The Silk Thief (36 page)

‘No. Neither would I.’

‘But she really wanted to, didn’t she? She was so angry. And she really put the boot in. I think she kicked him harder than you and me put together. So why the hell is she so haunted by it?’

‘I think,’ Sarah said, ‘she had to because she needed to see the scales balanced. She thought it was a terrible injustice. And it bloody well was. But finding out that poor Rachel’s brain burst because she had a disease and not because of what Keegan did to her really knocked her sideways.’

‘But Rachel might have been all right if she hadn’t had Charlotte. And that was definitely Keegan’s fault.’

‘I know, but Harrie isn’t seeing it like that. And she’s suffering for it now because, frankly, she’s a better person than you and I will ever be.’

‘Do you think so?’ Friday said, unoffended.

‘Well, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, I do, actually.’

Harrie and Leo were at work when a customer, a tar by the look of him, came in requesting a tattoo. For a change there was no one booked, so Leo sat him in the chair. The man reeked of alcohol, was unsteady on his feet and seemed short of breath, clearly suffering from the horrors.

‘Royal Navy or merchant?’ Leo asked conversationally.

‘Merchant, retired,’ the man said, wiping sweat off his brow. ‘You?’

‘Both. Got a name, have you?’

‘Malcolm Leary. Just got into port last night, had a few rums, a woman. Old habits die hard. Beg your pardon, girl,’ he said, nodding at Harrie. ‘She your good wife?’

‘My assistant. She works the needles and draws damned good flash.’

‘Is that so? There’s a novelty.’

‘Got anything in mind?’ Leo asked.

‘Already got plenty of ink, so just something small, a memento of me visit. But maybe something a bit different, like?’ Malcolm Leary gazed around at the flash on the walls, and eventually pointed to an image of a vicious-looking, stubby little dog-like animal with a wide-open mouth full of sharp teeth. ‘What the hell’s that?’

‘They’re called devils. Ferocious little buggers.’

‘You only get them here?’

‘Down south in Van Diemen’s Land.’

‘That’ll do,’ Malcolm Leary said. ‘On top of me wrist here.’

Trying not to breathe in through her nose, Harrie sat down next to him and drew the image onto his skin with Indian ink, then used blotting paper to carefully soak up the excess.

‘Happy?’ Leo asked.

Malcolm nodded, retrieved his handkerchief and wiped his gleaming face yet again. ‘Bloody hot here, isn’t it?’

Leo took his place on the stool and prepared pigment and his needles. ‘In summer it is. Is that a Liverpool accent?’

‘It is. Ever been there?’

‘Often, when I was at sea. What brings you to New South Wales?’

‘I’m looking for someone. Me older brother, Jonah Leary. Convict. D’you know him?’

‘Can’t say I do.’

‘What about you?’ Malcolm looked at Harrie.

She shook her head.

Malcolm belched, made a pained face and rubbed his chest. ‘Beg pardon. Cheap rum. Jonah was sent here in 1825 on a seven-year sentence, so his time’s nearly up. Where am I likely to find him?’

‘Could be anywhere in the district.’ Leo dipped his brush into a tiny pot of black pigment, touched the needles against it, and went to work. ‘Likely he’s got a ticket of leave by now, and holding down a proper job. But if you’re not farm folk, I’d say he’s still in town.’

Malcolm was silent for a while, except for the rasp of his heavy, accelerated breathing. At last he said, ‘I asked in the pub last night. The Black Rat? I’m lodging there. Bit of a shithole but the ladies are friendly. And they say you’re the best tattooist in town. Is that right?’

Leo shrugged.

‘Me brother Jonah has a tattoo,’ Malcolm went on. ‘Unusual. Me other brother Bennett had something similar. Being an artist of note, I was thinking you might have heard of Jonah.’

‘No, can’t help you.’

Malcolm gripped Leo’s hand. ‘Stop a minute and I’ll show you what I’m talking about.’

He stood, unbuttoned his heavy shirt and slipped it off, releasing a sour waft of stale body odour and revealing a fish-white belly hanging over the waistband of his trousers. Then he turned, arms elevated. On his back was a tattoo extending from just above his shoulder blades to his waist. It was obviously some years old as the ink had spread and faded slightly, and sparse patches of dark hair obscured the lines in places, but it was clear that what he wore on his skin was a map. It had been expertly executed and was very detailed, but lacked street names and gave no indication of what the map represented.

He faced Leo and Harrie again. ‘Like that, but not exactly the same. Nice piece of work, eh?’

Leo agreed that it was.

‘So have you ever seen or heard of someone with anything like this?’

‘I would tell you if I had,’ Leo said. ‘I’d certainly remember it. It’s a map of part of a town or city, isn’t it?’

Malcolm didn’t answer. He bent to retrieve his shirt and sat down. But instead of straightening, he stayed bent, his head down. Then he let out a grunt, followed by a low moan.

Leo stared at him for a second, then grasped his shoulders and pushed him upright. The man’s sweaty face was scarlet, his teeth bared in pain. His right hand flapped about helplessly, then settled on his naked left breast, squeezing the flesh there until it whitened around his fingers.

‘The map on me back,’ he gasped. ‘Find Jonah and give it to him. Please.’

He grimaced again, his eyes seemed almost to bulge from his head and he slumped sideways in the chair, a dribble of thick yellowish spit trickling from his slack mouth.

‘Bloody hell,’ Leo said into the silence. ‘I think he’s slipped his cable.’

A terrible stink rose off Malcolm Leary then, and Harrie stepped well back, fanning the air in front of her face, which didn’t help at all.

Leo held his nose and eyed Harrie. ‘Are you all right, lass?’

She nodded. It had given her a fright, but she’d seen folk die often enough. She felt curiously flat. Detached.

‘That’s all I need,’ Leo muttered. ‘A bloody dead body covered in shite in my shop. Go and get a sheet off the cot in the other room, there’s a good lass.’

Harrie did as she was told. Leo laid the sheet over Malcolm Leary’s body, making sure to cover his face.

‘We can’t leave him there,’ Harrie said.

‘I do know that, lass. He’s in my good tattoo chair and I’ve got a customer coming in at ten, not to mention he’ll start to go over in fairly short order.’

‘Should we fetch the undertaker?’

Leo sighed. ‘Not yet. The cove expressed a dying wish, and I can’t deny a man that. Especially one who’s sailed the same seas I have. I suppose I’ll have to look for this bloody brother of his.’

‘But you said you didn’t know him.’

‘I don’t, but he shouldn’t be that hard to find. I’ll ask around the pubs tonight.’ Leo had a bad feeling about this: something to do with the way the dead man had said his final words. ‘I’ll put Mr Leary in my kitchen, for now. Christ.’

Leo asked everyone he knew — a fair number of folk — but learnt nothing of Jonah Leary that night, or the next morning, which was extremely unfortunate as his dead brother was really starting to stink. But still he couldn’t bring himself to call in the undertaker, not until he’d executed Malcolm Leary’s last request. Finally, he did what he should have done in the first place, and what he suspected Leary had been alluding to with his dying breath. He made a trip to the chemist for a few necessary items, then, back home again, tied a peppermint oil-infused cloth around his face, unwrapped Leary’s now grey, greasy and expanding corpse, turned it over, and carefully flayed the map off its back with a very sharp knife.

There was no blood, of course, the heart having stopped beating, but the smell was nauseating and the feel of the thin layer of skin as it came off — far too easily — made his gorge rise. He gently lowered the piece of skin into a large jar filled with a mix of ethyl alcohol and formalin, and watched as it floated around and finally settled near the bottom like a grotesque sort of manta ray. If Jonah Leary — if he ever turned up — wanted his dead brother’s tattoo dried, he could take it to a tanner himself.

He put the jar aside, rolled the corpse again in its sheet, washed his hands and arms thoroughly with lye soap, and went down the street to speak to the nearest undertaker. He’d had enough of harbouring a dead body in his house. The flies had already arrived, and the rats wouldn’t be far behind.

Friday was sitting in the brothel’s salon, filing her fingernails, chatting to Hazel and waiting for her next cully to arrive, when Mrs H stuck her head around the door.

‘Friday, can I talk to you? In my office?’

‘Ooh, what have you done now?’ Hazel asked.

Friday stifled a sigh. It was probably about the state she’d come home in last night. Again. She trudged down the hall expecting an earful, but when she entered the office she found herself looking at an old man sitting in the good chair next to Mrs H’s desk.

‘Friday, I’m sure you’ll remember Mr Lucian Meriwether,’ Elizabeth said. ‘He spent some time with you … When did you say you last visited our establishment, Mr Meriwether?’

‘In September and October of 1830, encounters I have never forgotten.’

Mr Meriwether pushed himself to his feet with the aid of a silver-topped cane, grasped Friday’s hand and kissed it. ‘Miss Friday, I’m absolutely delighted to see you again. You look as charming as ever.’

Friday had certainly forgotten ever meeting him. Silly old shit. He must be sixty-five years old at the very least. He was as bald as an egg on top, the remaining strands of his white hair smoothed back at the sides — though at least he wasn’t wearing a wig. They always made her sneeze. His beeswax-coloured face was wrinkled, jowly and disconcertingly kind-looking; he had pouches beneath his eyes, and he wore expensive Waterloo dentures. Hunch-shouldered, he was tall and had a pot belly, and obviously plenty of money as his cutaway jacket was of very fine cloth and his off-white trousers, hugging slightly bowed legs, of best kerseymere. A heavy ring set with a dark red stone glittered on his right hand, and a thick gold watch chain looped between a button and a pocket in his waistcoat. Definitely not short of a bob. She wondered if he’d tipped her well.

‘Lovely to see you again, Mr Meriwether.’

‘I’ve been in London for some months,’ he said, resting his hands one on top of the other on the head of his cane. ‘I only arrived back in New South Wales on the fourteenth of October. Just in time to attend your unfortunate appearance in the police court.’

Friday’s heart sank. ‘Oh. Was it you who —?’

‘It was indeed,’ Lucian replied, ‘and let me say it was a great honour and a privilege to be able to assist you.’

God, Friday thought wearily, now he’s here to claim privileges of his bloody own. Still, shagging a decrepit old man for nothing was better than going to gaol. Just. ‘I’m ever so grateful for your kindness and generosity, Mr Meriwether. I truly am.’

Lucian waggled his fingers dismissively. ‘It was the least I could do.’

Elizabeth said, ‘Mr Meriwether has a proposition for you, Friday.’ Here we go.

‘Mr Meriwether has a certain peccadillo,’ Elizabeth went on, ‘and it is his desire that you might accommodate him.’

Friday stared at her. What the hell was a peccadillo? ‘I don’t do animals.’

‘Tastes, Friday,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Mr Meriwether has slightly unusual tastes.’

‘Yes. I enjoy being whipped,’ Lucian said.

Oh, was that all. ‘I’ve never done any of that, myself,’ Friday said.

‘Would you care to learn?’ Lucian asked. ‘I do hope so. I’ve thought of little else while I was away, even while I was visiting the flogging brothels of Covent Garden and Marylebone. Mrs Berkeley — have you heard of her? — has invented a marvellous new flogging machine. Accomplished though she is, it was your magnificent muscles flexing and your titan’s hair flying as you wield the whip that I couldn’t help imagining.’

Friday knew she had no choice but to learn. She owed Lucian Meriwether. ‘Would you want sex as well?’

‘No, you don’t understand, the flogging is the sex,’ Lucian said eagerly. ‘At least, for me it is.’

Actually, that sounded like quite a good deal. Perking up, Friday said, ‘I’d be very pleased to accommodate your peccadillo, Mr Meriwether.’

‘You would need to come to my home, however. I hold a position of some authority on the board of the Benevolent Society. It would not do for my private proclivities to become public knowledge.’

‘What about Mrs Meriwether?’

‘Mrs Meriwether, God rest her soul, passed on several years ago. There is only me at home now, and my driver and a servant.’

Friday turned to Elizabeth. ‘We don’t have any whips, do we?’

‘I’ll have to talk to Minnie Thompson. She caters to that sort of thing.’

‘Could you arrange for some lessons as well, Mrs Hislop?’ Lucian asked. ‘I’m sure you realise there is a very specific art to flogging. Naturally I will pay any costs associated with that, above and beyond payments to Miss Friday.’

Friday blinked, surprised and pleased to know she would be getting paid. And then she thought, lessons? How hard can it be, whacking the shite out of someone with a whip?

‘Of course,’ Elizabeth said. ‘When would you like your first appointment with Friday?’

‘Let’s say in three weeks?’ Lucian smiled with his bright, slightly ill-fitting teeth. ‘I don’t mind if she’s a bit rough around the edges. I really don’t think I can wait any longer than that.’

Standing outside James’s cottage, surrounded by the busy nocturnal sounds of early summer, Friday blew a mouthful of pipe smoke at a cloud of voracious mosquitoes and said to Sarah, ‘She’s going to be so angry we went without her.’

‘But you know what would have happened if she’d come with us.’

Friday did. Poor Harrie would only have become dreadfully upset at the sight of Charlotte in her little orphanage gown, standing up in that crib, her hands wrapped around the bars, red-faced and shrieking to be picked up. It had been upsetting enough for her and Sarah. This time, Mrs Duff had only allowed them to visit the nursery while the babies were awake, which made Friday wonder, did the poor little things do anything but sit around in that room? Did they not get to toddle about, or play on the floor, or go outside in the fresh air? Sarah had asked Mrs Duff, and she’d said yes, they did, but you just didn’t know, did you, unless you saw it with your own eyes? And this time the old boot had told them they were forbidden to touch Charlotte, so Friday had had to pretend to faint in the corridor, and while Mrs Duff’s back was turned Sarah had ducked into the nursery and picked her up.