The Luminaries (52 page)

‘Well, I hope for Miss Wetherell’s sake that she has not confided in Mrs. Wells,’ Moody said. ‘I dread to think how Mrs. Wells might respond to such a revelation, behind closed doors. She would only blame Anna for the loss of the fortune—I am sure of it.’

Suddenly Gascoigne put down his fork. ‘I’ve just had a thought,’ he said. ‘The money in the dresses
became
the money in the cottage. So if the widow’s appeal goes through, and she receives the fortune as her inheritance, she’ll get it all back—less the money in the orange gown, of course. She’ll end up where she started, after all.’

‘In my experience people are rarely contented to end up where they started,’ Moody said. ‘If my impression of Lydia Wells is
accurate
, I think that she will feel very bitter about Anna’s having been in possession of those dresses, no matter what Anna’s intentions might have been, and no matter what the outcome.’

‘But we’re fairly certain that Anna did not even know about the gold she was carrying—at least, not until very recently.’

‘Mr. Gascoigne,’ Moody said, holding up his hand, ‘despite my youth, I possess a certain store of wisdom about the fairer sex, and I can tell you categorically that women do not like it when other women wear their clothes without their asking.’

Gascoigne laughed. Cheered by this joke, he applied himself to finishing his luncheon with a renewed energy, and a good humour.

The truth of Moody’s observation notwithstanding, it must be owned that his store of wisdom, as he had termed it, could be called empirical only in that it had been formed upon the close observation of his late mother, his stepmother, and his two
maternal
aunts: to put it plainly, Moody had never taken a lover, and did not know a great deal about women, save for how to address them properly, and how to dote upon them as a nephew and as a son. It was not despite the natural partialities of youth that the compass of Moody’s worldly experience was scarcely larger than a keyhole, through which he had perceived, metaphorically speaking, only glimpses of the shadowed chamber of adulthood that lay beyond. In fact he had met with ample opportunity to widen this aperture,
and indeed, to unlock the door altogether, and pass through it, into that most private and solitary of rooms … but he had declined these opportunities with quite the same discomfort and stiff
propriety
with which he fielded Gascoigne’s rhetorical teases now.

When he was one-and-twenty a late night of carousing in London had led him, by the usual methods and channels, to a lamp lit courtyard not far from Smithfield Market. This courtyard, by the authority of Moody’s college chums, was frequented by the most fashionable of whores—so identifiable for their red Garibaldi jackets, brass-buttoned, that were the height of Parisian fashion at the time, and alarming to English ladies for that reason. Although the military style of their jackets gave the women a deliberate and brazen look, they pretended at shyness, turning away so they might look at the men over the rounded curve of their shoulders, and feint, and titter, and point their toes. Moody, watching them, felt suddenly sad. He could not help but think of his father—for how many times, over the years of Moody’s youth, had he come across the man in some dark corner of the house, to perceive, upon his father’s lap, a perfect stranger? She would be gasping unnaturally, or squealing like a pig, or speaking in a high-pitched voice that was not her own, and she would leave behind her, always, that same greasy musk: the smell of the theatre. Moody’s college chums were pooling their sovereigns and cutting straws to draw for the first pick; silently, he withdrew from the courtyard, hailed a hansom, and retired to bed. It was a point of pride for him, thereafter, that he would not do as his father had done; that he would not fall prey to his father’s vices; that he would be the better man. And yet how easy it might have been—to contribute his sovereign, and select his straw, and choose one of the red-shirted ladies to follow into the cobbled alcove on the dark side of the church! His college chums supposed him to have set his sights upon a clerical vocation. They were surprised, some years later, when Moody enrolled at Inner Temple, and began to study for the Bar.

It was therefore with a very well-concealed ignorance that Moody played interlocutor to Gascoigne, and Clinch, and Mannering, and Pritchard, and all the others, when they spoke of Anna Wetherell,
and the esteem in which they held her, as a whore. Moody’s
well-timed
murmurs of ‘naturally’ and ‘of course’ and ‘exactly so’, combined with a general rigidity of posture whenever Anna’s name was mentioned, implied to these men merely that Moody was made uncomfortable by the more candid truths of human nature, and that he preferred, like most men of exalted social rank, to keep his earthly business to himself. We observe that one of the great
attributes
of discretion is that it can mask ignorance of all the most common and lowly varieties, and Walter Moody was nothing if not excessively discreet. The truth was that he had never spoken two words together to a woman of Anna Wetherell’s profession or
experience
, and would hardly know how to address her—or upon what subject—should the chance arise.

‘And of course,’ he said now, ‘we ought to be cheered by the fact that Miss Wetherell’s trunk did not follow her to the Wayfarer’s Fortune.’

‘Did it not?’ said Gascoigne, in surprise.

‘No. The lead-lined dresses remain at the Gridiron, along with her pipe, and her opium lamp, and other miscellaneous items; she never sent for them.’

‘And Mr. Clinch has not raised the issue?’

‘No,’ said Moody. ‘It is cheering, I think: whatever role Miss Wetherell played in Mr. Staines’s disappearance, and whatever role she is to play in the ridiculous
séance
this evening, we can at least be fairly certain that she has not confided in Mrs. Wells absolutely. I take heart in that.’

He looked about for the waiter, for Gascoigne had finished eating, and he wished to settle his account as soon as possible, so that he might return to the Crown, and unpack his trunk at long last.

‘You are anxious to depart,’ Gascoigne observed, wiping his mouth with his table napkin.

‘Forgive my rudeness,’ Moody said. ‘I am not tired of your
company
—but I
am
rather anxious to be reunited with my possessions. I have not changed my jacket in some weeks, and I do not yet know the degree to which my trunk survived the storm. It is possible that all my clothes and documents were ruined.’

‘What are we waiting for? Let us go, at once,’ said Gascoigne, for whom this explanation was not only entirely reasonable, but also something of a relief. Gascoigne feared very much that his own society was tiring, and he was made very anxious whenever a man he respected showed boredom in his company. He insisted upon settling the cheque himself, shooing away Moody in the manner of an indulgent governess; once this was done, the two friends stepped out into the noisy rush of Revell-street, where a party of diggers was swarming cheerfully past. Behind them came a shout from a surveyor on horseback, reining in, and above them, the solitary bell in the Wesleyan chapel, which was striking the hour, once, twice. Raising their voices above this noise—the creaking wheels of a gig, the snap of canvas, laughter, hammering, the shrill voice of a woman calling to a man—the two friends bid one another good afternoon, and shook hands very warmly as they parted ways.

It was Löwenthal’s practice, when a letter of inflammatory
accusation
was delivered to the
West Coast Times
, to contact all parties concerned before the paper went to press. He judged it right to give fair warning to any man about to be lambasted, for the court of public opinion in Hokitika was a court of severe adjudication, and a reputation could be ruined overnight; to every man so
threatened
, he extended the invitation to pen a reply.

Alistair Lauderback’s long-winded and rather haphazard address on the subject of Governor Shepard’s professional dereliction was no exception to this rule, and upon reading it through, Löwenthal sat down at once to make a copy of the document. The copy he would set into type; the original he would take to the Police Camp, to show to the gaoler himself—for Shepard would certainly wish to defend himself upon several counts, and it was still early enough in the day that his reply could be included, as a response to Lauderback’s, in the Monday edition of the
Times
.

Löwenthal was frowning as he set out his writing implements. He knew that the information about Shepard’s private investment could only have been leaked by one of the twelve men of the Crown, which meant that someone—sadly—had broken his vow of silence. As far as Löwenthal knew, the only man who had any
kind of acquaintance with Alistair Lauderback was his friend, Thomas Balfour. It was with a heavy heart that the newspaperman pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, unscrewed the cap on his inkwell, and dipped his nib.
Tom
, he thought, with admonition,
Tom
. He shook his head, and sighed.

Löwenthal was copying out Lauderback’s final paragraph when he was roused by the sound of the bell. Immediately he stood, laid his pen upon his blotter, and walked through to the shop, his face already relaxing into a smile of welcome—which froze, ever so slightly, when he saw who was standing in the doorway.

The incomer wore a long grey coat with velvet-faced lapels and turned velvet cuffs; the coat was made of a tight weave of some shiny, sealskin-like variety that turned an oily colour when he moved. His cravat was piled high at his throat, and the lapels of his shawl-collared waistcoat were turned up at the sides, lending an added bulk to his shoulders, and an added thickness to his neck. There was a heavy quality to his features, as though they had been hewn from some kind of mineral: something elemental and coarsely grained that would not polish, and that weighed a great deal. His mouth was wide, and his nose flattened; his brow
protruded
squarely. Upon his left cheek was a thin scar, silvery in colour, which curved from the outer corner of his eye down to his jaw.

Löwenthal’s hesitation was only momentary. In the next instant he was bustling forward, wiping his hands on his apron, and
smiling
very broadly; when his hands were clean, he extended both his palms to his guest, and said, ‘Mr. Wells! How good to see you again. Welcome back to Hokitika.’

Francis Carver narrowed his eyes, but did not take the bait. ‘I want to place an advertisement,’ he said. He did not step into the bounds of the other man’s reach; he remained by the door,
keeping
eight feet of distance between them.

‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Löwenthal. ‘And may I say: I am both honoured and gratified that you have sought my paper’s services a second time. I should have been very sorry to lose any man’s custom through an error of my own.’

Again Carver said nothing. He had not removed his hat, and made no move to do so.

But the newspaperman was not intimidated by Carver’s
insolence
. Smiling very brightly, he said, ‘But let us not talk of former days, Mr. Wells; let us talk of today! You must tell me what I can do for you.’

A flash of irritation darkened Carver’s face at last. ‘Carver,’ he corrected. ‘My name’s not Wells.’

Satisfied, Löwenthal folded his hands. The first two fingers of his right hand were stained very darkly with ink, which created a
curiously
striped effect when he laced his fingers together—as though his two hands belonged to two different creatures, one black, the other fawn.

‘Perhaps my memory is faulty,’ he said, ‘but I feel I do recall you very vividly. You were here nearly a year ago, were you not? You had a birth certificate. You placed an advertisement about a
missing
shipping crate—for which you were offering some kind of a reward. There was some confusion regarding your name, I remember. I made a mistake in the printing—omitting your middle name—and you returned the following morning, to
identify
the error. I believe your birth certificate was made out as Crosbie Francis Wells. But please—have I mistaken you for another man?’

Again Carver did not reply.

‘I have always been told,’ Löwenthal added after a moment, ‘that I have a remarkably good memory.’

He was taking a risk, in speaking impertinently … but perhaps Carver would be drawn. Löwenthal’s expression remained
pleasantly
impassive. He waited for the other man to speak.

Löwenthal knew that Carver was lodging at the Palace Hotel, from which place he conducted the unhappy business of arranging for the wreck of the
Godspeed
to be hauled ashore. This was a
project
that would surely have been undertaken slyly, and with much restriction, had Carver been taking pains to conceal a murdered man aboard the foundered ship. But by all reports—including that of the shipping agent, Thomas Balfour—Carver had been most
forthcoming in his business. He had submitted a cargo inventory to the Harbourmaster; he had met with delegates from each of Hokitika’s shipping firms, in order to settle their accounts; and he had several times rowed out to the wreck himself, in the company of shipwrights, salvage vendors, and the like.

‘My name’s not Wells,’ Carver said at last. ‘That was on behalf of someone else. It doesn’t matter now.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Löwenthal said smoothly. ‘So Mr. Crosbie Wells had lost a shipping crate—and you were helping him retrieve it.’

A pause, then, ‘Yes.’

‘Well then, I do hope you were successful in that project! I trust the crate was eventually returned to him?’

Carver jerked his head in annoyance. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘I told you.’

‘But I would be remiss,’ Löwenthal said, ‘if I did not offer my condolences to you, Mr. Carver.’

Carver studied him.

‘I was very saddened to learn of Mr. Wells’s death,’ Löwenthal continued. ‘I never had the pleasure of meeting him, but by all accounts he was a decent citizen. Oh—I do hope I’m not the man to break the news to you—that your acquaintance is deceased.’

‘No,’ Carver said again.

‘I am glad of that. How did you know one another?’

The flash of irritation returned. ‘Old friends.’

‘From Dunedin, perhaps? Or further back?’

Carver did not look inclined to answer this, so Löwenthal went on, ‘Well, I expect it must be a great comfort to you, to know that he died peacefully.’

Carver’s mouth twisted. After a moment he burst out, ‘What’s
peaceful
?’

‘To die in our sleep—in our own homes? I dare say it is the best that any of us can hope for.’ Löwenthal felt that he had gained some ground. He added, ‘Though it was a great pity his wife was not present at his passing.’

Carver shrugged. Whatever sudden fire had prompted his last
outburst had been smothered just as suddenly. ‘A marriage is a man’s own business,’ he said.

‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ Löwenthal said. He smiled. ‘Are you at all acquainted with Mrs. Wells?’

Carver made an inscrutable noise.

‘I have had the pleasure of meeting her, but only briefly,’ Löwenthal went on, undeterred. ‘I had intended to go along to the Wayfarer’s Fortune this evening—as a sceptic, of course, but with an open mind. Can I expect to see you there?’

‘No,’ Carver said, ‘you can’t.’

‘Perhaps your scepticism about
séances
exceeds even mine!’

‘I don’t have an opinion about
séances
,’ Carver said. ‘I might be there or I might not.’

‘In any case, I expect Mrs. Wells welcomed your return to Hokitika
very
gladly,’ said Löwenthal—whose conversational
gambits
were becoming tenuous indeed. ‘Yes: I am sure she must have been
very
pleased, to know that you had returned!’

Carver was now looking openly annoyed. ‘Why?’ he said.

‘Why?’ said Löwenthal. ‘Because of all the fuss over his estate, of course! Because the legal proceedings have been halted precisely on account of Wells’s birth certificate! It’s nowhere to be found!’

Löwenthal’s voice rang out rather more loudly than he had intended, and he worried briefly that perhaps he had overplayed his hand. What he had said was perfectly true, and what’s more, it was public knowledge: Mrs. Wells’s appeal to revoke the sale of Wells’s estate had not yet been heard by the Magistrate’s Court because no documentation had survived the dead man that might have served as proof of his true identity. Lydia Wells had arrived in Hokitika several days after her late husband had been buried, and therefore had not identified his body; short of digging his body up (the Magistrate begged the widow’s pardon) there was, it seemed, no way of proving that the hermit who had died in the Arahura Valley and the Mr. Crosbie Wells who had signed Mrs. Wells’s marriage certificate were the same man. Given the
enormity
of the inheritance in question, the Magistrate thought it prudent to delay the Court proceedings until a more definite
conclusion could be reached—for which pronouncement Mrs. Wells thanked him very nicely. She assured him that her patience was of the most stalwart female variety, and that she would wait for as long as necessary for the outstanding debt (so she conceived of the inheritance) to be paid out to her.

But Carver was not provoked; he only looked the editor up and down, and then said, in a voice of surly indifference, ‘I want to place a notice in the
Times
.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Löwenthal said. His heart was beating fast. Drawing a sheet of paper towards him, he said, ‘What is it that you are wishing to sell?’

Carver explained that the hull of the
Godspeed
would shortly be dismantled, and in advance of this event, he wished to sell her parts at auction on Friday, care of Glasson & Rowley Salvage. He gave his instructions very curtly. No part was to be sold prior to auction. No privilege would be given, and no correspondence entered into. All inquiries were to be directed, by post, to Mr. Francis Carver, at the Palace Hotel.

‘You see I am making careful note of it,’ Löwenthal said. ‘I will not make the mistake of omitting any part of your name—not this time! Say—I don’t suppose that you and Crosbie were related?’

Carver’s mouth twisted again. ‘No.’

‘It’s true that Francis is a very common name,’ Löwenthal said, nodding. He was still making note of the name of Carver’s hotel, and did not look up for several seconds; when he did, however, he found that Carver’s expression had soured still further.

‘What’s
your
name?’ Carver demanded, accenting the fact that he had not bothered to use it before. When Löwenthal replied, Carver nodded slowly, as if committing the name to heart. Then he said, ‘You’ll shut your f—ing mouth.’

Löwenthal was shocked. He received the payment for the
advertisement
and wrote up Carver’s receipt in silence—penning the words very slowly and carefully, but with a steady hand. This was the first time he had ever been insulted in his own office, and his shock was such that he could not immediately respond. He felt an exhilaration building within him; a pressure; an exultant, roaring
sound. Löwenthal was the kind of man who became almost
gladiatorial
when he was shamed. He felt a martial stirring in his breast that was triumphal, even glad, as if a long-awaited call to arms had sounded somewhere close at hand, and he alone had felt its private resonation, drumming in his ribcage, drumming in his blood.

Carver had taken up the receipt. He turned, and made to leave the shop without either thanking Löwenthal or bidding him
goodbye
—a discourtesy that released a surge of outrage in Löwenthal’s breast: he could contain himself no longer. He burst out, ‘You’ve got a lot to answer for, showing your face around here!’

Carver stopped, his hand upon the doorknob.

‘After what you did to Anna,’ Löwenthal said. ‘I was the one to find her, you know. All bloody. It’s not a way to treat a woman. I don’t care who she is. It’s not a way to treat a woman—still less when she’s expecting, and so close to being due!’

Carver did not answer.

‘It was a hair short of a double murder. Do you know that?’ Löwenthal felt his anger mounting into fury. ‘Do you know what she looked like? Did you see her when the bruises were going down? Did you know that she had to use a cane for two weeks? Just to be able to
walk
! Did you know that?’

At last Carver said, ‘Her hands weren’t clean.’

Löwenthal almost laughed. ‘What—she left
you
in a bloody pool, then? She boxed
you
senseless? What is the phrase—an eye for an eye?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘She killed your child? She killed your child—so you killed hers?’ Löwenthal was almost shouting. ‘Say the words, man! Say them!’

But Carver was unmoved. ‘I meant she’s no blushing flower.’

‘Blushing
flower
! Now I expect you’re going to tell me she brought it all upon herself—that she deserved it!’

‘Yes,’ said Francis Carver. ‘She got what she was owed.’

‘You are short on friends in Hokitika, Mr. Carver,’ said Löwenthal, levelling his ink-blackened finger at the other man. ‘Anna Wetherell may be a common whore but she is treasured by more men in this town than you can hold off, armed or no, and you
ought not to forget that. If any harm should come to her—let me warn you—if any harm—’