Harrie snapped, ‘For God’s sake, will you hurry up!’

  ‘Christ, I’m not giving you gin again,’ Friday muttered.

  A sharp knock came at the door — everyone froze.

  ‘Friday? What’s going on in there?’

  ‘Shite,’ Friday hissed. ‘It’s Mrs H.’

  ‘Friday! Let me in!’

  Elizabeth Hislop’s master key rattled violently in the door and it opened, revealing her enveloped in a shapeless woollen robe, with a frilled nightcap atop her grey hair, which during the day was concealed by a luxuriant auburn wig. The candle she carried cast shadows across her face, making enormous cavities of her nostrils, accentuating the bags beneath her eyes and turning her plucked brows into evil flaring wings. Walter let out a squeak of fear. Clifford growled.

  ‘Morning, Mrs H,’ Friday said.

  ‘Barely. Harrie, what are you doing here?’ Elizabeth demanded. ‘And who’s this?’

  Walter lifted his feet onto the seat of his chair, laid his head on his knees and curled himself into a ball.

  ‘We’re just leaving, Mrs Hislop.’ Harrie prayed she hadn’t noticed the blood on Walter’s jacket.

  But Elizabeth had. She marched over to him, her candle’s flame flickering madly, and levered up his unwilling head. ‘You’re that boy of Leo Dundas’s, aren’t you?’ Clifford aimed a snarling nip at Elizabeth’s ankle, but she kicked out with a velvet slipper and sent her flying.

  Wretchedly, Walter nodded.

  ‘And does he know you’re here, in the boudoir of one of my girls, covered in blood?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t,’ Friday said. ‘We’re just about to take him home.’

  Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed and her mouth puckered like a cat’s bum as she waited for an explanation. When none came, she let out a great, worried sigh. ‘I hope you’re not in trouble. Any of you.’

  ‘Nothing we can’t sort out,’ Friday lied as she pulled on her jacket. ‘Back soon.’

  Dawn still hadn’t arrived but the darkness had diluted somewhat in expectation, and there were a few more folk abroad. They walked the short distance from Harrington Street down to George, turning into the narrow alleyway alongside the Sailors’ Grave Hotel. A faint light glimmered across the uneven cobbles from the window of one of the two downstairs rooms in Leo’s tattoo shop.

  ‘Is he normally up this early?’ Friday asked.

  Walter shook his head. ‘He’s going to kill me.’

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ Harrie soothed.

  The door was on the latch; they pushed it open, went through the darkened room where Leo did his tattooing, and found him next door, sitting at the table drinking tea in a fug of tobacco smoke.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ he barked, his normally sun-weathered face almost as pale as his silver-grey hair and short beard. ‘I’ve been out looking for you everywhere. And what’s that all over you? Good God, don’t tell me it’s blood!’

  ‘I … I’ve …’ Walter stammered.

  ‘Would you like me to tell him?’ Friday offered.

  ‘Tell me what?’ Leo demanded.

  Walter scooped up Clifford and held her as though burping a baby. She licked his face, leaving a shiny trail on his cheek. ‘I followed Amos Furniss to the burial ground tonight. Last night. And I killed him. I had a knife and I killed him.’

  Leo sat in stunned silence for a long moment, then shot to his feet and slapped Walter hard across the face. Clifford whipped her head around and bit Leo’s hand. Leo grabbed her by the scruff of the neck, tore her from Walter’s arms and tossed her yelping and growling across the room onto the cot beneath the window, then clutched Walter to him in a tight embrace. Walter, his face pressed against Leo’s wiry chest, burst into tears.

  ‘You stupid bloody boy,’ Leo muttered as he rocked Walter. Blood from his hand soaked into the back of Walter’s filthy jacket.

  Friday searched for something to staunch the flow, snatched up a grubby tea towel from the table and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’re bleeding everywhere.’

  Leo let go of Walter, wrapped the tea towel around his hand, resumed his seat and gestured to Walter to sit opposite. Friday wondered vaguely if Leo would get rabies from bad-tempered Clifford.

  ‘Where’s Furniss now?’ Leo asked.

  Walter sniffed loudly and wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Everyone wants to know that.’

  Leo shot an alarmed glance at Harrie and Friday. ‘Everyone? Who the hell else knows?’

  ‘Just us,’ Friday said. She didn’t think Mrs H counted, as she didn’t actually know what had happened. She raised her eyebrows at Harrie for confirmation.

  Harrie bit her lip. Her face was nearly as bloodless as Leo’s. ‘He thinks he might have been seen, on the way back from the burial ground. Don’t you?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Walter said. ‘On York Street, after I come out. It were really dark, but.’

  ‘Did you speak to anyone?’ Leo asked.

  ‘No. I kept me head down.’ Walter hesitated, then added reluctantly, aware he was admitting to an error of judgment that could only make the situation worse, ‘And I made really sure Cliffie were quiet.’

  ‘You had the dog with you,’ Leo said flatly. ‘Christ. So when Furniss’s body gets found they’ll call for witnesses, who’ll come forwards saying they saw a boy near the burial ground with a hairy little dog. You never go anywhere without that bloody animal, lad. Everyone knows you. Why didn’t you think?’

  ‘There’s hundreds of dogs in this town,’ Friday said. ‘And surely dozens of boys with dogs.’

  Leo shook his head. ‘Not that look like her.’

  That was true. They all stared at Clifford, who turned around on the cot and presented her arse.

  Leo sighed: a small one, but it was filled with tremendous sadness and regret. ‘You can’t stay here now, lad. You’ll have to go back to England. Preferably on the next ship out of port.’

  Walter looked desperate, and as though he were only now realising the true consequences of his actions. ‘I can’t. I’ve no money. I can’t afford the passage.’

  ‘I can,’ Leo said.

  ‘But I want to stay here, with you.’

  ‘You can’t. Not now.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘No!’ Leo was adamant. ‘If you stay, you’ll hang. I’m not having that on my conscience. I’ll go down to the docks this morning.’ He stared for a long moment at the bloodstained tea towel around his hand, then made a fist with his other hand and slammed it on the table. No one said anything. At last he unwound the towel and poked at the ragged, weeping punctures in the flesh below his thumb and muttered, ‘Bloody dog.’ Then he sighed again and said, ‘I know why you killed him, and I don’t blame you, but how did you know where he’d be? Last night?’

  Walter’s eyes flicked to Friday and Harrie, then quickly away. He knew he’d already caused them enough trouble. ‘I followed him.’

  Leo shook his head. ‘Walter, lad, I can always tell when you’re not telling me the truth. Pass me that brandy on the shelf, will you, Harrie? And a bit of clean rag from the cupboard?’ Harrie did as asked. While Leo poured the alcohol — perfectly good drinking brandy, Friday noted — over the wound on his hand, he said amiably, ‘Now, I’ll ask again. How did you know where to find him?’

  ‘I did follow him,’ Walter said. ‘I waited outside where he lives, in the bushes, and I followed him.’

  Leo made a sceptical face. ‘How did you know he’d be abroad?’

  ‘Didn’t. I were going to wait there every night till he were.’

  ‘But … why now?’

  Walter shrugged. ‘Dunno. It were time.’

  Leo fixed him with a pointed stare. ‘Is that the truth, lad?’

  ‘I swear.’

  Friday and Harrie hardly dared to breathe. Leo still didn’t look convinced but at last he nodded, and took a swig of the brandy.

  ‘Bit early in the day, I admit, but desperate times,’ he said, offering the bottle to Friday, who knocked back several enormous gulps. Returning the brandy to the shelf, he added pointedly to Harrie, ‘You don’t drink,’ and to Walter, ‘and you’re too young.’

  There was nothing in the Sydney Herald later that morning about a (fresh) body discovered in the old burial ground, but by midday everyone on the Rocks, and no doubt across all of Sydney Town, had heard that a murder had occurred. Perhaps it would be officially reported in Tuesday’s edition of the Sydney Gazette.

  Yawning her way around the fruit and vegetable hall in George Street market, Harrie overheard a woman telling someone that she had it on very good account that the corpse had been hacked to pieces with nothing less than an axe or a hatchet, and Friday, ducking into the Fortune of War for a quick morning gin on the way to warn Sarah, heard that the victim’s entrails had been drawn out to a distance of ten feet in all directions around the ruined body. Friday made suitable noises of disgusted fascination, but doubted Walter had bothered to hang around to mutilate Furniss to that extent, though he might have harboured the rage to do it. She’d seen it herself, in his eyes.

  The bell over the door chimed as she entered Sarah and Adam Green’s jewellery shop just after nine o’clock. Sarah was at a cabinet, rearranging a display of cufflinks and tiepins.

  ‘How did it go last night?’ she asked without preamble.

  ‘Is Adam in?’

  Sarah tensed. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Sarah closed and locked the cabinet door. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Furniss is dead.’

  ‘Oh God, Friday, you didn’t.’

  ‘Not me, Walter.’

  ‘Walter!’

  Friday nodded. ‘He followed me to the burial ground, and after I’d handed the dosh over he stabbed Furniss to death. And took the money back.’

  Sarah subsided onto the stool behind the counter. ‘Shit. That means —’

  ‘Bella’ll be roaring.’

  ‘Christ,’ Sarah said. ‘What do we do? She’ll think we killed him. She’ll have our guts for garters.’

  ‘Maybe, but how much do you think she really cared about Furniss?’

  ‘Not at all, I’d say. Who would?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Friday agreed. ‘She’ll be more interested in getting her money.’

  ‘Our money,’ Sarah grumbled.

  ‘And she won’t get it, will she, if she’s had our throats cut or we’re swinging from the gallows.’

  ‘So you think we’re safe?’

  ‘No, but we may have a bit more grace than we think.’

  Sarah snorted. ‘I can’t imagine using the words “Bella” and “grace” in the same sentence.’

  ‘This is all a big bloody game to her, remember,’ Friday said.

  ‘Is it? Really? How do you know?’

  ‘If she really hated us, she’d’ve dobbed us in by now, wouldn’t she? Just to see us hang. If you were her, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Probably.’ Sarah nodded. ‘Yes, I would’ve. So why’s she buggering about blackmailing us?’

  ‘I’m sure the money’s coming in handy, but I can’t help feeling she’s playing with us.’

  ‘Why can’t we just tell her it was Walter?’

  Friday stared at her. ‘God, Sarah, that’s a bit mean, even for you. She’d kill him. You wouldn’t really do that, would you?’

  Sarah took just a tiny bit too long to answer. ‘No. He’s a good lad, Walter.’

  ‘Though, actually, we could tell her,’ Friday said after a moment’s thought. ‘He’ll be gone soon and then it won’t matter. But do you think she’d believe us? A twelve-year-old boy murdering a brawny, handy cove like Furniss?’

  ‘Except Walter did kill him, didn’t he? Why will he be gone soon?’

  ‘He thinks he might have been seen leaving the burial ground,’ Friday said. ‘And he had bloody Clifford with him. Everyone knows Clifford. Leo’s trying to get him on the next ship back to England.’

  ‘Well, if Walter was seen, and he’s accused of killing Furniss, won’t we be in the clear as far as Bella’s concerned?’

  ‘Only if she believes he did it: but what if she doesn’t? He won’t be here to go to trial and be proven guilty.’

  ‘God.’ Sarah rubbed her hands over her face. ‘Who’s got the dosh now?’

  ‘I have. I’ll get Matthew to put it back in the bank.’

  ‘Will we pay it again?’

  ‘Bugger that. I’ve already handed it over once. It’s not my fault if it came back.’

  ‘Bella won’t see it like that, though, will she?’

  ‘So I should run up to Cumberland Street and shove it under her door?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Sarah snapped.

  ‘Well, what, then?’

  ‘I don’t know. Wait and see, I suppose.’

  Monday was Friday’s normal day off, so she went home for a sleep, then in the afternoon returned to Leo’s to find out if he’d been able to secure a passage for Walter back to England.

  Leo was putting the finishing touches to a sailor’s tattoo — a ship in full sail with Homeward Bound scripted beneath it — so she went through to the other room, hung the kettle over the fire, put her feet up and lit her pipe. There was no sign of Walter or Clifford.

  Leo appeared half an hour later, wiping his ink-stained hands on a cloth, smelling of fish oil and raw alcohol.

  ‘Is there any tea in that pot?’

  Friday nodded and poured him a cup. ‘Where’s Walter?’

  ‘With a friend. Can’t stay there, though. And he’s not safe here. Folk know this is where he lives.’

  ‘Do you really think he’ll be fingered? There was bugger-all moon last night.’

  Leo shrugged and pulled out a chair. ‘Can’t be too careful. This is the lad’s life we’re talking about.’

  ‘Did you get down to the wharves this morning?’ Friday asked.

  ‘I did, and I can’t get him passage before Thursday, not even with a hefty bribe. So I need somewhere to hide him till then. Any ideas?’

  ‘Well, that’s easy. My room at the Siren. He can sleep on the floor. Or Sarah might put him up at her house. She’s got a couple of spare rooms.’

  ‘No, lass. If you or Sarah are caught concealing him, you’ll be charged with aiding and abetting a murderer. You’ll swing beside him. Use your head.’

  Friday hadn’t thought of that, and made a face.

  Leo laughed. ‘You’ve swanned around pleasing yourself for so long you’ve forgotten you’re a bonded convict, haven’t you?’

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘You have. All it’ll take is one foot out of line and you’ll be back in the Factory as quick as you please.’

  ‘I’m sick of folk telling me that,’ Friday grumbled.

  ‘But both feet out of line — and harbouring a murderer would definitely be considered both feet — and you’ll be for the gallows.’

  Friday was also getting a bit sick of Leo. ‘You think of somewhere to hide him, then. You’re the one reckons you know this town inside out.’

  ‘Just the arse end of it, lass.’ Leo frowned and tapped on the table with a teaspoon. ‘Trouble is, I don’t want any of my friends caught hiding him. And anyone who isn’t a friend would sell him up the river for the reward.’

  ‘There’s a reward? Already? Bloody Furniss won’t even be properly cold yet.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll be cold, all right. I heard he was stiff as a board when they found him. And gnawed to shreds by rats.’

  ‘Still, it’s a bit early to be offering a reward, isn’t it?’

  Leo shrugged. ‘You see my point, though? About where to hide him?’

  ‘Well, I’m fond of Walter,’ Friday said, ‘but I certainly don’t want to hang just for giving him a blanket and a bowl of porridge.’

  ‘And I don’t want him caught at all, and this’ll be the first place the police will look.’

  ‘If someone actually does finger him.’

  ‘Better to be safe than to mourn him,’ Leo said.

  ‘What time does the ship sail?’

  ‘On Thursday? On the late tide. Just after dark.’

  ‘So, that’s three nights and three days away,’ Friday said thoughtfully.

  ‘It is. Why?’

  ‘Can you have Walter in the yard behind the Siren tonight? Better make it just after dark. Bring his travelling things, and food and drink for three days. But don’t bring the dog.’

  Friday had an idea.

  Chapter Two

  Sarah stood against the high wooden fence in the stable yard behind the Siren’s Arms, merging with the shadows, almost invisible. She was good at that. The air was cool again tonight and steam rose off a pile of manure, freshly deposited on the cobbles. Jimmy Johnson, the stable boy, had emerged from the tack room and walked right past her to take the horse, sweating and blowing and skittering sideways, as its rider had dismounted, and hadn’t even seen her. She felt smug. She’d not been out skulking in dark corners for months and was pleased to note she hadn’t lost her knack for melting into the background.

  She did wish Leo and Walter would hurry up, though. Her feet were getting cold. She raised her face to the sky, now the deep, dark blue of a very fine Burmese sapphire, and watched as a river of bats streamed overhead, heading north.

  At last Leo arrived, Walter trailing after him, his collar up and his cap pulled low over his brow. Sarah stepped out of the shadows.

  ‘Sarah.’ Leo touched the brim of his hat.

  ‘Leo. She’s not here yet.’

  ‘She said near dark.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘Don’t worry, she won’t be far away. Got everything you need?’ she asked Walter.

  He turned slightly, revealing the sea bag slung over his shoulder.

  The gate between the stable yard and the alley leading to Elizabeth Hislop’s brothel on Argyle Street rattled and creaked open. Friday appeared and beckoned. They stepped into the narrow lane and followed her — the white gauze of her flimsy robe almost glowing in the gloom — to the gate at the other end, where she signalled a stop with a raised hand.

  ‘I’ve drawn the drapes across the back windows, but someone could come out to the bog at any time, so we have to hurry. Plus, I’m bloody freezing.’