A Tattooed Heart (16 page)

The next room was another bedchamber, decorated in a style a woman might favour. Henrietta's? If so, Sarah didn't blame her for not wanting to sleep with fat old Clement, though they'd obviously shared a bed on at least six occasions. She crept in and methodically checked behind each painting, then ran her hand down the back of
every moveable piece of furniture, but found nothing suggesting a hidden safe. That was all right — she hadn't really expected to find anything in Henrietta's chamber.

A narrow flight of stairs no doubt led up to the attic rooms where the female staff probably slept, but there'd be nothing up there. That left one more place to look on this floor — behind the closed door to her right. She grasped the smooth brass door knob and turned it, the retraction of the latch making a hell of a noise, to her ears at least. She froze, hearing murmurs then a muffled burst of feminine laughter from downstairs, but nothing else.

Opening the door inch by inch, she peered into the darkness, and was immediately assaulted by a particularly herbaceous and woody eau de cologne. Or was it hair oil? Blinking, she thought, God, Clement, a little less of that wouldn't do any harm. Poor Henrietta! Trying not to sneeze, she stood in the doorway till she was sure she was alone, then pulled the door almost closed behind her and waited while her eyes adapted to the pale moonlight slanting into the bedroom through the window.

Clement's bed was an enormous tall-poster with drapes, piled high with soft pillows and finished with a fancy comforter folded across the foot. Very luxurious. Sarah felt a terrible urge to jump on it, but refrained. Again, she checked behind the paintings, both bureaux and both nightstands, and slid her hand behind the massive clothespress. Nothing. Then she rolled both ends of the heavy carpet and swept her hands across the floorboards. Still nothing.

Shit.

She quickly checked that no one had come upstairs, then picked the locks on the drawers of a small writing desk beneath the window. Private letters, yes, but nothing mentioning Bella. Bugger, bugger, bugger.

Next she went through every drawer in the room — undergarments, hose, collars, cravats, gloves, handkerchiefs, waistcoats and shirts — followed by the clothespress, which held
nothing more interesting than trousers, coats, hats, shoes, boots and several wigstands.

Sod it. Clearly what she was after was downstairs, along with the two servants and, she was sure now, Clement himself.

Well, there was nothing for it; she'd have to go down there.

Slipping out of Clement's bedchamber, she closed the door behind her, dropped to a crouch and peered between the landing rails to the hall below. She saw no one but could still hear women's voices. Where were they: in the dining room, or out the back in the kitchen? Having done a quick circuit around the outside of the house when she'd arrived, she knew that downstairs were also a formal parlour, a sitting room and a library-cum-study. If Clement didn't keep his important papers upstairs, they were probably in the latter. She hadn't
seen
him when she'd snatched a glance through the window, but that didn't mean he wasn't in there.

Keeping close to the wall, she crept down the stairs, paused for a second on the bottom riser, then darted across the hall to the open doorway of what she thought was the study. Her back flat against the wall, conscious that she was sweating now and praying that none of the servants would appear in the annoyingly well-lit hall, she peeped into the library-cum-study.

And almost shat herself: Clement Bloodworth was sitting in a high-backed wing chair — which explained why she hadn't initially seen him — legs crossed, a book in his lap, staring straight at her.

Then she saw that his eyes were closed and realised he was probably dozing. Her heart pounding wildly enough to sicken her, she watched him for almost a minute — the gentle, fishy pout of his lips as he breathed out, the involuntary twitch of his right hand on the book — then, when she was certain he wasn't awake, she slipped silently into the room.

The fire was roaring away and immediately she began to sweat even more. Clement's own brow glistened and his slack face was bright pink. A half-full glass of amber liquid sat on an occasional
table beside his chair, together with a dish of shelled nuts, another of sugared bonbons, and a large wedge of cheese sweating as much as she was.

That'll explain your fat guts, Sarah thought as she headed for the nearest painting. There were three on the walls large enough to conceal a safe: a portrait of a po-faced old woman, another of a dreary-looking couple, and an obviously English landscape.

She looked behind two and just as she was lifting the last — nothing again! For God's
sake!
— Clement let out a piggy snore loud enough to jerk himself awake. Sarah ducked and flattened herself on the floor behind a desk in case he turned, but he was soon snoring again.

She lay thinking. If there wasn't a safe, the letter would probably be in a drawer, if it was anywhere in the house. But she was running out of time; one of those women was bound to come into the study sooner or later. She sat up and tried the desk. The two drawers at the top weren't locked so she ignored them — no one kept sensitive or important papers in an unlocked drawer — but the smaller pair at the bottom, on either side of the knee alcove, were. Opening her satchel, she got to work.

Finally, she found it, a single-page letter from Dr Neville Clayton to Clement Bloodworth.

31 May 1831

Dear Magistrate Bloodworth,

We have not met so I therefore beg your forgiveness for my impertinence, however I am writing to you regarding a matter of the utmost Scientific and Anthropological importance.

I am an Ethnologist, lately of Balliol College, currently undertaking research in the Antipodes, and last year I commissioned a Sydney businesswoman and her colleague, a Mrs Bella Shand and a Mr Jared Gellar, to obtain for
me several preserved and tattooed Maori heads for my Ethnographic collection.

Now, I am fully aware that this April Governor Darling issued a Government Notice in the
Sydney Gazette
declaring that the importation of preserved heads to New South Wales is now illegal. I most certainly, of course, do not view such items as mere ‘curios', and that is not why I commissioned Mrs Shand and Mr Gellar to obtain specimens for me. Indeed, the heads are essential to my research, which will be severely compromised should I not receive them.

The concern, as I expect you will comprehend, is the ‘shepherding' of the aforementioned heads through Customs and Excise, now that their importation has been banned. Here is my offer. I am willing to make a contribution of fifty pounds (notes enclosed) to a Sydney charity of your choice, in exchange for the unimpeded arrival of my heads. I am sure that a gentleman of your social and official standing, with no doubt a deep appreciation of the Sciences and the Knowledgeable Arts, will have the appropriate contacts to achieve this aim.

Please reply by return post to confirm that this arrangement is to your satisfaction.

I am, Sir,

Your Most Ob't Servant

Neville Clayton (Dr)

Sarah grinned as she carefully folded the letter and slipped it into her satchel. Aria was going to be thrilled to see this, but Bella wasn't. Got you, you bitch!

She locked the drawers again with her skeleton keys — no point advertising that someone had been ferreting around — then, after a quick glance at Clement to make sure he was still snoring away
next to his nuts and cheese, she crawled over to the window and pushed up on the sash. For a horrible second she thought it wasn't going to budge, but finally it did and she wriggled out through the gap into the cool night air and dropped noiselessly to the ground outside. Picking herself up, she padded around to the rear of the house, collected her boots and jacket from beneath a bush, and headed off to meet Friday and Aria on Windmill Street.

Harrie was waiting for them at the Siren's Arms.

‘Did you get it?' she asked eagerly the moment they walked into the foyer.

Friday nodded and put her finger against her lips. ‘Upstairs, my room.'

They passed Jack on the stairs, who tut-tutted. ‘Up to no good again, eh?'

Friday whirled on him. ‘What?'

‘I'm joking.' Jack's hands went up and he half laughed. ‘Jesus!'

‘You mind your own business,' Friday said.

‘When do I not?'

They all stared after him as he trotted down the stairs.

Harrie remarked, ‘That was a bit mean. He
was
only joking.'

‘Oh, he doesn't care,' Friday said as she opened the door to her room.

‘I can't stay long,' Harrie said.

Aria asked, ‘Why not? Is your husband a distrustful and jealous man?'

‘James? No. Charlotte's been grizzling all day over a new back tooth and no doubt she will at bedtime, too. Daisy's wonderful with her but, well, she'll only quieten for me when she's grumpy. Can I see the letter?'

Handing it over, Sarah caught Friday's eye and smiled. Harrie seemed tickled by her ability to settle Charlotte. Being a mother suited her — as, of course, they'd all known it would.

Harrie skimmed the letter. ‘This is perfect! You
are
clever, Sarah. When will we confront her? The sooner the better, I say. What about you, Aria? What did you want to do with the letter?'

‘I will let you, Friday and Sarah speak with her first,' Aria said graciously, which Sarah thought was a bit unexpected, as so far Aria wasn't proving to be a particularly gracious person at all.

‘Well, no, hold on,' she said. ‘That makes it sound like we can talk to her like rational people, but Bella Shand isn't rational. I think we should wait. I think we need to plan our approach and get it just right. We'll only have one chance.'

‘That's true,' Friday agreed. ‘Maybe we
should
wait. What is it they say? “Revenge is a pudding that tastes better old”? But wait for what, though?'

Harrie laughed. ‘You noodle. It's “Revenge is a dish that tastes better cold”.'

‘I like that,' Aria said thoughtfully. ‘I like it very much.'

‘I think the best thing to do is to wait till she makes her next demand for money,
then
we go and see her, show her this —' Sarah took the letter off Harrie and waved it ‘— and tell her we'll give it to the governor or to Francis Rossi if she doesn't stop blackmailing us.'

‘And
she'll
say she'll tell the governor or Francis Rossi we killed Gabriel Keegan,' Friday reminded her.

‘Naturally. But we've got proof she's been smuggling upoko tuhi after it was outlawed — in a letter addressed to the assistant police magistrate, no less. What proof has she got? Only her word,
after
we've pointed the finger at her. How's that going to look?'

‘True.'

‘Anyway, it's all we've got left, short of killing her,' Sarah said. In her opinion Bella Shand's demise would be the tidiest solution to the problem, but she wasn't a murderer, and neither were Friday and Harrie. Keegan had been different: yes, they'd kicked him to death, but that hadn't been murder, that had been payback, for
Rachel. Aria, though — she might have other ideas. ‘Your turn,' she prompted hopefully.

Aria said, ‘You want the Shand woman to stop blackmailing you, I seek utu for the theft of my uncle's upoko tuhi. We have one tool to use,' she pointed to the letter, ‘and, it
appears
, two different goals.' She paused. ‘Although, in truth, they may be one and the same. It will depend on which form of utu I choose. I may choose muru, the taking of the Shand woman's personal property as compensation. But I probably will not choose muru. The offence is too severe by far and the mana of my family has been greatly insulted. I am more likely to choose some form of taua to the home of the Shand woman —'

‘Hold on,' Sarah interrupted, ‘what's a “taua”?'

‘It is a —' Aria searched for a suitable translation ‘— a war party, a hostile expedition, sometimes resulting in the destruction of property, and sometimes in the taking of life.' Without a flicker of emotion, she added, ‘I believe I am favouring the latter.'

‘Aria, no!' Friday exclaimed. ‘You'll hang!'

Both elated and horrified, Sarah said, ‘You will, you know.'

‘Only if I am caught.'

Friday blurted, ‘It's just a dried-up old head, isn't it? And this Clayton cove
might
still have it. We could still get it back.'

A terrible silence fell. Aria's eyes narrowed to flashing slits and her top lip lifted to reveal the points of her eyeteeth. In a voice barely above a whisper but thick with suppressed anger she said, ‘An upoko tuhi is
not
a dried-up old head. An upoko tuhi is an
ancestor
, the beautifully preserved earthly remains of a nobleman who was a vigorous, brave and respected leader in life, and an object of supreme reverence to be treasured and worshipped. You do not
understand
. Upoko tuhi give spiritual guidance and inspiration to our warriors and chiefs, and solace to our widows and grieving families. They remind us of those who have gone before us, and of who we strive to become. They are the physical
connection between our dead and our living, our present and our past, and to take them from us and sell them as though they are no more than potatoes in a basket is the most hurtful and insulting of outrages.' She fixed Friday with a deeply disappointed expression. ‘I will forgive you this one time for your blasphemy, because you do not understand and you are my lover, but I do not expect you to utter such an affront ever again.'

Friday went very pink. ‘Sorry.'

‘I hadn't actually thought about it like that,' Harrie said. ‘What it might mean to you, having your uncle's head stolen.'