Girl of Shadows (11 page)

The large central motif was the letter P, filled with and surrounded by interlaced and extremely intricate spiral and geometrical designs, and the entire page glowed with colour. If this was only a copy, Harrie thought, what must the original be like? She knew, though, that of course she could copy the spiral, and extended her hand for another piece of blank paper.

Leo examined the finished sketch with the same indifference he’d accorded the angel. Again he went to the cabinet. This time he retrieved a leather tube about two feet long from which he withdrew a roll of oiled parchment. Carefully spreading it flat on the wooden bench, he beckoned to Harrie to approach. This close she could smell him: a mix of fresh sweat and a hint of the sea, not unpleasant.

The parchment was quite brown, and very delicate, and on it was an image of a ferocious oriental dragon with bristling whiskers and yellowing teeth, eyes and claws, and a sinuously scaled body and tail. The beast was wrestling with a cherubic child against a background of stormy skies and wild seas, and maple leaves and chrysanthemums were interspersed across the crowded, colourful scene.

‘It’s irezumi,’ Leo said. ‘Japanese. Just copy the dragon’s head.’

Harrie looked at George, who, transported by greedy anticipation, was almost hopping on one foot. She glanced back at Leo and, for an instant, was sure he’d rolled his eyes.

She’d just finished the outline when she realised, with a deeply unpleasant jolt, that the parchment was very possibly tattooed human skin.

‘You
are
quite good, aren’t you?’ Leo said as he viewed her completed drawing. ‘George said you do original designs. That’s actually what I’m after.’

Harrie remained silent: she didn’t want to work here at all.

Leo said, ‘And sometimes my customers have their own ideas. Do you think you can interpret what a man tells you he wants on his skin, and put it into a drawing?’

Thinking about it, Harrie replied, ‘Well, in what way would that be any different from sketching a pattern of what a lady would like in a gown?’ Then wished she’d kept her mouth shut, because she knew it was a good answer.

Carefully Leo rolled up the tattooed parchment, slid it back into its tube and put it away. ‘All right. I’ll give you a three-month trial.’

George actually clapped, then immediately began haggling with Leo over the rate at which he would hire out Harrie, while she sat on the chair feeling humiliated.

‘Moo,’ she said.

George stared at her as though she’d lost her mind. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

When they’d eventually agreed on a fee the men shook hands, then Leo told George to be on his way.

‘What do you mean?’ George narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘I’ll have to escort Harrie home. It’s not safe around here for a girl.’

‘It’s safe enough,’ Leo replied benignly. ‘The lass and I have matters to discuss. Good day to you, George.’

George lingered in the doorway, sensing — correctly — that he was about to be excluded from something. Reluctantly, however, he finally departed.

Harrie edged towards the door herself; she was
not
remaining here alone with Leo Dundas.

‘Stay where you are, lass,’ he growled. ‘You’re working for me now, so let’s get one thing clear.’

Harrie could only stare at him, transfixed with rapidly escalating alarm.

‘The tea things — they’re kept next door on the shelf beside the hearth.’ Leo suddenly grinned, revealing several gaps between his teeth. Of those that remained, one appeared to be made of dull gold. ‘Put the kettle on, there’s a good lass, and I’ll go up to the baker’s and get us something nice. Raisin buns? Will that do you?’

Oh Lord, which was the real Leonard Dundas? Harrie felt paralysed by doubt. Could she trust him? She closed her eyes, praying for guidance, and when she opened them again Leo was staring right at her.

He tut-tutted. ‘Aye, I can see I was a bit hard on you, but you can’t let a coney-catcher like George Barrett get the upper hand now, can you? There’d be no end to it.’

When he’d gone off up the alleyway in his bare feet, Harrie returned to the chair, sank onto it gratefully and waited until her heartbeat had returned to something approaching its normal rhythm. For a hideous second she really had thought Leonard Dundas had been going to force himself on her.

Tea: that would help. The other room contained a small table, three mismatched chairs, a hearth with a camp oven and cooking implements — it must get so hot in here during the height of summer — a tin bath on its end in a corner, a narrow cot made up with a blanket and pillow under a small window, and shelves holding boxes and various bits and pieces. Against one wall steep wooden stairs rose to the next floor.

The kettle was already filled and hanging on the sway, so she stabbed at the fire with a poker and blew hard on the flames to invigorate them. She found the tea caddy — an unexpectedly beautiful one in rosewood with a sailing ship rendered in intricate marquetry on the lid — and set out two cups and saucers and the teapot. Leo’s good taste apparently didn’t extend to china — the cups didn’t match and were of an inferior blue and white pattern, and cracked and stained. Does he take sugar? she wondered.

‘Who are you?’ a voice demanded.

Harrie spun around so fast her skirt flicked into the fire; the fabric caught just for a second and she slapped out the tiny flame, leaving behind a brown singe mark.

The speaker was a boy of eleven or twelve, standing in the doorway between the two rooms. He looked familiar. A small scruffy dog with a black snout and ears sprouting ridiculous tufts of hair crouched at his feet, growling menacingly.

‘Where’s Leo?’ the boy said, giving the dog a nudge with a dirty bare foot to quieten it.

‘Gone out for a minute,’ Harrie replied. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

The boy shook his head, shaggy hair flopping across his forehead. The dog trotted into the room on short, bandy legs,
growled again and bared its teeth at Harrie, jumped onto the cot, turned around several times and lay down.

‘I’m sure I do. What’s your name?’

‘John Smith.’

‘No, that’s not it.’ Harrie suddenly remembered. ‘It’s Walter, isn’t it? You were on the
Isla
, the ship’s boy! I was the one who needed two sets of slops, remember, one for my friend?’

The boy shook his head adamantly. ‘It’s John Smith.’

It was Walter, though, and she could see he did recall the incident.

‘Oh. All right, then. Would you like a cup of tea? Leo’s gone to the bakery.’

At the mention of the bakery, the boy’s eyes lit up. Then Leo himself silently reappeared and laid a hand on his shoulder; the boy jumped and cried out.

Leo shook his head ruefully. ‘I told you, boy, keep your back against the wall.’ He took a plate from a shelf and arranged on it half a dozen fancy buns and several small cakes. ‘Not much left. Bit late in the day. Walter, you having a cup?’

Smiling to herself, Harrie wrapped a cloth around her hand, removed the kettle from the fire and set it down on the hearth ledge. Opening the lovely caddy, she carefully measured tea into the pot and replaced the lid.

‘It’s Walter Cobley, isn’t it?’ she tried again. ‘I do remember you, you know.’

Looking miserable, Walter said nothing and took a seat at the table.

‘You already acquainted?’ Leo remarked. ‘I’ll be blowed.’

‘He was ship’s boy on the transport I came out on,’ Harrie said. ‘The
Isla
. Although he’s saying he wasn’t.’

‘He’s lying low,’ Leo explained. ‘He jumped ship.’

Harrie poured the tea then sat down herself. ‘But that was a year ago. Why are you pretending to be someone else? You’re not in trouble with the law, are you?’

‘Not the law, no.’ Leo offered Walter a bun. ‘It’s up to you how much you want to say, boy. It’s your story, not mine.’

Walter took the bun, tore a piece off and tossed it to the dog, who caught it neatly in its mouth and swallowed it whole. ‘Sorry I were rude, missus.’

‘Oh Walter, it’s Harrie. My name is Harrie.’

His eyes were big and haunted and she wondered when he’d last seen his mother.

‘And you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to,’ she added.

‘I couldn’t stay on. I
hated
him,’ he blurted and crammed half the bun into his mouth.

‘Who?’

Walter chewed and chewed, and finally swallowed. ‘Amos Furniss. The
devil
.’

Harrie glanced at Leo, but Leo was resolutely stirring his tea, clearly letting Walter tell his story the way he wanted to tell it.

‘He
was
a very unpleasant man, wasn’t he?’ Harrie agreed.

Walter nodded, his skin flushing from neck to temples. ‘He … he hurt me and I couldn’t stop him.’ He put down his bun and pressed his hand over his mouth, as though holding back vomit.

Leo patted his thin shoulder. ‘Hold fast, boy.’

And Harrie realised then that Rachel hadn’t been the only one to have suffered horribly during the voyage out from England. She felt sick and her eyes burnt with sudden, hot tears for Walter.

The boy stared down at the wooden table top, his shaking finger tracing a long, weathered gouge. At last he said, ‘So I jumped ship and made meself scarce until the
Isla
left port. And then a few days after that I bloody
seen
him. I seen Furniss, on the street. I hadn’t got away from him after all.’

Leo took a noisy sip of tea. ‘I found him hiding behind a pile of barrels at the back of one of the pubs on Harrington Street.’

Just like Angus when he’d been a tiny, helpless kitten, Harrie thought.

‘Him and the dog,’ Leo added. ‘Bad-tempered bloody article. Won’t be separated from it. So I brought them both here and they’ve been with me ever since.’

‘Can you not go home?’ Harrie asked. ‘To England?’

‘I could.’ Walter’s finger stopped moving and he raised his eyes to meet Harrie’s. The frightened boy in them had gone, replaced now by a persecuted and angry youth on the cusp of manhood. A vein began to throb in his temple. ‘But I want him to pay.’

Harrie understood all too well how Walter felt, but she also knew where such bitter desires could lead. ‘Be very careful, Walter. He’s an evil man, Furniss. And we think he’s working for someone just as nasty as he is. Do you remember Bella Jackson?’

‘The abbess?’ Walter asked. ‘Her on the ship? With the big beak and the fancy clothes?’

Harrie nodded. ‘Bella Shand she is now. She got married.’

‘I know who
she
is,’ Leo said, startled. ‘Bitchy old Clarence Shand’s new missus. He’s an importer. Owns warehouses on Sussex and Market streets. And one on Phillip, too, apparently.’

Harrie stared at him, the hand holding her cup frozen in midair. ‘Where, exactly, on Phillip?’

‘Near the lumber yard, I think. Damned dangerous piece of work, her,’ Leo went on. ‘Clarence, too. You want to steer clear of them, boy.’

‘How do you know Bella?’ Harrie whispered, a glimmer of dreadful realisation almost robbing her of her voice.

Leo’s furrowed brow wrinkled even further. ‘Something wrong, lass?’

‘No, I … I just really don’t like Bella Jackson,’ Harrie obfuscated. ‘How
do
you know her?’

‘I don’t, personally.’ Leo tapped the side of his own considerable nose. ‘But I get all sorts in here. There’s not much I don’t know
about this town, especially its stinking underbelly. And who’s this “we” you’re talking about?’

Harrie swallowed and cleared her throat forcefully. She felt as though she’d swallowed a bucket of mouldy chaff, her mouth had gone that dry. ‘Me and my friends, Friday and Sarah.’

‘I remember Friday,’ Walter said. ‘She gave me the willies. Weren’t there four of yous? The little blonde girl, how’s she? I liked her.’

‘We liked her, too. Very much,’ Harrie said tonelessly. ‘She died.’

Walter’s eyes widened, then he stared down at his hands. ‘Were it …?’ He touched the back of his head.

‘In the end, yes.’

‘The crew thought he should of been keel-hauled, that Keegan cove,’ Walter said. ‘Well, some did.’

Leo watched the interchange with interest. ‘You do have some tales to tell, don’t you, the pair of you?’

‘Another day, though,’ Harrie said. ‘I should be getting home. Mrs Barrett will be wondering where I am.’

She wanted to leave now. The news about Clarence Shand owning a warehouse in Phillip Street — in the exact location where she, Sarah and Friday had murdered Keegan — had come as a horrible shock.

But she had decided to trust Leo. Friday and Sarah would no doubt chide her yet again for being gullible, but any man who would give a frightened, lost boy shelter must have a decent heart. Clearly nothing untoward was going on here — poor, abused Walter wouldn’t stay if there were.

‘Before Mr Barrett left, Mr Dundas, you said to him we had matters to discuss. What did you mean?’

‘Well, what hours do you want to work?’ Leo asked. ‘How much do you want to be paid? That sort of thing.’

‘But … you’re paying Mr Barrett, aren’t you?’

‘Aye, I am, a finder’s fee, if you like. But you’re doing the actual work.’

Harrie didn’t know what to say. What was Leo suggesting?

He looked at her expectantly. ‘In terms of hours, I thought that given you’re already assigned to the Barretts, and obviously busy helping that poor missus of George’s in the house, you might just want to work on ideas for flash whenever you can fit it in.’

‘Flash’ was a word Harrie usually associated with the criminal world, and again she wondered what she was letting herself in for. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I know what you mean.’

Leo inclined his head. ‘Come with me.’

He ushered Harrie through to the other room and gestured at the drawings all over the walls. ‘
These
are what you call flash — designs for tattoos. I want new ones, original designs that no tar will see anywhere else. Unless it’s on another sailor I’ve tattooed, of course. But they have to appeal to men who love the sea, and to other folk who’ve a mind to have their skin inked. I do get a few. There’s a real art to the designs, and quite specific fashions. You’ve got your traditional Jack Tar motifs, your dragons for those who’ve sailed to China, and your Jolly Rogers and the like. Also, the New Zealand and other Polynesian designs, these ones over here, have been getting popular lately.’