‘No!’
Devlin was alarmed: she had almost shouted the word. ‘What is it?’ he said.
‘I just—’ Her hand went to her throat. ‘May I ask you
something
?’
‘Of course.’
‘Have you ever—I mean, in your experience—’ She stopped herself, bit her lip, and began again. ‘Do you know why I can read this?’
His eyes were searching hers. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘I never learned to read,’ Anna explained, ‘not properly. I mean—I can sound out a line of letters—and I know labels and signs; but that’s more like remembering than reading, because I see them every day. I could never read a paper. Not front to back. It would take me hours and hours. But this—I can read it. Without any effort, I mean. Quick as thinking.’
‘Read it out loud.’
She did, fluently.
Devlin was frowning. ‘Are you quite sure that you have never seen this document before?’
‘Quite sure,’ Anna said.
‘Did you know already that Mr. Staines intended to give you two thousand pounds?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘What about Mr. Wells? Did you ever speak with Mr. Wells about it?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m telling you: it’s the first I’ve seen of it.’
‘Perhaps,’ Devlin said, ‘if you had been told about it—but you had forgotten …’
‘I wouldn’t forget a dirty great fortune,’ said Anna.
Devlin paused, watching her. Then he said, ‘One hears stories of children with Continental nannies, waking up one day, and
speaking
fluent Dutch, or French, or German, or whatever it is—’
‘I never had a nanny.’
‘—but I have never heard of a person suddenly acquiring the ability to read,’ he finished. ‘That is most peculiar.’
There was a sceptical accent in his voice.
‘I never had a nanny,’ Anna said again.
Devlin sat forward. ‘Miss Wetherell,’ he said, ‘your name is
associated with a great many unsolved crimes, including a possible murder, and I am sure that I do not need to impress upon you the gravity of a Supreme Court trial. Let us talk frankly—and in
confidence
.’ He pointed at the deed in Anna’s hand. ‘This bequest was written three months before Mr. Staines disappeared. It represents exactly half of the Wells inheritance. Mr. Wells died the very day that Mr. Staines vanished, and on the morning after his death I found this paper in the stove. The events are clearly related, and a lawyer will be able to join the dots, even if I cannot. If you are in a difficult position, I may be able to help you; but I cannot help you if you do not trust me. I am asking you to take me into your
confidence
, and tell me what you know.’
Anna was frowning. ‘This paper doesn’t have anything to do with the Wells inheritance,’ she said. ‘This is about Emery’s money, not Crosbie’s.’
‘You are right; but it is doubtful that the gold discovered in Mr. Wells’s cottage ever belonged to Mr. Wells,’ Devlin said. ‘You see, the ore was not discovered pure: it had been smelted by a
goldsmith
, and pressed into a kind of bullion. The smelting bears a signature, and by this signature the bank has been able to trace the gold back to a goldmine belonging to Mr. Staines. The Aurora.’
‘The what?’ said Anna.
‘The Aurora,’ Devlin said. ‘That’s the name of the goldmine.’
‘Oh,’ she said. She was clearly confused; feeling pity for her, Devlin explained it all again, more slowly. This time she
understood
. ‘So the fortune was Emery’s, all along?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Devlin, cautiously.
‘And he meant to give exactly half of it to me!’
‘This document certainly seems to imply that Mr. Staines meant to give you two thousand pounds—and that Mr. Wells, as of the night of the eleventh of October, knew about this intention, and possibly even endorsed it. But as I have already told you, the
document
is not valid: Mr. Staines never signed.’
‘What if he did sign it?’
‘Until Mr. Staines is found,’ Devlin said, ‘I’m afraid there’s
nothing
to be done.’ He watched her for a moment, and then said, ‘It
has taken me a very long time to bring this document to your
attention
, Miss Wetherell, and for that I ask your forgiveness. The reason is simply that I have been waiting for a chance to speak with you alone; as you know, those chances have been very hard to come by.’
‘Who knows about this?’ she said suddenly. ‘Besides you and me.’
Devlin hesitated. ‘Governor Shepard,’ he said, deciding to tell the truth, but not the whole truth. ‘I spoke with him about the matter perhaps a month ago.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He imagined that it must have been a joke of some kind.’
‘A joke?’ She looked crestfallen. ‘What kind of a joke?’
Devlin reached forward to take her hand, crushing her fingers slightly in his sympathy. ‘Don’t be disappointed, my dear. It is the poor in spirit who are blessed, and every one of us awaits a much greater inheritance than any that can be gifted in gold.’
There came a shrill piping from the kitchen, and a hiss as the hot water spouted onto the cast-iron plate.
‘There’s our kettle,’ said Devlin, smiling at her.
‘Reverend,’ Anna said, withdrawing her hand from his grip, ‘would you mind very much if I asked you to pour out the tea? I’m feeling a little strange, and I would like some time alone.’
‘Certainly,’ said Cowell Devlin with courtesy, and he left the room.
As soon as he was gone Anna rose and crossed the parlour in two quick steps, the charred deed of gift still in her hand. Her heart was beating fast. She stood unmoving for a moment, gathering
confidence
, and then, in one fluid motion, she went to the widow’s writing desk, laid the deed of gift upon the table, uncorked a pot of ink, picked up Mrs. Wells’s pen, wet the nib in the inkwell, leaned forward, and wrote:
Emery Staines
Anna had never seen Emery Staines’s signature before, but she knew without a doubt that she had replicated the form of it exactly. The letters of Staines’s last name followed a careless diminution, and
the letters of his first were cheerfully illegible; the signature was
confidently
sloppy, and underlined with a casual relish, as if to say that the shape had been formed so many times before as not to be disproved by any minor variation. There was a doubled curlicue preceding the E—a personal touch—and the S had a slightly flattened quality.
‘What have you done?’
Devlin was standing in the doorway with the tea tray in his hands and an expression of fearsome admonition on his face. He set the tray upon the sideboard with a clatter and advanced upon her,
holding
out his hand. Mutely, Anna passed the document to him, and he snatched it up. For a moment, his outrage was such that he could not speak; then he controlled himself, and said, very quietly,
‘This is an act of fraud.’
‘Maybe,’ said Anna.
‘
What
?’ Devlin shouted, suddenly furious. He rounded on her. ‘
What
did you say?’
He had expected her to cower, but she did not. ‘That’s his
signature
,’ she said. ‘The deed is good.’
‘That is not his signature,’ Devlin said.
‘It is,’ said Anna.
‘That is a forgery,’ Devlin snapped. ‘You have just committed forgery.’
‘Maybe I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Anna.
‘Your insolence is unbecoming,’ Devlin said. ‘Will you add the crime of perjury to the crime of fraud?’
‘Maybe I don’t know anything about fraud.’
‘The truth will bear out,’ said Devlin. ‘There are analysts, Miss Wetherell, who can tell a forgery at sight.’
‘Not this one,’ Anna said.
‘Do not delude yourself,’ Devlin said. ‘Shame on you.’
But Anna was feeling quite without delusion, and quite without shame; she was feeling, in fact, sharper than she had felt in many months. Now that Emery Staines’s signature was upon the deed of gift, it was no longer invalid. By the authority of this document, two thousand pounds
must
be given, as a present, to Miss Anna Wetherell, by Mr. Emery Staines; the deed had been signed, and
witnessed, and the signature of the donor was a good one. Who could fault her word, when one of the signatories had vanished, and the other was dead?
‘Can I look at it again?’ she said, and Devlin, red-faced with anger, handed the deed back to her. Once it was in her hand, Anna darted away, loosed the bodice of Agathe Gascoigne’s dress, and slipped the paper between the buttons, so that it lay against her skin. Placing her hands over her bodice, she stood a moment,
panting
, her eyes searching Devlin’s—who had not moved. There was ten feet of space between them.
‘For shame,’ Devlin said quietly. ‘Explain yourself.’
‘I want a second opinion, that’s all.’
‘You have just falsified that deed, Miss Wetherell.’
‘That can’t be proved.’
‘By my oath, it can.’
‘What’s to stop me swearing an oath against you?’
‘That would be a falsehood,’ Devlin said. ‘And it would be a very grave falsehood, if you swore to it in court, which you would
certainly
be forced to do. Don’t be foolish.’
‘I’ll get a second opinion,’ she said again. ‘I’ll go to the Courthouse and ask.’
‘Miss Wetherell,’ Devlin said. ‘Calm yourself. Think. It would be the word of a minister against the word of a whore.’
‘I’m not whoring any more.’
‘A former whore,’ said Devlin. ‘Forgive me.’
He took a step towards her, and Anna retreated. Her hand was still pressed flat over her breast.
‘If you come one step closer,’ she said, ‘I’ll scream, and I’ll rip my bodice open, and say you did it. They’ll hear me from the street. They’ll rush in.’
Devlin had never before been threatened in this way. ‘I will come no closer,’ he said, with dignity. ‘I will retreat, in fact, and at once.’ He returned to the chair he had formerly occupied, and sat down. ‘I do not wish to brawl with you,’ he said, speaking quietly now. ‘I do wish to ask you several questions, however.’
‘Go on,’ said Anna, still breathing hard. ‘Ask.’
Devlin decided upon a direct approach. ‘Did you know that the gowns you purchased salvage last winter had once belonged to Lydia Wells?’
Anna gaped at him.
‘Kindly answer the question,’ Devlin said. ‘I am referring to the five gowns which Mrs. Wells used to blackmail Mr. Alistair Lauderback, with Francis Carver’s help.’
‘What?’ she said.
‘The gowns,’ Devlin went on, ‘which each contained a small
fortune
in pure ore, stitched into the lining, around the bodice, and around the hem. One of these dresses was made of orange silk; the other four were muslin, and coloured cream, grey, pale blue, and striped pink. These four are currently stowed in a box beneath the stairs at the Gridiron Hotel; the orange gown is in the possession of Mr. Aubert Gascoigne, at his private residence.’
He had her full attention now. ‘How do you know this?’ she whispered.
‘I have made it my business to find out a good deal about you,’ said Devlin. ‘Now answer the question.’
Her face was pale. ‘Only the orange gown had gold,’ she said. ‘The other four had makeweights—made of lead.’
‘Did you know that they had once belonged to Lydia Wells?’
‘No,’ Anna said. ‘Not for sure.’
‘But you suspected it.’
‘I—I’d heard something,’ she said. ‘Months ago.’
‘When did you first discover what the gowns contained?’
‘The night after Emery disappeared.’
‘After you were gaoled for attempted suicide.’
‘Yes.’
‘And Mr. Gascoigne paid your bail, on promise, and together you took apart the orange gown at his cottage on Revell-street, and hid the tatters under his bed, thereafter.’
‘How—?’ she whispered. She looked terrified.
Devlin did not pause. ‘Presumably, after you returned to the Gridiron that evening, your first move was to go back to your wardrobe and check the four remaining gowns.’
‘Yes,’ said Anna. ‘But I didn’t cut them open. I only felt along the seams. I didn’t know that it was lead that I was feeling: I thought it was more colour.’
‘In that case,’ Devlin said, ‘you must have believed that you were suddenly extraordinarily rich.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you did not open the hems of those dresses, in order to use that gold to repay your debt to Edgar Clinch.’
‘Later, I did,’ said Anna. ‘The following week. That’s when I found the makeweights.’
‘But even then,’ Devlin said, ‘you did not tell Mr. Gascoigne what you surmised. Instead, you pretended helplessness and
ignorance
, claimed to have no money, and begged him for aid!’
‘How do you know all this?’ Anna said.
‘I will ask the questions, thank you,’ Devlin said. ‘What were you intending to do with that gold?’
‘I wanted to keep it back,’ Anna said. ‘As a nest egg. And I didn’t have anywhere to hide the metal. I thought I might ask Emery about it. There was no one else I trusted. But by then he was gone.’
‘What about Lydia Wells?’ Devlin said. ‘What about Lydia Wells, who came to the Gridiron that same afternoon—who paid your debt to Mr. Clinch—and who has shown you every kind of
hospitality
ever since?’
‘No.’ Anna’s voice had become very small.
‘You never told her about those gowns?’
‘No.’
‘Because you suspected they had once belonged to her.’
‘I’d heard something,’ Anna said. ‘I never knew—not for
certain
—but I knew that there was something—and she was desirous to get them back.’
Devlin folded his arms. Anna was plainly fearful of how much he knew about her situation, and how he had come to know it. This pained him, but he reflected that, given the circumstances, it was better to keep her frightened, than to risk her becoming bold. It would not do, to have her flapping that forged signature about.
‘Where is Mr. Staines?’ he said next.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I think you do.’
‘No,’ she said.
‘I shall remind you that you have committed serious fraud by forging a signature in a dead man’s hand.’