Great Historical Novels (37 page)

Nelly has been annoying everyone because she is so tearful, and the stink and the heat make her ill. I’ve no idea how
many months gone she is now, but her belly is rising like baker’s dough.

This morning, just as Georgina took a swing at Jane, we heard a shout above, and then those sweet words:
Land
ahead!

Miss Hayter came below with the other wardens. Our little matron was flushed with excitement that we were at the mouth of the harbour of Rio de Janeiro. Nora made one of her snorting noises and said, ‘What sort of name is that for a country?’ But you could tell she was as pleased as anyone. Miss Hayter had to shout to make herself heard above the cheer that went up, and when we learned that we were to be allowed up on deck, there was a scramble for the ladder.

The light was as sharp as knives on deck after two days in the dark, and the air was so fresh that it was like an elixir. Everyone crowded at the railings on the quarterdeck. At first sight, the distant buildings and trees and the masts of foreign vessels seemed so perfect that they might have been a painting. A landform on the water’s edge is like a beast at the gateway to a bountiful land. I can see why the medieval sailors believed Brazil to be Manannán’s Lost Land. But then, they’d didn’t ever make it as far as Australia. After a month at sea I have almost forgotten the smells of the earth. I am still noticing the changes on the air. It is like a perfumery; citrus and a faint, woody scent and a honeyed blossom that I don’t recognise.

The thrill of being moored in a busy harbour does not disguise the fact that the mood of the crew has changed. The scant few that are still on the ship. I’ve noticed two dark-skinned men that I don’t recognise. They are burly – not built for shimmying up a mast, and it is doubtful that they are seamen. I think they are hired guards from Rio. I have
no idea how Laurence’s death is being treated by the ships’ officers and Mr Wardell. I haven’t seen Albert yet. He must be ashore.

It is damn unfair that the free world should be so breathtakingly beautiful when we are on this floating hoosegow. That’s what Margaret calls the ship, though I have no idea what it means. The turtles are like small islands floating sleepily in green water, and don’t appear to be disturbed even by the occasional excitable porpoise. The porpoises seem so pleased with themselves and their acrobatics and they, above all else, make me pine for freedom.

So now I have seen the coastline of Brazil, but not in the way that I once imagined I would visit a foreign land. At the edges of the inlet is a crescent of pale sand, scooped around a fringed shoreline. Church spires and pretty white bungalows are a reminder of comfort and safety. Dark-eyed children in painted rowing boats float around us and are warned repeatedly by the bosun’s mate not to climb on board to sell their bananas and lemons. Across the water float harmonies of church bells and laughter and some kind of night songbird.

There are new rules, of course, while we are in the harbour. Anyone on deck is to be under guard at all times, whether they are airing the bedding, sewing or emptying the water closets. I have been told that Mr Reeve will not need me until we set sail. As far as I know, none of the women have been questioned about Laurence’s death. Surely we would be the first to be under suspicion? Besides, Mr Wardell saw me outside Laurence’s cabin on the night of his death. Does this mean there is another suspect?

Miss Hayter returned from the Rio market this afternoon in a new straw bonnet and with hundreds of yards of
ugly cotton with which we are to sew new clothes. She said at supper that there is a piece of silver for each of us. All the quilts have been sold. The money, apparently, will be kept in trust. She seems to think that it will only encourage gambling. Having spent two full days below, I’ve noted that a nip of rum is the price for a comb, and an orange is worth a silver thimble.

The quilt for the Quakers is taking shape. There was nothing else to do but sew for two days below. The flowers and birds of my chintz would be perfect to cut out and appliqué onto the centrepiece. If I want to contribute in a meaningful way to the quilt, then I should offer it up for the broderie perse. I have benefited from Antonia’s kindness more than any.

I sometimes wonder if you are here, but I don’t suppose you are. It sounds as if you are too busy making my father miserable. It was madness to imagine that you could have made this happen to me, but even when I did think so, and I hated you for it, I felt less alone. You could not say, now, that I am spoilt and idle!

Chintz

In the morning, Albert was leaning over the aft railings with a barnacle scraper, filing off the clinging grey shells that were making the ship resemble a giant crustacean.

‘Evening, Mahoney.’ He smiled his crooked grin, but it lacked substance. His hair was clumped together in blades as though he had been swimming in the sea and his feet were sandy. For a moment they stood looking at each other. It had to be said, but neither was willing.

‘I have not seen you since …’ Rhia began.

‘No, not since then.’ Albert’s shoulders slumped. He looked around covertly. He beckoned to her, and sidled into a hold where a mound of sailcloth was stored. ‘I’ve been doing some extra listening,’ he said. ‘Seems the poop deck is where anyone who wants a private word goes. Wardell told the Captain he saw you on the deck that night.’

Rhia nodded. She had expected it. ‘Maybe I’ll be accused.’

‘They don’t think it was you. Wardell saw someone else creeping about but he didn’t get a good look. Too dark.’ He looked her hard in the eye. ‘I saw someone too.’

‘Who?!’

Albert looked at his feet. ‘I couldn’t say. Too dark.’

‘But I
saw
Laurence! He came to my cabin early in the morning.’

Albert shook his head. ‘He couldn’t have. Surgeon says he
died around midnight – he can tell by the body or something.’

She seemed to have lost the knack for distinguishing between the living and the dead. Albert was looking at her strangely.

‘I’m so sorry, Albert, I’m the one who sent you to Laurence’s cabin that morning.’

He shrugged. ‘I’d have gone anyway. I took him his water pail sometimes. I liked him.’

‘What happened? How?’ Rhia was still trying to remember what Laurence had said, besides the fact that he couldn’t marry her. At least now she knew why.

‘Letter opener,’ Albert said. ‘Surgeon reckons he got woken up by someone creeping about in his cabin – unless he was expecting someone and let them in. He was in his nightshirt … there was blood.’ Albert was trying not to cry; they both were. Rhia remembered the portrait. ‘Did you notice – was there a photogenic drawing on his table?’

‘A what?’

‘A photogenic drawing – like a painting of a group of men.’

‘Oh, that. I saw it when I took him the salt.’

‘The salt?’

‘The day before. I couldn’t think why he’d want a bowl of salt, so he showed me the picture. It wasn’t there when I found him. I know it wasn’t there because I looked around, to see how it might have happened.’ He was still struggling to be brave, this boy with a man’s life. He looked down at his feet again and ran his big toe along a crack in the decking, but Rhia had already seen the tears. ‘I never understood it,’ he said. ‘Painting with light, he called it. Too clever for me.’

Rhia barely heard him. ‘Maybe whoever killed him has taken the portrait.’

‘Who’d want it?’

She shook her head. Who on the
Rajah
, besides Margaret, even knew about the portrait, let alone wanted it? ‘Albert, can you get into Laurence’s cabin?’

He shrugged. ‘If I wanted to.’ It was clear that he didn’t.

‘If the portrait hasn’t been stolen, then it must be in the cabin somewhere. If you find it—’

‘If I find it, it’s yours.’

‘There’s something else.’

‘You’re not easily pleased, are you, Mahoney?’

‘If I were, I wouldn’t be on this cursed ship. I need to send a letter. Is it possible before we sail?’

‘We sail tomorrow. I’ve leave to go ashore tonight. Is that letter writ?’

‘It is.’ She’d used paper from her red book and the envelope that Laurence slipped beneath her door. Her precious fountain pen was near emptied of ink, but the letter was in her apron pocket. She gave it to Albert. ‘Be sure the postmaster uses sealing wax,’ she said. ‘Albert, I’ll pay you for this as soon as … soon.’

Albert rolled his eyes. ‘I’ve already bought myself a cutlass and I’ve coin to spare.’

‘How long will it take the post to reach London?’

‘Depends. Usually three weeks by clipper.’ He turned to go, but there was something else Rhia needed to know. ‘Albert, is he … ?’

‘He’s in the ice chest in the infirmary. Surgeon wanted to take a good look, so he’d know how it happened. They were going to take him ashore, but the port authority wouldn’t have it.’

‘But what will happen?’

‘He’ll be buried at sea, soon as we’re out of the harbour.’

*

Agnes started it by insisting that a madman was picking off the passengers one by one. She said there had been three deaths already, which was why they’d all been confined below, and reckoned that he’d be coming for one of them next. Georgina had heard that a gentleman had his throat slit for a purse full of silver, but they’d caught the killer and thrown him in a dungeon in Rio. Someone else judged that the cook looked the sort to be going about sticking knives in people. Rhia had the same thought – besides, the cook had the best selection of knives. It was generally agreed that at least one person had got it in the neck from a madman, but debate about the finer details, and whether or not the killer was still aboard, was tireless.

On the third morning out of São Sebastião, the air hung heavy with humidity and apprehension. There were no wardens in the mess, so Margaret sat in her hammock with her bowl of gruel, which she wasn’t even eating. Rhia had the chintz in her apron pocket to show to Margaret before she made a final decision. She had not yet reached Margaret when the women’s idle chatter stopped abruptly and the table fell silent. Instantly she knew – things were about to get messy.

Georgina was slurping her gruel as loudly as she could because she knew that this, above all else, irritated Jane. Jane glared at her dangerously. Nora grinned happily, enjoying the tension, and the others were eating warily, waiting. Jane finally hurled her spoon at Georgina, hitting her on the bridge of the nose.

‘Bitch!’ Georgina shrieked. She stood up, leaned over the table and upended her bowl onto Jane’s head. The gluey stuff
coated Jane’s short hair and slid down her neck. She cursed, all godly pretensions forgotten, and hurled her bowl towards Georgina, but hit Agnes who lurched at Jane and toppled her off her bench. They rolled around the floor, tearing at each other’s clothes, screaming and pulling each other’s hair. No one attempted to pull them apart.

When Miss Hayter arrived Nora was urging them on with cheers and Nelly was wailing. The others, including Rhia and Margaret, were watching. There was nothing else to do. Miss Hayter barked orders like a military commander, and the two were eventually separated.

When they were all at the table again, Jane dabbed a long scratch on her cheek and Agnes hoisted her bosom back into her underclothing. Miss Hayter cleared her throat. ‘Get out your sewing, girls,’ she said calmly, as if nothing had happened. ‘Has anyone thought about our centrepiece?’

This decided Rhia. She took the chintz from her pocket and unfolded it without saying a word, and spread it out on the table.

Miss Hayter looked surprised. ‘A lovely piece, Mahoney. Was it in your bag?’

‘No. It is mine.’

Jane was leaning over the chintz, tracing her long finger along the wing of a bird. ‘It
is
fine,’ she breathed. ‘As even a weave as I’ve seen.’

‘Yours, Mahoney?’ Miss Hayter frowned. ‘Then you brought it with you?’

Rhia nodded. ‘It is my own design.’

Agnes scoffed. ‘Don’t lie, Mahoney!’

‘That’s
quality
, that is,’ breathed Nelly.

Miss Hayter interjected firmly. ‘Did you not know, Agnes, that Mahoney worked in the trade and is a print designer?’ She
turned to Rhia. ‘Was this a design for the House of Montgomery?’

‘No. I wasn’t really a designer. I only hoped to be. It is a picture of … it’s from stories my grandmother once …’ She trailed off, confused by the emotion she felt. She must not weep.

There was awestruck silence as the women crowded around. Rhia caught Margaret’s eye. She was grinning like a proud mother. Everyone was leaning over the chintz now, examining every inch. ‘Them birds are lovely,’ cooed Nelly. ‘I once seen some like that in Covent Garden, in a wire cage.’ There was general agreement that it was a real piece of work and that Rhia was clever as.

‘It is quite perfect for the broderie perse, Mahoney,
perfect
.’ Miss Hayter was shaking her head. ‘It does seem a shame to cut it up, though. Are you sure?’

Rhia nodded. ‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t want it.’ She had never expected to feel that she belonged amongst these women. She hadn’t even known that she wanted to.

Every seaman who passed by the awning on the quarterdeck was inspected for signs of villainy as well as for the usual attributes. It had been established that the murderer would be dangerous-looking and acting suspiciously, but there was endless disagreement over how these characteristics manifested. Agnes’s current favourite was a Spaniard with a wayward eye and an uneven gait. ‘He’s got to be a madman,’ she whispered.

‘Not all killers are madmen,’ reasoned Sarah. ‘Nelly isn’t. My Harry wasn’t when he took the shovel to the rent collector.’

‘But only a madman would kill for no reason,’ said Agnes authoritatively.

‘I thought you said the killer stole a purse full of silver,’ Nora snapped.

‘I never did. It was Jane said it.’