Girl of Shadows (21 page)

‘I expect you to clean everything thoroughly, mind,’ the woman said. ‘Just because the service is free don’t think you can cut corners. And I expect the valuation to be written out in triplicate.’

‘Of course, Mrs …?’

‘Tregoweth. Mrs Phillip Tregoweth. Where’s the jeweller? I thought I’d be dealing with a proper jeweller.’

‘Would you like to speak with Mr Green, Mrs Tregoweth?’

‘Yes, I would.’

‘One moment please.’ This often happened, especially with older women; they didn’t think a girl could possibly know the first thing about jewellery, not even how to clean it.

Sarah went through to the workshop and fetched Adam.

‘Mrs Tregoweth, is it?’ he greeted the woman. ‘Good morning, I’m Mr Adam Green, the jeweller. Delighted to meet you.’

‘Good morning. Your advertisement says you’ll clean and value jewellery at no expense to the customer?’

‘That is correct. Do you have your jewels with you?’

Mrs Tregoweth took a large velvet bag from her basket and set it on the counter.

‘May I?’ Adam asked.

She nodded.

Adam opened the bag and took out several smaller pouches and two flat cases, one of leather, one covered with velvet. The leather case, lined with cream silk, contained an emerald and gold meshwork parure consisting of two bracelets, a ring, earrings, a necklace, and a brooch that could be attached to the necklace as a pendant.

‘Have you had the parure valued previously?’ Adam asked as he studied the emeralds in the necklace through his loupe.

‘No, but my husband obtained a certificate of authenticity from the jeweller from whom he purchased the set. It was very costly.’ Mrs Tregoweth simpered slightly. ‘He said only the best will do for me.’

‘Indeed. And it was purchased here, in Sydney?’

‘Oh no, in London, a year or so before we emigrated.’

Adam opened the two smaller bags. The first contained an articulated cannetille bracelet in yellow, red and green gold set with amethyst, jade and topaz.

‘This is very nice,’ he said.

‘My mother’s,’ Mrs Tregoweth replied. ‘A family heirloom.’

The second bag revealed a ring — a spectacularly large, oval, cushion-cut diamond set inside a thin border of midnight blue enamel and surrounded by smaller diamonds.

‘Another heirloom?’ Adam asked.

‘Yes. Very favoured by the royal family in my mother’s time, that particular style with the blue enamel.’

The velvet case contained a necklace of perfectly graduated, foil-backed sapphires.

‘It’s a rivière. That means “river of light”, you know,’ Mrs Tregoweth explained redundantly. ‘Again, it’s a rather expensive piece.’

‘Charming.’ Adam closed the case. ‘When would you like to collect your jewels?’

‘By the end of the week. We’re attending the governor’s Christmas Eve reception on Friday evening and I shall need them. In fact, I’d prefer to collect them on Thursday if possible.’

‘Of course. My assistant Miss Morgan will need to make a note of your particulars, for the valuation. Thank you for your custom, Mrs Tregoweth. Good day.’

‘Good day, Mr Green.’

Mrs Tregoweth gave Sarah her address, one of the very substantial residences at the Bunker’s Hill end of Cumberland Street.

‘May I ask, do you keep your jewellery at the bank?’ Sarah enquired.

‘Why?’ Mrs Tregoweth said suspiciously.

‘You have some very nice pieces, and you’d be surprised by how many of our customers don’t. You can’t be too careful, in a town like this.’

‘Oh, but one can buy such sturdy little iron chests nowadays,’ Mrs Tregoweth said. ‘And the bank does charge such a lot just for the use of a safety deposit box.’

Thank you, Sarah thought. ‘It must be lovely to wear such nice jewellery.’

‘It does reflect one’s place in society, doesn’t it? I do wear mine as often as possible, but, sadly, Sydney is not London.’

‘Here you are.’ Sarah handed Mrs Tregoweth her receipt.

‘Very good. I’ll drop by on Thursday at around midday. If you and Mr Green have finished by then, there’ll be a shilling in it for you.’

‘That’s very generous. Thank you.’

When Mrs Tregoweth and her awful pink bonnet had gone, Sarah went through to the workshop. Adam was at his workbench, looking over the woman’s jewellery.

‘The parure is paste, isn’t it?’ she said.

Adam nodded. ‘Good paste, but someone’s taken her husband for a ride. Or perhaps he’s taken her for one.’

‘Will we tell her?’

‘We’ll have to. She’s expecting a professional valuation. The ring, the sapphires and the cannetille bracelet are genuine, though, and of exceptional quality, especially the ring.’ He swivelled on his stool to face her. ‘What do you think?’

Sarah sat down. ‘She keeps it all at home, on Cumberland Street. The Bunker’s Hill end, of course. That bloody awful hat she had
on is, according to Harrie, the latest mode, which says to me she likes to keep up with everyone else. The fashion for hiding your jewels when I left London was in a safe in the wall, usually behind a painting, so I’m betting that’s where she has hers. She said she often wears her jewellery, so plenty of people will have seen what she owns. If it goes missing after it’s been here she won’t necessarily assume it’s us. Also, she’ll be piling it on when she and her husband go to this thing of the governor’s on Friday night; if we pinch it, with a bit of luck she’ll associate the theft with that outing.’

Adam frowned. ‘But why steal it? Why not just take the diamond out of the ring? That’s worked so far.’

Sarah draped the bracelet over her wrist and closed the delicate clasp. It was too large, and slid off over her hand. ‘Because I want this as well, and the beauty of this is in the whole piece, not just the stones.’

‘We can’t fence that here, it’s too distinctive.’

‘It’ll just have to go back to England, where I’ve no doubt it will fetch a very tidy profit. And can Bernard get us a really high-quality paste diamond in the next few days? I doubt it; it would have to be cut to order.’ She indicated the ring. ‘See here? The stone’s not perfectly symmetrical.’

Adam had neither the specific skills nor the equipment to manufacture or cut the leaded glass that formed paste, or ‘strass’, stones, which were so attractive they were admired and worn even by those who could afford genuine gems. Bernard, however, imported quite a range of both clear and coloured paste, and silver and gold-plated jewellery already set with paste for his own retail business. The loose stones he sold on to various other Sydney jewellers, and several in Van Diemen’s Land.

‘Yes, I had noticed that,’ Adam said. ‘But house-breaking? Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’ Sarah slipped on the ring, which again had been sized to fit Mrs Tregoweth’s pudgy fingers; it sat crookedly
while she admired the huge diamond, its fiery brilliance enhanced by the deep blue enamel surrounding it. ‘I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t.’

She hadn’t liked burgling houses in London, but that was because Tom Ratcliffe had been in charge. He’d dictated everything — which house, what time, what was to be stolen — leaving her no say at all. She’d had to do exactly as she was told, because he’d only ever provided her with enough information to get the job done and to barely keep herself out of trouble. Having her work blind in this fashion had been another of his methods of controlling her. She’d deeply resented it.

But this would be different. This time she would be free to plan the job to the very last little detail and have absolute command over everything. She was good at this, she knew she was, and she wouldn’t fail.

‘It will have to be this Friday night, after the governor’s reception.’ Her foot tapped out a rapid little beat as her mind raced. ‘I’ll be in the house already, hiding, before they arrive home.’

‘Christ, Sarah!’ Adam exclaimed.

‘Oh, stop it,’ she scolded. ‘She’ll be wearing it. What other way is there? Highway robbery on George Street?’

‘But if you’re caught in the house …!’

‘I won’t be. I’ll break in while they’re out.’

‘What about servants?’

‘I’ll break in
quietly
. For God’s sake, Adam, I’m a screwsman and a cracksman, a bloody good one! I know how to do this, all right!?’

Adam closed his eyes, breathed deeply in and out several times, then opened them again. ‘If anything happens to you —’

Sarah threw up her hands. ‘You’ll just say you knew nothing about it.
I’m
the assigned convict, remember?’

‘No. That’s not what I meant.’

To Sarah, the air in the workshop seemed suddenly very bright and brittle.

Adam rose suddenly, leant across the arm of the workbench separating them, and kissed her, his lips grazing her mouth.

‘Oh,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to do that.’ But he had meant to do it, and he wasn’t sorry at all.

Harrie tucked in Sam, who had fallen asleep the second his little blond head touched the pillow. He’d been galloping around all afternoon whacking his sisters with a wonderfully whippy eucalyptus branch, one of several brought inside to decorate the parlour mantelpiece for Christmas, there being a severe shortage of mistletoe in New South Wales. It was only just past six and normally he refused to get into bed until at least seven o’clock, so his early retirement tonight was a pleasant bonus.

Lewis, however, was as usual bawling his head off. At almost five months he was still a little young for solid food, and didn’t actually have any teeth yet, but Harrie’s youngest sister, Anna, had been the same — forever grizzling — and Harrie had suggested that Nora try Lewis on a few spoonfuls of stewed apple sprinkled with sugar; Anna had loved that. Nora was downstairs now, waiting for the apple to cool. She didn’t want to start Lewis on proper food yet, Harrie knew; he could well be her last baby and though she had to get back to work she also wanted to savour him as an infant for as long as possible. But her nipples were sore and she wasn’t making enough milk and he clearly wasn’t happy and, well, both Nora and Harrie knew the time had almost come to give up on mother’s milk. George wasn’t helping either, whinging on about the racket Lewis made and the hours Nora was having to spend with him. What had he expected when he’d made Nora pregnant? Harrie wondered. Lewis to go out and get a job as soon as he could sit up?

George
had
been in a better mood this week, however, out and about getting into the Christmas spirit with various friends even though Christmas Eve was still two nights away, and coming home
singing, reeking of booze and noticeably drunk. Fortunately he wasn’t nasty in his cups, which was something to be said in his favour. According to Nora, though, he was amorous, and she was having a dreadful time keeping him off her.

Harrie went out into the parlour. ‘Hannah, have you had your wash yet?’

‘Yes,’ Hannah replied.

Walking up and down, joggling Lewis, Abigail said, ‘You have not.’

‘I have so!’

‘Hannah, go to your room and have your wash, please,’ Harrie ordered. ‘And
don’t
wake up Sam.’

‘That’s not fair! You always —’

‘
Hannah!
Will you for once just
do as you’re told
!’

Hannah and Abigail both stared at Harrie, startled by her uncharacteristic impatience. Hannah slid off the sofa and headed for the children’s bedroom. Lewis started to cry.

‘Harrie?’ It was Nora, at the top of the stairs, a bowl of stewed apple in her hand. ‘Dr Downey is downstairs for you.’

Oh
no
, Harrie thought. She’d not seen him since the terrible afternoon in Hyde Park, and had been dreading what would happen when inevitably their paths did cross. ‘Tell him to go away. I don’t want to talk to him.’

Stirring the apple briskly, Nora said, ‘I did and he refused.’ She crossed the room and took Lewis off Abigail. ‘Really, Harrie, I’m not your social secretary. Do you not think it’s time you put an end to this nonsense, one way or another? Go down and talk to him. Go on.’

Feeling badly flustered and as though her face were on fire, Harrie dragged herself downstairs. James was waiting in the tiny foyer. His top hat was under his arm, he’d removed his gloves, and he looked tired.

She stopped on the third-to-bottom step, the dreadful things she’d called him in the park echoing stridently in her head. Parts of
the afternoon had blurred in her memory, but she remembered that all too clearly.

James bowed slightly. ‘Good evening, Harrie.’

‘Good evening, Dr Downey,’ Harrie mumbled.

A short silence.

‘How are you?’ he asked.

‘Well, thank you.’

The back door crashed open and George Barrett staggered in, clearly not expecting to encounter company. ‘God’s blood! I nearly shat meself then!’ He peered at James. ‘It’s Downey, isn’t it?’ He stuck out a hand.

James shook it. ‘Good evening, Mr Barrett.’

‘Sorry to interrupt.’ George pointed at the stairs. ‘Just on my way up.’

Harrie pressed herself against the wall as George, wafting alcohol fumes, negotiated the narrow staircase.

‘Is there somewhere we can speak privately?’ James asked.

Harrie’s heart pounded even more alarmingly. What was he going to do? Tell her what he really thought of her? Shout at her? Serve her with a summons for lewd behaviour?

‘Not really,’ she said.

‘There must be somewhere, Harrie. Please. This is important.’

He didn’t sound as though he wanted to shout at her. In fact, he sounded really quite … unsure of himself. She looked around. They couldn’t go outside — the household cesspit reeked to high heaven at the moment — upstairs was too public, and the storeroom was absolutely crammed.

Perhaps Nora wouldn’t mind if they used her shop, just for ten minutes. Harrie led the way, carrying the lamp from the foyer. She turned up the wick, illuminating half a dozen pairs of ladies’ cotton drawers spread across the counter, left there by Nora this afternoon at the close of business.

‘I think we might try Mr Barrett’s shop.’

George’s premises were just as untidy, but at least there weren’t any undergarments on display. Harrie set the lamp on the counter and sat on a stool. James remained standing, which made Harrie wish she’d stayed on her feet as well, but it was too late to rise again now; it would be embarrassing.