‘Walter.’ Adam had only met him once.

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

  ‘It was, actually. The cove found murdered in the old burial ground on Monday morning? Amos Furniss? That was Walter’s handiwork.’

  ‘But he’s just a boy.’ Adam was stunned.

  ‘He was even more of a boy when Furniss was getting stuck into him on the Isla.’

  ‘Really? My God. And that’s why he killed him? In revenge?’

  ‘Yes, and bloody well warranted it was, too, in my opinion. But he and Clifford were seen leaving the burial ground.’

  ‘Who’s Clifford?’

  Sarah pointed at the hearthrug. ‘Her. Walter left for England tonight. He tried to sneak her onto the ship, but she was chucked off. I don’t know why she chose me to follow home. I don’t even like dogs.’

  ‘Why is she called Clifford? That’s a man’s name.’

  ‘Don’t ask me.’

  Adam stared at Clifford for a moment. ‘But what were Walter and Furniss doing in the burial ground in the first place? And why did you and Friday and Harrie have to see Walter off? Why couldn’t Leo Dundas do it?’

  ‘We didn’t have to, we wanted to. We were fond of him. And Leo was there. You must have just missed him.’

  Adam’s eyes narrowed and he slowly shook his head. ‘No, this just doesn’t feel right to me. You’re talking about helping a murderer flee the colony. That was an awful risk for girls in your position to take.’

  ‘What position?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Sarah, you’re convicts. Imagine if you’d been caught! So come on, tell me. Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Sarah! Don’t treat me as though I’m an idiot. Did you owe the boy something? Was that it?’

  Sarah swallowed. Sometimes she wished her beautiful, talented, passionate husband wasn’t quite so clever.

  ‘Well?’ Adam demanded. ‘Did you?’

  ‘No! We didn’t. Stop interrogating me.’

  ‘So what was it, then?’

  She was overwhelmed then with a desire to tell him everything, about Keegan, Bella and the blackmail — the lot. It would be such a relief. He’d know what to do. He could talk to his charmingly crooked friend, Bernard Cole, who’d lived in Sydney for ages and knew certain useful people who did all manner of work if the price was right, and perhaps even come up with a plan that would get rid of Bella forever.

  She began, ‘Friday was in the burial ground on Sunday night —’

  His face blanching suddenly in the firelight, Adam exclaimed, ‘My God, are you saying Friday murdered Furniss? Sarah!’

  ‘No, I’m not. Christ, Adam. It was Walter. Walter killed him.’

  Sarah watched him blow out a shaky sigh of relief and slump back on the sofa, and her heart thumped with sick dread. She’d come so close. If he was that horrified by the idea of Friday committing murder, what would he think if she confessed to it?

  Adam took another, rather large, sip of his brandy. ‘So what was Friday doing there?’

  Sarah tried to change the subject. ‘Do you really think she’s capable of murdering someone?’

  ‘Oh, probably not.’ Adam waved away the suggestion. ‘It’s just that she’s big and strong and her temper, well … sometimes she gets that look in her eye. Mind you, so do you.’ He didn’t laugh. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘About?’

  Adam’s eyes narrowed again, his face hardened, and Sarah knew she’d pushed him too far this time. ‘Friday in the burial ground. Was it something to do with the blackmail?’

  Sarah got such a terrible shock it felt like a physical blow, and she thought for several moments that she might faint. She heard herself say, ‘What blackmail?’

  ‘Look, I know Furniss worked for Bella Shand. I asked around because it’s obvious you and Friday and Harrie loathe her, and I’ve always suspected there’s more to all that than what you’ve told me. Bella Shand is blackmailing you, isn’t she?’

  Sarah stared at him, fear making her skin tingle unpleasantly, and said as calmly as possible, ‘What makes you think that?’

  She felt sick and, though she was only feet from the fire, the sweat in her armpits was cold and clammy. She dreaded to hear his answer but she had to know how much of their secret he’d worked out.

  ‘You’ve always needed a lot of money,’ he said, ‘but you never seem to spend it on yourself.’

  ‘It’s for Janie and the babies at the Factory. I’ve told you that.’

  ‘But not all of it, surely. And I know Friday contributes to this fund of yours, and Harrie, when she can. I overheard you talking one day — and no, I wasn’t deliberately eavesdropping.’

  Sarah stayed silent, too frightened to speak in case he asked the next — obvious — question.

  ‘So this is what I think might have happened,’ Adam said. ‘I think Friday was in the burial ground on Sunday night, meeting Furniss to hand over money. Either the boy Walter was there officially with Friday, or he followed her for some reason. After the transaction was made, Walter killed Furniss.’ Adam frowned. ‘So what happened to the money?’

  ‘Keep going, Mr Know It All,’ Sarah snapped. She was angry, and frightened, because the scenario he’d conjured was so accurate.

  ‘Because it was your business in which Walter became embroiled,’ Adam went on, ‘the three of you felt you needed to arrange for him to leave the colony. Am I right so far?’

  Sarah sighed. She’d sighed a lot tonight. ‘Not quite. Yes, Walter did follow Friday. We had no idea he planned to kill Furniss. It was Leo who organised his passage on the ship, not us. We saw him off because we are fond of him. I got to know him quite well when you were away, through Harrie working for Leo. I don’t blame Walter for what he did. The filthy cove deserved it.’

  ‘Did Friday see him kill Furniss?’

  ‘No, he waited until she’d gone.’

  ‘And my question about the money? I take it you are being blackmailed?’

  Sarah nodded. ‘Yes, we are.’ She closed her eyes for a second. God, it was a relief to finally tell Adam. About that, at least. She literally felt as though some grindingly heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders, if only by a fraction. ‘Walter took the money back off Furniss.’

  On the rug Clifford let out a loud, whistly snore.

  Adam said, ‘So now Bella’s right-hand man is dead, she’s owed a blackmail payment, and she’s bound to think —’

  ‘We killed him.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this, Sarah?’

  ‘Because it’s no one else’s business.’

  ‘Not even mine?’ Adam’s gaze was level, but he looked disappointed.

  Sarah hesitated, then said, ‘No.’

  ‘So no one else knows about the blackmail?’

  ‘No.’ Though Sarah had wondered what Friday might have said to Elizabeth Hislop.

  Adam sat quietly for a moment, his eyes downcast.

  Oh God, here it comes, Sarah thought, panicking.

  ‘Sarah, why is she blackmailing you?’

  ‘I can only assume she’s taken against us,’ she said, deliberately misinterpreting the question.

  ‘That’s not what I mean, and you know it.’

  She paused, thinking furiously, then said, ‘During the voyage out, on the Isla, one of the convict women, a really nasty piece of work by the name of Liz Parker, was murdered. Friday hated Liz’s guts and Liz hated Friday’s. Liz was found suffocated in her bunk in the middle of a terrific storm when everything on board was utterly chaotic. It was never proved who killed her but the finger was unofficially pointed at Friday.’

  ‘Did she do it?’

  ‘No, she was above deck at the time watching what everyone thought was the Flying Dutchman. The captain didn’t bother to pursue the matter. Liz was a troublemaker and I think he was glad to be rid of her. Everyone else was. But after we arrived Bella demanded money in exchange for her not informing the governor that Friday had murdered Liz.’

  ‘But can she prove it? She can’t, can she?’

  ‘After Liz Parker died, two of her crew, Becky Hoddle and Louisa Coutts, went to work for Bella. Apparently they’ll swear they saw Friday murder Liz.’

  ‘But why would Governor Darling listen to Bella Shand? She’s just a convict.’

  ‘No, she isn’t. Be sensible, Adam. She’s Clarence Shand’s wife, and Clarence Shand is a wealthy and influential man. We can’t risk not meeting her demands. We could go to the gallows.’

  ‘But not all of you, surely?’

  Christ, she’d nearly made a mistake. ‘Bella’s said she’ll tell the governor Harrie and I concealed the fact we knew Friday committed the murder. I told you, she’s really taken against us.’

  Adam rubbed his chin while he pondered her predicament.

  Sarah hardly dared to breathe, hoping he would believe her. Aspects of her story were true, but she’d concocted the tale from several different episodes. Horrible Liz Parker had indeed been murdered on the Isla, but it was likely Bella Jackson, as she’d been before she’d married Clarence Shand, had done that herself, throttling Parker to death with her bare hands. Friday, however, was in fact guilty of murder. So were she and Harrie. They’d kicked Gabriel Keegan to death in revenge for him assaulting their beloved friend Rachel Winter, who’d died giving birth to his child, Charlotte. Bella had discovered what they’d done, and had been blackmailing them ever since.

  ‘I can see why you’re so worried,’ he said at last. ‘I can. But I really doubt the governor’d pay much attention to a bonded convict. And she is still a bonded convict, you know, even if she is married to Clarence Shand. And I doubt the evidence of her cronies would carry much weight, either.’

  ‘Don’t forget she has the money now to pay the right people to listen to her, if she really wants them to.’

  Adam made a face. ‘Yes, I suppose she does.’ He knew as well as anyone else in Sydney Town that the way to get anything done, legal or illegal, was to hand over money. ‘Why does she dislike you so much? Do you know?’

  Sarah shook her head. The less she said now about the strange relationship she, Friday and Harrie had with Bella Shand, the better.

  ‘Well, Christ, you can’t keep paying her forever,’ Adam said.

  ‘No, we can’t. We thought we’d done a deal with her when we told her it was Jared Gellar who’d stolen her Maori heads. She agreed then to stop blackmailing us. But then she double-crossed us and sent another demand, which is what Friday was doing in the old burial ground on Sunday night — giving the money to Furniss.’

  ‘How much money?’

  ‘Two hundred pounds.’

  Adam’s dark eyebrows shot up. ‘Bloody hell, Sarah!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How much has she demanded to date?’

  ‘Three hundred and fifty.’

  ‘And you’ve paid it?’

  Sarah nodded.

  ‘Good God. That’s a bloody fortune! No wonder you’ve been desperate for money. And the three of you have raised all that yourselves?’

  ‘Friday puts in a lot,’ Sarah said. ‘She’s sitting on a gold mine, remember.’

  ‘That’s absolute highway robbery. That’s …’ Adam tailed off, unable to think of another appropriate description. ‘With any luck someone will kill her,’ he said suddenly. ‘That would solve your problem, wouldn’t it?’

  Sarah opened her mouth to tell him they’d already considered that, and that she’d imagined him masterminding such a solution only minutes earlier, then thought better of it.

  Adam stood, crouched beside Clifford still wheezing and whistling in front of the fire, and, before Sarah could warn him, extended his hand. Clifford whipped her head around and snapped at his fingers.

  Launching himself backwards and sitting down hard on the sofa, Adam said, ‘Christ! Did you see that? Vicious little bugger.’

  You cunning article, Sarah thought — that performance on the back porch had better not have just been a ploy to get inside the house. Warily, she approached Clifford and held out her hand, palm down, fingers protectively curled. Clifford licked Sarah’s knuckles, then ducked her head so Sarah’s hand was positioned above her bony skull, clearly hoping for a scratch. Sarah laughed out loud.

  ‘It can’t stay here,’ Adam said. ‘Bad-tempered little devil.’

  ‘I know. I don’t want a dog.’

  ‘It’s probably got rabies. And definitely fleas.’

  ‘I know. Are there any of those sausages left from supper?’

  Friday did go to the pub, but only stayed for a few drinks before she headed for home. She couldn’t get Walter’s last whispered words out of her mind. When she got back to the Siren’s Arms, she grabbed a couple of candles from her room, then hurried along the alleyway to the brothel. A gentleman was dithering in the backyard taking gulps from a hip flask, which, exasperatingly, meant she had to loiter in the shadows until he finally made up his mind and went in, then she shot across to the cellar and tried the door. It was unlocked — which it would be, as neither Leo nor Walter had had keys to lock it after they’d left — so she lit a candle and descended into the musty, dry darkness.

  Walter had left evidence of his stay — meat bones picked clean (the rats had no doubt made short work of anything else remotely edible), ale bottles coated with stalactites of candle wax, and a very faint whiff of shit. Being a fairly tidy boy, he’d probably buried any mess he’d made, Friday thought, or at least done his best to cover it, as there wasn’t much dirt down here: the floor had been beaten solid. She chipped the old wax from the ale bottles and wedged in fresh candles to afford herself more light, and stood with her hands on her hips, wondering where to start.

  Walter had apparently found it easily enough, though, so surely she wouldn’t have to look too hard. There just weren’t that many places you could hide a corpse down here. Buried under the floor, maybe? Unlikely, if you couldn’t even bury a turd. She took a candle and toured the cellar, peering closely at the ground for signs that the earth had recently been disturbed, lifting dustsheets and moving furniture she thought Walter might have managed to shift, but found nothing except the product of his bowels. Then she looked inside furniture — a clothes press tilted against a wall, every drawer in the scruffy old bureaux (as if you could stuff a corpse in a drawer), a sideboard, and something else with a lot of cupboards in it she didn’t know what to call. And then she spotted them — two good-sized travelling trunks, one on top of the other against the far wall. What an idiot. Why hadn’t she noticed them straight away?

  Both were covered with hard, scuffed leather, and studded with countless brass rivets, but when she rapped on them they each made a hollow knocking sound, as though lined inside with something very solid. She gave the top trunk a hearty shove — it barely moved. The lid was at eye height and the lock, she saw by the light of her candle, had been forced. Someone — Walter, no doubt — had spent some time cutting through the tough old leather, then digging at the wooden frame beneath, around the escutcheon plate, and had levered the plate away, leaving the inner workings of the lock exposed. Friday set the heels of her palms against the rim of the lid and pushed upwards — it rose, nothing holding it down but gravity.

  But she wasn’t tall enough to see inside. Her belly fluttering with apprehension — what would she find? — she fetched a doorless nightstand, tipped it on its side and climbed onto it. Holding the candle high, she screwed up her face, closed one eye, squinted down into the murky shadows of the trunk and saw … nothing. It was empty.

  ‘Shite.’

  She’d been right, though; the trunks were lined — with some sort of beaten metal. Well, this one definitely was.

  She jumped off the nightstand and examined the lock on the bottom trunk. That, too, had been forced. But why had Walter done that? Surely he couldn’t have moved the top trunk by himself? Bent almost double, holding the candle barely a foot above the ground, she shuffled around until she spied what she was looking for — gouge marks in the hard dirt. What the hell could he have used? And then it came to her — the shelves in the clothes press.

  Grunting, she shoved the top trunk back a few inches to make a little ledge against which to lean two of the shelves, wedged their ends firmly into the compacted dirt, then, grunting and swearing now, moved to the other end of the trunk and shunted it back again so it stuck out over the makeshift ramp. Straddling the shelves and digging her fingers into the trunk’s riveted seams, annoyingly breaking a fingernail in the process, she strained mightily and hauled it towards her. Everything was fine — it really was — up until the moment the bloody thing tipped over, took off and got the better of her, hitting her in the chest and knocking her flat on her back. Christ, it was heavy. How the hell anyone actually travelled anywhere with it packed, she didn’t know. Praying that no one in the house overhead had heard the almighty thump, she struggled to her feet and took a couple of deep breaths to steady her nerves. She’d be black and blue tomorrow.

  She eyed the bottom trunk. Now that she could open it, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to. Had Walter hesitated? Had he crouched here, on his knees with the cellar’s shadows rearing over him, wondering what he might find if he lifted the lid? What had made him curious anyway? Had he … smelt something? Cautiously, Friday leant forwards, put her nose near the ruined lock, and took a very hesitant sniff. Nothing. Or perhaps just a hint of something reminiscent of very old boots, or coats or curtains.

  Oh God, maybe he hadn’t smelt anything at all — maybe he’d heard something. A scratching or a tapping? Or something — someone — pleading to be let out?

  She was beginning to wish she’d waited until daylight to do this.

  ‘Oh, you gutless bloody wonder,’ she said out loud.

  Before she could change her mind, she yanked up the lid of the trunk, raised her candle and peered in.

  Walter had been right; there was a body. Friday knew who it was, of course. Or rather, who it had been. She’d had her suspicions for ages.

  It — he — lay curled on his side, facing her, as the trunk wasn’t long enough to accommodate him laid out on his back: he must have been moderately tall when alive. He was still fully clothed, though the fabric of the once off-white trousers was almost universally stained a scabrous brown, as was the linen shirt still neatly in place beneath the crusted, dark waistcoat and heavy coat. Around the neck was wrapped a red neckerchief, also stained. The feet were hidden in solid black boots. The whole ensemble, however, had collapsed, as there was nothing inside it now to give it form but a cage of bones.