‘This might be easier if you told us what you’re planning to do,’ Leo said.

  ‘There’s a cellar under the house. No one ever goes down there. You get in from the outside but the door’s always locked. That’s why we need Sarah.’

  Leo frowned. ‘Is it habitable?’

  ‘Dunno, haven’t looked. But it must be fairly dry. Mrs H stores furniture in there. Anyway, got a better idea?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, there you go. Sarah, you ready?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘The door’s just to the right of the steps. It’s easy to see.’

  Friday unlocked the gate and let Sarah through. She crossed the cobbled yard behind the house, passing the whiffy privy and the clothesline, and headed straight for the cellar. On her left, wooden stairs ascended to the brothel’s back entrance; in front of her, two steps led down to a low door set into the house’s sandstone wall. The door had two hefty locks built into it. From her burglary satchel she selected an assortment of tools, and in less than five minutes had both locks cracked, though they were stiff from disuse. She turned and waved at Friday.

  Quickly the other three joined her. Friday cautiously pushed the door: it creaked open onto more wooden steps — steep and extremely rickety — and a dense blackness that smelt dryly of dirt and of something vaguely organic, like mushrooms.

  Friday dug in the pocket of her robe for matches, lit her lamp and handed it to Sarah, who said, ‘Why do I have to go first?’

  ‘I don’t like small spaces.’

  Sarah had forgotten that. She took the lamp in one hand, gathered her skirts with the other, and carefully descended the stairs, each riser protesting beneath her weight, such as it was.

  The cellar had been excavated into the hill on which the house sat, Argyle Street rising with the slope, the raw rock surfaces pointed for stability but nothing more. The remainder of the cellar walls — those not underground — were made from roughly mortared sandstone rubble. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Leo, who was close to six feet tall, could stand comfortably.

  The space wasn’t, in fact, small: it appeared to extend to the four corners of the house above and did, as Elizabeth had informed Friday on an earlier occasion, contain a fair bit of furniture. Many pieces were draped with sheeting, giving them a neglected, even ghostly, appearance, but others stood naked, their surfaces dulled by accumulated grime and a dry sort of mould. Visible were three or four nightstands with doors missing, a listing dining table against which were propped several headboards, three battered bureaux, a chaise with exploding stuffing, a cheval looking-glass frame minus the actual glass, a couple of battered travelling trunks piled against a wall, half a dozen wooden chairs in various states of disrepair, two coat stands with broken arms, and a dented and tarnished brass fender.

  ‘Doesn’t she throw anything out?’ Leo asked.

  ‘Shush.’ Friday pointed urgently at the floor above. ‘Someone’ll hear us.

  ‘What’s this?’ Sarah said, kicking a long, rolled-up tube on the ground. ‘Carpets?’

  An absolutely gargantuan spider shot out the end of it, scuttling straight for her skirts. She let out a strangled squeak and leapt back at least five feet.

  ‘God, that’s a big one,’ Friday remarked. ‘Hope you’re not scared of spiders, Walter.’

  Walter stepped forwards and stamped on it.

  Leo said, ‘Lucky Clifford’s not here. She’d eat that. Oh, sorry, lad.’

  Shrugging, Walter stared down at his boots.

  ‘You don’t need me any more, do you?’ Sarah asked. ‘I’ll wait in the alley.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Friday said. ‘What do we do about the locks?’

  ‘Nothing. The door’ll look locked when you close it. As long as no one tries it, we’ll be fine.’

  ‘But if they do?’ Friday persisted.

  ‘I’ll say I broke in,’ Walter said.

  Leo patted his shoulder. ‘Good lad. But it won’t come to that.’

  Friday said to Sarah, ‘Well, in that case, you might as well go home. Thanks for your help.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Walter echoed.

  ‘My pleasure,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ll come and see you off on Thursday, shall I? Is that all right?’ she asked Leo. ‘Which wharf?’

  ‘King’s. You can, if you don’t make a fuss.’

  ‘As if,’ Sarah said. She never made fusses. She scooted up the steps and disappeared outside.

  ‘Right,’ Leo said to Walter, ‘you’ve enough food and drink to last till Thursday, and half a dozen candles. Do not go out, do you hear me? And get some sleep. You’ll need it.’

  ‘Why?’ Friday asked.

  ‘He’s working his passage on the ship.’

  Friday pecked Walter on the cheek. ‘I can’t visit you down here in case someone sees me, but I’ll come and see you off, too, eh? And I know Harrie’ll want to as well.’

  ‘It’ll be a proper little party, won’t it?’ Leo’s voice caught slightly. He pulled Walter into a rough hug. ‘Get some rest, son. I’ll be back on Thursday evening.’

  ‘I will,’ Walter said.

  After closing the cellar door firmly behind Leo and Friday, he took a candle from his jacket pocket, lit it and dripped wax onto the dining table, and stuck the candle in it. Then he carefully slid his sea bag off his shoulder, set it on the old chaise, and loosened the ties.

  ‘Come on, out you come,’ he said.

  Clifford exited the sea bag head first, sneezed and shook herself violently. Her left ear was inside out. Walter folded it the right way.

  ‘Now, what were you wanting for supper? Sausage, cheese or a nice bit of pork pie?’

  On Tuesday morning the Sydney Gazette reported in rather lurid detail — macabre circumstances, abandoned graveyard, frenzied stabbing, blood-drenched clothing, blind, staring eyes — the discovery of Furniss’s body, together with a statement from two witnesses who had come forward to report seeing a boy and a dog in the vicinity of the old burial ground. There had been no accompanying illustration of the allegedly encountered boy (or dog), so clearly the witnesses had not got a good look, but still, the sighting was a worry. Also, an anonymous benefactor was offering a reward of fifteen pounds to anyone able to provide reliable and accurate information leading to the apprehension of the murderer or murderers.

  Friday convinced Elizabeth Hislop to give her Thursday night off, but only in exchange for a full explanation of what Harrie and Walter had been doing in her room in the small hours of Monday morning.

  Elizabeth was appalled — not at Friday’s description of Furniss’s grisly demise, but at the abuse he’d meted out to Walter on the Isla two years earlier, which had ultimately driven the boy to claim such a bloody revenge.

  ‘Serves the bugger right,’ she said. ‘The author of his own fate. Still, that poor lad. To think what he must have endured.’

  ‘I know,’ Friday agreed. ‘I don’t blame him for sticking the bastard.’

  ‘He’ll hang if he’s caught.’

  ‘He won’t be. He’s sailing this Thursday for England. Which is why I’d like the time off, to say goodbye.’

  Elizabeth checked the roster. ‘I’ll swap you with Hazel. She won’t mind.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Friday said gratefully, and somewhat guiltily, given that Mrs H was unwittingly hiding Walter in her cellar.

  On Thursday she knocked off work just on dark, skilfully inducing her cully to finish his session fifteen minutes early and wondering whether Leo had collected Walter yet. She’d better get a move on herself if she wasn’t to miss him before he boarded. She changed into her street clothes and made her way down Argyle Street, turned right onto George and headed south until she came to King’s Wharf adjacent to the Commissariat Stores. The ship — Friday didn’t know what sort it was: she only knew about sailors, not what they sailed on — swarmed with crew as supplies were loaded on and packed away, and the wharf itself was crowded with lumpers scurrying about hefting last-minute crates and barrels and boxes. The light had vanished from the sky now, revealing a cheese-coloured crescent of moon, and great flares burnt along the wharf, illuminating sweating faces and turning ordinary men into ghouls.

  She found Sarah and Harrie lurking at the base of the towering Stores buildings.

  ‘Where’re Leo and Walter?’ she asked.

  ‘We saw Leo a few minutes ago,’ Harrie said. ‘He’s got Walter out of sight somewhere, in case the police are watching the wharf.’ She glanced around nervously, peering into the shadows. ‘What if they are watching? What if they’re hiding, waiting to grab him? Though I can’t see anyone, can you?’

  ‘You’re not supposed to,’ Sarah said. ‘That’s the point.’

  Friday calmly surveyed the Stores, the darkened street and the shoreline. ‘I can’t see anyone, either. Surely they couldn’t keep an eye on all the wharves? There aren’t enough of them, for a start.’

  ‘Probably not, but Leo’s right. It’s better to be safe,’ Sarah said.

  They observed in silence as a pair of watermen rowed out into the cove, trailing a warping rope attached to the ship about to set sail. Then came a splash as the ship’s great anchor was heaved over the side of the rowboat.

  ‘Where is he?’ Harrie fretted. ‘It’ll leave without him.’

  Friday pointed. ‘There they are.’

  Leo ambled towards the wharf in no apparent hurry, Walter beside him, his sea bag over his shoulder. Leo gave a casual wave.

  ‘Isn’t this a bit obvious?’ Sarah asked as she, Harrie and Friday caught up with them.

  ‘We’re all right,’ Leo said. ‘I’ve had a look around. There’s no one here.’ He caught sight of the ship’s captain and raised his hat.

  Several loud crashes echoed as the hatch covers on deck were closed, half a dozen lumpers trotted down the gangway, and the bosun blew his whistle to call all hands to the capstan.

  ‘They’re preparing to warp out, lad. Time to go.’ Leo wrapped Walter in a tight hug, his chin resting on the boy’s head. When he pulled back, his eyes glistened. ‘Take care of yourself, do you hear me?’

  Walter nodded and said thickly, ‘I will.’

  Leo dug in his pocket and handed him several gold coins. ‘For when you get home, to start you off. Don’t show anyone aboard. Bloody sailors. Can’t trust ’em.’

  Walter burst into tears. So did Harrie.

  One after the other, Harrie, Sarah and Friday hugged him. Friday and Sarah each gave him a five-pound note — Walter had never had so much money in his life — and Harrie presented him with two beautifully made white linen shirts.

  He seemed unable to control his tears. ‘I don’t want to go,’ he sobbed. ‘I want to stay here with you.’

  ‘It’s too late for that,’ Leo said gently. ‘Go on, off you go.’

  Walter wiped his nose on his sleeve, drew in a huge breath, and trudged off along the wharf. At the top of the ship’s gangway, he paused for a moment to wave, then stepped onto the deck and was gone.

  ‘Well, that’s that,’ Leo said, dabbing at his eyes with his cuff.

  But it wasn’t. Walter reappeared a moment later accompanied by the captain, who, gripping his ear, marched him back down the gangway. At the bottom, Walter bent down to tip Clifford out of his sea bag, then was escorted smartly back up to the deck.

  Clifford, barking her head off, raced up after him on her short little legs, but was set upon by a burly seaman wielding a boat hook. When she dodged past that he kicked her, sending her flying to crash onto the unforgiving boards of the wharf. The bosun’s whistle blew, the gangway was raised, and the ship began to move slowly away. In a fit of complete dog hysterics, Clifford raced alongside, barking and yapping and yelping, until she ran out of wharf.

  ‘Oh, stop her!’ Harrie cried. ‘She’ll jump in.’

  Clifford sat down, raised her scruffy head, and let out the most piteous howl as the ship’s stern drew past her.

  ‘Oh, Leo, please, why don’t you take her home?’ Harrie pleaded.

  ‘Because I value my fingers. She doesn’t like me. She’s a one-boy dog.’

  ‘Friday? What about you?’

  ‘I hate dogs. And Mrs H’d kill me. You take her if you feel that sorry for her.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t,’ Harrie said. ‘I wouldn’t be allowed. She’d be a danger to the children. Sarah, you take her. Please?’

  ‘Me? I don’t want a dog. And especially not that one.’

  ‘She’ll be all right,’ Leo said. ‘She was feral before she latched onto Walter. She’ll survive.’

  ‘She’s still bloody feral,’ Friday muttered. ‘I’m going to the pub. It’s too cold out here.’

  Saying goodbye to Walter had been more unsettling than Friday had expected. She’d been fond of him, but she hadn’t expected to feel quite so teary at his departure. Also, when she’d hugged him he’d said something very odd in her ear.

  He’d whispered, ‘There’s a dead body in that cellar.’

  Sarah hurried up George Street, her shawl pulled tightly around her shoulders against the night air’s winter bite, increasingly convinced with every step she took she was being followed. Three times she turned, and though there were indeed folk walking a short distance behind her, she knew instinctively they weren’t responsible for her discomfort. Finally, the feeling became so overpowering she ducked off the footway and down the side of a building just past the Hunter Street intersection, and waited.

  A minute later, a small, scruffy head peeked cautiously round the corner.

  Sarah sighed. She picked up a pebble and threw it. ‘Go on, bugger off!’

  Clifford flinched, but didn’t run away.

  Sarah threw another stone. It bounced off the top of Clifford’s head. She whimpered, but still she didn’t run.

  Sarah immediately felt guilty. She glanced over her shoulder. She could go home that way, behind the houses and shops, following the course of the foul-smelling Tank Stream, but she suspected the damned animal would only follow her. Why her, anyway? Surely she could tell Harrie was a much softer touch?

  She sighed again, stepped back out onto the footway and, ignoring the dog, continued along George Street. At the intersection with King she risked a look back, and swore: Clifford was still trotting along behind her, though — oh, for God’s sake — now she was limping.

  Sarah went around to the rear of her house and entered the yard through the back gate, shutting it quickly, though not quickly enough to prevent Clifford from scooting through on three legs and limping with startling speed up to the porch, where she collapsed on the mat.

  Following her, Sarah said, ‘You can’t swindle a swindler, dog. I know what you’re doing. Now bugger off.’

  Clifford let out the most pathetic whine and rolled onto her back, revealing a front paw that appeared to be quite deeply cut. Then she sat up and held out the wounded limb.

  ‘You hurt that on purpose, didn’t you?’

  Very slowly, aware her hand could be bitten at any moment, Sarah crouched and allowed Clifford to rest the bleeding paw in her palm. The long, straggly hairs around the dog’s toes were matted with blood, which quickly pooled in Sarah’s hand. She dug in her pocket for a handkerchief, tied it around the paw, stood and stared down at the animal.

  Clifford gazed up at her, head on one side, brown button eyes brimming with mute appeal.

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’ Sarah picked her up and opened the back door.

  Adam was in the parlour, reading The Last of the Mohicans in front of the fire, stretched out on the sofa with a tumbler of brandy at his elbow. His crow-black hair lay unbound over his collar, rolled shirtsleeves revealing strong, pale forearms.

  ‘Did you have a nice evening?’ he asked without taking his eyes from his book. As far as he knew, Sarah had been visiting Harrie.

  ‘Yes, I did. Very nice.’

  Clifford sneezed. Adam put aside the adventures of Hawkeye and his Mohican friends, sat up so his slippered feet were on the floor and eyed the dog in Sarah’s arms. ‘Is this evidence of George Barrett’s latest racket? I hope you didn’t pay for it.’

  His comments were playful, but his face and tone of voice carried an undertone of wariness. Sarah was suddenly alert. ‘Of course not.’

  Adam took a sip of his brandy. ‘You weren’t at Harrie’s tonight, were you?’

  Sarah settled Clifford on the floor in front of the fire, to give herself a moment to think. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I followed you down to King’s Wharf. I saw you meet Friday and Harrie there.’

  ‘You followed me!’ Sarah exclaimed. That made sense. The little hairs on the back of her neck had been prickling all night. ‘That wasn’t very nice, Adam.’

  ‘It wasn’t very nice of you to lie to me.’

  For a second Sarah considered insisting that she’d told him she was meeting Harrie, not going to Harrie’s house, but decided she didn’t want to. Deceiving him in the first place had made her uncomfortable enough. ‘I had to.’

  ‘You never have to lie, Sarah. Not to me. Not any more.’

  I bloody do, she thought.

  ‘What were you doing down there?’

  ‘Did you not wait to find out?’ she asked, and immediately berated herself for being sarcastic. Adam had been home from the penitentiary at Port Macquarie less than a month, and already she’d forgotten the desperate vows she’d made to God never to be rude, unpleasant or unkind to him — or anyone — ever again, if only he was returned to her. But, of course, she didn’t believe in God.

  ‘I saw you were safe,’ he said. ‘I decided I could wait until you got in.’

  Sarah dithered, furiously trying to concoct a suitable story.

  ‘I’m prepared to sit here all night until you tell me,’ he added. ‘And after that, you can explain to me why there’s a smelly little dog asleep in our parlour.’

  Clifford was asleep. Cheeky tyke.

  Sarah sat on the sofa. ‘Leo Dundas’s boy got himself into a bit of trouble the other night.’

  ‘The lad who was ship’s boy on your transport? William, isn’t it?’