizabeth Hislop might have had something to do with her husband's disappearance.'

‘Have it in for her, did he?'

‘No. Quite the opposite. And he didn't exactly
say
it, either. That was the deduction we made at the time.'

‘Well, what
did
he say, then?' Bloodworth was getting a bit sick of Durrant: he never said one word when twelve would do. Also it was dinnertime and he was starving.

‘Without saying so outright, because Gilbert Hislop was a good mate of his, apparently Hislop could be a bit free with his fists, especially in his cups, and by all accounts he was often in his cups. And according to Butler, it was more often than not Elizabeth Hislop who bore the brunt of Hislop's temper when he was at home. Butler made a comment along the lines of, “I always said I wouldn't blame her if one day she did something about it.” When asked to elaborate, he said he meant he wouldn't blame her if she left him, but I — we — suspected he might have been referring to something else.'

‘Where's this Butler now?'

‘Long gone. He was a seaman.'

‘Damn. Look, all right, keep an eye on her for a while.'

‘Sir.'

‘Very good. Now, if anyone wants me I'm off to the Australian for steak and kidney pudding.'

‘Friday!' Elizabeth called as she clattered past in her high-heeled boots.

‘What?'

‘Can I talk to you for a minute, please?'

God. Friday had just done a cully and was hot and sweaty and in her flogging gear. Couldn't Mrs H wait till she'd at least had a wipe down, a cup of tea and a smoke? ‘Hang on.'

She asked Hazel to be a love and make her a tea, grabbed her pipe fixings and traipsed into the office.

‘Sit down, dear,' Elizabeth said. ‘How's the head?'

‘Throbs a bit when I'm working hard, but not bad.'

‘Let me see.'

Friday leant forwards and Elizabeth had a look.

‘What a nice, neat scar. James did a lovely job of sewing it up, didn't he?'

‘Dunno, haven't been able to see it.'

‘When did you start drinking again?' Elizabeth asked.

Friday blinked at her.
That
caught her off guard. ‘I haven't.'

‘Don't lie to me. I've smelt it on you and I can smell it now.'

‘Well, do you blame me? I nearly died! You'd drink, too, if you'd been shot in the head and lived to tell the tale.'

Elizabeth snorted. ‘Oh, rubbish. That's not the reason. You drink because you have to.'

‘What do you know about it?' Friday knew she sounded like a sulky child — like Hannah, actually — which only irritated her even more.

‘A lot, and you know it.' Elizabeth pointed at her. ‘I'm putting you on notice.'

‘Suit yourself. What sort of notice?'

‘Your job. Come to work smelling of alcohol just once more, and that's it, I'm letting you go. It's for your own good, Friday.'

In a silly voice, Friday parroted, ‘“It's for your own good, Friday.”'

Elizabeth sighed. ‘Oh dear, I had hoped getting shot in the head might have knocked some sense into you, but it hasn't, has it?'

Oh, fuck off.

‘Nothing to say for yourself?' Elizabeth asked. ‘Well, so be it. I've said all I'm going to about that. Did you know the police were at the pub on Wednesday?'

‘Jack said they were looking around in the cellar. What for?'

‘They didn't say but it's obvious, isn't it? Gil.'

‘Wrong cellar, but.' Friday frowned. ‘Who the hell told them? Only you and I know.' And Sarah and Walter, but it certainly wouldn't have been them.

‘Not you?'

It wasn't even a real question, but Friday got on her high horse anyway, in revenge for the comments about her drinking. ‘No, it was
not
fucking well me!'

‘I didn't think so. But no one else knows. Do they?'

‘No,' Friday lied. ‘Unless . . . no, she couldn't have.'

‘Who?'

‘Molly didn't like you. But she didn't know about Gil.'

‘Maybe she did.' Elizabeth shrugged. ‘I wouldn't trust her not to have snooped around. She stole from here, you know. She helped
herself to one of my rings. It was probably her that tried to break into the safe, too. But she's been well and truly dead for a year.'

Friday decided it was time she raised the issue that had been festering away in the dark recesses of her mind. ‘You'd know, too, wouldn't you?'

‘Well, we all remember Molly,' Elizabeth said dryly.

‘No, I mean you'd know because you drowned her.'

Elizabeth held her gaze for a long, long moment. ‘She wasn't your friend, Friday.'

‘You did, didn't you?'

‘Will you despise me if I say yes?'

‘Should I?'

‘That's up to you.'

Hazel came in with a cup of tea and set it on the desk next to Friday's chair. ‘Ta, love.'

They waited until she'd closed the door behind her.

‘I had to,' Elizabeth said. ‘She was getting you into trouble —'

‘Oh, she was not!'

‘She was. She was getting you into trouble then just walking away from it. Then when I told her I was letting her go she threatened to tell the governor about the convict girls I employ here. Girls like you. Christ, the fact that I operate a brothel would be enough to send me to gaol. So I had to do something to shut her up.'

‘So you drowned her.'

‘She was absolutely swattled. I just helped her . . . not get out of the water.'

‘So that's two now?'

‘Yes, it is, if you must keep score.'

Friday sighed and slumped in her seat. ‘There'll be a price to pay one day, you know.'

‘Probably. And when the time comes, I'll pay it. Not in gaol, though. I'll
never
go to gaol again. I'm too old. I couldn't bear it. What about you? Will you pay the price?'

‘I'll have to, I suppose.'

Elizabeth said, ‘I doubt it was Molly who told the police about Gil. Not from beyond the grave. That's a bit unlikely.'

Is it? Friday wondered. ‘This from someone who sits around talking to a skeleton?'

‘That's different. I talk to Gil's memory.'

‘You don't, though, do you? If it was just his memory, you wouldn't still need his bones. You'd be happy for him to be buried in a graveyard like normal dead folk are.'

‘He
is
buried in a graveyard.'

‘But not —'

Someone knocked.

‘Christ, now what? Come in!' Elizabeth called.

It was Hazel again. She handed Friday a letter. ‘This has just come for you. A lad brought it.'

An unpleasant ripple of foreboding skittered up Friday's spine. She broke the seal and read the note.

Friday Wolfe, Harrie Clarke, Sarah Morgan,

I believe murder trumps the illegal importation of preserved heads any day. And I do not believe you do have proof.

The demand for £300 stands. If you wish to continue living your comfortable, pampered, deceitful lives, be at the stable yard of the Harp and Angel on York Street on Sunday the 28th at six o'clock. The choice is yours.

BS

‘Deceitful?' Friday squawked. ‘She's calling
us
fucking deceitful?'

‘Thank you, Hazel,' Elizabeth said.

Hazel took the hint and left.

‘Bella?'

Friday nodded. ‘She doesn't believe we've got proof about the heads. Stupid bitch.'

‘Well, go to the governor, then.'

‘We can't. She'll tell the police about Keegan.'

‘Will she really? She might be bluffing about not believing you. She's not stupid, you know.'

‘No, I know she isn't.' Friday scratched at a pimple on her bare leg as she thought about Bella's note for a moment. ‘I'll see what the others reckon. It might be time to talk to Bella face to face.'

Friday and Aria stood just beyond the gates of Bella's house at the end of Cumberland Street, contemplating the brutal-looking pair of dogs glaring back at them from the other side, strings of drool dangling from their mouths.

‘We should have brought Walter,' Friday said. ‘He's got a way with dogs.'

‘We should have brought a pistol,' Aria said. ‘They would make very handsome cloaks.'

‘Becky! Louisa!'
Friday bellowed. ‘Get your fat arses out here!'

Nothing for nearly five minutes, then finally Becky appeared at an upstairs window. Wrestling with the sash, she shoved it up and shouted, ‘What the hell do
you
want?'

‘Charming,' Aria remarked.

Friday said, ‘They always are.' She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, ‘Is Bella in? I want to talk to her.'

‘Bugger off. She's not taking callers.'

‘Tell her it's important.'

Becky stared down at them for a moment, then disappeared.

‘Bitch,' Friday muttered.

After nearly fifteen minutes Friday had almost decided she wasn't coming back, but eventually she appeared around the side of the house, carrying a plate. The dogs' heads whipped round and they galloped off towards her. Veering away in obvious fear, Becky
hurled them a lump of meat each, and while they were gobbling it down she trotted to the gate and opened it.

‘Just you, Woolfe, ten minutes and that's it. Hurry up.'

Friday didn't need encouragement. She felt the quick squeeze of Aria's hand on her wrist, then slipped through the gate, picked up her skirts and ran like the wind after Becky around to the door at the side of the house.

‘Why don't you get rid of the bloody things now Furniss is dead?' she asked as Becky shut the door behind them. ‘They're a bloody menace.'

‘Bella likes them.'

She would. Friday followed Becky along the hallway but not, as she'd anticipated, into the elegantly decorated, light-filled parlour with the French doors where she'd met with Bella previously. Instead, Becky turned into the main foyer and began to climb the stairs.

‘Where are we going?'

‘Upstairs. Bella's not well.'

‘Really? That's a shame.'

‘You can be a right sarcastic bitch, Friday Woolfe,' Becky said over her shoulder.

‘I try. Where's Louisa?'

‘At the shops.'

On the spacious landing, a heavily carved hall table displayed a large oriental vase flanked by two smaller urns. The walls were covered with a medium blue paper featuring crested birds in gold and green, and the carpets were thick and luxurious.

‘Hasn't deprived herself, has she?' Friday observed. ‘Or is this all Clarence's handiwork?'

‘She redecorated when he died. She likes her nice things.'

‘What's wrong with her?'

Becky frowned. ‘Nothing. Why shouldn't she? She can afford it.'

‘No, you fool.' Becky always was a bit slow off the mark. ‘I mean why is she sick?'

‘None of your business.'

‘You don't know, do you?'

‘'Course I do.'

Becky knocked on a door and opened it a crack. ‘Mrs Shand? She's here.'

Friday heard a familiar voice order raspingly, ‘Send her in.'

‘Ten minutes, remember,' Becky said.

Unable to decide whether she was feeling hatred or dread, or an oddly galvanising combination of both, Friday took a deep breath, raised her chin and went in.

The bedchamber smelt like a sickroom. The air was stale and warm and the drapes half drawn, letting in only shafts of the late afternoon's bright spring light.

Bella sat propped up by a hillock of pillows in a ridiculously tall bed, its canopy formed by heavy swathes of fringed cream damask. The sheets were as white as the petals of a dog daisy, and the bedcover a frothy concoction of white needle lace over cream satin. On the dressing table were arrayed more pots, jars, perfumes and pomades than Friday had ever seen in one place bar the chemist's, and these were matched in number only by the collection of medicinal potions, tinctures, creams, lotions, ointments, pastilles and pills on a nearby chest of drawers. The rest of the furnishings were as grand and lavish as the bed, but still unexpectedly tasteful; exactly as Sarah, who'd once been in here snooping, had reported.

The closer she got to Bella, the more she realised how ill she was. She'd always been a tall, thin, sharp-faced woman, her face all angles and dramatic planes she insisted on emphasising with plastered-on paints and powders, and even now she wore rice powder, rouge, kohl and a wig, but she was almost skeletal, her bones seeming close to tearing through her skin. What, Friday wondered gleefully, was wrong with her?

‘God, you look like you're about to kick the bucket.'

‘Far from it. What do you want?'

Thanks, I will sit down, Friday thought, and moved a chair from the dressing table a little closer to the bed. But not too close. A walking cane lay on the bedcover and she didn't fancy being whacked across the face with it.

‘Your last note. You said you don't believe we have proof you've been smuggling heads. Well, we do.' She opened her reticule, took out the letter stolen from Clement Bloodworth and the confession signed by Neville Clayton, and held them aloft. ‘Two letters that'll drop you right in it.'

‘Let me see.'

‘Not likely. You'll rip them up.'

Looking thoroughly unruffled, Bella shifted slightly and pulled the edges of her charmeuse silk robe closer across the bodice of her chemise with hands that trembled badly. ‘I very much doubt I'd bother. Read them out.'

Friday didn't hear, too busy staring at Bella's palms, which were dotted with warts. God, how revolting. Imagine being touched by those. ‘What?'

‘Still a moron, I see. Read out the letters.'

Friday did.

Bella made a rude horse noise. ‘Forgeries.'

‘They're not. Clayton'll stand behind them.'

‘Why? He'll only go to gaol.'

‘Rather that than be eaten by the folk you robbed.'

A red flush stole up Bella's death-white face, her eyes bulged and she erupted into a disgustingly liquid cough that hacked on and on. Fumbling for a cloth on her nightstand, she spat into it, inspected the bloody mess, then leant back on her pillows. After a moment, her eyes streaming, she said,
‘I
stole nothing.'

‘Furniss, then.' Spitting blood; that was a
fantastic
sign.

‘Furniss is dead. I can't be blamed for his crimes.'

Friday flapped the letters. ‘Neville Clayton says you can. Look, it's been years. You've had your money's worth out of us. We'll forget about the heads if you stop the blackmail.'

‘Never!' Bella spat, firing bloody spittle down her lovely silk robe.

Friday immediately dropped any pretence of civility. ‘Right, then, you fucking old tarleather, I'm going straight down the police court. And you
are
dying. I can smell it on you, and fucking good job.'

She stood and turned to leave but before she'd taken a single step the cane struck her across her back.