The rust-coloured skull still retained remnants of the flesh that once covered it, mummified shreds that curled up like fingernail parings, and long, dried tendons stretched from jaw to neck beneath the neckerchief. The eyes had gone, of course, but the yellowed teeth remained, including two gold incisors in the upper jaw. Some of the hair — cut short, iron-grey — remained on the skull, but most of it was scattered around the bottom of the trunk, and over the neckerchief, so perhaps he’d worn a beard. Also gleaming near the head were two small gold hoop earrings.

  His peaked cap had been placed near his belly. His arms had been arranged in front of his chest: several finger bones had become detached from the right hand, but the other was complete, held together by dried tendons, with a gold band hanging loosely from the ring finger. There was very little smell, and obviously the rats hadn’t been able to get at him. If they had, there’d be nothing left at all but bones, a few buttons and the gold.

  Friday thought, God, mister, you must have really ruffled her feathers.

  Chapter Three

  Harrie gazed unseeingly at a bin piled with broad beans, the fat pods a bright and poisonous green, trying to get her bearings, trying to focus, trying to work out what on earth she was doing there. The costermonger’s rough voice barked in her ear and she started, the noise of the crowded fruit and vegetable market rushing back into her head to drown out the ringing silence that pulsed there with every thump of her heart.

  ‘Pardon?’ she said, flexing her tingling hands. Her chest burnt and she could barely breathe.

  ‘Them beans. Do you want any more or not?’

  She glanced into her basket. She’d already bought some. She shook her head and managed to croak, ‘No, thank you.’

  The costermonger rolled his eyes and turned his attention to someone else. Harrie hurried away, her head down, mortified that she’d had one of her ‘turns’ in such a public place. If this kept happening, soon she would be scared to leave the house at all. It was too noisy here in the market sheds and there were so many people. She’d give anything to be at home in her attic bedroom, safe in bed with her head under the blankets.

  Tears stung her eyes. She’d been doing so well, she really had, especially while Sarah had needed her when Adam was away. But now … she was feeling as poorly as she ever had. She was having trouble sleeping again, though sometimes during the day she could barely keep her eyes open; the voices in her head were back; and her stomach roiled with dread, gnawing away at her like rats trying to eat their way out of her belly. She was full of rats now, the most vicious and hungry being Gabriel Keegan. He never stopped chewing at her.

  Still clammy and sweaty and wondering if she was going to be sick, she stood near one of the shed’s exits to get away from the smell of not entirely fresh produce, and fanned her face with the piece of paper on which she’d written her shopping list. Three months ago she could easily have kept a list of everything she needed in her head, but not now. It wasn’t necessarily that she forgot; it was more that she became confused. Twice lately she’d come out and bought what she’d already purchased just the day before. She dared not tell anyone. She was terrified her master, George Barrett, would send her back to the Factory, though she knew Nora, his wife, would defend her staunchly. She would hate to leave the Barretts. George and Nora’s children — Abigail, Hannah, Sam and baby Lewis — were dear little things, and she would miss them dreadfully. Not to mention that if she was returned to the Factory, she’d be an additional drain on Friday and Sarah, who’d have to support her as well as Janie and the girls.

  For now, she just had to get home with the shopping. She closed her eyes and drew deep breaths in through her nose, filling lungs that felt constricted by iron bands, then slowly let the air out through her mouth. She did that ten times, and finally her heartbeat began to slow. After a minute, she opened her eyes and looked at her shopping list. Carrots and a cabbage, that was all she had yet to buy.

  She made her way back into the shed. As she did, a knot of four scruffy-looking boys, dodging and weaving around other shoppers, appeared out of the crowd and deliberately kept pace with her. They were perhaps nine or ten years old, all barefoot and wearing their caps pulled down low. Two were smoking pipes, the cheeky sods. Her throat tightened again and panic rose like vomit in her chest. She veered hard right and hurried down a wider aisle. The boys wheeled with her, like gannets above a school of fish, and closed in. Harrie wanted to scream out for help: could no one else see what was about to happen? As they approached, she plucked her purse from her basket and tucked it inside her bodice. Suddenly she was briefly surrounded, the stink of tobacco smoke and sour, unwashed bodies flooding her nostrils, and then they were gone.

  She checked that she still had her purse, and the silver and black enamel locket containing Rachel’s hair was safely around her neck. Relief melted through her. Nothing had gone from her basket either, though something had been added: instead of one note, now there were two. Dumbly, she stared at the new addition — a single folded and sealed sheet — then picked it up, her heart thumping wildly. Her name was written on one side — no surname, just Harrie.

  She opened it with trembling hands, cracking the seal and sprinkling shards of red wax over the broad beans in her basket. It said:

  To Friday Wolfe, Sarah Morgan, Harrie Clark,

  I know you killed Furniss. That is now two murders.

  You now owe me £400.

  Be at the Kent Street entrance to the old burial ground at ten o’clock this Friday night with the money, or I will immediately inform the police and you will all HANG.

  B

  Harrie only stopped herself from fainting by biting her cheek so hard that her mouth filled with blood.

  Sarah peered down into the trunk. ‘How long do you reckon it’s been here?’

  ‘About five years,’ Friday said.

  Elizabeth Hislop’s cellar looked somewhat different during daylight hours. Needles of bright, white sunlight pierced the gloom at random angles, admitted by cracks in the rough mortar dashed across the sandstone rubble walls, themselves riddled with tiny gaps. Motes of dust floated in the still air, momentarily illuminated as they passed through splinters of light, and rats, spiders and cockroaches — at night only audible but unfortunately during the day all too visible — scuttled about their business.

  ‘Then why hasn’t it all rotted away?’ Sarah said. ‘Why isn’t it just bones? It’s still got bits of dried skin and stuff stuck to it.’

  Friday shrugged. ‘Maybe because it’s dry down here? Or because the trunk’s lined with tin? I don’t know. Just be grateful he doesn’t stink.’

  ‘Not tin, lead.’

  ‘That’ll be why the bloody things are so heavy.’

  ‘And you’re sure it’s Mrs H’s husband?’

  ‘Who else could it be? Look at the earrings and the teeth: the cove was obviously a sailor. Mrs H’s man was a sea captain. She told me herself she’d had enough of him beating the shit out of her when he was drunk. And …’ Friday leant into the trunk and tilted the skull to reveal a ragged hole in the centre of a web of cracks ‘… she does own a pistol. And this is her cellar.’

  ‘So he hasn’t been at sea forever and a day like she says,’ Sarah remarked. ‘He’s been mouldering away down here?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘You’re going to help me put this trunk back where it was, because it’s too bloody awkward for me to lift by myself, then we’ll lock the cellar door behind us with your special keys, then we’re going to forget about it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I don’t care. Do you?’

  ‘It’s none of my business.’

  ‘Good.’ Friday closed the lid on the bottom trunk. ‘Come on, help me lift the end of this other trunk onto these bits of wood. If you hold it so it doesn’t fall off, I’ll push it up.’

  ‘What about the locks? Anyone looking properly will see they’ve been forced.’

  ‘Can you fix them?’

  ‘I pick locks, I don’t repair them.’

  ‘Too bad, then. We’ll just have to hope Mrs H never comes down here.’

  Sarah’s eyebrows went up. ‘“We”? I wasn’t the one poking my nose into someone else’s business.’

  Friday suddenly raised her hand; they both froze. Above them, two sets of feet crossed the floor and someone called Friday’s name.

  ‘Mrs H,’ Friday whispered.

  Nothing happened for several seconds, Elizabeth called out again, then the footsteps moved towards the rear of the house. The back door opened.

  ‘Friday, are you out here?’ Mrs H called.

  Sarah and Friday dared not even breathe. Friday prayed she’d closed the cellar door properly.

  Then Mrs H’s muffled voice said, ‘I’m sorry, Harrie. She’s not rostered on this morning. Are you sure Jack said she was over here?’

  Harrie? Friday and Sarah stared at each other. What was Harrie doing here?

  Harrie said something inaudible.

  Mrs H said, ‘Well, if she was, perhaps she’s gone back to her room. Is it urgent? I’ll come over with you, if you like.’

  She and Harrie descended the back steps. Their footsteps receded across the cobbled backyard and the bolt on the gate rattled as they passed through into the alleyway.

  ‘Quick, help me get this bloody thing back where it belongs,’ Friday urged.

  After a bit of shoving and swearing, both trunks were finally back in their original places. Friday swept her boot over the gouge marks in the dirt floor where the shelves had been — a waste of time, really, given the tell-tale state of the locks on the trunks — shoved the shelves back inside the clothes press, and crept up the steps to the cellar door. She paused.

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How the hell did Walter move that top trunk back all by himself?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sarah said, ‘and right now I don’t care. Has Mrs H gone?’

  Friday opened the cellar door a crack. ‘Can’t see or hear them. Got the keys ready?’

  ‘Yes. You go down the alleyway after them, I’ll lock up.’

  ‘No, I’ll wait for you,’ Friday said.

  ‘Why? So we can both get caught?’

  ‘I said I’ll wait.’

  ‘Christ. Hurry up, then,’ Sarah snapped. ‘Open the door.’

  They slipped out. Friday stood with her back to Sarah, her gaze darting between the gate, the house’s back door, and also the privy, in case someone unexpectedly materialised from its whiffy depths.

  ‘Done,’ Sarah said. ‘Let’s go.’

  They caught up with Mrs H and Harrie at the bottom of the staircase inside the Siren’s Arms. Harrie looked awful. Her face, even her lips, had leached of colour and she was breathing far too fast and sweating visibly, though it was hardly a warm day.

  ‘Harrie? What’s wrong?’ Friday asked. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Where have you been?’ Elizabeth demanded. ‘We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Hello, Sarah.’

  ‘Harrie, what’s the matter?’ Sarah echoed.

  ‘She’s had some sort of dreadful shock,’ Elizabeth said unnecessarily. ‘She arrived at the house about a quarter of an hour ago, Friday, asking for you. I’ve offered tea, and brandy, but she only wants to see you.’

  Friday was struck by a horrible, if irrational, thought. ‘Can you not talk, Harrie?’

  ‘Of course I can talk,’ Harrie said, despite the fact her voice was wobbly.

  Friday nearly wilted with relief, though that didn’t last long.

  Harrie thrust a folded piece of paper towards her. ‘I got this. At the market, this morning.’

  ‘Oh, shit,’ Sarah muttered.

  ‘It’s another blackmail demand, isn’t it?’ Elizabeth asked.

  Sarah gasped, then fixed Friday with a venomous glare. ‘For God’s sake. You bloody fool. You and your big mouth! Why don’t we just put an advertisement in the newspaper?’

  ‘Well, do you expect us to believe you haven’t told Adam?’ Friday fired back, her face flaming. Bloody Mrs H; she’d told her that in confidence.

  ‘I can’t keep it a secret from my husband, can I?’

  ‘He does know? Since when?’ Friday demanded, immediately leaping for the higher moral ground. ‘And who the hell has he told, eh? We swore we’d never tell anyone.’

  ‘That’s rich, coming from you. Anyway, Adam’ll keep his mouth shut.’

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Or Harrie. Look at the colour of the poor thing.’

  ‘Stop it!’ Harrie cried, her hands over her ears. ‘Just stop it!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs H,’ Sarah said. ‘This is our business. Could we have some privacy?’

  It was a cheeky request given that they were standing in the middle of Elizabeth’s pub, but she gave a single nod and said, ‘I’ll be in my office if you need me,’ then turned and walked off, only the sharp rap of her boot heels on the floorboards betraying her tension.

  ‘Not here,’ Friday said. ‘Upstairs.’

  They retreated to Friday’s room. She locked the door, produced a bottle of gin and sat on the bed to read the note. ‘Jesus Christ. Four hundred!’

  Startled, Sarah stared at her. ‘What?’

  ‘She wants four hundred quid this time. And she actually says she’ll go to the police if we don’t pay it. And we’ll hang.’ Friday handed the note to Sarah, slumped in the chair in front of the dressing table.

  Grim-faced, Sarah read it. ‘Who gave this to you?’

  Beside Friday, Harrie took a deep, hitching breath. ‘Some boys, at the market. They crowded around me and I thought they were going to take my purse, but they didn’t. They left that in my basket.’

  ‘Did you know any of them?’

  Harrie shook her head.

  Friday said, ‘Bella probably paid the little buggers.’

  ‘But how did she know I’d be at the market?’ Harrie asked. She swallowed: her throat made an audible noise.

  ‘You do the shopping every day, don’t you?’ Friday asked.

  ‘Nearly. Has she been spying on me? She has, hasn’t she?’

  ‘I doubt it. She knows you’re in service. That’s what housegirls do.’ Friday did wonder, though. She wouldn’t put it past Bella to be keeping an eye on them.

  ‘But how did they know who to give the note to?’ Harrie went on. ‘How did they know that I’m Harrie Clarke?’

  ‘Well, I suppose she told them what you look like.’

  ‘But how does she know?’ Harrie’s voice went up an octave. ‘How does she know what I look like?’

  Sarah and Friday shared a deeply shocked glance. Very gently, Sarah said, ‘We were on the Isla with her, remember? And in the Factory. She knows who you are, Harrie.’

  Harrie stared at her in confusion, a red flush creeping up her face.

  ‘Love, are you all right?’ Friday asked.

  ‘I … Yes, I just … I forgot.’

  To cover the awkward moment, and because she didn’t want to think about what it might mean, Friday rose, noisily opened her window, sat down again and took a massive swig from her flask.

  ‘We can’t pay. We don’t have four hundred pounds. Do we? How much is in the Charlotte fund?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘About sixty-five,’ Friday said, stifling a burp. ‘That and the two hundred Walter took off Furniss doesn’t add up to four hundred. We’d still be a hundred and thirty-five short — and it would leave us with absolutely nothing for Janie and the girls. And Janie’s due a payment for Pearl soon. We just can’t do it.’

  A moment of silence ensued. It stretched on and on until Friday couldn’t bear it.

  ‘Fuck it. We’ll have to borrow it.’

  ‘Borrow it?’ Sarah was incredulous. ‘A hundred and thirty-five quid? That’ll certainly improve matters. Christ, Friday.’

  Friday took another defiant mouthful of gin, and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. ‘Then tell us your clever idea, Mrs Smartarse.’

  ‘Well, going to a bloody moneylender won’t help, will it?’

  ‘No! Not a moneylender. We can’t!’ Harrie exclaimed. Her mother, Ada, had once got herself into terrible trouble after borrowing five pounds from a shylock.

  Friday frowned. ‘Who said anything about a moneylender?’

  ‘You did,’ Sarah said.

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘Who the hell else would lend us that kind of money?’

  ‘Mrs H. She’s already offered.’

  Sarah drew in a long, nostril-flaring breath and let it out again, visibly struggling to calm herself. ‘What exactly have you told her? You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone, Friday. You swore.’

  ‘I had to tell her. She guessed. Anyway, you made the same promise.’

  ‘She guessed?’ Sarah was appalled. First Elizabeth Hislop, and now Adam. ‘What did you say to her?’

  ‘She doesn’t know it’s Bella. She just knows I’m being blackmailed. I haven’t told her anything else. But she did offer to help with money. How much have you told Adam?’

  Now it was Sarah’s turn to go red. ‘He’d guessed as well, sort of, except he’s got as far as working out it’s Bella.’

  ‘Bugger.’ Friday raised her bottle again, drank, and let out another loud burp. ‘When did you realise?’

  ‘He confronted me when I got home the other night. He’d followed me down to King’s Wharf.’

  ‘God, Sarah, did you actually tell him you were seeing Walter off? That was a bit stupid.’

  ‘Hardly. I’d said I was going out to visit Harrie.’