The Luminaries (82 page)

‘Mr. Pritchard,’ said Moody, when he was invited to cross-
examine
. ‘What was your purpose in seeking an audience with Miss Wetherell on the afternoon of the twenty-seventh of January?’

‘I figured that there was another story behind her attempted
suicide
,’ said Pritchard. ‘I thought that perhaps her store of opium might have been poisoned, or cut with something else, and I wanted to examine it.’

‘Did you examine Miss Wetherell’s supply, as you intended?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you discover?’

‘I could tell by looking at her pipe that someone had used it very recently,’ Pritchard said. ‘But whoever that was, it wasn’t her. She was as sober as a nun that afternoon. I could see it in her eyes: she hadn’t touched the drug in days. Maybe even since her overdose.’

‘What about the opium itself? Did you examine her supply?’

‘I couldn’t find it,’ Pritchard said. ‘I turned over her whole drawer, looking for it—but the lump was gone.’

Moody raised his eyebrows. ‘The lump was gone?’

‘Yes,’ said Pritchard.

‘Thank you, Mr. Pritchard,’ said Moody. ‘That will be all.’

Harrington was bent over his ledger, writing furiously. Now he ripped out the page upon which he had been scribbling, and thrust it down the bench for the other men to read. Broham, Moody saw, was no longer smirking.

‘Call the next witness,’ said the justice, who was writing also.

The next witness was Aubert Gascoigne, whose testimony
confirmed
that the misfire had occurred, the bullet had vanished, and that the second shot had been fired, without incident, into the headboard of Anna’s bed. Questioned by Broham, he admitted that he had not suspected that Emery Staines might have been present in the Gridiron Hotel on the afternoon of the
twenty-seventh
of January; questioned by Moody, he agreed that the notion was very possible. He returned to his place below the dais, and once he was seated again, the justice called the gaol-house chaplain, Cowell Devlin.

‘Reverend Devlin,’ said Broham, once the clergyman had been
sworn in. He held up the deed of gift. ‘How did this document first come to be in your possession?’

‘I found it in Crosbie Wells’s cottage, the morning after his death,’ Devlin said. ‘Mr. Lauderback had brought news of Mr. Wells’s death to Hokitika, and I had been charged by Governor Shepard to go to the cottage and assist in the collection of the man’s remains.’

‘Where exactly did you find this document?’

‘I found it in the ash drawer at the bottom of the stove,’ said Devlin. ‘The place had an unhappy atmosphere, and the day was very wet; I decided to light a fire. I opened the drawer, and saw that document lying in the grate.’

‘What did you do next?’

‘I confiscated it,’ said Devlin.

‘Why?’

‘The document concerned a great deal of money,’ the chaplain said calmly, ‘and I judged it prudent not to make the information public until Miss Wetherell’s health had improved: she had been brought into the Police Camp late the previous night on a
suspected
charge of
felo de se
, and it was very plain that she was not in a fit state for surprises.’

‘Was that the only reason for your confiscation?’

‘No,’ Devlin said. ‘As I later explained to Governor Shepard, the document did not seem worth sharing with the police: it was, at that time, invalid.’

‘Why was it invalid?’

‘Mr. Staines had not signed his name to authorise the bequest,’ said Devlin.

‘And yet the document that I am holding
does
bear Mr. Staines’s signature,’ said Broham. ‘Please explain to the Court how this
document
came to be signed.’

‘I am afraid I can’t,’ Devlin said. ‘I did not witness the signing first-hand.’

Broham faltered. ‘When did you first become aware that the deed had been signed?’

‘On the morning of the twentieth of March, when I took the
deed to Miss Wetherell at the Wayfarer’s Fortune. We had been
discussing
other matters, and it was during our conversation that I first noticed the document had acquired a signature.’

‘Did you see Miss Wetherell sign this deed of gift?’

‘No, I did not.’

Broham was plainly flummoxed by this; to regain composure, he said, ‘What were you discussing?’

‘The nature of our discussion that morning was confidential to my status as a clergyman,’ Devlin said. ‘I cannot be asked to repeat it, or to testify against her.’

Broham was astonished. Devlin, however, was in the right, and after a great deal of protestation and argument, Broham
surrendered
his witness to Moody, looking very upset. Moody took a moment to arrange his papers before he began.

‘Reverend Devlin,’ he said. ‘Did you show this deed of gift to Governor Shepard immediately after you discovered it?’

‘No, I did not,’ said Devlin.

‘How then did Governor Shepard become aware of its
existence
?’

‘Quite by accident,’ replied Devlin. ‘I was keeping the document in my Bible to keep it flat, and Governor Shepard chanced upon it while browsing. This occurred perhaps a month after Mr. Wells’s death.’

Moody nodded. ‘Was Mr. Shepard alone when this accidental discovery occurred?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did he do?’

‘He advised me to share the deed with Miss Wetherell, and I did so.’

‘Immediately?’

‘No: I waited some weeks. I wanted to speak with her alone, without Mrs. Carver’s knowledge, and there were few
opportunities
to do so, given that the two women were living together, and very rarely spent any length of time apart.’

‘Why did you want your conversation with Miss Wetherell to happen without Mrs. Carver’s knowledge?’

‘At the time I believed Mrs. Carver to be the rightful inheritor of the fortune discovered in Mr. Wells’s cottage,’ Devlin said. ‘I did not want to drive a wedge between her and Miss Wetherell, on account of a document that, for all I knew, might have been somebody’s idea of a joke. On the morning of the twentieth of March, as you may remember, Mrs. Carver was summoned to the courthourse. I read of the summons in the morning paper, and made for the Wayfarer’s Fortune at once.’

Moody nodded. ‘Had the deed remained in your Bible, in the meantime?’

‘Yes,’ said Devlin.

‘Were there any subsequent occasions, following Governor Shepard’s initial discovery of the deed of gift, where Governor Shepard was alone with your Bible?’

‘A great many,’ said Devlin. ‘I take it with me to the Police Camp every morning, and I often leave it in the gaol-house office while completing other tasks.’

Moody paused a moment, to let this implication settle. Then he said, changing the subject, ‘How long have you known Miss Wetherell, Reverend?’

‘I had not met her personally before the afternoon of the
twentieth
of March, when I called on her at the Wayfarer’s Fortune. Since that day, however, she has been in my custody at the Police Camp gaol-house, and I have seen her every day.’

‘Have you had opportunity, over this period, to observe her and converse with her?’

‘Ample opportunity.’

‘Can you describe the general impression you have formed of her character?’

‘My impression is favourable,’ said Devlin. ‘Of course she has been exploited, and of course her past is chequered, but it takes a great deal of courage to reform one’s character, and I am gratified by the efforts she has made. She has thrown off her dependency, for a start; and she is determined never to sell her body again. For those things, I commend her.’

‘What is your opinion of her mental state?’

‘Oh, she is perfectly sane,’ said Devlin, blinking. ‘I have no doubt about that.’

‘Thank you, Reverend,’ Moody said, and then, to the justice, ‘Thank you, sir.’

Next came the expert testimonies from Dr. Gillies; a Dr. Sanders, called down from Kumara to deliver a second medical opinion upon Anna’s mental state; and a Mr. Walsham, police inspector from the Greymouth Police.

The plaintiff, George Shepard, was the last to be called.

As Moody had expected, Shepard dwelled long upon Anna Wetherell’s poor character, citing her opium dependency, her unsavoury profession, and her former suicide attempt as proof of her ignominy. He detailed the ways in which her behaviour had wasted police resources and offended the standards of moral decency, and recommended strongly that she be committed to the newly built asylum at Seaview. But Moody had planned his defence well: following the revelation about Ah Sook, and Devlin’s
testimony
, Shepard’s admonitions came off as rancorous, even petty. Moody congratulated himself, silently, for raising the issue of Anna’s lunacy before the plaintiff had a chance.

When at last Broham sat down, the justice peered down at the barristers’ bench, and said, ‘Your witness, Mr. Moody.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Moody. He turned to the gaoler. ‘Governor Shepard. To your eye, is the signature of Emery Staines upon this deed of gift a demonstrable forgery?’

Shepard lifted his chin. ‘I’d call it a near enough replica.’

‘Pardon me, sir—why “near enough”?’

Shepard looked annoyed. ‘It is a good replica,’ he amended.

‘Might one call it an
exact
replica of Mr. Staines’s signature?’

‘That’s for the experts to say,’ said Shepard, shrugging. ‘I am not an expert in specialised fraud.’

‘Governor Shepard,’ said Moody. ‘Have you been able to detect any difference whatsoever between this signature and other
documents
signed by Mr. Staines, of which the Reserve Bank has an extensive and verifiable supply?’

‘No, I have not,’ said Shepard.

‘Upon what evidence do you base your claim that the signature is, in fact, a forgery?’

‘I had seen the deed in question in February, and at that point, it was unsigned,’ said Shepard. ‘Miss Wetherell brought the same document into the courthouse on the afternoon of the twentieth of March, and it was signed. There are only two explanations. Either she forged the signature herself, which I believe to be the case,
or
she was in collusion with Mr. Staines during his period of absence—and in that case, she has perjured in a court of law.’

‘In fact there is a third explanation,’ Moody said. ‘If indeed that signature
is
a forgery, as you so vehemently attest it is, then
somebody
other than Anna might have signed it. Somebody who knew that document was in the chaplain’s possession, and who desired very much—for whatever reason—to see Miss Wetherell indicted.’

Shepard’s expression was cold. ‘I resent your implication, Mr. Moody.’

Moody reached into his wallet and produced a small slip of paper. ‘I have here,’ he said, ‘a promissory note dated June of last year,
submitted
by Mr. Richard Mannering, which bears Miss Wetherell’s own mark. Do you notice anything about Miss Wetherell’s signature, Governor?’

Shepard examined the note. ‘She signed with an X,’ he said at last.

‘Precisely: she signed with an X,’ Moody said. ‘If Miss Wetherell can’t even sign her own name, Governor Shepard, what on earth makes you think that she can produce a perfect replica of someone else’s?’

All eyes were on Shepard. He was still looking at the promissory note.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Moody to the justice. ‘I have no further questions.’

‘All right, Mr. Moody,’ said the justice, in a voice that might have conveyed either amusement or disapproval. ‘You may step down.’

Once the
Fortunate Wind
reached her mooring at Port Chalmers, and the gangways were lowered to the docks, Anna was obliged to join the women’s queue, in order to be inspected by the medical officials. From the quarantine shelter she went on to the
customhouse
, to have her entry papers stamped and approved. After these interviews were completed, she was directed to the depot, to see about picking up her trunk (it was a very small one, barely larger than a hatbox; she could almost hold it beneath one arm) and there she met with a further delay, her trunk having been loaded onto another lady’s carriage by mistake. By the time this error was
corrected
, and her luggage recovered, it was well past noon. Emerging from the depot at last, Anna looked about hopefully for the
golden-haired
boy who had so delighted her upon the deck that morning, but she saw nobody she recognised: her fellow passengers had long since dispersed into the crush of the city. She set her trunk down on the quay, and took a moment to straighten her gloves.

‘Excuse me, miss,’ came a voice, approaching, and Anna turned: the speaker was a copper-haired woman, plump and
smooth-complexioned
; she was very finely dressed in a gown of green brocade. ‘Excuse me,’ she said again, ‘but are you by any chance newly arrived in town?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Anna. ‘I arrived just now—this morning.’

‘On which vessel, please?’

‘The
Fortunate Wind
, ma’am.’

‘Yes,’ said the woman, ‘yes: well, in that case perhaps you can help me. I’m waiting for a young woman named Elizabeth Mackay. She’s around your age, plain, slim, dressed like a governess,
travelling
alone …’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t seen her,’ said Anna.

‘She will be nineteen this August,’ the woman went on. ‘She’s my cousin’s cousin; I’ve never met her before, but by all accounts she is very well kept, and moderately pretty. Elizabeth Mackay is her name. You haven’t seen her?’

‘I’m very sorry, ma’am.’

‘What was the name of your ship—the
Fortunate Wind
?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Where did you board?’

‘Port Jackson.’

‘Yes,’ said the woman. ‘That was it. The
Fortunate Wind
, coming from Sydney.’

‘I’m sorry to say that there were no young ladies aboard the
Fortunate Wind
, ma’am,’ said Anna, squinting a little. ‘There was a Mrs. Paterson, travelling with her husband, and a Mrs. Mader, and a Mrs. Yewers, and a Mrs. Cooke—but they’re all on the wiser side of forty, I would say. There was no one who might have passed for nineteen.’

‘Oh dear,’ said the woman, biting her lip. ‘Dear, dear, dear.’

‘Is there a problem, ma’am?’

‘Oh,’ the woman said, reaching out to press Anna’s hand, ‘what a lamb you are, to ask. You see, I run a boarding house for girls here in Dunedin. I received a letter from Miss Mackay some weeks ago, introducing herself, paying her board in advance, and
promising
that she would be arriving today! Here.’ The woman produced a crumpled letter. ‘You can see: she makes no mistake about the date.’

Anna did not take the letter. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’m sure there’s no mistake.’

‘Oh, I do apologise,’ said the woman. ‘You can’t read.’

Anna blushed. ‘Not very well.’

‘Never mind, never mind,’ the woman said, tucking the letter back into her sleeve. ‘Oh, but I am excessively distressed about my poor Miss Mackay. I am terribly distressed! What could be the meaning of it—when she promised to be arriving on
this
day—on
this
sailing—and yet—as you attest—she never boarded at all! You’re quite sure about it? You’re quite sure there were no young women aboard?’

‘I’m sure there’s a simple explanation,’ Anna said. ‘Perhaps she took ill at the last minute. Or perhaps she sent a letter with apologies, and it was misdirected.’

‘You are so good to comfort me,’ said the woman, pressing her hand again. ‘And you are right: I ought to be sensible, and not permit myself these flights of fancy. I’ll only get worried, if I think of her coming to any kind of harm.’

‘I’m sure that it will all come out right,’ Anna said.

‘Sweet child,’ said the woman, patting her. ‘I am so glad to make the acquaintance of such a sweet, pretty girl. Mrs. Wells is my name: Mrs. Lydia Wells.’

‘Miss Anna Wetherell,’ said Anna, dropping a curtsey.

‘But hark at me, worrying about one girl travelling alone, when I am talking to another,’ said Mrs. Wells, smiling now. ‘How is it that
you
have come to be travelling without a chaperone, Miss Wetherell? You are affianced to a digger here, perhaps!’

‘I’m not affianced,’ said Anna.

‘Perhaps you are answering a summons of some kind! Your father—or some other relative—who is here already, and has sent for you—’

Anna shook her head. ‘I’ve just come to start over.’

‘Well, you have chosen the perfect place in which to do just that,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘Everyone starts anew in this country; there is simply no other way to do it! Are you quite alone?’

‘Quite alone.’

‘That is very brave of you, Miss Wetherell—it is excessively brave! I am cheered to know that you were not wanting for female company on your crossing, but now I should like to know at once whether you have secured lodging, here in Dunedin. There are a
great many disreputable hotels in this city. Someone as pretty as you has a great need of good advice from a good quarter.’

‘I thank you for your kind concern,’ Anna said. ‘I meant to stop in at Mrs. Penniston’s; that is where I am bound this afternoon.’

The other woman looked aghast. ‘Mrs.
Penniston’s
!’

‘The place was recommended to me,’ said Anna, frowning. ‘Can you not also recommend it?’

‘Alas—I cannot,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘If you had mentioned any lodging house in the city but Mrs.
Penniston’s
! She is a very low woman, Miss Wetherell. A very low woman. You must keep your distance from the likes of her.’

‘Oh,’ said Anna, taken aback.

‘Tell me again why you have come to Dunedin,’ said Mrs. Wells, speaking warmly now.

‘I came because of the rushes,’ Anna said. ‘Everyone says there’s more gold in a camp than there is in the ground. I thought I’d be a camp follower.’

‘Do you mean to find employment—as a barmaid, perhaps?’

‘I can tend bar,’ Anna said. ‘I’ve done hotel work. I’ve a steady hand, and I’m honest.’

‘Have you a reference?’

‘A good one, ma’am. From the Empire Hotel in Union-street, in Sydney.’

‘
Excellent
,’ said Mrs. Wells. She looked Anna up and down,
smiling
.

‘If you cannot endorse Mrs. Penniston’s,’ Anna began, but Mrs. Wells interrupted her.

‘Oh!’ she cried, ‘I have the perfect solution—to solve
both
our dilemmas—yours
and
mine! It has just come to me! My Miss Mackay has paid for a week’s lodging, and she is not here to occupy the room she paid for in advance.
You
must take it.
You
must come and be my Miss Mackay, until we find you some employment, and set you on your feet.’

‘That is very kind, Mrs. Wells,’ said Anna, stepping back, ‘but I couldn’t possibly accept such a handsome … I couldn’t impose upon your charity.’

‘Oh, hush your protestations,’ said Mrs. Wells, taking Anna’s elbow. ‘When we are the very best of friends, Miss Wetherell, we shall look back upon this day and call it serendipity—that we chanced upon one another in this way. I am a great believer in serendipity! And a great many other things. But what am I doing, chattering away? You must be famished—and
aching
for a hot bath. Come along. I shall take wonderful care of you, and once you are rested, I shall find you some work.’

‘I don’t mean to beg,’ Anna said. ‘I’m not going begging.’

‘You haven’t begged for anything at all,’ said Lydia Wells. ‘What a sweet child you are. Here—porter!’

A snub-nosed boy ran forward.

‘Have Miss Wetherell’s trunk delivered to number 35, Cumberland-street,’ said Mrs. Wells.

The snub-nosed boy grinned at this; he turned to Anna, looked her up and down, and then pulled his forelock with exaggerated courtesy. Lydia Wells did not comment upon this piece of
impudence
, but she fixed the porter with a very severe look as she handed him a sixpence from her purse. Then she put her arm around Anna’s shoulders, and, smiling, led her away.