The Murder of Mary Russell (8 page)

Alicia was one reason for staying near to Sydney. Clarissa's other concern was that, outside the rough-and-tumble societies of Australia and New Zealand, her father would look like what he was: a working-class outsider.

Not so with Clarissa. During those years, she went from child to woman. As her bust developed and her face lost its childish lines, the Cheats changed, becoming darker, more dangerous, and ever more lucrative. She was good at what she did, capable of everything from the most complex and time-consuming Cheat to the slow, flirtatious glance in a street-car, distracting a man so her father, despite his rough hands, could slip away with the fellow's wallet. And even if the man discovered he had been robbed, he never suspected the girl with the pretty dark eyes.

Which was the final lesson in her education: a man was loth to press charges if he was aware that greed—or lust—had got him into that situation. A public declaration would not only reveal his stupidity, but let others know how fully he had participated in his own downfall. Clarissa's victims practically begged her to take their money.

Still, by Christmas of 1875, Clarissa was aware that Sydney was growing decidedly small for the Hudsons. It took ever longer to locate a victim, and the machination of the Cheats became increasingly elaborate as the wary attitudes of those they'd taken from began to penetrate even the thicker skulls of Society.

Shortly after Clarissa's twentieth birthday, in May, 1876, Jim Hudson told his daughter that they were going to London.

“Don't be ridiculous, Papa,” she said absently, studying her reflection in the cheval glass. “You'd be arrested in an instant. And besides, you hate to travel.” This year's fashion suited her, she thought—what version of fashion that reached the antipodes, at any rate. No more crinolettes, thank goodness, and the combination of frothy bustle and train at the back with the long polonaise bodice up front made even sparsely-endowed women resemble a ship's figurehead. Clarissa Hudson was by no means sparsely endowed.

She smoothed the long bodice that stretched down torso and hips, then turned face front, attempting a deep breath: the whalebone made it difficult, but doing so certainly pushed out the breasts in a way that would distract the Marks. Maybe a bit too much? Or were the soft violet satin and white tumble of lace sufficient to counteract the low neckline and naked shoulders? Lace was always reassuring, somehow, to the mothers.

“Girl,” her father was saying, “I won't be arrested—it's been twenty years. Nobody remembers Jimmy Hudson. Certainly not the police.”

Clarissa lifted her gaze at last to her father's reflection, sprawled across the chaise behind her. “You aren't really serious?”

“As a corpse.” He swigged the last of his drink, and got up to pour another.

The silken layers whispered as she abandoned the looking glass. “Why London? Why not Macau, or—I don't know. San Francisco?”

“You noticed the number of invitations on the mantelpiece have gone down?”

“Papa, I did tell you that your manners are a touch…jarring.” And had become more so in recent months.
He's bored,
she reflected.
Really bored, if he's considering a trip to England.

“Manners? For Christ sake, girl, this is Australia!”

“All the more reason. Society here is so new, it can't afford to ignore the niceties.”

“Well, whatever it is, I think they're on to us.”

“I did warn you it was too soon to go after Mrs Pondworth's emeralds. Are we expecting another visit from the police, then?” It had happened twice before. Both times, although the detectives had eyed her father with suspicion, in the end Clarissa's unassailable wide-eyed naiveté had sent them on their way. She did not wish a third such experience. “And even if the London police have forgot you, what about your boss? You left England in the first place because of him.”

“Oh, Clarrie, The Bishop's sure to be dead and gone by now. And if he isn't, well hell, it's only money. I can pay him back easy.”

“I do wish you wouldn't call me that. You know, perhaps it's time for me to set out on my own.”

He laughed. “And without a loving Pa in the picture, what do you suppose Society will make of you? You think any of your high-and-mighty ladies would let a solitary girl like you within shouting distance of their sons?”

Clarissa frowned at her image. It was true, the mothers had begun to bristle when she stood too near their darling boys. Plus, she'd met all the local lads, not a one of whom interested her beyond what she could take from his bank account. She was twenty years old, and the prospects in Sydney—for money or for marriage—were few and dull.

“You may be right. When would you want to leave?”

“The Season gets going after Christmas. We should be there before, so you have some invitations to be starting with.”

“That doesn't give us much time,” she protested. “Surely we can wait until Alicia finishes the school year?”

“I think we'll have to leave Allie here for the time being.”

She whirled. “Pa, we can't leave her behind—we're a family!”

“You sure about that? Miss High-and-Mighty Constable counts more with her than you or me.”

“I see Allie
every
week, I send her money, I take her to the theatre, I…” Hudson got up to splash another dose of gin into his cut-glass tumbler.

“Yeah, maybe you're right,” he said when her voice had run down. “I'm not even sure she'd want to go to London, come to that.”

But as Clarissa turned back to study her reflection—the composed young woman with artfully constructed hair, wearing a dress that cost what Miss Constable earned in a year—she knew that her father was wrong: Allie would react to the city as she would to this dress: she'd claw her sister naked for a chance at England.

But once there, what? Alicia had none of the elder sister's chameleon tendencies. Her voice and manners were nicely suited to Miss Constable's schoolmarm household, but even in Sydney, grandees would smirk before she so much as opened her mouth. Plus that, Miss Constable had spoiled her a bit. Alicia would never admit the need to learn a new way, to change with a new society. Here, among the middle classes, she had a niche. But in London?

“Still, she'd have time to get used to the idea,” Hudson was saying. “It'll take us a while to get ourselves situated, like. Next year, maybe. The year after. She'll be, what, eighteen? We can hold a dance for her. She could come out, even—ah, darlin', just think what your mother would make of that!”

The idea was as absurd as a dingo in a silk bonnet: even Papa didn't believe in the likelihood of his blonde-haired daughter, tiara on head, making a curtsey before the Queen. As if she'd said it aloud, he went on quickly. “Still, it's a long time to leave her here, halfway around the world, all on her own.”

But at that, Clarissa laughed. “Pa, Allie has more friends than I do, and Miss Constable's like a mother to her. What's more, the woman manages to keep Allie in line. Without Miss Constable watching, it wouldn't be long before—”

“Before what?”

“Oh, nothing. I just worry. But Alicia won't be lonesome here, and I agree, eighteen would be a good age to give London a try.”

He was diverted, fortunately. Because what Clarissa had caught herself about to say was,
How long before Allie meets a Mr Bevins?

Miss Constable would keep her charge from trouble, Clarissa had no doubts about that. But in fact, a beau would be an ideal solution. Alicia Hudson at sixteen and a half had a graceful figure and a convincing sweetness of manner. However, along with her father's features, she had inherited some of his darker traits: a blithe assurance that the world was there for the taking, a fondness for secrets, and a boundless persistence when it came to getting what she wanted—what she felt she deserved.

Her childhood greediness would have flowered into something quite unattractive had it not been for the cajoling, the sweet-natured discipline, and the unceasing dedication of Miss Constable. Very soon, the woman would have her hands full with Miss Alicia Hudson. Yes, what they needed was a man.

Clarissa made a mental note to speak with her sister's guardian about an increased dress allowance, to permit Alicia a wider social circle. In Sydney, Alicia would have a chance to make a good match. Uprooted and turned loose in London, it would be a disaster.

“She won't be happy,” Clarissa said.

“Best not to tell her where we're going, just yet.”

Clarissa's eyes widened, picturing her headstrong little sister gathering up her skirts and boarding a London-bound clipper, all on her own.

“We can't say that we're off to Hong Kong,” she said. “She'd want to come. Or America. What about Macau?” The Portuguese colony would be less attractive: they could always convince Alicia that no one spoke English.

“We've always wanted to go there,” he agreed drily.

“And in any event,” she added, filling in the story, “we should be back in a few months. Better let me tell her, she'll suspect something if you try.”

“Fine. What about clothes? You need some before we go?” Clarissa's wardrobe was a constant and major expense, necessary for their line of work, and normally she'd have agreed. However, at a party the previous week she had caught a look of disdain on the face of one newly-arrived and very superior English girl, whose bustle was the smallest in the room.

“No,” she replied. “Fashion is sure to have moved on in London. Anything I have made here will look out of date there.”

“Good. And you might see if you can get your money back on that one,” he said, taking up his hat to leave. “It's about a quarter inch from making you look like a whore.”

Thus, London was decided. And one thing about her life, Clarissa reflected: most of what she owned could be quickly packed up. A person didn't indulge in country estates and race-horses if he might need to leave town in a hurry.

At the end of June, their trunks were despatched to the harbour, with the Hudsons following soon thereafter. Clarissa picked her way up the rain-soaked gangway, stopping twice to unhook portions of her train. She was given a cabin of her own, tiny but smelling reassuringly of cleaning fluid, with a window to make the heave and toss of the swells less trying.

She went back up onto the deck, bundled against the rain, and found a corner where she was out of the way of men running to and fro. Officers and sailors alike gave her pink cheeks an appreciative glance, but to none of them did she reply in kind: it would be a capital mistake to flirt before they docked in London.

After what seemed a very long time, the windlass began to raise the anchor. Men swarmed up the rigging to loose the sails. A steam tug threaded the clipper out of the crowded harbour. The moment the pilot was put off, huge canvas sheets billowed down to fill the sky, going taut and full as the ship found the wind. Soon, every board and bolt of her leant eagerly forward, and the passengers gave a cheer, waving their hats as Sydney fell away. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Clarissa Hudson turned in the direction of her native country.

In a tiny corner of her heart lay a feeling of relief, that Alicia was no longer her responsibility. The portion of her heart occupied by guilt was considerably larger.

“W
here are my mother's things?” Samuel Hudson demanded.

His oily amiability was gone so completely, I wondered for a moment if I'd been imagining it. His calm voice betrayed no trace of panic. The gun in his hands was equally steady: this was a man for whom a revolver was a familiar tool, not three pounds of steel about to emit a scary noise.

This man was no amateur.

Which meant that his entire smarmy-salesman performance had been just that: an act.

I spared a brief second of self-recrimination (
What is wrong with me, it's the second time in a month I've misjudged—
) before kicking doubt away. If he'd got past my guard, he was dangerous, and the why of it—along with how the hell this person could be any blood relation to Mrs Hudson—would have to wait.

That awareness changed my response. To blink guileless eyes and respond, “What things?” would only invite a warning shot—possibly into some portion of my body. Instead, I gave a straightforward reply that lifted to a question: “In her rooms?”

The right choice: his forefinger did not tighten, nor did his face. “Show me.”

Holmes always said there were advantages in dealing with the professional, and although I lacked his familiarity with dedicated criminals, I knew what he meant. This man might intend to remove me as a potential witness before he was finished, but first, he needed something that belonged to Mrs Hudson. So long as my assistance was of value, the bullets would remain in his gun.

Too, the criminal brotherhood tended to be precisely that: an exclusively male club. While this person might be aware that Mary Russell possessed skills the average English girl did not (
How much had Mrs Hudson written about me over the years, anyway?
), I could still encourage his male instincts. At some point, he would forget to treat me as a threat, and when he did so, I would take his gun.

Until then: I would appear helpful, I would make no quick motion, and I would get from him every bit of information possible.

So, as I led him out of the sitting room, I did not hurl the door back into his face. Walking past the stove, I did not seize the whispering kettle and drench him with scalding water. I did pause there, to say I wanted to turn off the gas—then waited until he gave me permission before I did so.

The kettle's voice subsided, and we continued on to Mrs Hudson's quarters.

But as we invaded her private world, I became aware of a growing sense of rage. I held it to myself, nurturing it as a weapon.

When time comes to break his nose,
I reminded myself,
try not to get too much blood on Mrs Hudson's floor.