3 Great Historical Novels (26 page)

Rhia lay in her hammock, pushing her hand against the wall to make it swing. It helped her to think.
If
her arrest was connected to Ryan’s death, then presumably someone wanted her out of London. Why, she did not know, nor why Juliette thought that one of the men in the portrait was a murderer, nor what her mother in Sydney might have to do with it.
Which
man did she think was a killer, and
who
had he killed? Possibly one of the dead men was the murderer and his own death an act of retribution. The more she thought, the more confused she became. She needed to talk to Laurence. But what if he asked her to marry him? It was a risk she’d have to take.

At least now she knew that her answer must be no.

She slipped from her cabin. The deck was silent and the moon huge. The ocean looked as black as pitch and she shivered as she remembered another part of the story of Manannán and Rhiannon. Manannán only allowed the lost land to rise from beyond the sea every seven years. Seven years was the length of her sentence.

She encountered no one as she crept along the back passageway Albert had shown her, but as she neared the galley the shadow of a man lengthened into the passageway. The cook had almost collided with her before she had time to retreat. He muttered something in his own language before he lifted his lantern and looked at Rhia.

‘You a prisoner, huh?’

She nodded, wondering if he would report her. The face illuminated by the lantern was gaunt and listless; his eyes strangely vacant. She had seen sailors in the port of Dublin that looked like this, who came in on the junks from Hong Kong or Canton. Nell the Fryer called China ‘the kingdom of the walking dead’. The spell of opium made it impossible for them to inhabit either the world of the living or that of the dead. Rhia waited for the cook to say something else, but he didn’t. He wore a faded, colourless tunic and wide-legged trousers and no shoes. On one skinny forearm was a small tattoo of a Chinese character. The character looked familiar. At his waist sagged a leather belt from which hung several canvas scabbards, and from them protruded the smooth wooden hilts of his cooking knives, too precious to leave unattended. After a moment of scrutiny, he turned his back on Rhia and disappeared.

Just as Rhia was silently congratulating herself on finding her way to the passenger deck, a figure blocked the deck in front of her. Another lantern was lifted and this time Mr Wardell’s face was illuminated. He didn’t look pleased. He peered at her for a moment before he recognised her.

‘Mahoney. You know that it is forbidden for prisoners to leave their quarters without permission.’

Rhia thought quickly. ‘Yes, I know, but Margaret Dickson has taken ill and needs the surgeon. I was looking for the infirmary.’

Mr Wardell’s eyes narrowed. ‘The infirmary is on the starboard side. I’ll fetch the surgeon myself. Please return to your cabin.’ Rhia did as she was told. She would not be able to see Laurence, and Margaret would probably deny that she had sent for help, but there was nothing to be done.

Rhia returned to her hammock, but sleep was impossible.
She sat up and lit a taper, then reached for her book. She found the calling card from Ryan’s room and examined the Chinese symbol. She knew though, before she even looked at it closely, that the character she had seen on the cook’s forearm was the same as the one on the reverse of the card. She put it back into the book and took out her pen.

The door opened, flooding the cabin with the rosy light of early morning. Laurence stood smiling at her. He must have known she’d been looking for him. Rhia sat up. ‘I wanted to talk to you,’ she said.

‘I thought so,’ he said.

‘One of the men in the portrait is a murderer.’

‘Ah.’

‘Is that all you can say!’

‘Rhia. I wanted to help you, but I don’t know how I can, now.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not sure that I love you anyway.’

‘I had wondered …’ He disappeared and the door closed. Rhia lay down again. At least she didn’t have to make a decision now.

Margaret was not in her hammock: so she’d played along with the infirmary story after all. Rhia was rostered with Nora to take all the bedding onto the poop deck, above the quarterdeck,
where the blankets were shaken out and aired once a week. Nora scowled when she realised that her companion was to be Rhia. She swung a sackful of bedding at her, almost bowling her over, then hauled her own bundle onto her broad shoulder as if it were a bag of feathers. They climbed the ladder without a word.

On the quarterdeck, half a dozen of the youngest seamen were on their knees in a line, tarring and caulking the timbers and quietly singing a shanty, alternating a solo and chorus. The language bore similarities to Irish, so it was probably Welsh or Manx. A cauldron of pitch was smoking on a huge brazier. The pitch, Albert said, kept the cracks between the decking sealed. The endless washing down of the timbers that Rhia had at first thought uncharacteristically clean and fastidious, also had a purpose. It kept the wood from shrinking in the equatorial heat. When the sea was calm ‘ventilations’ – variously called scuttles and ports – were opened in the hull so that the warm air could circulate throughout and dry out any parts that were damp and musty. Describing the area below decks as damp and musty was kind. It was, at best, rancid.

Several of the deck hands paused to watch Rhia and Nora pass, their eyes riveted to Nora’s imposing bosom. The singing stopped and a remark was made about cannon balls. A low laugh tripped along the line of boys. They had chosen the wrong woman. Nora dropped her sack on the deck and put her ham hands on her vast hips.

‘I don’t suppose you little sods have seen the glories beneath a woman’s petticoats, but if you’ve not the guts to look her in the eye, you’ll get nowhere near her bloomers.’ It wasn’t entirely true, but an impressive sermon all the same. Nora tossed her head and picked up her bundle, walking straight across the
decking that was being caulked, so the boys had to move out of her way.

When they reached the ladder to the poop deck, Rhia was laughing. She stole a glance at Nora who was also laughing. Their eyes met and, for the first time, Nora didn’t scowl at her. As they came to the top of the ladder and were at eye level with the upper deck, they heard low voices. Captain Ferguson and Miss Hayter were embracing. Someone coughed close by and they hastily pulled apart and retreated.

Albert poked his head out from behind a coil of rope. Nora sighed. ‘Is there no peace from bloody sailors? Go on, Mahoney, go see what the little squint wants.’

Albert was sitting with his back resting against the rope, whittling at a piece of wood with a short-bladed dagger.

‘Mornin’, Mahoney.’ Albert looked smug. ‘I expect ye’ll be wanting to get a message to your sweetheart?’

‘I do need to speak with him, as it happens. Would you see if he could visit me? Perhaps tonight?’

Albert grinned and kept whittling. ‘Could do.’

‘Albert, do you know if Margaret Dickson is in the infirmary?’

‘Aye. They took her in last night. Groaning and carrying on, she was.’ Albert shook his head. ‘I heard Mr Donovan say she’s got acute something-or-other and he’s tried castor oil, chalk mixture and sulphate of something-or-other.’

‘That’s very informative.’

Albert grinned. ‘I’ll go see your fancy man now. He likes to be up early – something to do with the light.’ He tipped his cap and disappeared down the hatch.

Before they had shaken out even half of the bedding, there was a burst of shouting, as if a squall was approaching. They leant over the railing to look down onto the quarterdeck where
the sailors who had been caulking were standing in a huddle listening to something that James, the gangly ship’s boy was telling them. In another moment James appeared on the poop deck. He looked frightened.

‘You’re to return to the mess immediately, captain’s orders.’

‘So now the captain’s ordering us about too,’ Nora muttered sullenly. They stuffed the blankets back in their sacks and heaved them down the ladders and steps to the orlop.

There was a hum of excitement as more and more women returned below from various early morning chores. A rumour was spreading that there would be no prayer service, which made it feel like a holiday, until Miss Hayter came below and the hatch was closed from above.

‘What’s all the fuss about, Matron?’ asked Agnes, as they collected around the table. No one seemed to know anything, not even someone who had been keeping company with the captain.

‘You’re all to be confined below for the day,’ Miss Hayter said calmly. ‘All that I can tell you is that a crime has been committed. Mr Wardell, Mr Donovan and Captain Ferguson are conducting enquiries.’

A moment later the hatch opened again and a pair of bare feet appeared, descending the ladder slowly, followed by a dirty hem. Margaret smiled wanly as she arrived at the bottom of the ladder, but wouldn’t look Rhia in the eye.

‘Are you a suspect, Dickson?’ asked Jane.

‘Suppose so. I’m just happy to be away from Mr Donovan’s stinking potions.’

They took out their last few strips of patchwork, even though the light was poor. They were only days off Rio, and the final quilt was almost completed.

Margaret looked like she wanted to get back into her hammock,
but she stayed at the table with the others. ‘I’ve had an idea,’ she said mysteriously, and paused tantalisingly for effect.

‘Come on, Dickson,’ snapped Nora, ‘let’s have it.’

‘In time, in my own sweet time. What I’m thinking is, since we’ve all benefited from the charity of the ladies in grey, why don’t we do something to show our appreciation?’

‘Oh yes,’ breathed Nelly. ‘But what?’

‘A quilt, but not a coverlet like the ones for Rio, a pretty one that they could hang somewhere, with writing on it, saying how much we’re grateful for their efforts.’

There was a chorus of approval.

‘That’s a fine idea, Dickson,’ said Miss Hayter. ‘I could even ask the governor’s wife to put it on the next ship back to London.’

‘Ask her to have it delivered to Mrs Blake,’ said Margaret, ‘she runs the Convict Ship committee. She visited many of us at Millbank.’ Miss Hayter nodded her approval. ‘I know Mrs Blake. We’ll start on it today. It would take our minds off … other things.’

‘I could start on the cross stitch,’ offered Margaret, ‘if we were allowed a lamp or two, Matron.’ The lamp oil was running low so it was now against the rules to light lanterns by daylight, but it may as well be night with the hatch closed.

‘Yes, Dickson, good point. You can’t be expected to stay down here all day in the dark.’

A few women started looked through their patchwork pieces for the pretty scraps they had been saving. Agnes remained sitting with her arms crossed, glowering, and both Georgina and Sarah had returned to their hammocks.

‘So this quilt isn’t for selling?’ Agnes snapped.

‘That’s right,’ Margaret retorted. ‘It’s a
gift
.’

‘Well, that’s a foolish idea if ever I heard one,’ grumbled Agnes. ‘What’s the point in that?’

Miss Hayter said she thought it might do to make a fancy border for the dedication in broderie perse, a type of appliqué made from cutting out a pattern from upholstery chintz and stitching it into place.

‘Has anyone chintz?’ she asked. If anyone had chintz, they were keeping quiet about it. It was expensive cloth and might do nicely, one day, to make into a throw for the back of an armchair, or to pretty up a cushion.

Rhia couldn’t bear for her chintz to be cut up and sewn into a quilt to be sent back to England.

‘We’ll need to think carefully about the design before we start,’ said Miss Hayter.

‘What if it were a medallion design,’ Rhia suggested tentatively, ‘concentric rows.’

Agnes rolled her eyes. ‘Oh shut your trap, Mahoney.’ She frowned. ‘What’s
concentric
anyway?’

‘Stripes in a circle, you fool,’ hissed Nora.

Miss Hayter was nodding. ‘Good, Mahoney. Splendid. If each of you sews one band, then we would have ten strips.’

They passed the time till lunch choosing prints and colours, and whatever was going on above decks was temporarily forgotten. This new quilt was going home. It had meaning.

They agreed that the strips of patchwork would radiate out from the central panel that bore Margaret’s dedication, like a medallion. Two of the strips would be much wider than the others and backed with plain linen and appliquéd with a simple flower motif with each petal sewn from a printed cloth. One of these wider panels would surround the centrepiece and the other would form the outer edge of the quilt.

Rhia took her patchwork and sat beside Margaret at the end of the table. At close quarters, Margaret looked tenser than she seemed at first. She was sewing so quickly that she had almost
stitched an entire letter before Rhia remembered that she had the negative in her apron pocket. She nudged Margaret with her elbow and passed it, beneath the table.

‘By the way,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you for the favour, Margaret, I hoped that you would understand.’

‘What favour. Understand what?’

‘I needed to have some reason for being on deck, so I said I was looking for the infirmary, and that you were ill.’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re on about. I
was
ill. I went to the infirmary just after you left the mess last night.’

If Margaret were already in the infirmary when Rhia encountered Mr Wardell, he would know she had lied.

Margaret bent her head over her stitching and whispered, ‘Albert fetched me from the infirmary, to say I was to be sent below. He was in a state.’ She drew in her breath. ‘Someone’s had the graveyard clay.’