3 Great Historical Novels (29 page)

The botanist shrugged as though it should not be considered important. He was looking at what she had been drawing on his precious cartridge paper. Inside the leaf, where there should have been a lattice of veins, was a triple knot. She was as surprised as Mr Reeve, but she rather liked the way it filled the leaf.

Don’t forget me, I am Cerridwen, guardian of the cauldron of inspiration
.

How could she forget the muse who had so cruelly deserted her, and who persisted in reminding her of all that she had lost?

Today, every wharf at Circular Quay had a foreign vessel cabled to it. The paved esplanade at the sand’s reach was, as usual, rowdy with fishmongers and foreigners. Everyone in Sydney was a foreigner, of course, but an order of ascendancy prevailed – a result of the farcical notion of British superiority. The quay excited Michael more than any other part of the city. The strip of beach reminded him of his seafaring youth, and now it contained the promise of home. It was his past and his future. It was also where the postmaster’s office was situated.

There was a letter from Thomas in two parts. The page on top was dated later than the second page. It was brief and, judging by the scrawl, had been written in haste.

Michael reread the postscript in disbelief: he was not mistaken, yet it did not seem possible. Rhia Mahoney a thief? She’d always been a mischief, and he had not seen her in more
than seven years, but still. He rolled up a smoke, lost in thought, before he read the letter proper. It was about wool, mostly. Thomas said he’d asked Brigit Mahoney, and yes, she was interested in merino from Sydney. Other news though, was sobering.

Michael folded the thick, coarse paper slowly and deliberately and threw his fag end into the sand, grinding it in with the heel of his boot. Calvin would know which transports were due in.

The Port Authority office was awash with towers of black-spined books and scrolls. It seemed unfeasible that a mind as sharp as Calvin’s could function in such a messy place. A young sergeant was sitting at a table with his back to the door scribbling away strenuously. Calvin was at his desk, frowning over a pile of paper. He looked up.

‘Afternoon, Michael.’ His tone said he didn’t like Michael’s chances of getting his attention.

‘Cal.’ Michael nodded. ‘Mind if I use your yard to smoke?’ Michael shot him a look and Calvin nodded.

‘Give me a minute.’

Michael left the bungalow via the verandah at the back. Beyond, there was a log and a patch of sand. All around, the spiky grass trees rustled with life; with birds big enough to make a shrub move, and reptiles the size of dogs.

He sat on the log and rolled two. It helped him to think. In Thomas’s previous letter, he’d said Rhia was lodging with a widowed Quaker in London who was in the cloth trade. A Quaker
widow
. He shook his head. He was being foolish.

Calvin appeared and Michael handed him a roll-up. The policeman took a deep draw and closed his eyes for a minute, then looked sidelong at Michael. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I had a tip about a robbery at Government bloody House. You know anything about that?’

‘Nope. When?’

‘Not too recent.’ Michael frowned. ‘So they’ve kept the constabulary out of it. That makes it more interesting.’

Calvin shrugged. ‘Cagey lot. Some guv’s obviously got a personal interest. What got flogged?’

‘Silver. Foreign coin.’

‘Well, well. Things might be starting to make some sense.’

‘Are they?’ It didn’t make sense to Michael. He remembered Thomas’s letter. ‘By the way, did you say the dead Quaker in Bombay was a cloth trader?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Heard any more about him?’

Calvin shook his head. ‘Sodding sailor’s disappeared. He’s probably gone bush. Might need to get Jarrah after him. You think there’s a connection?’

‘No. Maybe. I don’t know.’

‘Well that’s concise.’

Michael shrugged. ‘Just a feeling. But if there’s a coining racket on, then I might have something else for you. I’d sooner make my own enquiries. It’s not the small-fry forgers that interest me, it’s their master. By the way, have you seen any Cape and Orient ships in the harbour?
Medusa, Raven, Empress
… can’t think of any others just now.’

‘Any reason?’

‘The shipping company is owned by the Crown bankers.’

‘So?’

‘They take delivery of all the silver from the opium trade – once it’s laundered through the Calcutta exchange.’

‘I’m not following you, Michael. What’s opium got to do with a counterfeiting operation?’

‘I’m not sure yet, but the bank’s filthy. Always has been. Their last mercantile was the slave trade. Their Cape and Orient fleet are for hire to any pirate who’ll pay. I’ll wager that there’s Cape and Orient clippers coming through Sydney with silver bound directly to Barings, no questions asked.’

‘I think you’re getting in a bit deep, mate.’

Michael shrugged. ‘Is there a transport due?’

Calvin nodded. ‘The
Rajah
. Any time now.’

‘Would you let me know if there’s a Rhia Mahoney on board?’

‘Passenger or prisoner?’

‘Prisoner.’

‘A friend?’

‘Of my boy. I’m starting to get an itch … there’s a connection, but I can’t for the bloody life of me figure it out.’

Calvin threw his fag end into a rusting bucket and got to his feet. ‘If there’s one thing you’ve a knack for, it’s pulling the threads together.’

‘I’m a weaver.’

‘Weaver, publisher, sailor, zealot. What else?’

‘A bloody genius, if I’m right about this.’

The Rocks had been quiet such a long time now that Michael was starting to wonder if he’d missed the action. There was always some kind of caper going on at the Rocks, always someone on the make, so why was his gut telling him this was any different?

He stared at the back of the bungalow. The timbers were bleached grey and the roofing iron was rusting up. There was a parakeet sitting on the guttering, like a jewel in the dirt. Maybe he wasn’t going home just yet. He wasn’t going anywhere until the
Rajah
docked. 

Antonia scanned the columns of June’s ledger, concentrating as best as she could on figures. Hundreds of yards of balzarine had been despatched to New York, Milan, Amsterdam and Berlin. There was no French buyer yet, but Mr Montgomery had assured her that by the spring, a walking dress cut from their new cloth would be Paris fashion. The perfect blend of wool and cotton would be in every mercer’s catalogue, in
Pears
and in
Sylvia’s Home Journal
: ‘Warm enough for March, light enough for July.’ Antonia took a deep breath. She had done it. She had talked about it, and studied Josiah’s methodology, and she had thought about little else, and finally she had put her self-doubt and her grief aside. And now death again, sidling up to her, taking her heart piece by piece. Josiah had not lived to suffer the loss of Ryan Mahoney, for which she had been grateful. But it was a blessing he had not lived to suffer the loss of his beloved Laurence, too. She thanked the Lord. Rhia’s letter had arrived three days ago, and it had taken Antonia this long to merely believe it true. No one else knew yet.

Mr Dillon was to call at eleven. Antonia looked at the old ship’s clock above the wainscoting. Soon. Could she tell him? What would they talk about if she couldn’t? She could engage him in conversation about his column and defend the industrialists, the
capitalists
, he was so bent on maligning. The very
word was an insult to anyone who strived to protect tradition in industry, to make work for idle hands. She could point out that there was nothing to be gained from nostalgia over the days when fibres had been spun and woven by hand. Did Mr Dillon even understand that most machine-made cloth was of superior quality? Surely he, a commerce writer, knew that a mechanised loom produced a more uniform weave. Linen alone benefited from being hand-spun. Of course, Mahoney Linen had not survived the revolution of the machine, which was – indirectly – why Rhia was aboard that maligned ship. And why Laurence was dead. But who was she to try to unravel the spindle of the fates?

Antonia forced her attention back to the ledger. It was a small comfort that all was in order with the business, and that her colleagues were experienced and principled men. Josiah would never have associated with them otherwise. The old Isaac was struggling back. He had simply ceased to care after his wife’s death, and now Antonia had an intimate understanding of how it felt to have little left to live for. Isaac kept his troubles quiet, but she and Josiah had known. The Quaker congregation did not take kindly to a Friend who could not manage his finances. What was bad for the business of one, reflected on the reputation of all. Isaac arranged the hire of clippers and the shipping of cotton to India. He was a master of the logistics and mechanics of shipping. With Mr Beckwith’s talent for money, Mr Montgomery’s flare for retail and Ryan and Josiah’s trading expertise, the joint enterprise must have seemed the perfect company. The company in her portrait. Rhia had
seen
the portrait.

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.

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.