Girl of Shadows (22 page)

James said nothing for almost a minute. Outside several people walked past on Gloucester Street, boots scuffing in the gravel, voices merry and loud. Half a dozen moths fluttered around the lamp. There was a faint smell of whisky. Harrie knew it certainly wasn’t coming from her.

At last James said, ‘Harrie, I would like to apologise to you.’

Harrie blinked.

‘Regarding several matters,’ he went on, not quite meeting her eye. ‘Firstly, for my rude and pompous behaviour in Hyde Park. It has been brought to my attention that I have been guilty of passing judgment. And I have. I had, of course, no right to do that, and I apologise unreservedly.’

Harrie felt a huge rush of relief and, unexpectedly, a surge of good will towards James. ‘And I —’ It came out rather squeakily and she cleared her throat. ‘And I’m sorry for saying those horrible things. I don’t know what came over me. I’d had a little too much of Matthew’s wine and —’

James held up his hand. ‘Don’t. You don’t need to explain. It doesn’t matter.’

‘It
does
matter, James. I’m so ashamed of myself. I behaved no better than a common tart.’

‘It does
not
matter. And I haven’t finished.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I also wish to apologise to you for … for my actions after Rachel died. My behaviour then was utterly unforgivable.’

Harrie went very still; this was a matter she’d assumed they would never speak of again, and she certainly hadn’t imagined he would apologise for it.

He said, ‘I had to know, you see. I had to know
why
she died.
And I didn’t stop to think about what effect it would have on anyone else. Not even you. I understand how deeply it upset you and I’m so very sorry.’

Slowly, Harrie shook her head. Suddenly she felt far too warm, dizzy and quite sick. ‘But we know why she died. It was Gabriel Keegan, what he did to her on the
Isla
.’

James’s face was a picture of empathy. He reached to take her hand but she stood quickly, knocking over the stool, avoiding his touch.

‘No, Harrie, I believe she was suffering from hydatidosis, a disease likely caused by tapeworms, and she’d probably had it for years. She died from a cyst on the brain.’

Harrie’s eyes rolled up and she passed out; James caught her as she slumped to the ground.

He dashed to the door and bellowed for Mrs Barrett, then knelt beside Harrie, gently tapping her cheeks to revive her. She muttered incoherently, but remained in a deep faint.

He didn’t hear Nora Barrett approach, but certainly felt her stinging slap across the back of his head.

‘
What
have you done to her? Get your mucky hands off her!’

‘No, you don’t understand. She’s fainted.’

Nora lifted her hand again. ‘I’m warning you, mister, get away from her!’

James moved aside a few inches. ‘Do you have smelling salts? She’s fainted. I didn’t touch her. She had a bad shock.’

Harrie stirred. ‘James?’

Nora squatted beside her. ‘Harrie? Are you all right? Did he hurt you?’

Harrie slowly sat up and rubbed her hands across her face. ‘Who?’ What had just happened?

‘Him.’ Nora pointed accusingly at James. ‘What did he do?’

‘James?’ Harrie felt dreadfully confused. ‘Nothing. Why am I on the floor?’

‘You fainted,’ James explained.

Why was James here? And then Harrie remembered; she cried out, and clapped her hands over her mouth.

What had they done?
What
had she and Sarah and Friday done?

‘Harrie?’ Nora persisted. ‘Did he force himself?’

‘Yes! Yes, he did!’ Harrie wailed, recalling in awful, vivid detail how Rachel had looked after Keegan had finished with her on the
Isla
.

‘Harrie!’ James exclaimed, horrified.

‘Right, I’m getting the police,’ Nora declared.

Harrie felt a dizzying surge of panic roar through her. ‘The police? Why?’ Had she said something when she’d fainted? ‘No, please! Please don’t.’

‘You just said he attacked you!’ Nora said, standing.

‘I didn’t! Not James. He didn’t attack me.’

Nora looked from James to Harrie, and back to James again.

‘He didn’t,’ Harrie said again. ‘I’m sorry, I was confused.’

Dimly she was aware she had very nearly caused James an enormous amount of trouble, but that insight was swallowed by the horror of realising she’d committed the most hideous crime. She’d helped to murder the man they’d presumed responsible for Rachel’s death, and they’d made a terrible mistake. Keegan had raped and badly injured Rachel, but in the end he hadn’t killed her.

For the next few minutes, though, she had to pretend everything was fine. She offered her hand to James; he took it and helped her to her feet.

‘It’s all right, Mrs Barrett, really. James told me something about … Rachel’s death and it … shocked me. Truly, I’m feeling better now.’

‘For God’s sake,’ Nora said to James. ‘You chase her round the streets of Sydney Town for nigh on a year, and the first chance you get to talk to her properly you say something so horrible she faints!’

Looking sheepish, James said, ‘Yes, well, I didn’t realise she would receive the news in quite this manner.’

‘And what are you doing in George’s shop?’

‘I was hoping for some privacy.’

Nora turned to Harrie. ‘Well, you’re welcome to bring him upstairs. George has retired and I’m about to join him, providing I can get Lewis to settle.’

‘Thank you, but I should be on my way,’ James replied.

Nora nodded and left them to it.

James said, ‘I’m sorry what I had to say came as such a shock.’

Harrie picked up the lamp and carried it out to the foyer. Her hand was shaking badly and she hoped James wouldn’t notice. She felt as though she were stumbling about half asleep; everything seemed slightly blurred, muffled and too slow.

‘Yes,’ she heard herself say. ‘It did.’

‘May I call on you again?’

She hesitated. Had the deep rift in their friendship been mended? A lot of things still hadn’t been said. What about Rowie Harris? And did any of that matter now anyway, given what she’d just learnt? She didn’t deserve James. She didn’t deserve anyone.

‘If you want to,’ she said, hoping her misgiving wasn’t too obvious.

‘I’d be delighted. Can you manage the stairs?’

‘I think so.’

‘Good night then, Harrie.’

‘Good night, James.’

She closed the door after him and leant her head against it, the painted wood smooth against her clammy forehead.

Murderess.

She’d taken the life of a man who hadn’t deserved to die, and she would burn in hell.

After a while she trudged up the stairs to her little room in the attic, lit the lamp with hands that refused to steady and lay on her
bed, her head clamouring. It seemed to be crowded with people all talking at the same time: her mother and her siblings; her vindictive past employer Maude Lynch; Walter Cobley; rotten Amos Furniss; old Matilda Bain; James; Matthew; Bella Jackson; Leo Dundas; George and Nora; sanctimonious Reverend Seaton from the
Isla
. On and on they all went, chatter chatter, their voices getting louder and louder, struggling to be heard above one another until she couldn’t stand it any longer.

‘Stop it, please!’ she hissed. ‘Just shut up, all of you!’

They did.

She rose and washed her face. She changed into her nightdress, said her prayers, extinguished the lamp and climbed into bed.

And lay there for over an hour in the dark as one by one the voices began again. And this time when she told them to be quiet, they wouldn’t.

She got out of bed once more, relit the lamp and draped her shawl around her shoulders. Reaching for her drawing pad and pencils, she settled down to sketch. She was halfway through a stylised rendition of a bat on the wing, the membranes between the delicate arm bones enhanced with a fantastic pattern of curlicues, spirals and tendrils. These she would colour the greens, reds and purples Leo used in his tattoos. The bat’s round eyes she would shade a vivid cornflower blue.

The flame in the lamp flickered, dimmed, then flared again. Shivering slightly at the room’s drop in temperature, she pulled her shawl tighter.

‘I know you’re there,’ she said after a while, eyes still on her work.

There was no reply, but often there wasn’t, just the faintest of creaks from the rocking chair and perhaps a vaporous hint of her own breath condensing in the cooler air.

‘James came to visit tonight. He said he was sorry, especially about what he did after you … left us.’ She selected the pencil she
used for shading, the one with the softer lead. ‘Did you know? About what was wrong with you?’

Again, only the gentle squeak of the chair and a thin whistle of night wind under the eaves.

Harrie sighed and finally raised her head. ‘I wish so much you were here.’

She’d learnt that if she stared directly into the darkest corner of the room, at the rocking chair under the sloping roof, all she might ever see was the faintest smudge of light. But if she looked instead on an angle, from the corner of her eye, there she would be, her long silver hair falling loose and her skin as pale as the moon.

‘I am here,’ Rachel said, her voice flat and echoing, sounding as though it came from unimaginable distances.

‘No, I mean the way we used to be,’ Harrie replied. ‘Together again.’

‘I’m as here as I can be.’

Harrie nodded. ‘I know, and I’m glad. I really am.’ She was silent for a second, then said, ‘Rachel, we killed him for no reason. We took his life and we shouldn’t have.’

The chair gave another creak. A
thoughtful
sort of creak, it seemed to Harrie.

‘Shouldn’t you?’ Rachel said. ‘Why not? He deserved it.’

‘But did he? I know what he did to you was just awful, but what we did was more than an eye for an eye.’

‘No. It wasn’t. Think about it.’

Harrie dropped her pencil and her hands crept up to cover her ears. ‘I can’t
stop
thinking about it.’ But she heard what Rachel said next anyway, because the words seemed to come from inside her own head.

‘Harrie, I died having Charlotte. Who was Charlotte’s father?’

‘Gabriel Keegan was.’

‘So he did kill me. See? An eye for an eye.’

‘But the thing in your brain … You were so sick. Your headaches and those terrible fits.’ Surely Rachel, even as she was now, couldn’t have forgotten all that?

‘It would have been all right if I hadn’t had to push Charlotte out. And who made me pregnant, Harrie?
Who was Charlotte’s father?
’

Slowly, Harrie’s hands came down. ‘Oh, Rachel. Do you really think so?’

A knock came at the door and Nora Barrett called from the other side, ‘Harrie? Are you all right?’

Harrie got off the bed and opened the door.

‘Is everything all right?’ Nora asked again, Lewis balanced on her hip. ‘I was feeding the baby and I thought I heard you talking.’

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Harrie said. ‘I’ve been drawing.’ Then, to her absolute mortification, it occurred to her that Nora might think James was in her room. ‘There’s no one in here. You can look.’

‘Don’t be silly. I was worried you were having a nightmare. But if you’re sure you’re well?’

‘Yes, I am, thank you.’

Nora nodded doubtfully. ‘Well, I’ll see you in the morning, then.’

‘Good night.’ Harrie closed the door and turned back to the rocking chair, but Rachel had gone.

Christmas Eve 1830, Sydney Town

Christmas Eve had fallen on a Friday, and many street stalls and shops had advertised they were remaining open for business even later than usual, hoping to cash in on the festive spirit. Everyone seemed to be abroad, the steep and narrow streets of the Rocks crowded with locals determined to enjoy themselves. The pubs were packed and noisy even though the sun had not yet set, windows and doors flung wide to catch the late afternoon breezes off the harbour, and shrieking children with filthy bare feet chased each other up and down alleyways and through dank courtyards.

Matthew had made it to the Bank of New South Wales on George Street just in time. He shot under the elegant archway framing the entrance portico just on closing and hurried up to the clerk, dumping his heavy satchel on the counter.

The clerk looked annoyed.

‘Good afternoon,’ Matthew said, slightly out of breath. ‘I’d like to open an account.’

The clerk made a point of withdrawing his watch from his pocket and examining it, but said, ‘Certainly, sir. Have we had the pleasure of your custom previously?’

‘You have.’

‘And with whom am I conversing?’

Pompous twit, Matthew thought. Surely ‘What’s your name?’ would do. ‘Matthew Cutler.’

As the clerk turned his back and flicked through a wooden box containing a series of cards, Matthew glanced over his shoulder at Friday, standing just outside the entrance, looking on.

‘Mr Matthew Geoffrey Raymond Cutler? Of Princes Street?’

‘Correct.’

‘I note you currently hold one bank account with us already.’

‘Yes, that’s right. And now I’d like another one.’ Matthew opened the satchel and drew out the pouch containing the Charlotte fund. ‘I think you’ll find two hundred and forty-one pounds, seven shillings and thruppence, all in English currency. I’ll need a receipt, thank you.’

The clerk looked deeply insulted. ‘We
never
receive monies without issuing a corresponding receipt.’

‘Good. Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I wonder if you could hurry up? I’m due at the governor’s soirée, and you know what he’s like when you turn up late.’ It wasn’t true, but Matthew felt like putting the man in his place.

‘Oh! Of course. I do beg your pardon.’

The clerk whizzed through the paperwork and handed Matthew his documents. ‘As you have Governor Darling’s ear, you might care to comment on what excellent service is to be had at the Bank of New South Wales. Have a wonderful evening, Mr Cutler.’

‘Thank you. I most certainly will.’

Outside, Friday said, ‘All organised?’

‘Yes.’ Matthew gave her the papers. ‘But I’m still not sure why Harrie couldn’t come. Is she avoiding me?’

‘No. She’s not feeling well.’

Harrie had in fact told Friday she didn’t want to see Matthew. She felt deeply ashamed now of taking advantage of him, and was extremely embarrassed about getting drunk and vomiting on him.

In Friday’s opinion, the sooner Matthew forgot about Harrie and found himself another girl, the better.

Matthew said, ‘I know she and James have … settled their differences. James told me.’ Friday was striding along the street, dodging potholes and piles of horseshit, and he almost had to trot to keep up. ‘And, well, I’m happy for them. Really, I am. So you can tell me if she
is
avoiding me.’

‘You talk a lot, don’t you?’ Friday said. ‘She’s
not
avoiding you. She really isn’t well.’ She halted suddenly and Matthew only just stopped himself from barrelling into her. ‘Maybe you don’t know Harrie well enough to realise it, but there’s something wrong with her. And I’m only telling you this because obviously you care about her. That business in the park? The swearing and everything?’

‘She told you?’

‘What she could remember, she did.’

‘God, I feel dreadful about that.’

‘Not your fault.’ Friday gave him a look. ‘Well, not
entirely
. Anyway, that’s not Harrie at all. She’d never’ve done that in her right mind. And she never drinks. She’s right out of kilter and me and Sarah are very worried.’

‘What can I do to help?’

‘You already have, opening that bank account. That’s one less thing for her to fret about. And you’re still happy to do our banking once a week?’

Matthew nodded. ‘Though I’m not sure I understand where all the money will be coming from.’

‘You don’t need to.’

‘Well, if there’s anything else I can do, please tell me,’ Matthew said. ‘She might have chosen James, but I can still be her friend.’

Friday said thoughtfully, ‘You know, to start with I thought you were pretty useless, but you’re not really, are you? You’re quite nice.’ She pecked him on the cheek, making him blush. ‘Well, I’m off to
work. Mrs H is closing early tonight. Says cullies should be with their families on Christmas Eve, not out trawling brothels. Ha!’

She waved goodbye and hurried off down the street. Matthew wandered along until he came to a stationer’s. He needed to buy some writing paper. He hadn’t written to his mother for a fortnight and he must, or she would automatically assume the lack of correspondence was the result of him being struck down by a fatal disease, murdered by ne’er-do-wells, or eaten by natives or dingoes.

What was it, he wondered, that was so distressing Harrie?

‘How are you bearing up?’ Adam asked.

Sarah glanced at him and, though she made an effort not to, she smirked.

‘Will you stop that?’ Adam said wearily. It
had
been funny to start with, but now he just felt sick with nerves.

‘Sorry, Grandpa.’

It was all right for her. Apparently in London she’d been accustomed to going about in various costumes in the course of executing her scams, but he certainly wasn’t. All he’d ever done on the wrong side of the law had been to purchase the odd piece of stolen jewellery. Well, quite a lot of pieces of stolen jewellery, and loose stones, and once even two gold ingots, if truth were told. And some gold and silver plate, and on one memorable occasion a stunningly engraved, solid silver altar suite consisting of a chalice with paten, flagon, ciborium and monstrance stolen from a Catholic church up north, though he’d had that melted down fairly quickly. But he’d not done anything illegal at all in Australia until Esther had run off, and he’d never been involved in anything like
this
before, anywhere.

Sarah had gone out and bought a horsehair wig, the sort old men still favoured, to be accompanied by a fake beard, moustache and muttonchops that looked as though they’d been fashioned from the hair of an elderly white goat. The glue with which she’d stuck
the damn things to his face was itching like hell, but he had to admit he barely recognised himself in the looking glass. His rather heavy eyebrows were black, the same as his real hair, but by the time Sarah had rubbed into them the white starch powder she’d purchased for the wig, together with just the lightest dusting over his already pale skin, he looked a good thirty-five years older than his true age, which was thirty.

He’d hired an unliveried gig for the evening, one with a folding hood, which was currently up to hide them from the glances of curious folk on the street, and there were hundreds of those tonight.

‘Could we have picked a worse evening?’ he grumbled to Sarah as they made their way along narrow and potholed Cumberland Street, the horse stopping endlessly to let folk wander across the road. ‘Look at all these people.’

‘It’s the best time, a busy night,’ Sarah said. ‘Folk everywhere means we won’t be remembered. And it’ll be dark soon, with cloudy skies and the moon in the first quarter. A burglar’s moon, it’s called — just enough light to see by, but dark enough to hide in the shadows. Couldn’t ask for better conditions for a night out thieving.’

Earlier he’d been that worried about something going wrong he’d come close to losing his nerve and telling her she wasn’t to go ahead with it. But then she’d come prancing down from her room wearing a pair of boy’s black trousers stretched taut across her beautiful shapely backside and revealing several inches of bare calf, a dark shirt with the sleeves removed showing off her lovely naked arms, little black lace-up boots, and her sleek hair in a long plait hanging down her back.

Christ almighty, he hadn’t known where to look! He’d developed an erection immediately and had to put one of Esther’s appliquéd cushions over it. Sarah, though, had wandered casually around the house as though she wore such outlandish costumes every day, apparently not even noticing his discomfort. Fortunately. He’d had
to endure it for a whole hour. If she stood with her back to him he was treated to the majestic vision of her rounded buttocks flaring beneath her hips; if she was in profile he got the curve of her bum
and
the lines of her taut thighs; and if she faced him directly he could clearly see where the fabric of the trousers followed the
very
feminine contours of her body at the juncture of her legs. He’d barely been able to contain himself, and felt no less physically frustrated now despite his nerves, the only difference being that his balls ached.

At last they neared the home of Mr and Mrs Phillip Tregoweth, the horse’s iron-shod hooves crunching in the sparse gravel littering the unpaved street, which here, at the end of Cumberland, opened out into a wide cul-de-sac. Perched on the pinnacle of Bunker’s Hill the house was quite grand, and commanded a view of Sydney Cove, the town and the Domain; in fact, of the entire harbour and the Parramatta River as it snaked inland. It was also, from a burglar’s point of view, somewhat exposed, and flanked by slightly smaller though still very elegant homes. A house on the other side of the street featured an ostentatious pond and statue in its garden — and two large brindle dogs staring menacingly through the fence.

‘That must be Bella’s house,’ Sarah remarked.

‘Who’s Bella?’ Adam asked.

Appalled at herself for such an unthinking slip, Sarah darted a look at him. ‘Someone Friday’s boss knows.’ She’d said nothing at all about Bella Jackson to Adam, too afraid he may possibly connect her stealing from him with what he might know of Bella’s nasty business practices, and inadvertently half guess the blackmail part of her secret.

The Tregoweths’ house was a long, cream-coloured bungalow with a verandah on all sides, its two wings bisected by a looming and somewhat incongruous two-storey pavilion featuring ornamental rectangular columns and a gable. Like several of the neighbouring properties, the Tregoweths’ house was surrounded
by an iron fence, interrupted by a carriage gate and a hand gate, both at present closed. In the back garden stood an ancient fig, currently boiling with hundreds of bats, chattering, squawking and bitching at one another as they prepared to set out for the night in search of food.

‘Off you go,’ Sarah said to Adam.

He felt his buttocks clench with nervous anticipation, but handed her the reins and climbed down from the gig; there wasn’t time to waste. Feeling his fake moustache to make sure it was on straight, he went through the hand gate, approached the front door and tugged on the bell pull.

Eventually, the door was opened by a girl wearing a grey dress, a white apron and a lace house cap.

‘Evening,’ she said.

‘Good evening,’ he replied, doing his best to sound like a sixty-five-year-old man. ‘I’d like to speak with Mr Phillip Tregoweth, if you please.’

‘Sorry, sir, he’s gone to the governor’s ball.’

‘Oh dear. And must I assume Mrs Tregoweth has accompanied him?’

The girl nodded.

‘Nobody home at all?’

‘Just me and Mrs Bunyard, but she’s going over to her friend’s for the night. It’s Christmas Eve, you know.’

‘Mrs Bunyard?’

‘The cook.’

‘Ah. But you’ve not been given the night off?’

The girl’s bottom lip came out. ‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Oh. What a shame.’ Adam turned away. Then he said, ‘You don’t know when they expect to return home, do you?’

The girl shrugged. ‘Probably not late. No doubt her’ll get one of her bad heads and have to come home early.’

‘Oh well. At least their driver will be pleased.’

‘
He’s
got the night off, too. Mr Tregoweth took the curricle. Fancies his driving skills.’ She gave a tiny snort of derision.

‘Does he? How extraordinary.’ Adam raised his hat and had a horrible, bum-clenching moment when he thought his wig might have come off. ‘Good evening, then. And Merry Christmas!’

‘Merry Christmas to you, too, sir,’ the girl said, and shut the door.

Climbing back into the gig, Adam swore.

‘What?’ Sarah asked.

‘There’s one servant in the house tonight, a girl. I think she’s a bit cross about not getting the night off. When Mrs Tregoweth wakes up tomorrow and finds her jewellery gone, the finger could very well be pointed at her.’

‘Bugger,’ Sarah said.

Adam wheeled the horse around and they trotted off back towards the southern and less salubrious end of Cumberland Street, then turned. It was fully dark now, and even more folk had ventured out.

‘Stop,’ Sarah ordered. ‘This will do.’

She undid the clasp at the neck of her cloak and let it pool around her on the seat of the gig. She was wearing a boy’s jacket and across her body she’d slung her burglary satchel, containing Congreves matches and a candle, her skeleton keys and safe-cracking tools, lemon and menthol lozenges to stave off inconvenient coughing fits, and crystallised fruit for sustenance in case she found herself caught inside the house for any length of time. Some house-breakers carried dried meat but, really, what a stupid thing to have on you when so many people kept dogs! It had been nearly two years since she’d done anything on this scale and while she wasn’t exactly nervous, she was fervently hoping she hadn’t lost her edge.

‘Right,’ she said, shoving a cap on her head and tucking her plait under it. ‘I’m off. Wish me luck.’

Adam cupped a hand behind her neck, pulled her to him and kissed her, their lips meeting furrily through his drooping moustache.