Every morning after the brothel closed at one o’clock and the girls had gone, Elizabeth Hislop went around the house closing and locking the windows and doors. Last year someone had tried, unsuccessfully, fortunately, to break into the safe in her office, but she had noticed later that several items were missing from her desk: a lovely silver and ivory pen holder; the tiny silver mesh purse and smelling salts bottle that had fallen off her chatelaine; and a pink topaz, pearl and gold ring, which pinched, so she often took it off. She’d never discovered who’d been responsible, and hadn’t decided on a more suitable location for the safe, either, so security in the house was important. The safe held a lot of money overnight, not to mention the bulk of her personal jewellery and some rather sensitive papers.

  She was checking the double locks on the front door, and flinching at the muted rolls of thunder accompanying the rainstorm moving east out to sea, when she heard the most hideous caterwauling out on Argyle Street. Peering through the peephole, to her alarm she spied what appeared to be a bundle of wet rags flopping about on the wet road. Good Christ, had some poor soul been knocked down by a carriage?

  She opened the door, stepped out, locked the door again behind her and crossed the street. Raising her lantern, she peered down at the sobbing figure on the ground.

  Except it wasn’t sobbing, it was laughing. And it was as full as a family po.

  ‘Molly Bates! Get up, you drunken tart!’

  Molly stopped laughing. ‘Who’s that? Oh, ’s you, y’ol’ bitch.’

  ‘Where’s Friday?’ Elizabeth demanded, knowing full well Molly and Friday had gone out together earlier in the evening.

  ‘’S too hot,’ Molly said, and retched, though nothing came up. She pushed her sopping hair off her face and started cackling again.

  Elizabeth gave her a sharp nudge with the toe of her boot. ‘Molly! Where is she? Where’s Friday?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Molly struggled into a sitting position. ‘Watch took her.’

  Oh Christ, Elizabeth thought. ‘What for?’

  ‘Fightin’.’

  ‘Which watch house?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  Elizabeth lost her temper. ‘This is your fault, Molly Bates.’

  Molly waved a dismissive hand and collapsed onto one elbow. ‘Ah, fuck off. ’Tis not.’

  ‘It is. I’ve had a bloody gutsful of you, you sneaky little bitch. I knew you’d get her in the shit.’

  ‘Get fucked.’

  ‘That’s it! You’re fired. Go on, piss off. You can come back and clear out your room tomorrow.’

  The expression on Molly’s face went from drunkenly amused to sly. ‘Ya can’t fire me. I’ll tell the Sup … Supertend of Convicts what you’re doin’. I know a lot about you, y’know. More’n you think.’

  Elizabeth itched to plant her boot into the side of Molly’s stupid head. ‘Do your best! See how you get on!’

  ‘Ah, fuck off.’ Molly heaved herself to her knees, then, after much arm-flailing, to her feet. ‘’S too hot. Goin’ for a swim.’

  ‘I hope you drown! And your language is atrocious!’

  Seething with impotent anger, Elizabeth watched Molly, muttering to herself, weave off down Argyle Street towards the harbour. Poisonous, foul-mouthed she-devil. Then she went inside, sat in her office and poured herself a whisky. If Friday and Molly had been drinking locally, and they probably had, Friday would have been taken to either the Cumberland Street watch house, or the one on Harrington Street, just around the corner. She would go there soon, regardless of the late hour, and see if she could bribe the policeman on duty to release her. Not that it would do Friday any harm to spend a night in the coop — it fact it might even scare her enough to make reconsider her dreadful drinking habits. Elizabeth sighed. No, it wouldn’t. She’d been telling Friday to cut down for ages, and it hadn’t made a jot of difference. And Friday was well used to gaol cells — a night in one more wasn’t likely to make much of an impression.

  She was extremely fond of Friday. She reminded her so much of her own daughter, Amy, whom she’d borne in 1794 at the age of fifteen. Amy had been an inebriate just like Friday, and also like her father, Gilbert. Amy had started drinking young, stealing alcohol from the parlour of the brothel Elizabeth had operated near Covent Garden, and by the time Elizabeth had realised Amy was afflicted with the same curse as her father, it was too late. Gil had been useless, of course, drunk himself, or away at sea for years at a time.

  She and Amy had fallen out and at sixteen Amy had gone to live with an awful man who’d beaten her senseless, but supplied her with as much gin as she could drink. By then Elizabeth couldn’t help her at all, having been arrested and gaoled in 1811 for brothel-keeping. One night Amy had fought back, stabbed her lover and killed him. She was arrested, tried for murder in 1812, found guilty and hanged outside Newgate Gaol. Elizabeth had been inconsolable. Two weeks after that, utterly undone by grief, she’d been transported to New South Wales, never suspecting she’d one day commit a crime very similar to Amy’s.

  When she’d taken Friday on, sight unseen, as an assigned housegirl for the Siren’s Arms, she’d had no idea she would find in her a living echo of the daughter she’d lost nearly twenty years earlier. They were very similar, Friday and Amy — both wild and headstrong, and both dedicated drunks. Elizabeth had hoped that this time she might succeed in saving someone she cared for very much from her own self-destructive behaviour. But, so far, she hadn’t exactly excelled in her goal.

  She sipped her whisky thoughtfully as she forced herself to calm down, then looked at the watch on her chatelaine. Twenty minutes to two. Not many folk would be out and about now. She thought a few moments longer, then opened the safe and transferred twenty pounds into a coin purse and put it in a pocket on the inside of her skirt. Reaching for a black and grey Thibet shawl, she draped it over her head and around her shoulders. It was a little unnecessary on such a muggy night, but the colour against her deep charcoal-grey dress was just right. She would merge into the darkness perfectly.

  Outside the wind was still brisk, though the rain had stopped, and the half-moon flickered between scudding black storm clouds. It took her less than five minutes to walk to the bottom of Argyle Street then south along George towards King’s Wharf. She was taking a small gamble regarding where Molly might have chosen to swim, if in fact she’d got that far, but she thought she was probably on the money. Campbell’s Wharf was privately owned and locked at night, as were the wharves at the naval dockyard. She wouldn’t have gone to any of the small harbour beaches — they were rocky and littered with rubbish. That only left King’s Wharf accessible and within staggering distance.

  She saw few others abroad; two of those were sprawled motionless on the ground, and the remainder were locked in violent embrace in shadowed corners. The shore, though, was by no means quiet. A faint racket drifted from the Black Rat Hotel nearby, and the creak of rigging and slap of the sea against the hulls of ships at anchor were clearly audible.

  Minutes later, as she stepped onto the planks of King’s Wharf, Elizabeth saw she’d been right. At the far end, near a ladder that descended into the sea, lay a small heap — of clothing, perhaps? Tuneless and disjointed singing drifted up to her on the wind. She picked up a discarded boathook and walked slowly out to the end of the wharf, her boot heels ringing hollowly on the planks. The singing stopped.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  Elizabeth remained silent. She stirred the clothing with her foot: a skirt, stockings and a pair of boots. The silly bitch had gone in in her shift and bodice. Something rolled out of the skirt, glinting in the moonlight as it rattled across a plank. Picking it up, Elizabeth saw that it was a ring, with a pale stone surrounded by small pearls. Thieving cow. She put it in her pocket, leant over the edge of the wharf, and looked down. A pale face floating in the black water stared up at her.

  Molly made a splashing dash for the ladder. Just as her hands gripped the rungs, Elizabeth reached down with the boathook, snagged the neck of the girl’s bodice, and, leaning all her weight into it, thrust her out and under. Molly struggled briefly, her head thrashing from side to side beneath the water. Her straining hands, fingers outstretched, punctured the surface, but, too drunk to fight hard enough to save herself, she soon stopped. It was very quiet, and very easy.

  Crouching now and looking out across the cove, Elizabeth kept her under for another ten or so minutes, just to make sure. There were about a dozen ships at harbour, each one with a single lamp alight on its main mast. They made a pretty sight, rolling on the long, low swell like giant fireflies. Eventually she gave the boathook a twist to tear the barb free, and watched as Molly’s body floated face down, arms and legs wide, the yellow hair, grey in the moonlight, spread out around the head like seaweed.

  Straightening up, her knees cracking like pistol shots, Elizabeth put the boathook back where she’d found it, wiped her hands on her skirt, and walked away.

  Nothing happened when she hammered on the Harrington Street watch-house door, so she did it again. Finally there were footsteps inside, and a yawning policeman in shirtsleeves opened it.

  ‘Good morning,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Do you have a girl by the name of Friday Woolfe here?’

  ‘We’ve got a girl. Don’t know her name. She’s insensible.’

  ‘What’s she done?’

  ‘Drunk, disorderly, assault and biting a constable,’ the policeman said, pointing irritably at his bandaged hand.

  Elizabeth’s heart sank. Drunk and disorderly might have seen Friday released in the morning when she’d sobered up, but not assault, and certainly not biting a policeman. Stupid, stupid girl. ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Why?’ the man asked suspiciously.

  Bugger, Elizabeth thought. If he wasn’t, that would be two bribes. ‘May I see her?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I might know who she is.’

  The policeman thought for a moment, then crossed his arms. Elizabeth opened her purse and gave him a crown, well over a day’s pay. He stepped aside and let her in.

  Friday was on her side on the filthy floor of the cell, snoring her head off. Her jacket was torn, a huge bruise was developing on her cheek, her knuckles were skinned and red, and there was vomit on the ground and matted into her rat’s-nest hair. Elizabeth could smell her from outside the cell.

  ‘Well? Do you recognise her?’ the policeman demanded. ‘She wouldn’t give her name. Too busy cursing and screaming.’

  ‘Would you be amenable to a bribe for releasing her? I’d make it worth your while.’

  ‘Like hell. The bitch nearly bit my hand off. She can go up in front of the magistrate later today.’

  Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’d make it very worth your while.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit.’ The man raised his hand. ‘If this goes poisonous, I’m a dead man. What use will money be to me then?’

  ‘Then good luck trying to get her name out of her when she wakes up.’ Elizabeth swept past him. ‘And I do hope your hand gets better.’

  When Friday dragged herself into consciousness some time after the sun rose, the first thing she did was vomit again, into the bucket this time, the pressure almost bursting her pounding head. Then she turned around, lifted her skirts and, hovering on violently quivering thighs, emptied her bowels into it. The smell was horrific and made her throw up again. She wiped her burning backside with the hem of her shift, stripped off, covered the bucket with the shift, put her skirt and jacket back on, and lay down again, shivering uncontrollably, as far from the bucket as she could get. Her belly hurt, her hands hurt, her arse hurt, her head hurt and she couldn’t remember how she’d got there, but all that paled in comparison to the pain of knowing that Aria had gone. Nothing mattered any more. Nothing. If she had a pistol, she’d happily have blown her own brains out.

  She heard footsteps, opened her eyes and saw a man’s boots on the other side of the cell bars.

  ‘God almighty, you stink.’

  Friday said nothing.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Friday Woolfe,’ Friday mumbled.

  ‘What? Speak up.’

  ‘Friday Woolfe.’

  ‘Ha! That was easy!’ the constable said. ‘You’ll be up in front of the magistrate this afternoon, then you’ll be sorry.’

  I’m bloody sorry now, Friday thought. ‘What did I do?’

  ‘You bit my bloody hand, you savage bloody cow. And beat the daylights out of a couple of poor judies in the Fortune of War.’

  ‘Will you send a message to Elizabeth Hislop on Argyle Street?’ God, it was such an effort to talk. ‘Tell her where I am? She’ll pay you.’

  ‘Like hell I will.’

  Prick, Friday thought, but her heart wasn’t in it.

  But Elizabeth arrived anyway, accompanied by Jack staggering under the weight of clean clothes, soap and towels, a hairbrush, a boiling-pot filled with hot water, food, plus — thank God! — laudanum, gin and ale for Friday’s horrors. And a fat five-pound bribe for each of the constables on duty at the watch house. For that, while one stood guard, they allowed Elizabeth into the cell to empty the filthy bucket, and help Friday bathe and make herself presentable, Friday well beyond caring who the hell was watching. The laudanum muffled her headache and other aches and pains, ale replaced the fluids that had shot out of her mouth and backside, and the gin postponed her dreadful horrors. Nothing, however, could be done about her grotesquely bloodshot eyes.

  Jack managed to winkle out of the guard the fact that Clement Bloodworth was the sitting police magistrate; unfortunately, not Francis Rossi, as Elizabeth had hoped. Though she’d used up the favours Rossi had owed her when she had asked him to release Adam Green from Port Macquarie, she’d been expecting she could prevail on his better nature to let Friday off with just a warning, but that wouldn’t happen now. She would likely be convicted of assault, and sent to the penitentiary at the Female Factory.

  At midday Sarah arrived, Elizabeth having sent word.

  ‘For God’s sake, Friday, what were you thinking?’ she said, her hands on the cell bars.

  Friday shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Well, what happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. Me and Molly went to the Fortune for a few drinks, and I can’t remember anything else. Ask her.’

  ‘I will. What time are you due at the police court?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Friday shrugged again.

  Sarah stared at her. ‘Look, I know you’re upset about Aria, but you can’t just give up!’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You are. But don’t. We need you. Especially Harrie.’

  The policeman leaning against the wall made a silly, girlish noise.

  Sarah whirled to face him. ‘And you can shut the fuck up.’ She hated the police, a sentiment compounded since they’d manacled Adam and dragged him into the street for a crime he’d never committed.

  ‘And you can get the fuck out,’ he shot back. ‘Now. Visiting time’s over.’

  ‘No, I haven’t finished.’

  The man took hold of Sarah’s arm and propelled her roughly out the door. Over her shoulder Sarah shouted, ‘I’ll be there this afternoon! And so will Harrie. Don’t worry!’

  Friday raised a hand, but she didn’t think it would matter who was there to support her. She’d be going back to the Factory for sure, if not the gaol on George Street. And she didn’t care.

  Sarah knocked on the front door of the brothel on Argyle Street.

  When Elizabeth Hislop answered, she said, ‘Afternoon, Mrs Hislop. I’ve just been to see Friday. Thanks for letting me know.’

  ‘Oh, my pleasure, dear. I really don’t know how we’re going to get her out of this one.’

  ‘Is Molly at work? She was with Friday last night. She’ll know exactly what happened. Maybe she can speak in her defence.’

  Elizabeth nodded. ‘I thought the same thing, but I haven’t seen her since she finished yesterday evening.’

  ‘Is she still in her room sleeping it off, do you think?’

  ‘I’ve looked there. No, she isn’t.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But I’ll talk to her as soon as I see her. She may have slept somewhere else last night. She does that. I am a little worried, though. And annoyed. She was supposed to start work at ten.’

  Friday was taken via cart to the police court on George Street just north of the old burial ground, driven through the gate in the high wall surrounding both the court and the central police station, and locked in a cell to wait her turn in the dock. When a court staff constable came to fetch her, she’d fallen asleep, stretched out on the cell’s wooden bench, her manacled wrists crossed over her chest. There would be no lawyer to represent her — she was expected to defend herself.

  The constable rattled the keys against the cell bars. ‘Hoi, you, wake up! Time to go in.’

  Friday sat up, yawned, and rubbed her hands over her face. Her headache was nowhere near as bad as it had been in the morning, though she did wonder if someone had broken into her head and stolen her brains. Perhaps she’d overdone the laudanum. She stood as the guard unlocked the cell.

  He led her down a corridor, made her wait with him in an antechamber, then escorted her into the main courtroom. The public gallery was full, as she knew it would be. A day at court was always a worthwhile entertainment. She saw, too, that police magistrate Clement Bloodworth was ancient, and looked like a bulldog in a wig.

  The constable ushered her up into the dock, reminding her of the last time she’d stood in one, at the Old Bailey in London. That seemed such a long time ago now. She lifted her gaze to the public gallery and immediately spotted Sarah and Harrie, and Mrs H and Jack and Ivy and a few of the girls from work. No Molly, though. And there was Leo, and Nora Barrett! And was that …? Yes, it was — Matthew Cutler. How had he found out? It was nice of him to come, though. Of all of them. She waved, feeling the tiniest bit better.