A Tattooed Heart (33 page)

Forty-two shillings! That was far more than she wanted to pay. She stared down into the trunk, calculating how much she could make. Three times that, at least.

‘Forty-five shillings. That's nearly all me savings.'

‘I'm sorry, Maryjane, I really am. I've a family to feed. I was thinking more of fifty-five.'

Maryjane's gnarled hand flew to her bony breast.
‘Fifty
-five! God almighty, you'll ruin me!'

John fiddled with a button on his shirt, then crossed his arms. ‘Look, seeing it's you, the best I can do is fifty.'

Maryjane gave him her best smile, revealing seven or eight gaps in her teeth. ‘Well, I appreciate that, John, I really do. I'll have to pay a lad on top of that to drag it home for me, me being infirm, but that's not your lookout, is it?'

John sighed. ‘Oh, go on then, forty-nine.'

‘You're a good man, John Penny. A good man.'

While Maryjane Saltmarsh was paying a boy a shilling to take her newly purchased second-hand trunk home, Aria was striding purposefully towards an address near the smarter end of Princes Street. She was wearing her best gown, a bronze taffeta with black cord trim, and had tucked two huia feathers into her gleaming hair.

Arriving at the house she was looking for, she opened the gate, marched down the short cobbled path and rapped loudly on the front door. A palely attractive, smartly dressed Pakeha woman answered.

‘Good morning,' Aria said. ‘I would like to speak with Dr Neville Clayton, thank you.'

Looking more than a little alarmed, the woman stared up at her. ‘May I say who's calling?'

‘Yes, you may. My name is Aria Moehanga Te Kainga-mataa, daughter of Mahuika Aramakutu of Ngati Wai and the great warrior and tohunga moko Tumanawapohatu Te Kainga-mataa of Nga Puhi.'

‘Oh. Yes, of course. I think he's just . . . One moment please.' The woman disappeared rapidly into the house, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Aria waited. If he was smart, Neville Clayton would be running out the back door, down to Sydney Cove and getting on a ship
to England. But she didn't think he was smart. When he finally appeared he looked as disconcerted as the woman.

‘Er, good morning. My wife said you wanted to speak to me?'

He was average height, average weight, average looks, average everything. Your basic Pakeha.

‘Yes. May I enter?'

‘Oh, well, yes. Please do.' He stood back and ushered her in.

The woman — Mrs Clayton — lingered in the hallway, wringing her hands, eyes as big as kina.

‘Please,' Dr Clayton said, ‘come into the parlour.'

Aria swept in, chose the best seat — a high-backed armchair upholstered in some shiny fabric next to the unlit fire — and sat down.

The doctor stood in the middle of the room, clearly at a loss as to what to do next. ‘Can we offer you refreshments? Tea, perhaps?'

‘No, thank you. I wish to speak to you about some upoko tuhi you obtained from Aotearoa last year.'

Slowly, Dr Clayton sat down.

‘They arrived here early in June,' Aria went on,
‘after
the practice of importing them to New South Wales was declared illegal by the governor.'

Silence.

‘One of those upoko tuhi was that of my revered kinsman, Whiro.'

A flash of skirt in the doorway and rapid footsteps as Mrs Clayton rushed off down the hall.

‘I fear,' the doctor said, ‘that you must be mistaking me for someone else entirely.'

‘I do not think so. Where are my uncle's remains now?'

‘I'm sorry, but I really can't help you.'

Aria reached into a pocket of her gown, retrieved Dr Clayton's letter to Clement Bloodworth of 31 May 1831, and began to read.

‘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.'
She glanced at Dr Clayton, then went back to the letter.
‘Now, I am fully aware that this April Governor Darling issued a Government Notice in the
Sydney Gazette
declaring that —
'

Dr Clayton held up a hand. ‘Yes, yes, stop, all right. I admit it. I did ask Bella Shand to obtain some prime examples of heads for me, but for purely scientific purposes, I can assure you. I'm no mere souvenir hunter. I believe it vital that we ethnologists learn as much as possible about the world's primitive races before such peoples die out completely.'

Such peoples? Aria thought. That is me he is talking about. She gave him a long, hard stare, then said again, her voice glacial, ‘Where are they now?'

‘In England. I sent them home to England.'

‘Then get them back.'

‘I can't. I sold them, three to the British Museum and, er, one to a private collector.'

The shame, rage and dismay that filled Aria's chest and throat almost choked her. ‘You
sold
the upoko tuhi of my uncle?'

‘With all due respect, and pardon me for being indelicate, but how do you know one of those heads was your uncle's?'

‘I know when it was stolen and I know who stole it, and that man worked for Bella Shand.' Aria allowed her eyes to close for a second. This was hopeless, and so
bitterly
disappointing. If she wanted Uncle Whiro back, she might well have to go to England and fetch him herself. But perhaps she could salvage something. ‘I want
you to write a letter stating that you commissioned Bella Shand to obtain the upoko tuhi, and that she imported them to New South Wales after they had been banned, and the relevant dates.'

Dr Clayton waved at the letter in Aria's hand. ‘If I remember rightly, that's all in there, isn't it?'

‘It is not clear enough.'

‘Not clear enough for what?'

‘My purpose.'

‘Does that purpose involve informing the governor or the police?'

‘Not at this point.'

‘And if I choose not to?'

‘Then I will bring the wrath of my extended family down upon your head.'

Dr Clayton went off to fetch paper, ink and a nib.

Maryjane had everything from the trunk emptied out on the floor of her single, rented room. The clothing and accessories would definitely bring a good profit once they'd been cleaned and mended, and so would the trunk itself, but the real windfall was what she'd discovered in the little purse inside the reticule. Not money, though that would have been nice, but perhaps something even more useful — a short letter. Addressed to Francis Rossi, Superintendent of Police, it read:

Dear Mr Rossi Sir,

I beg leeve to inform you that I beleeve Missus Elizabeth Hislop of the Sirens Arms Hotel has done a Murder. I work for her and I was in her celar not a month ago when I come apon a Trunk, I opened it and hiden in it I found the Skelton of what I beleeve to be a man. It was an old Skelton, very dryed up with mostly only the bones and a few peeces of the clooths left.

I beleeve as the Police it is your duty to look into this Crime of Missus Hislops. She is an Evil woman and shood
not be alowed to go free. Who nows how many others she coud of Murdered?

Begging Your Indulgince,

A Concernd Citzen of Sydney Town

The letter was dated 16 September 1831, so it had been in the purse, or somewhere, for quite a while. Over a year. She wondered who'd owned the trunk before John had bought it, and supposed he'd been lucky there hadn't been a body in that, too. She let out a cackle. This bloody town — it brought out the worst in everyone.

What to do? Blackmail this Mrs Hislop, or sell the information to the police? She'd dabbled in a bit of extortion in the past with not altogether satisfactory results — in fact, that's how she'd lost four of her teeth — and she was far too frail these days to protect herself if it all went wrong this time, so perhaps not, tempting though the idea was. And she knew the police would pay for information, probably quite handsomely, too, if it concerned an unsolved murder.

She'd go along to the police court tomorrow.

Sarah said, ‘Friday's drinking again.'

Harrie sighed, finished pouring Sarah's tea and pushed her cup across the table. ‘How do you know?'

‘She and Aria came into the shop a few days ago and I could smell it on her breath.'

‘Do you think Aria knows?'

‘Of course she does. She's not stupid. And when I screwed up my nose she gave me one of her looks.'

‘Aria did? Oh dear, not one of her angry ones?'

‘No, one of her “I don't want to hear a word about this” looks.'

‘I'm really disappointed,' Harrie said. ‘I thought she'd stay stopped this time.'

‘More fool you.' Sarah blew on her tea. ‘I think there's trouble between those two, and I suspect it's about more than just Friday's drinking.'

‘What sort of trouble?'

‘You know in Newcastle when Friday and Aria came back late before we went to Iris Kellogg's house? I'm sure something had happened. I asked Friday and she told me to mind my own business.'

‘Why don't you ask Aria?'

‘Why don't
you
ask Aria?'

‘No, thank you.'

Daisy brought out Charlotte, sat her on a chair, pulled it up to the table and set down a plate of peach slices. ‘She says she wants to eat on the verandah with the grown-ups, and she doesn't want her highchair.'

‘You won't be able to reach,' Harrie warned.

‘Will,' Charlotte said, standing up on the seat.

‘Sit down, you'll fall.'

‘Won't.'

‘Has she been all right since, you know?' Sarah asked, nodding at Charlotte.

‘Not entirely, to be honest. She's cried more than usual and had a few nightmares, but James says that's to be expected. He thinks she'll come right, though, with time. He says they're very resilient at that age, and I do think Iris Kellogg looked after her quite well.'

‘Iris,' Charlotte said.

‘So you and James are all right now? Robbie told Walter, who told me — those boys are such gossips — that he was absolutely roaring.'

‘Oh, of course we are. You and Adam?'

‘We're good.' Sarah took her watch out of her pocket. ‘When were Friday and Aria supposed to be here?'

‘You know they're always late.'

Charlotte grasped a slice of peach and hurled it at Angus the cat, who was strolling past the table. It landed squarely on his back, and he twitched violently but it stayed where it was, so he wore it across the lawn and into the undergrowth. Charlotte shrieked with laughter.

‘Sweetheart, that wasn't very nice.'

‘I am sorry we are late,' Aria said, appearing around the side of the house, Friday in tow. ‘Something has happened.'

‘Oh God,' Sarah muttered.

‘Hold on, I'll take her in.' Harrie tucked Charlotte under one arm and grabbed the plate of peach slices. ‘Daisy!'

‘Nooooo!' Charlotte bellowed. ‘Outside, outside!'

‘Much as I love her, sometimes that child can be a complete pain in the arse,' Sarah remarked.

‘Were you not, when you were that small?' Aria asked.

‘No. I wasn't allowed to be. So what's happened?'

‘This.' Friday flung a note onto the table.

Sarah opened it, had a quick read, sighed and tossed it back. ‘Christ, that's all we need. Greedy bloody bitch.'

‘Well, we're not fucking paying it,' Friday said, crossing her arms. ‘Not this time. She can go to hell.'

‘What's happened?' Harrie asked, taking her seat.

Sarah said, ‘Another blackmail demand from Bella. Bloody three hundred pounds this time.'

‘But we're not paying it.' Friday worried at her head.

Harrie said, ‘Don't pick your scabs. Why aren't we paying it? Not that I want to.'

‘'Cos we also have this. Show them, Aria.'

With a flourish, Aria produced the confession she'd forced Neville Clayton to write.

‘When did you get this?' Sarah asked, reading it.

‘A few days ago. I went to see him. I thought he may still have the upoko tuhi of my uncle, but he does not. He has sent it to
England. He has
sold
it, as though it were a bag of flour or some other everyday commodity of absolutely no consequence.'

The others looked at her, silent in the face of her distress.

‘I will never be able to take him home now.'

‘We're really sorry about that, Aria,' Harrie ventured, and they all were.

Friday gave her a hug. ‘We might. We might go to England one day and get him. You never know.'

Aria nodded, as close to tears as they'd ever seen her.

‘Who's got the other letter Clayton wrote?' Sarah asked.

Friday put it on the table. ‘Do you think it'll be enough? I do.'

‘To stop Bella?' Harrie said. ‘It proves what she was up to, doesn't it? And probably still is.'

Sarah said, ‘But will the governor care? More to the point, will she
believe
he will? Because there's no point threatening to tell him, or the police, if no one really gives a shit about these heads coming in. No offence meant, Aria.'

‘Well, we'll find out, won't we?' Friday's hand wandered up towards her head again.

‘Leave those damn scabs alone!' Harrie snapped.

Sarah asked, ‘Who's going to write the note?'

Harrie volunteered and, after several false starts, they had something they were happy with.

12 October 1832

Bella Shand,

We will not be paying your Blackmail demand for £300, or any further demands. We have clear proof that, despite the ban in April 1831, you have been illegally bringing Preserved Maori Heads into New South Wales. If you persist in attempting to Blackmail us, we will inform the Governor of the above.