Great Historical Novels (39 page)

Laurence had transferred the negative on the
Rajah
. She could not fathom how had it come to be on the ship and in his possession. Had he taken it in error, thinking it was his? He
could not have … The bell cord along the wainscoting pulled. Antonia laid down her pen. She stood and straightened her plain collar and smoothed her hair, as if this could prepare her to tell a man that his best friend was dead.

Juliette was at the front door before her. It opened and the hallway was flooded with sunlight. Antonia could not see Mr Dillon’s features, only his silhouette, like a photogram. It seemed apt, since she had not yet the measure of this man who was a symmetry of brooding and wit. She knew him from his
London Globe
writings, but hardly at all from his company. She smiled as naturally as she could. ‘Thank you for calling at such short notice, Mr Dillon. I know you are busy.’

Juliette slipped away.

‘Could you bring us tea please, Juliette,’ Antonia called after her.

Mr Dillon stepped into the hall and to one side, so that the light fell across his face. He was striking, in a mildly untidy way. He wore his black hair tied back, as usual, though a strand or two had fallen loose. His clothes were worn carelessly, though his waistcoat was embroidered with colourful stitching. His heeled boots were covered in dust.

‘I’m frequently in the City,’ he said.

He followed her into the morning room but ignored her invitation to be seated. She was grateful for the amber walls, today. She needed light. He stood by the window instead, and she stood across the room by the Chesterfield. He seemed preoccupied, but then he usually did.

‘I have grave news,’ she began, and he looked at her sharply. He sensed it. He turned back to the window and tapped his fingers on the sill. Antonia felt her hand quiver as she smoothed her hair. ‘Laurence has – is – he has been …’ She sat down clumsily. ‘He has died. Murdered.’

Juliette was standing in the doorway. She must have heard because she was leaning against the doorframe, white as lime. Mr Dillon was quiet for so long that Antonia wondered if he had heard her. He didn’t turn to speak. ‘How can you know this?’ There was an accusing edge to his voice.

‘I have a letter. From Rhia. From São Sebastião.’

Mr Dillon turned. His guard was down. He was laid bare. He was devastated.

‘Will you not be seated, Mr Dillon?’ Antonia said. Her voice seemed to echo around the room as though they were in a mausoleum. He sat opposite her.

‘Perhaps you will fetch us that tea, Juliette?’ said Antonia. The maid did not appear to have heard. ‘Juliette!’

Juliette crept away.

Mr Dillon leaned towards her, and his gaze was as sharp as knives. ‘Tell me what you know,’ he said.

‘Almost nothing. On the day he died, he transferred a photogenic image. It was a portrait that I exposed in my garden last summer. The negative had gone missing. I cannot understand.’ She shook her head. ‘Is it possible that whomever killed him stole the negative from me and now has the portrait?’

‘Whom is this a portrait of?’

‘Josiah, Ryan, Mr Beckwith, Mr Montgomery and Isaac.’

Dillon was shaking his head. He looked bewildered.

‘What does it mean?’ she whispered.

‘Who has the negative now?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘Rhia did not say. She wrote the letter in haste.’

Juliette entered with a tray. The cups rattled against the saucers precariously as she lowered it to the table between them. Antonia suspected the maid was about to have another
of her turns and she did have not the patience. If she had not love and patience, then her faith was of no use at all. It seemed of little use, lately.

Stitchery

Juliette put the tray on the table, her hands were so unsteady that it was a blessing nothing had broken. She supposed Mrs Blake still didn’t know, since she was not paying her any attention. It had to be the work of the Irish witch that the negative had been made into a portrait. That was not supposed to happen, not
before
it reached Sydney. It was just her miserable luck, and now her mother would never see it and Juliette would never know if it was
him
. But – Mr Blake, murdered! She supposed it was her fault, since she had some curse on her that caused people to die.

‘Juliette!’

Juliette had hardly noticed that the tea was spilling all over her hand, or that it was scorching hot. There wasn’t much in the cup, but the saucer was full of tea. She put the pot down. It was only a matter of time before Mrs Blake found out what she had done. Maybe Mr Dillon already knew – he seemed the type to know everything, and who’d ever heard of a newspaperman who could keep a secret?

‘Juliette.’

‘Yes, Mrs Blake?’

‘Is something wrong?’

She nodded. He might as well hear it too, and then he could judge for himself if she was wicked. She felt light-headed. Let them judge her. She was done with secrets.

‘Juliette?’ Mrs Blake prompted her. ‘Is it to do with Rhia?’

‘No. Yes. Oh, I don’t know!’ Black calico ballooned around her and her knees hit the floorboards with a crack. The man was by her side like he’d flown there, his hand beneath her elbow. She was surprised by the lightness of his touch. Maybe he was a witch too. He was Welsh, after all. Their eyes met and she wondered if he knew.

She was propelled to the Chesterfield but refused a cup of tea. She’d couldn’t tell them everything. She could not tell them she had stolen the negative – that she wanted her mother to see him, to identify him and tell the world that he was an evil man.

‘It’s to do with my pa.’

‘He died, didn’t he, in a dispute of some kind?’ Mrs Blake sounded so weary. Juliette only felt worse.

‘I was only wee, seven or eight. A young man who called himself John Hannam came to take his apprenticeship at our loom. He was a quiet sort, he never said much, but he knew how to talk nice. He was a quick learner, Pa said he was a clever one. He slept in the barn at night and worked all day, and he was on the town whenever he had a day off, up to no good.’

They were both listening quietly. Mr Dillon had narrowed his eyes, as though he thought she was saying something important. She noticed the fancy stitchery on his waistcoat.

‘Pa found a pile of banknotes hidden in the barn and asked John Hannam about it. Pa said he didn’t want a thief to cross his threshold. John Hannam turned nasty, said it was his business.’ The memory still turned her cold and made her anxious. It was as if she was back in their little cottage on the day everything turned bad. ‘He took the fire poker and struck Pa in the head then threw it across the room in a temper. It landed half in the fire. I was there, behind the loom, but they didn’t see me. John
Hannam walked away, just like that. I ran to the window to make sure he’d gone. He went to the barn and came out with a pistol. Pa couldn’t get up. I took the poker and waited at the door. When John Hannam walked in I struck at him on his forearm twice. I left a black burn, like a brand, the shape of a V. It would have left a scar. He shot Pa then he looked at me and I think he was wondering if he should kill me too. I wish he had.’

Mrs Blake’s fingers were at her lips. The Welshman was watching her closely.

‘John Hannam was never arrested?’ he said.

‘No, sir. He came from another county. The constabulary stopped looking for him after a few days, that’s the way it usually happens. Ma never stopped, though. She went to all the weaver’s taverns and found out that John Hannam had a friend he always drank with who was good with his letters. We found out after that the two of them had a racket going with banknotes. I’m not sure what sort of fiddling they did exactly. The constable reckoned their type had different names for different days of the week and that Hannam probably wasn’t his real name.’

‘And why did they think a man like John Hannam would want to be a weaver’s apprentice?’

‘They – the constabulary – said he might have wanted to learn the trade for his own reasons, or maybe he just wanted to look the respectable type.’

Mr Dillon nodded as though this made good sense. ‘Your mother was transported, wasn’t she?’ Juliette nodded. He probably thought she was lying because her mother was a thief.

Mrs Blake stood up. ‘The tea will be stewed,’ she said, as though this were the most important thing in the world.

Juliette jumped up but almost fell over. Mrs Blake pushed her back down firmly.

‘I’ll make another pot myself. I need to think.’

When she’d gone, Mr Dillon was still looking at her with those pitch black eyes.

‘Is there something else, that you’d rather Mrs Blake didn’t know?’

‘Yes, sir. I only
think
, though. I can’t be certain, so I can’t say.’

‘That … ?’

‘That one of them killed my pa.’

‘One of whom?’

He was going to make her say it! ‘One of the men in the picture, in the
negative
. My ma would know, if she could see him again. She’d recognise him. I was too young to remember for sure.’

He was nodding. ‘You took the negative, then? Because you think one of the men in the portrait is Hannam? But how did it get onto the ship?’

‘Margaret.’

‘Who?’

‘I visit the prisons with Mrs Blake. Margaret was in Millbank.’

‘And are you prepared to tell me which of the respectable gentlemen traders in the portrait might be John Hannam?’

‘It wouldn’t be right. It was a long time ago. I was only wee. I couldn’t. Not until I’m certain.’

Mrs Blake came in with the teapot. She looked like she might spill it as well if she tried to pour.

Juliette got to her feet. She didn’t belong here, sitting as though she were one of them. Nor could she answer any more questions. In the hallway she stopped and listened to their quiet conversation. Mr Dillon said the news about Laurence was a blow and that he could not think straight. He said they
must talk about Rhia, and Mrs Blake agreed that they must. She said the letter from Rio had only renewed her determination to have the little witch proven innocent. Of course, Mrs Blake would never call Rhia that. Much as Juliette disliked the Irish strumpet, even she didn’t think that Rhia Mahoney deserved to be sent away for ever.

Mr Dillon asked Mrs Blake to call on him soon in his offices, and she said that she would.

27 June 1841

It is too sultry to do anything much but sit in the shade of the sailcloth on the quarterdeck. Today a small breeze blew a path through the stifling air and cleared my head to write. I ran out of ink not long after São Sebastião, so I refilled my pen with Mr Reeve’s sepia. I have become rather a good thief, as it happens. I decided that I should write a letter to Michael Kelly, just in case he is still in Sydney.

The only respite since Rio came when we dropped anchor off the Cape of Good Hope, but that was weeks ago. Fresh water and new provisions were loaded, including a small herd of goats, but there was little to be seen from the deck but a rocky shoreline and a row of huts.

The orlop is noxious and Nora is in such a black mood that no one will go near her. Agnes says it’s Nelly’s baby that’s making Nora irritable.
Irritable!
Agnes confided that Nora lost three babes in five years, before they were weaned. Two to cholera and the other to the pox. It goes some way to explaining why she is such a harridan. Nelly’s little girl was born in the night more than two weeks ago. Nelly didn’t want Mr Donovan there, and from what I can gather, the entire mess partook in the delivery. I have no regret that I was absent. Margaret says she bellowed like a caged bear. But when I came for breakfast in the morning, there was Nelly, proud as a peacock, with the tiniest, pinkest little person wrapped up beside her in her hammock. It made me weep. I’ve no idea why. Her name is Pearl.

Margaret has been in the infirmary again, which seems commonplace now. She is no better and she is no worse. She
says she just needs to get off this bucket onto solid earth. She managed to escape Mr Donovan’s potions for long enough to come and see me last night, though.

Mr Reeve pretends at being my friend and I am pretending as well, just to have someone to talk to. Yesterday, though, I talked too much and regret it. I am now the illustrator of his botanical archive, which has become considerably more accurate since he laid down his pen. He has alluded that I might be of some use to him as an assistant when we arrive in Sydney, but he would have to pay for my upkeep if I were to continue in private service and I can tell that he is not pleased about this. I’d wager that he could not afford it, and I still wonder how he found the means to pay for his passage. I have gathered that his father is dead and that his mother takes in mending, so it could not be family money.

Yesterday I woke from a terrible dream in which Mr Dillon blamed me for Laurence’s death. I felt miserable about it all day and still do. When I took the glass stopper from the pot of sepia, a few drops fell on the clean cartridge paper. It was a minor catastrophe, but I wept all the same. Mr Reeve was at loss over such inconvenient behaviour. He offered a handkerchief and asked if there was something I wanted to talk about. I’ve no idea what came over me, because I told him everything – that I was acquainted with Laurence, and about the photogenic drawing and how it disappeared. He asked, quite rightly, what could be so important about this portrait that someone would kill for it? ‘The idea is perfectly insensible,’ he said. He managed to say this in such a way that he might have been talking about the death of a dung beetle.

Of course, I didn’t disclose the last piece of the puzzle –
that the portrait supposedly identifies a murderer. What if someone should think it was Ryan? The more I think about it, though, the more I wonder if Juliette is just all worked up over nothing. Mr Reeve seems fascinated by the idea of the portrait and suggested that the men might have a common enemy, and asked me if I could think of any other reason why someone might steal such a thing. I eventually lost my patience and told him I had been dwelling on little else for weeks, and that no I still couldn’t think of any reason. He is probably hoping to solve the mystery himself, but he is simply not clever enough.