A Tattooed Heart

by Deborah Challinor

  Map

  Dedication

  For my great-nephew, Oscar Jack Anderson

  Contents

  Map

  Dedication

  Part One Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Part Two Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Part Three Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Author’s Notes

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Deborah Challinor

  Copyright

  Part One

  Out where the wild dogs chorus nightly —

  That’s where the dead men lie!

  Chapter One

  July 1832, Sydney Town

  Friday Woolfe, Sarah Green and Harrie Downey were just about to cross George Street when a funeral procession approached on its slow journey to Devonshire Street cemetery, stopping traffic and turning heads. It was a grand affair, but then it would be: Clarence Shand had been a wealthy man.

  Leading the cortege were six grim-faced mutes walking two abreast, the brisk winter wind snatching at trailing hatbands and the black crepe draping their tall staffs. Then came the hearse, a gleaming, jet-lacquered vehicle enclosed by costly plate glass etched with gold, and drawn by four horses as dark as night and bedecked with black ostrich plumes. The widow, Mrs Bella Shand, sat alone and resplendent in the mourning coach following the hearse, wearing a pitch-coloured gown of the finest bombazine and a hat fitted with a veil studded with tiny jet beads.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ Friday said bitterly from the footway. ‘It should be bloody Bella in that coffin, not faggoty old Clarence. And look at all those mutes. They’d have cost a fortune.’

  As well as the half dozen mutes leading the procession, ten more walked alongside the hearse and Bella Shand’s coach in black cloaks, hats, sashes and gloves, all provided by the undertaker. Contrary to their job title, these mutes wailed and howled, Deborah Challinor demonstrating their grief for Clarence Shand, a man whom, in all likelihood, they’d never met.

  Sarah said, ‘Adam heard he died of a heart attack.’

  Friday snorted. ‘I bet bloody Bella poisoned him.’

  ‘No, it was a heart attack,’ Harrie said. ‘James was saying last night he knows the doctor who signed the death certificate.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Apparently he died at Bella’s brothel. With a boy.’

  Sarah laughed. ‘Whoops. That’s a bit embarrassing.’

  ‘Only if it gets out,’ Harrie said.

  ‘Well, it has, hasn’t it?’ Friday smirked. ‘We know.’

  Sarah said, ‘It won’t get out. Bella knows who to pay off and she can certainly afford to now. Christ, look at all these carriages.’

  The cortege was still passing, though now it consisted of approximately two dozen carriages occupied only by drivers, as it was not the fashion for the wealthy and upper classes to attend funerals in person. To send one’s empty vehicle was considered tribute enough.

  It was Sarah’s turn to smirk. ‘Poor Clarence,’ she went on. ‘She’s really let him down and I bet she doesn’t even realise it.’

  Friday frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, all these carriages mean Sydney’s rich folk are paying Clarence their respects, but Bella’s lowered the tone by hiring, what, sixteen mutes? No truly classy funeral would have that many. Two, or maybe four, but this is just vulgar. Her pedigree is definitely showing.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Her breeding, or lack of it. You can tell where she really comes from.’

  ‘Oh.’ Friday thought about that for a moment. Ever since they’d had the misfortune to know her, Bella had had money, and, these days especially, she spent a lot of it on her appearance and surrounding herself with expensive things. Friday had almost forgotten she belonged to a criminal underclass not renowned for elegance or style. ‘I suppose. Silly bitch. Well, I’m going to the burial ground. I want to see where Clarence gets planted.’

  ‘You mean you want to gloat at Bella,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Doubt it. She won’t give a shite about Clarence going belly up. More chink for her.’

  ‘Well, keep out of sight. If she sees you, it’ll only remind her she hasn’t put the screws on us lately.’ Sarah took her watch out of her pocket. ‘Christ, I need to get back. Adam’ll be wondering where I am. I said I was only coming out for an hour.’

  The last empty carriage went past, the crowd dispersed and the stalled traffic began to move once more.

  ‘I need to go, too,’ Harrie said. ‘Charlotte threw an almighty tantrum when I left the house without her. She’ll be thinking I’ve abandoned her.’

  ‘I thought she’d got past all that?’ Sarah said.

  ‘She has. But she’s still just a baby. We’re into the terrible twos now.’

  ‘Rather you than me,’ Sarah said with heartfelt sincerity.

  Harrie smiled. ‘Oh, I think it’s quite sweet, really.’

  ‘Only you’d think a shrieking, spitting, bad-tempered little troll was sweet.’

  ‘She is not a troll.’

  ‘She is sometimes.’

  ‘Right, you lot, I’m off,’ Friday declared.

  ‘Well, be careful,’ Sarah said again. ‘Hide behind a tree or something.’

  Walking away, Friday flapped a dismissive hand. There weren’t any trees in Devonshire Street cemetery, well, no big ones, but there were some just beyond the perimeter wall. She’d loiter there.

  She tagged along behind the slow-moving funeral procession, glad she was wearing her comfortable black boots. It was quite a walk up George Street to the burial ground — nearly as far as Ultimo. Also, it was a windy day and, going down the long hill on the south side, where George Street turned into Brickfield Hill, a sharp breeze picked up the brickworks’ red dust, ever-present except during all but the heaviest of rains, and blew apparently most of it into her face. She wrapped her shawl around her mouth and nose and yanked down the brim of her hat. As always, the cattle market gave off an eye-watering stink and dung clogged the road outside its pens and paddocks, but she trudged on, ignoring the temptations of the Old Black Swan, the Dog and Duck and the Wheat Sheaf hotels. The odour changed to the sharper tang of horse and bullock shit mixed with hay as she passed the carter’s barracks on the corner and turned onto Devonshire Street, where she ducked through a lychgate and into the cemetery itself, forgetting about hiding behind the trees.

  A long row of carriages sat parked along the cemetery wall, their drivers smoking pipes, chatting to one another or sneaking sips from hip flasks. After Clarence Shand was buried, they would return to their masters and mistresses and report that etiquette and propriety had been suitably observed. The mutes had disappeared, probably into the pubs Friday had so virtuously resisted.

  The hearse, she’d noted, was empty. As it started to rain, she crept through a field of headstones and flat ledger stones towards a small knot of people in the distance. Choosing a particularly tall headstone, she ducked down behind it. There was a fresh chip missing from the sandstone — someone had been a bit clumsy with the grass scythe. Peering out, she saw to her surprise that Clarence was about to be lowered into a grave in the Roman Catholic section of the cemetery. Fancy that. Only Bella stood at the graveside, her live-in house servants Becky Hoddle and Louisa
Coutts hovering some feet away, looking suitably sober in black.

  The priest was speaking, waving his hand theatrically over the coffin as the gravediggers lowered it jerkily into the yawning hole. There was a faint splash as it landed in a puddle left by the previous evening’s downpour.

  Crouching on the sparse grass as rainwater trickled irritatingly down her neck, Friday wondered why, really, she’d come. She quite often wasn’t very good at working out why she did things. She wanted, she supposed, to see Bella show a flicker of sentiment, and preferably for it to be grief or pain. God knew she inflicted enough pain on other people. Just once, it would be so satisfying to see her keen, or cry, or even just look sorry about something. But her veil was still lowered, and for all Friday knew she could be grinning her head off. She probably was. Her marriage to Clarence Shand had been one of convenience so she’d hardly be heartbroken at his passing. Also, she was fantastically wealthy now and, according to gossip, Clarence had recently ‘bought’ her a ticket of leave, which meant she could do more or less as she pleased.

  It wasn’t fair. Bella Shand was a nasty, evil, blackmailing bitch who didn’t deserve any of it, and Friday hated her guts.

  The wind changed and she caught the priest’s final petition: ‘May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.’

  Bella took a shovel and unceremoniously dumped a heap of soil onto the coffin, then turned to Louisa for a handkerchief to wipe off her black gloves. The priest crooked his elbow, which Bella ignored, and they headed back to the lychgate, Becky and Louisa trailing behind.

  Friday crouched even lower — they passed quite near her hiding place — and almost had a heart attack when the priest said, ‘One moment, if you please, Mrs Shand.’

  They stopped.

  ‘I realise that Mr Shand’s passing was sudden and must be a terrible shock for you, but have you given any thought to the erection of some sort of memorial monument? I can recommend several good stonemasons.’

  Bella finally lifted her veil and tucked it into the band of her hat, revealing perfectly dry, kohl-rimmed eyes. ‘No. That is not something I’ve had the time to consider.’

  ‘May I suggest, then, that you choose something behoving your husband’s prowess as a businessman and his standing in the community?’

  Friday thought, behoving? What the hell does that mean, you stuck-up little shite?

  The priest made a sweeping gesture with his arm. ‘Why not leave these parsimonious headstones to the Quakers, the Presbyterians and the Wesleyans? It would be a fine thing, I believe, to memorialise your husband’s passing, and at the same time celebrate the glory of the Catholic faith, by commissioning something at least a little grand. Something that will perhaps reflect your status now as Mr Shand’s widow, and a very wealthy woman in your own right. After all, we can’t let ourselves be outdone by the Anglicans, can we?’

  You cunning article. Friday shifted slightly to ease the cramp in her calf.

  ‘Is that so, Father?’ Bella said, her voice taking on an irritated edge the priest possibly didn’t know her well enough to recognise. ‘And what would you consider appropriate?’

  ‘A sculpted monument, perhaps. Or a finely carved chest tomb?’

  ‘Perhaps. I’ll think about it.’

  They moved away then, much to Friday’s relief — her leg was killing her. She could stretch but didn’t dare stand until Bella, Louisa and Becky had been driven away in their hired carriages.

  A chest tomb? You could pack twenty dead Clarences into one of those. Then she remembered that the corpse usually went in the ground, leaving the tomb above it empty.

  And that gave her an idea.

  Harrie went straight home after she left Sarah and Friday. She was due at the Barrett household at two o’clock to assist Nora with a gown she was working on, but wanted to make sure that Charlotte had had her dinner and a proper rest before they went. Home was now on Hunter Street, as James had bought a much larger house in April and rented out the cottage. Harrie thought the new place was far too big, but James had insisted.

  It had five bedrooms, for a start. The house was lovely, but why on earth did they need five bedrooms? She and James had one, and Daisy Miller, their housegirl, slept with Charlotte in another they referred to as the nursery, which left three more for Daisy to dust and sweep every day for no reason. And there were also a parlour and a sitting room, a shelf-lined study for James, a dining room, a proper kitchen directly attached to the rear of the house, a laundry with a huge copper, a storeroom, plenty of cupboards, a cellar, and a small carriage house with adjacent stables. A wide verandah ran along the front of the house, down one side and halfway round the back. From the back verandah you could glimpse Sydney Cove, and the view was even better from the bedrooms upstairs. The wife of the shipbuilder from whom James had bought the property had clearly put time and effort into the garden, and Harrie was looking forward to spring when the bulbs, shrubs and trees flowered. Angus the cat also appreciated the big garden. Judging by the detached body parts — heads and so forth — he was leaving on the verandah, the yield of mice, birds and lizards was far more bountiful than at the York Street property.

  They’d not had enough furniture to fill the place and she and James had gone on a spending spree soon after they’d moved in, buying sofas and chests and carpets and wash stands and clothespresses and all sorts of bits and pieces. Harrie had never seen so much money spent in her life. James had even bought furniture for the spare bedrooms — ‘Best to be prepared should we receive guests,’ he said.

  Some days she wandered from room to room, wondering just how she’d arrived at such an elevated position. Her home in London for years had been a tiny, dingy tenement with a single window, shared with her three younger siblings and her ailing mother. No matter how much she’d dared to dream then, she had never, ever imagined she would end up living in a house like this, never mind married to the man who owned it.

  She’d paid a price for it, of course. She’d lost her sanity. But James — lovely, decent, steadfast James — and Sarah and Friday had saved her, and that was behind her now. The voices in her head and the dreadful, crushing guilt had gone, and her mind was her own again.

  Rachel Winter had gone, too, and Harrie missed her, and if she were truly honest, she’d admit that behind her frequent wanderings was the hope of catching sight of her. Rachel had appeared in the little attic room Harrie had occupied in Nora and George Barrett’s house, and in James’s cottage, and she yearned for a glimpse of silver-white hair, a snatch of that odd, flat whisper, or even just the drop in temperature that told her Rachel was near. But there had been nothing. She seemed to have gone for good. Perhaps, Harrie had lately conceded, it really was time now for her to get on with life with James and Charlotte.

  Unfortunately, Bella Shand hadn’t gone, and neither, Harrie suspected, had Jonah Leary. But she was so much stronger now than she had been even just a few months earlier, and she knew that whatever happened next, she would manage. She wasn’t quite the same Harrie Clarke who’d arrived in Sydney in 1829, but, like an animal hide that had been vigorously soaked, scraped, stretched and tanned, she’d become more resilient.

  In a funny way, love had cured her. The love of Friday and Sarah, and of Nora, Leo and Charlotte, and most of all, James. Honestly, it all would have been a lot easier if she’d married him years back.

  Having spent four hours in her favourite pub, the Bird-in-Hand, it was almost dark by the time Friday staggered back to the Siren’s Arms hotel. She made her way unsteadily along the alleyway connecting the pub to the brothel on Argyle Street, determined to speak to Elizabeth Hislop.

  She knocked on Elizabeth’s office door, didn’t wait for an invitation, and barged in.

  ‘I’ve had the cleverest idea,’ she blurted.

  ‘Good evening, Friday. Please, do come in,’ Elizabeth said tartly.

  ‘Ta.’ Friday flopped into a chair.

  Elizabe
th fanned her face theatrically. ‘For God’s sake, girl, have you been in the pub all day?’

  ‘No, just the afternoon. I was at the burial ground before that, watching old Clarence Shand get planted.’

  ‘You take some risks, don’t you? I can’t think of anything more likely to irritate Bella.’

  ‘Don’t worry, she didn’t see me.’ Friday leant urgently forwards, almost fell off her chair and grabbed wildly at the edge of Elizabeth’s desk. ‘Whoops. Listen to this, though. Bella might be getting Clarence a chest tomb. What do you think of that?’

  ‘Lucky old Clarence.’

  ‘No, I mean, think what we could put in it. Or should I say who?’

  Elizabeth shook her head, the auburn curls of her wig quivering. ‘I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about. As usual.’

  ‘Yes, you do. Gil!’

  Appalled, Elizabeth stared at Friday. ‘Are you saying we should put my husband in with Clarence Shand’s corpse?’

  ‘Well, Gil’s a corpse, too. And not exactly a fresh one either. Anyway, I don’t mean right on top of Clarence. He’ll be in the ground. I just mean in the tomb bit. It’d be a lot better than keeping him here in your cellar. You’ll hang, you know, if the police ever raid this place and find him.’

  ‘Yes, I do know that, thank you very much,’ Elizabeth snapped.

  ‘Keep your wig on. I’m only trying to help.’

  Elizabeth rubbed her hands over her face. ‘Yes, sorry. I know. It’s just that I’m so used to having him near me. I . . . well, I draw comfort from him.’

  Friday couldn’t think of anything more bizarre than keeping the shrivelled remains of the bullying husband you murdered in your own cellar, much less drawing comfort from them, but each to their own, she supposed. She knew Elizabeth had had a long, difficult and complicated relationship with Gil, and it wasn’t her place to cast judgment.

  ‘You still could. You’d just have to go to Devonshire Street to do it.’