Prologue
April 1868, Sydney
Tatty Crowe sat near the back of the crowded room at the Printer’s Arms Hotel, attending the inquest of her late husband, Titus, who had died seven months earlier. The cause of death, as stated by his physician on his death certificate, was perforated stomach ulcers. Titus had been an undertaker, and not always well regarded by customers or colleagues, and Tatty could see plenty of people in the crowd she knew hadn’t liked him who, she suspected, were there hoping to hear any salacious secrets about him. She was doing her best to appear calm and confident despite being anxious to the point of feeling sick. She owned Crowe Funerals now, making her Sydney’s first woman undertaker, but if things went badly she stood to lose everything. Though she was popular with her customers, especially the poorer ones, she knew that she most certainly had an enemy or two. She was grateful she had her friends around her, but if the inquest went against her, they would not be able to help. She squeezed her assistant Cora’s hand and received an encouraging squeeze back. To one side of the room stood the rest of her faithful crew – Ben and Robert and Henry. It hurt her to think that, if things did go awry, she might never work with or even see them again. And then there was Elias Nuttall, her nemesis, sitting near the front of the room, just waiting for his opportunity to tell Coroner Shiell, the audience, and anyone else who would listen that she had poisoned Titus to death. It was his fault the inquest had been convened, it was his fault Titus’s body had been exhumed, and it was his fault she was in such a perilous position. She should have realised how far he would go to ruin her and done what she could to stop him, but now it could be too late. She turned to the back of the room to make sure Friday and the others were still there. They were, and she was grateful. If the coronial jury found that she had poisoned Titus, and Coroner Shiell referred the matter to the criminal court, she would very likely be hanged at Darlinghurst Gaol if found guilty. She would most definitely need the help of every friend she had if that were to happen. But if the jury’s decision favoured her today, it was still good to know she could call on associates with resources: she would certainly need assistance to put a stop to Nuttall’s vendetta against her. Tatty sat very still as the coroner called prominent surgeon Mr George Montague to the front of the room to report on the postmortem he had conducted on Titus’s exhumed body. Her shoulders ached with tension and her fingernails dug into her palms as he impassively read out a summary of what he’d found. And then she held her breath. Coroner Shiell said, ‘Thank you for your findings, Mr Montague. Is it your opinion then, as a senior medical professional, that Mr Crowe died as a result of perforated stomach ulcers or of deliberate arsenic poisoning?’
Chapter One
Early September 1864, London, England
Tatiana Caldwell lay in bed, suspended between sleep and wakefulness, halfdreaming of a time little more than a year earlier when she had been sixteen and her loving family was whole and happy and life was good. Then she awoke completely and realisation hit her like a physical blow: none of that was true any
more. Her beloved father, Hector, was dead; her mother, Betsy, had been cheated of the ongoing allowance Hector had so cleverly left her in his will; and to stop the bank from foreclosing on their five-bedroom house, the only asset they had left, they’d had to take in lodgers. Worst of all, Betsy was extremely ill herself now. With a sigh Tatiana pushed back the bedclothes and sat on the side of the bed, her bare legs dangling. Her bedroom smelt stuffily of the beeswax Mrs Seddon used on the furniture, and the stale water in a vase containing a decaying arrangement of delphiniums and hydrangeas she hadn’t had time to replace. The clock on the mantel read just past six: time to get up, go downstairs and help Mrs Seddon and Lorna prepare the breakfasts for Mr Denham, the young and quite nice lodger, and Mr Wooten, the middle-aged, notnice one. But first she’d pop into her mother’s room and make sure she was all right, and that Lorna had taken her a cup of tea. She used the chamber pot then poured a few inches of cold water from a jug into its basin, stripped off her nightdress and had a quick wash and cleaned her teeth, shivering slightly in the cool air. Summer was on its way but the north-facing side of the house rarely warmed up before midday. Then she dressed – chemise, stockings, drawers, stays, camisole, petticoats, gown (black, as she was still in mourning for her father), and boots. No crinoline. Doing housework in a crinoline was almost impossible. She unplaited her long coal-black hair, gave it a quick brush, then tied it back in a low ponytail. Next door she knocked gently and waited for Betsy to call out. When she didn’t, Tatiana immediately thought the worst and pushed the door open, stepped inside and stood in the dimness, gripping the knob, her heart pounding, listening desperately for her mother’s laboured breathing. And then, to her knee-buckling relief, she heard it – slow and shallow and raspy, but reasonably regular. ‘Ma?’ she said in a loud whisper, not wanting to wake her mother if she needed to sleep. ‘Are you awake?’ A sigh from the bed, then nothing, then a grunt followed by a snotty sniff. ‘Tatty, love.’ Tatiana crossed to the bed and kissed her mother’s forehead. Her skin felt sweaty and strands of her hair stuck to her face. There was an unpleasant smell about her, like rancid milk, though she was bathed in bed at least once a day. Tatty had decided it was the smell of illness. She’d heard Lorna say the other day it was the smell of death, which had earnt Lorna a sharp smack on the arm from Mrs Seddon, but she was choosing to ignore that. Lorna said all sorts of silly things. ‘Do you want some light?’ Tatty asked. Betsy indicated yes, so Tatty lit the oil lamp on the nightstand as the sun hadn’t yet quite risen. ‘How do you feel this morning?’ ‘Not so bad,’ Betsy said, rolling onto her back with a groan. Tatty thought her mother looked awful. Her skin appeared grey and slack, and enormous bags like bruises darkened the skin beneath her eyes. She was forty-three but looked at least a decade or more older. Her appearance frightened Tatty badly. ‘I’ll fetch you some tea, shall I?’ ‘Have you started on the breakfasts?’ Betsy said, then exploded into a horrible, bubbling fit of coughing. Tatty quickly handed her a cloth but not before a small spray of blood had stained the bedclothes. Tatty stared at the mess, then pulled her mother up into a sitting position and secured her there with pillows. Betsy wiped her mouth with the cloth and said, ‘Shit.’ ‘Do you want your laudanum?’
Betsy nodded and Tatty passed her the brown bottle from the nightstand. Betsy took a good swig, closed her eyes as it went down, then handed the bottle back. ‘I’ll get that tea,’ Tatty said and hurried out of the room before her mother could see she was about to cry.