She was wearing widow’s weeds, though her costume had been ‘enhanced’, as she might have phrased it, in various small ways, and these enhancements belied its sombre tone. The black bodice had been embroidered with vines and roses, stitched in a glossy thread, so that the designs winked and flashed upon her breast; she wore another black rose upon a band of black that was fitted, as a cuff, around the plump whiteness of her forearm, and a third black rose in her hair, pinned into the hollow behind her ear.
She was still smiling. ‘What am I to do now?’ she said. ‘You have put me in a dreadful position, Mr. Mannering. I cannot invite you in. To do so would only encourage you to arrive early on other occasions; before long, you would be inconveniencing men and women of society all over town. But I cannot turn you out into the street either—for then you and I will both be barbarians. You for your impudence, and me for my inhospitality.’
‘Seems there’s a third option,’ said Mannering. ‘Let me stand on the porch all night, while you mull it over—and by the time you make up your mind, I’ll be right on time.’
‘There’s another barbarism,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘Your temper.’
‘You’ve never seen my temper, Mrs. Wells.’
‘Have I not?’
‘Never. With you, I’m a civilised man.’
‘With whom are you uncivilised, one wonders.’
‘It’s not a matter of with whom,’ said Mannering. ‘It’s a matter of how far.’
There was a brief pause.
‘How grand that must have felt,’ said Mrs. Wells presently.
‘When?’
‘Just then,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘What you just said. It must have felt grand.’
‘There’s a certain style about you, Mrs. Wells. I’d forgotten it.’
‘Is there?’
‘Yes—a certain style.’ Mannering reached into his pocket. ‘Here’s the tariff. Daylight robbery, by the way. You can’t charge three shillings in Hokitika for an evening’s entertainment—not if you’re calling up Helen of Troy. The fellows won’t stand for it. Though I oughtn’t to be giving you advice. As of this evening, you and I are direct competitors. Don’t think that I don’t know it: it’ll be the Prince of Wales or the Wayfarer’s Fortune, when the boys turn out their pockets of a Saturday night. I’m a man who takes notice of my competition—and I’m here tonight to take notice of you.’
‘A woman likes to be noticed,’ said Mrs. Wells. She accepted the coins, and then pulled the door wide. ‘Anyway,’ she added, as Mannering stepped into the hall, ‘you’re a rotten liar. If you’d forgotten to wind your watch, you wouldn’t have been early, you’d have been late.’
She shut the door behind him, and set the chain.
‘You’re in black,’ Mannering observed.
‘Naturally,’ she returned. ‘I am recently widowed, and therefore in mourning.’
‘Here’s a fact,’ Mannering said. ‘The colour black is invisible to spirits. I’ll make a bet that you didn’t know that—did you, now! It’s why we wear black at funerals: if we dressed in colour we’d attract the attention of the dead. Wearing black, they can’t make us out.’
‘What a charming piece of trivia,’ said Mrs. Wells.
‘Do you know what it means, though? It means that Mr. Staines won’t be able to see you. Not in that gown. You’ll be quite invisible to him.’
She laughed. ‘Dear me. Well, there’s nothing to be done, I suppose. Not at this late stage. I shall have to call the whole evening off.’
‘And Anna,’ said Mannering. ‘What colour will she be wearing, tonight?’
‘Black, as a matter of fact,’ said Mrs. Wells, ‘for she is in mourning also.’
‘You’re scuppered,’ said Mannering. ‘The whole enterprise. And all on account of your gowns. How’s that for a stick in a wheel? Thwarted—by your own gowns!’
Mrs. Wells was no longer smiling. ‘You are irreverent,’ she said, ‘to make sport of the tokens of bereavement.’
‘You and I both, Mrs. Wells.’
They looked at each other for a moment, each searching the other’s expression.
‘I have the greatest respect for swindlers,’ said Mannering presently. ‘I ought to—seeing as I count myself among them! But fortune telling—that’s a poor swindle, Mrs. Wells. I’m sorry to say it plain, but there it is.’
Her expression was still cautious; lightly she said, ‘How so?’
‘It’s nothing better than a falsehood,’ said Mannering, stoutly. ‘Tell me the name of the next man to bet against me. Buy me into my next game of brag. Give me the winner of next week’s races. You wouldn’t do it, would you? No, you wouldn’t—because you can’t.’
‘I see that you like to doubt, Mr. Mannering.’
‘I’m an old hand at this game, that’s why.’
‘Yes,’ said the widow, still gazing at him. ‘You relish doubting.’
‘Give me the winner of next week’s races, and I’ll never doubt again.’
‘I cannot.’
Mannering spread his hands. ‘There you have it.’
‘I cannot; because in asking me for such a thing, you are not asking me to tell your fortune. You are asking me to give you an incontrovertible proof of my own ability. That is what I cannot do. I am a fortune-teller, not a logician.’
‘Poor fortune-teller, though, if you can’t see ahead to next Sunday.’
‘One of the first lessons one learns, in this discipline, is that nothing about the future is incontrovertible,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘The reason is very simple: a person’s fortune always changes in the telling of it.’
‘You’re feathering your own nest, with that argument.’
She lifted her chin slightly. ‘If you were a jockey in next week’s horse race, and you came to me and asked to know if your fortune was likely good—well, that would be a different story. If I pronounced that your fortune was very gloomy, you would likely ride poorly, because you would be dejected; if I made a favourable forecast, you would likely ride with confidence, and thus do well.’
‘All right—I’m not a jockey,’ said Mannering, ‘but I am a punter with five pounds riding on a mare called Irish—that’s the truth—and I’m asking you to tell my fortune, good or bad. What’s my forecast?’
She smiled. ‘I doubt your fortunes would be very much altered by the loss or gain of five pounds, Mr. Mannering; and in any case, you are still seeking proof. Come through into the parlour.’
The interior of the Wayfarer’s Fortune hardly recalled the grimy establishment at which Mrs. Wells had received Aubert Gascoigne three weeks prior. The widow had ordered drapes, a new suite of furniture, and a dozen rolls of paper in a striking rose-and-thorn design; she had set a number of exotic prints behind glass, painted the stairwell, washed the windows, and papered both front rooms. She had found a lectern, upon which to place her almanac, and several shawled lamps, which she had placed in various situations around the former hotel’s front rooms in order to create a more mystical atmosphere. Mannering opened his mouth to comment upon the transformation—and came up short.
‘Why—it’s Mr. Sook,’ he said, in astonishment. ‘And Mr. Quee!’
The two Chinese men stared back at him. They were sitting cross-legged on either side of the hearth, their faces painted very thickly with grease.
‘Do you know these men?’ said Lydia Wells.
Mannering remembered himself. ‘Only to look at them,’ he said. ‘I do a fair patch of business with the Chinamen, you know—and these boys are familiar faces in Kaniere. How do you do, fellows?’
‘Good evening,’ said Ah Sook. Ah Quee said nothing. Their expressions were all but indistinguishable beneath the greasepaint, which exaggerated their features, lengthening the corners of their eyes, emphasising the roundness of their cheeks.
Mannering turned to Mrs. Wells. ‘What—they have a part in the séance, do they? In your employ?’
‘This one came by this afternoon,’ Mrs. Wells explained, po
inting at Ah Sook, ‘and I had the idea that his presence might add a certain flavour to the séance this evening. He agreed to return, and in the event, he did me one better: he brought his friend along. You must agree that two is a good deal better than one. I like an axis of symmetry in a room.’
‘Where is Anna?’ said Mannering.
‘Oh—upstairs,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘In fact it was you, Mr. Mannering, who gave me the idea. Your Sensations from the Orient. Nothing sells tickets like an Oriental touch! I saw it twice—once from the gallery, and once from the stalls.’
Mannering was frowning. ‘When is she coming down?’
‘Not until the séance,’ said Mrs. Wells.
He started. ‘What—not for the party? She won’t be here for the party?’
Mrs. Wells turned away to arrange the glasses on the sideboard. ‘No.’
‘Why ever not?’ said Mannering. ‘You know there are a dozen men champing at the bit to get a word in with her. They’re shelling out a week’s wages just to get in the door—and it’s all on account of Anna. You’d be mad to keep her upstairs.’
‘She must prepare herself for the séance. I cannot have her equilibrium disturbed.’
‘Poppycock,’ said Mannering.
‘Pardon me?’ said Mrs. Wells, turning.
‘I said that’s poppycock. You’re keeping her back—for a reason.’
‘What do you imply?’
‘I lost my best girl in Anna Wetherell,’ said Mannering. ‘I’ve kept my distance for three weeks, out of respect for God knows what, and now I want a chance to speak with her. There’s no such thing as equilibrium disturbed and we both know it.’
‘I feel I must remind you that this is a field in which you lack expertise.’
‘Expertise!’ said Mannering, contemptuously. ‘Three weeks ago Anna didn’t know equilibrium from her own elbow. This is poppycock, Mrs. Wells. Call her down.’
Mrs. Wells drew back. ‘I must also remind you, Mr. Mannering, that you are a guest in my home.’
‘This isn’t a home; it’s a place of business. I’ve paid you three shillings on the surety that Anna would be here.’
‘In fact no such surety was given.’
‘Hear this!’ said Mannering—who was becoming very angry. ‘I’ll give you another piece of advice, Mrs. Wells, and I’ll give it to you free: in show business, you give an audience exactly what they’ve paid for, and if you don’t, you’ll suffer the consequences of their unrest. It said in the paper that Anna would be here.’
‘It said in the paper that she would be present at the séance, as my assistant.’
‘What have you got on her?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Why did she agree to it? To stay upstairs—alone, and in the dark?’
Mrs. Wells ignored this question. ‘Miss Wetherell,’ she said, ‘has been learning to play out the patterns of the Tarot, an art at which she has proven to be something of an adept. Once I am satisfied that she has achieved mastery, she will advertise her services in the West Coast Times, and at that time you will be very welcome, as will all the citizens of Hokitika, to make an appointment with her.’
‘And I’ll be paying through the nose for the privilege, will I?’
‘But of course,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘I wonder that you expected otherwise.’
Ah Sook was looking at Mrs. Wells, Ah Quee, at Mannering.
‘This is an outrage,’ Mannering said.
‘Perhaps you no longer wish to attend the party,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘If that is the case, you need only say so; I shall repay your tariff in full.’
‘What’s the point of it? Keeping her upstairs.’
The widow laughed. ‘Come, Mr. Mannering! We are in the same business, as you have already pointed out; I don’t need to spell it out for you.’
‘No. Spell it out,’ said Mannering. ‘Go on. Spell it out.’
Mrs. Wells did not, however; she gazed at him a moment, and then said, ‘Why did you come to the party tonight?’
‘To speak with Anna. And to get a measure of my competition. You.’
‘The first of your ambitions will not be realised, as I have now made clear, and you surely must have achieved the second by now. This being the case, I do not see that there is any reason for you to remain.’
‘I’m staying,’ Mannering said.
‘Why?’
‘To keep an eye on you, that’s why.’
‘I see.’ Mrs. Wells gazed at him. ‘I think that there is another reason why you decided to attend the party tonight—a reason that you have not hitherto shared with me.’
‘Oh? And what might that be?’ said Mannering.
‘I’m afraid I can only guess,’ said Mrs. Wells.
‘Well, go on—make your prediction. That’s your game, isn’t it? Tell my fortune.’
She put her head to the side, appraising him. Then she said, suddenly decisive, ‘No; this time I believe I shall keep my prediction to myself.’
Mannering faltered, and after a moment Mrs. Wells gave her tinkling laugh, and drew herself upright, clasping her hands together over her bosom. Begging Mannering’s leave to depart, she explained that she had hired two barmaids from the Star and Garter to wait on her guests that evening, and the girls had not yet been briefed: they were waiting in the kitchen, very patiently, and she would not suffer them to wait a moment longer. She invited Mannering to pour himself a drink from the decanters set out upon the sideboard, and to make himself very much at home—and with that, she swept from the room, leaving Mannering staring after her, red-faced.
Once the door had closed behind her, he rounded on Ah Sook. ‘What have you got to say for yourself, then?’
‘To see Emery Staines,’ said Ah Sook.
‘You’ve got some questions for him, I suppose.’
‘Yes.’
‘Dead or alive,’ said Mannering. ‘It’s one or the other, isn’t it, Mr. Sook? It’s one or the other, at this stage.’
He stamped to the sideboard and poured himself a very stiff drink.
Mrs. Wells had hired a two-man orchestra, comprising a fiddle and a flute, from the Catholic Friendly Society on Collingwood-street. The musicians arrived a little before seven, their instruments rolled in velvet, and Mrs. Wells directed them to the end of the hallway where two chairs had been set up facing the door. The only songs they knew were jigs and hornpipes, but Mrs. Wells had lit upon the idea that they might play their repertoire at a quarter time, or as slowly as their breath and co-ordination would permit, in order to be more in keeping with the tenor of the evening. Played slowly, the jigs turned sinister, and the hornpipes became sad; even Mannering, whose bad temper had not been assuaged by two fingers of brandy and the cheerful ministration of the Star and Garter barmaids, had to admit that the effect was very striking. When the first guests knocked upon the door, ‘Sixpenny Money’ was sounding at an aching drawl—putting one in mind not of dancing and celebration, but of funerals, sickness, and very bad news.
By eight o’clock the former hotel had reached capacity, and the air was thick with smoke.
‘Have you ever watched a magician at a market? Have you ever seen a cup-and-ball man at work? Well, it’s all in the art of diversion, Mr. Frost. They have ways of making you look away, by means of a joke or a noise or something unexpected, and while your head is turned, that’s when the cups get swapped, or filled, or emptied, or what have you. I don’t need to tell you that no diversion’s as good as a woman, and tonight, you’ll be contending with two.’
Frost glanced at Pritchard, uncomfortably, and then away: he was a little afraid of the chemist, and he did not like the way that Pritchard was looming over him—standing so close that when he spoke Frost could feel the heat of his breath. ‘How do you propose I am not diverted?’ he said.
‘You keep both eyes open,’ Pritchard said. ‘Nilssen watches Anna. You watch the widow. Between the two of you, you’ve got them covered, you see? You watch Ly
dia Wells no matter what. If she invites you to close your eyes or look elsewhere—they often do that, you know—well, don’t.’
Frost felt a twinge of irritation at this. He wondered what right Joseph Pritchard had, to allocate duties of surveillance at a séance to which he did not hold an invitation. And why was he assigned to the widow, when Nilssen got Anna? He did not voice these complaints aloud, however, for a barmaid was approaching with a decanter on a tray. Both men filled their glasses, thanked her, and watched her move away through the crowd.
As soon as she had left Pritchard resumed, with the same intensity. ‘Staines has got to be somewhere,’ he insisted. ‘A man doesn’t just vanish without a trace. What do we know for sure? Let us catalogue it. We know that Anna was the very last to see him alive. We know that she was lying about that opium—saying she’d eaten that ounce herself, when I saw for myself that that was a plain-faced lie. And we know that now she’s fixing to call him up from the dead.’
It occurred to Frost suddenly that Pritchard’s jacket fit him very ill, and that his necktie had not been pressed, and that his shirt was all but threadbare. Why, and his razor must be very blunt, Frost thought, to produce so uneven and patchy a shave. This criticism, internally voiced, gave him a sudden confidence. He said,
‘You don’t trust Anna very much, do you, Mr. Pritchard?’
Pritchard seemed taken aback by the assumption. ‘There is ample reason not to trust her,’ he said coldly. ‘As I have just chronicled for you.’
‘But personally,’ Frost said. ‘As a woman. I gather that your impression of her integrity is very low.’
‘You talk of a whore’s integrity!’ Pritchard burst out, but he did not go on.
After a moment Frost added, ‘I wonder what you think of her. That’s all.’