The Luminaries (55 page)

Harald Nilssen had just brewed and steeped his four-o’clock pot of tea, and was sitting down to a plate of sugared biscuits and a book, when he received a summons in the penny post. It was from George Shepard, and marked ‘urgent’, though the gaoler did not specify a reason why. Doubtless it concerned some detail of infinitesimal
consequence
, Nilssen thought, with irritation: some piece of gravel in the gaol-house foundation, some drop of coffee on the gaol-house plans. Sighing, he fitted a quilted cosy around his teapot, exchanged his jersey for a jacket, and reached for his stick. It was jolly bad form to bother a man on a Sunday afternoon. Why, he had been
working
six days out of seven. He deserved a day of rest, without George Shepard plaguing him for receipts, or wage records, or quotes on salvage. The penny post was an added insult—for Shepard could not even trouble himself to walk the five short blocks from the Police Camp to Gibson Quay; instead he insisted that Nilssen come to
him
, as a servant to a liege! Nilssen was in a very bad temper as he locked the door of his office behind him, and strode off down Revell-street with his hat set at an angle and his coat-tails flared.

At the Police Camp Mrs. George answered the door. She directed Nilssen, with a very sorry aspect, into the dining room, and then fled before Nilssen could speak any words of politeness, pulling the door
so firmly closed behind her that the calico wall gave a shudder, and Nilssen had the fleeting sensation of being at sea.

The gaoler was sitting at the head of the table, where he was making short work of a cold meal composed of jellied meats,
various
cold puddings of homogenous consistency, and a dense bread of some dark, large-crumbed kind. He held himself very straight as he stacked his fork, and did not offer Nilssen a chair.

‘So,’ he said, when the door had closed, and he had swallowed his mouthful. ‘You told somebody about our agreement; you broke your word. Whom did you tell?’

‘What?’ said Nilssen.

Shepard repeated his question; Nilssen, after a pause, repeated his bewilderment, at a slightly higher pitch.

Shepard’s expression was cold. ‘Do not lie to me, Mr. Nilssen. Alistair Lauderback is to publish a letter in the
Times
to-morrow morning, lambasting my character. He claims that a percentage of the fortune discovered on Crosbie Wells’s estate was invested in the Hokitika gaol-house. I do not know how he came upon this
information
, and I wish to know. At once.’

Nilssen faltered. How was it possible that
Alistair Lauderback
knew about his commission? One of the Crown men must have broken his word! Balfour, perhaps? Balfour and Lauderback were close familiars, and Nilssen had never seen Lauderback in the company of any of the rest. But what reason could Balfour have, to betray him? Nilssen had never wished him any kind of harm. Could it have been Löwenthal? Perhaps—if the letter was to be published in the paper. But Nilssen could not believe that Löwenthal had broken his word any more than he could believe it of Balfour. He watched Shepard assemble a forkful of jellied meats, pickled cucumber, and hash, and inexplicably (for Nilssen was not at all hungry) his own mouth began to water.

‘Whom did you tell?’ Shepard said. ‘Please mark this moment as the end of my patience: I will not ask you again.’ He put his mouth over his assembled forkful, slid the food off the fork, and chewed.

Nilssen did not know how to respond. The truth, of course, was that he had told twelve men—Walter Moody, plus the eleven others
who had been summoned to the smoking room of the Crown. He could hardly admit to having betrayed Shepard’s secret to
twelve men
! Ought he to pretend that he had told no one at all? But it was obvious that he had broken his confidence to someone—if Lauderback knew! His mind was racing.

‘I can’t think how it might have happened,’ he said, in
desperation
. ‘I can’t think.’

Shepard was busy stacking another mouthful on the back of his fork. ‘Did you go to Lauderback yourself?’ he said, his eyes fixed intently upon his dinner. ‘Or did you go to another man—who went to Lauderback in his turn?’

‘I haven’t spoken five words to Lauderback in all my life,’ Harald Nilssen said, with much indignation.

‘Who, then?’ Shepard looked up, his utensils loose in his hands.

Nilssen said nothing. He had begun to perspire.

‘You are keeping a digger’s honour, I see,’ Shepard said with
disapproval
. ‘Well, at least someone has your loyalty, Mr. Nilssen.’

He turned back to his dinner, and did not speak for what Nilssen felt was a very long while. Shepard was dressed in his Sunday suit of black; he had flung his coat-tails to the sides of his chair so that they would not be creased beneath him while he ate. His high-waisted trousers and collarless vest had a disapproving, funereal look, and his wide cravat—somewhat out of fashion, Nilssen noticed with a touch of condescension; his own cravat was thin and loosely tied,
following
the style of the day—seemed to accent the gaoler’s aspect of admonishment still further. Even his cold supper was abstemious in its plainness. Nilssen himself had dined upon half a boiled chicken, served with mashed buttered turnip and a great deal of white sauce; he had drunk half a pitcher of a very nice wine, besides.

From elsewhere in the house, a clock sounded the quarter hour. Mrs. George moved beyond the flimsy walls, padding from room to room. Shepard remained fixated on his meal. Nilssen waited until Shepard had cleaned his plate of every last crumb, hoping that once his meal was concluded, the gaoler might begin to speak. When it became evident that this hope was a false one, he said, somewhat feebly, ‘Well—what are you going to do?’

‘My first action,’ Shepard replied, daubing his mouth with a table napkin, ‘will be to relieve you of all duties pertaining to the construction of the gaol-house. I will not be served by a man who breaks his word.’

‘The investment will be returned to me?’ said Nilssen.

‘Not at all,’ said Shepard. He tossed the table napkin onto his plate. ‘In fact I consider that a most unreasonable request, given that the work is already well underway.’

Nilssen worked his mouth. At length he said, ‘I understand.’

‘You will not break your digger’s code.’

‘No.’

‘Incredible.’

‘I am sorry.’

Shepard pushed his plate away, becoming brisk. ‘Mr. Lauderback’s letter will be published to-morrow in the
Times
; I have an advance copy here.’

Nilssen saw that there was an opened letter on the table next to the gaoler’s plate. He stepped forward, putting out his hand. ‘May I—?’

But Shepard ignored him. ‘The letter,’ he went on, raising his voice slightly, ‘does not refer to you by name. You should know that I will be writing to the editor myself tonight, in order to correct that omission. My response will be published below Mr. Lauderback’s, as a formal reply.’

Nilssen tried again. ‘May I read it?’

‘You may read it to-morrow in the paper, along with every other man in Westland.’ Shepard uttered the phrase with a dangerous emphasis.

‘All right,’ Nilssen said. He withdrew his hand. ‘I take your meaning.’

Shepard paused before adding, ‘Unless, of course, there’s
something
that you’d like to tell me.’

In a voice of loathsome dejection, Nilssen said, ‘Yes.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes—there’s something.’

Poor Harald Nilssen! Thinking that he might regain the gaoler’s
trust by means of a second transgression, as though by committing a second disloyalty, he might reverse the fact of the first! He had conceded in a panic—for it crushed Nilssen’s spirit to be held in low esteem by other men. He could not bear to know that he was disliked, for to him there was no real difference between being
disliked
, and being dislikeable; every injury he sustained was an injury to his very selfhood. It was for reasons of self-protection that Nilssen dressed in the latest fashions, and spoke with affectation, and placed himself as the central character of every tale: he built his persona as a shield around his person, because he knew very well how little his person could withstand.

‘Pray continue,’ Shepard said.

‘It’s about—’ (Nilssen cast about wildly) ‘—Mrs. Wells.’

‘Indeed,’ Shepard said. ‘How so?’

‘She was Lauderback’s mistress.’

Shepard raised his eyebrows. ‘Alistair Lauderback was
cuckolding
Crosbie Wells?’

Nilssen thought about it. ‘Yes, I suppose he was. Well, it would depend on when Crosbie and Lydia got married, of course.’

‘Go on,’ Shepard said.

‘The thing is—the thing is—he was blackmailed—Lauderback, I mean—and Crosbie Wells took home the ransom. That’s the
fortune
, you see—in Crosbie’s cottage.’

‘How did this blackmail happen? And how do you know about it?’

Nilssen hesitated. He did not trust the gaoler’s expression, which had suddenly become very greedy and intense.

‘How do you know about it?’ Shepard demanded.

‘Somebody told me.’

‘Who?’

‘Mr. Staines,’ said Nilssen—settling upon the man to whom he could do the least damage, in the short term at least.

‘Was he the blackmailer—Staines?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Nilssen, momentarily confused. ‘I mean, yes, maybe.’

‘Are you with him, or against him?’

‘I—I don’t know.’

Shepard looked annoyed. ‘What have you got on him, then?’ he said. ‘You must have something on the man, if you’re not sure about your allegiance.’

‘There was a deed of gift,’ Nilssen said miserably. ‘In Crosbie Wells’s stove—partly burned, as though someone tried to destroy it. The chaplain found it. When he went to the cottage to collect the body, the day after his death. He didn’t tell you about it; he kept it for himself. He didn’t tell Dr. Gillies either.’

Shepard betrayed no flicker of emotion at all. ‘What kind of a deed of gift?’

Nilssen briefly detailed the particulars of the contract. He kept his eyes upon a spot some three feet to the left of the gaoler’s face, and squinted oddly—for a bubble of despair was growing in his chest, pushing out against his breastbone. He had meant to reassure the gaoler of his loyalty by betraying this secret; now he saw that he had only confirmed his disloyalty, and his worthlessness. And yet—despite his misery—there was something terribly relieving about speaking of the Crown conspiracy aloud. He felt that a great weight was being lifted off his shoulders, just as he felt that a terrible weightlessness was settling in its place. He glanced at the gaoler quickly, and then away.

‘Is Devlin your man?’ Shepard said. ‘Did you tell Devlin about this investment—and did he tell Lauderback?’

‘Yes,’ Nilssen said. ‘That’s right.’ (What kind of wretched man was he—to accuse a
clergyman
? But of course it was only half a lie … and better to accuse one man than all twelve.) ‘I mean,’ he added, ‘I only suppose he told Lauderback. I don’t know. I’ve never spoken to Lauderback about anything at all—as I told you.’

‘So Devlin is Lauderback’s man,’ Shepard said.

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Nilssen. ‘I don’t know about that at all.’

Shepard nodded. ‘Well, Mr. Nilssen,’ he said, rising from the table. ‘That concludes our discussion, I think.’

It panicked Nilssen still further to be dismissed. ‘The part about the deed,’ he said. ‘It’s just—if you’re going to mention it to the Reverend—’

‘I imagine that I will, yes.’

‘Well—can you leave my name out of it?’ said Nilssen, with a look of pure misery on his face. ‘You see: I can tell you where he’s
keeping
it—the deed, I mean—and that way you can come upon it yourself, and there’s no bridges broken on my end. Will you do that?’

Shepard studied him without pity. ‘Where does he keep it?’

‘I won’t tell you until you give your word,’ said Nilssen.

Shepard shrugged. ‘All right.’

‘Do you give your word?’

‘Upon my honour, I will not speak your name to the chaplain of the gaol,’ Shepard snapped. ‘Where does he keep it?’

‘In his Bible,’ said Nilssen, very sadly. ‘In his Bible, between the Old Testament, and the New.’

Since the construction of the gaol-house had begun in earnest Cowell Devlin and George Shepard had not seen a great deal of one another, save for in the evenings when Shepard returned from the construction site at Seaview to write his letters and tally his accounts. Devlin, who found the atmosphere of the temporary Police Camp much improved in Shepard’s absence, had not
pursued
a deeper intimacy with the other man. Had he been pressed to pass judgment on the gaoler’s character, he might, after a long pause, have conceded that he pitied Shepard’s rigidity, and mourned the evident displeasure with which Shepard seemed to regard the world around him; after another pause, he might have added that he wished Shepard well, but did not expect the relations between them to develop beyond their present capacity, which was strictly professional, and none too warm.