Walking away, Friday flapped a dismissive hand. There weren’t any trees in Devonshire Street cemetery, well, no big ones, but there were a few just beyond the wall. She’d loiter there.

  Tagging along behind the slow-moving funeral procession, she was glad she was wearing her comfortable black boots. It was quite a walk up George Street to the burial ground — past the Haymarket and nearly as far as Ultimo. Also, it was a windy day and going down the long hill on the south side a sharp breeze picking up the brickworks’ red dust, constant except during all but the heaviest of rains, seemed to be blowing most of it into her face. She wrapped her shawl around her mouth and nose and yanked the brim of her hat down low. As always, the cattle market gave off an eye-watering stink and dung clogged the road outside its pens and paddocks, but she trudged on, ignoring the temptations of the Old Black Swan, the Dog and Duck and the Wheat Sheaf hotels. The odour changed to the sharper tang of horse and bullock shit mixed with hay as she passed the carter’s barracks on the corner and turned onto Devonshire Street, and she ducked through a lychgate and into the cemetery itself, forgetting about hiding beneath the trees.

  A long row of carriages sat parked along the cemetery wall, their drivers smoking pipes, chatting to one another or sneaking sips from hip flasks. After Clarence Shand had been buried, they would return to their masters and mistresses and report that etiquette and propriety had been suitably observed. The mutes had disappeared, probably into nearby hotels.

  The hearse, Friday noted, was empty. As it started to rain, she crept through a field of headstones and flat ledger stones towards a small knot of people in the distance. Choosing a particularly tall headstone, she ducked down behind it. There was a fresh chip missing from the sandstone — someone had been a bit clumsy with the grass scythe. Peering out, she saw to her surprise that Clarence was about to be lowered into a grave in the Roman Catholic section of the cemetery. Fancy that. Only Bella stood at the graveside, her live-in companions Becky Hoddle and Louisa Coutts hovering some feet away, looking suitably sober and also wearing black.

  The priest was speaking, waving his hand theatrically over the coffin as the gravediggers lowered it jerkily into the yawning hole. There was a faint splash as it landed in a puddle left by the previous evening’s downpour.

  Crouching on the sparse grass as rainwater trickled irritatingly down her neck, Friday wondered why, really, she’d come. She quite often wasn’t very good at working out why she did things. She wanted, she supposed, to see Bella show some sort of feeling, and preferably for it to be grief or pain. God knew she inflicted enough pain on other people. Just once, it would be so satisfying to see her keen, or cry, or even just be sorry about something. But her veil was still lowered, and for all Friday knew she could be grinning her head off. She probably was. Her marriage to Clarence Shand had been one of convenience so she’d hardly be heartbroken at his passing. Also, she was fantastically wealthy now and, according to gossip, Clarence had recently ‘bought’ her a ticket of leave, which meant she could do more or less as she pleased.

  It wasn’t fair. Bella Shand was a nasty, evil, blackmailing bitch who didn’t deserve any of it, and Friday hated her guts.

  The wind changed and she caught the priest’s final petition: ‘May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.’

  Bella took a shovel and unceremoniously dumped a heap of soil onto the coffin, then turned to Louisa for a handkerchief to wipe her black gloves. The priest crooked his elbow, which Bella ignored, and they headed back to the lychgate, Becky and Louisa trailing behind.

  Friday crouched even lower as they passed quite near her hiding place, and almost had a heart attack when the priest said: ‘One moment, if you please, Mrs Shand.’

  They stopped.

  ‘I realise that Mr Shand’s passing was sudden and must be a terrible shock for you, but have you given any thought to some sort of headstone? I can recommend several good stonemasons.’

  Bella finally lifted her veil and tucked it into the band of her hat, revealing perfectly dry, kohl-rimmed eyes. ‘No. That is not something I’ve had the time to consider.’

  ‘May I suggest, then, that you choose something behoving of your husband’s prowess as a businessman and his standing in the community?’ The priest made a sweeping gesture with his arm. ‘Why not leave these parsimonious little headstones to the Quakers, the Presbyterians and the Wesleyans? It would be a fine thing, I believe, to memorialise your husband’s passing, and at the same time celebrate the glory of the Catholic faith, by commissioning something at least a little grand. Something that will perhaps reflect your status now as Mr Shand’s widow, and a very wealthy woman in your own right. After all, we can’t let ourselves be outdone by the Anglicans, can we?’

  You cunning article, Friday thought, shifting slightly to ease the nipping cramp in her calf.

  ‘Is that so, Father?’ Bella said, her voice taking on an irritated edge that the priest possibly didn’t know her well enough to recognise. ‘And what would you consider appropriate?’

  ‘A sculpted monument, perhaps. Or a finely carved chest tomb?’

  ‘Perhaps. I’ll think about it.’

  They moved away then, much to Friday’s relief — her leg was killing her. She could stretch but didn’t dare move until Bella, Louisa and Becky had been driven away in their hired carriages.

  A chest tomb? You could pack twenty dead Clarences into one of those. Then she remembered that the corpse usually went in the ground, leaving the tomb above it empty.

  And that gave her an idea.

  Harrie went straight home after she left Sarah and Friday. She was due at the Barrett household at two o’clock to assist Nora with a gown she was sewing, but she wanted to make sure Charlotte had had her dinner and a proper sleep before they went. Home was now on Bent Street as James had bought a much larger house in April and rented out the cottage. Harrie thought the new place was far too big, but James had insisted.

  It had five bedrooms, for a start. The house was lovely, but why on earth did they need five bedrooms? She and James had one, and Daisy Miller, their housegirl who slept with Charlotte, had another, which left three more for Daisy to dust and sweep every day for no reason. And there were also a parlour and a sitting room, a shelf-lined study for James, a dining room, a kitchen directly attached to the rear of the house, a laundry with a huge copper, a storeroom, plenty of cupboards, a cellar, and a small carriage house with adjacent stables. A wide verandah ran along the front of the house, down one side and halfway round the back, from which you could glimpse Sydney Cove. The view was even better from the bedrooms upstairs. The wife of the shipbuilder from whom James had bought the property had clearly put time and effort into the garden, and Harrie was looking forward to spring when the bulbs, shrubs and trees flowered. Angus the cat also appreciated the big garden. Judging by what he was leaving on the verandah, the yield of mice, spiders and lizards was much more bountiful than at the York Street property.

  They’d not had enough furniture to fill the place and she and James had gone on a spending spree soon after they’d moved in, buying sofas and chests and carpets and wash stands and clothespresses and all sorts of bits and pieces. Harrie had never seen so much money spent in her life. James had even bought furniture for the spare bedrooms — ‘In case we have guests,’ he said.

  Some days she wandered from room to room, wondering just how she’d arrived in such an elevated position. Her home in London for years had been a tiny, dingy tenement with a single window, shared with her three younger siblings and her ailing mother. No matter how much she’d dared to dream then, she had never, ever imagined she would end up living in a house like this, never mind married to the man who owned it.

  She’d paid a price for it, though. She’d lost her sanity. But James — lovely, decent, steadfast James — and Sarah and Friday had saved her, and that was behind her now. The voices in her head and the dreadful, crushing guilt had gone, and her mind was her own again.

  Rachel had gone, too, and Harrie missed her, but she understood that it was time now for her to live life with James and Charlotte.

  Unfortunately, Bella Shand hadn’t gone, and neither, she suspected, had Jonah Leary. But she was so much stronger now than she had been even just a few months ago, and she knew that whatever happened next, she would manage. She wasn’t quite the same Harrie Clarke who’d arrived in Sydney in 1829, but, like an animal hide that had been vigorously soaked, scraped, stretched and tanned, she’d become more resilient.

  In a funny way, love had cured her. The love of Friday and Sarah, and of Nora, Leo and Charlotte, and most of all, James. Honestly, it all would have been a lot easier if she’d married him years ago.

  Having spent four hours in her favourite pub, the Bird-in-Hand, it was almost dark by the time Friday staggered back to the Siren’s Arms Hotel. She made her way unsteadily along the alleyway connecting the pub to the brothel on Argyle Street, determined to speak to Elizabeth Hislop.

  She knocked on Elizabeth’s office door, didn’t wait for an invitation, and barged in. ‘I’ve had the cleverest idea,’ she blurted.

  ‘Good evening, Friday. Please, do come in,’ Elizabeth said tartly.

  ‘Ta.’ Friday flopped into a chair.

  Elizabeth fanned her face theatrically. ‘For God’s sake, girl, have you been in the pub all day?’

  ‘No, just the afternoon. I was at the burial ground before that, watching old Clarence Shand get planted.’

  ‘You take some risks, don’t you? I can’t think of anything more likely to irritate Bella.’

  ‘Don’t worry, she didn’t see me.’ Friday leant urgently forwards, almost fell off her chair and grabbed wildly at the edge of Elizabeth’s desk. ‘Whoops. Listen to this, though. Clarence might be getting a chest tomb. What do you think of that?’

  ‘Good for Clarence.’

  ‘No, I mean, think what we could put in it. Or should I say, who?’

  Elizabeth shook her head, the auburn curls of her wig quivering. ‘I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about. As usual.’

  ‘Yes, you do. Gil! We could put him in Clarence’s tomb!’

  Appalled, Elizabeth stared at Friday. ‘Are you saying we should put my husband in with Clarence Shand’s corpse?’

  ‘Well, Gil’s a corpse, too. And not exactly a fresh one either. Anyway, I don’t mean right on top of Clarence. He’ll be in the ground. I just mean in the tomb bit. It’d be a lot better than keeping him here in your cellar. You’ll go to the gallows if the police ever raid this place and find him.’

  ‘Yes, I do know that, thank you very much,’ Elizabeth snapped.

  ‘Keep your wig on. I’m only trying to help.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Elizabeth rubbed her hands over her face. ‘It’s just that I’m so used to having him near me. I … well, I draw comfort from him.’

  Friday couldn’t think of anything more bizarre than keeping the shrivelled remains of the husband you murdered in your own cellar, much less drawing comfort from them, but each to their own, she supposed. She knew Elizabeth had had a long, difficult and complicated relationship with Gil, and it wasn’t her place to cast judgment.

  ‘You still could. You’d just have to go to Devonshire Street to do it.’

  ‘You mean stand in the middle of a graveyard and talk to thin air?’

  ‘Isn’t that what you do here? And it’s what everyone else does in graveyards.’

  ‘But I’d be standing over a grave with someone else’s name on it.’

  ‘Stop splitting hairs. You’d just have to make sure no one else is around.’

  ‘But how on earth would I get him there?’

  ‘Let me worry about that.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Friday.’

  ‘You do so know. You can’t keep him here. It’d be like me keeping Gabriel Keegan’s corpse under my bed.’

  Elizabeth’s worried expression suddenly turned into a scowl. ‘Hang on, you said he might be getting a chest tomb. I’m not worrying myself sick about moving Gil if you don’t know for sure. Anyway, it could be a whole year before that woman puts anything on her husband’s grave.’

  ‘It won’t be,’ Friday said with the supreme confidence of a pissed person.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Bella likes to be … what’s the word? … continuous with her dosh.’

  ‘Conspicuous.’

  ‘Yeah, that. If she can throw it around, she will. She won’t leave Clarence’s grave covered in shitty old weeds if she doesn’t have to.’

  ‘Most folk wait twelve months. It’s the tasteful thing to do.’

  Friday barked out a laugh. ‘Well, there you go. There’ll probably be a dirty great marble pillar with a ten-foot statue of God on it by dinnertime tomorrow.’ Then she frowned. ‘Mind you, we put a headstone on Rachel’s grave straight away. Well, Harrie did. And she’s not tasteless.’

  ‘That was different,’ Elizabeth conceded. ‘Also, don’t you have to wait for the ground to settle, after you’ve buried someone?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Friday shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t think that’d matter, if you’re having a chest tomb. They’re pretty solid.’

  ‘But you don’t know if she actually is.’

  ‘I can find out. And if she does, will you let me move Gil? Please? It’s for your own good.’

  ‘Christ almighty, I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be telling me what’s good for me.’

  ‘But will you?’

  Elizabeth sighed. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  About the Author

  Deborah Challinor has a PhD in history and is the author of eleven bestselling novels. The Silk Thief is the third in a series of four books set in 1830s Sydney, inspired by her ancestors — one of whom was a member of the First Fleet and another who was transported on the Floating Brothel. Deborah lives in New South Wales with her husband.

  www.deborahchallinor.com

  Other Books by Deborah Challinor

  FICTION

  Behind the Sun

  Girl of Shadows

  Tamar

  White Feathers

  Blue Smoke

  Kitty

  Amber

  Band of Gold

  Union Belle

  Fire

  Isle of Tears

  NON-FICTION

  Grey Ghosts

  Who’ll Stop the Rain?

  Copyright

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  First published in Australia in 2014

  This edition published in 2014

  by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

  ABN 36 009 913 517

  harpercollins.com.au

  Copyright © Deborah Challinor 2014

  The right of Deborah Challinor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  HarperCollinsPublishers

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  2 Bloor Street East, 20th floor, Toronto, Ontario M4W 1A8, Canada

  195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007, USA

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Challinor, Deborah, author.

  The silk thief / Deborah Challinor.

  ISBN: 978 0 7322 9677 3 (pbk)

  ISBN: 978 1 7430 9905 6 (epub)

  Female friendship—Fiction.

  Women convicts—Australia—Fiction.

  New South Wales—History—1788–1851—Fiction.

  A823.3

  Cover design by HarperCollins Design Studio

  Cover images: Woman © David et Myrtille / Arcangel Images; The entrance of Port

  Jackson and part of the town of Sydney, New South Wales [picture] / drawn by Major

  Taylor, 48 Regt., engraved by Robert Havell, 1769–1832, National Library of Australia, nla.pic-an5575513; background image by shutterstock.com

  Map of The Rocks uses detail from Map of the town of Sydney 1836, Dixson Library, State

  Library of NSW — Ca 88/7; adapted by Laurie Whiddon, Map Illustrations

 

 

  Challinor, Deborah, The Silk Thief

 

 

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