The Luminaries

  ‘You,’ said Ah Quee, massaging his ribs.

  ‘Together again,’ said Mannering grimly. ‘Dream of England, my eye. English Nightmare, more like.’

  ‘Unlucky,’ said Ah Quee.

  ‘Unlucky for you or unlucky for me?’

  Ah Quee did not reply to this, having not understood the question, and all of a sudden Mannering laughed and shook his head. ‘It’s the nature of indenture, I’m afraid, that you sign away your luck. Every chance to get lucky, you sign away. It’s the nature of any contract. A contract’s got to be fulfilled, you see: it’s got to come around on itself, sooner or later. A lucky man, I’ve always said, is a man who was lucky once, and after that, he learned a thing or two about investment. Luck only happens once and it’s always an accident when it does. It’s contracts that come back around. It’s investments and obligations; it’s paperwork; it’s business. I’ll tell you another thing I like to say. If a man wants any shot at making his fortune then he’ll never sign his name to any piece of paper that he didn’t write himself. I’ve done that, Johnny Quee. I’ve never signed my name to any contract that I didn’t write myself.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Ah Quee.

  Mannering glared at him. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be so stupid as to try and run something funny past me again. That’s twice now that you’ve tried to bet against me: once on the Aurora, and once on Anna. I’m a man who knows how to count.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Ah Quee again.

  Mannering passed the indenture back to him. ‘Well, you’ll be pleased to turn your back upon Aurora, I don’t doubt—and you needn’t worry about Dream of England. She’s as sound as a drum.’

  ‘Not a duffer?’ said Ah Quee, slyly.

  ‘Not this one,’ said Mannering. ‘I’ll give you my word on that. You’ll do all right on Dream of England. She’s been raked for nuggets, of course, but there’s plenty of dust in the tailings. Perfect for a man like you. Someone with two eyes in his head. You won’t make a fortune on her, Johnny Quee, but who among you ever does?’

  Ah Quee nodded.

  ‘Get yourself back to Kaniere,’ said Mannering at last, and returned inside.

  VENUS IN PISCES

  In which the chaplain loses his temper, and the widow loses a fight.

  ‘But who is this?’ said Lydia Wells. ‘A man of God?’

  She stood in the doorway, half-smiling, plucking at each of her fingertips in turn, to ease off her gloves; Anna and Devlin looked back at her in mute horror, as though apprehended in some gross act of fornication—though Anna was by the window, her palm still pressed flat against her breast, and Devlin was seated at the sofa, from which he now leaped up, blushing horribly.

  ‘Goodness me,’ said Lydia Wells, easing one milky hand out of her glove, and tucking it under her elbow to begin plucking off the other. ‘What a pair of sheep.’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs. Wells,’ said Devlin, finding his tongue at last. ‘My name is Cowell Devlin. I am the chaplain of the prospective gaol-house at Seaview.’

  ‘A charming introduction,’ said Lydia Wells. ‘What are you doing in my parlour?’

  ‘We were having a—theological discussion,’ said Devlin. ‘Over tea.’

  ‘You appear to have forgotten the tea.’

  ‘It’s still steeping,’ said Anna.

  ‘So it is,’ said Lydia Wells, without glancing at the tray. ‘Well, in that case, my arrival has been fortuitously timed! Anna, run and fetch another cup. I’ll join you. I have a great fondness for theological debate.’

  With a desperate look at Devlin, Anna nodded, ducked her head, and slipped out of the room.

  ‘Mrs. Wells,’ whispered Devlin quickly, as Anna’s footsteps receded down the hallway, ‘may I ask you a very odd question, while we are alone?’

  Lydia Wells smiled at him. ‘I make my living answering odd questions,’ she said, ‘and you of all people should know that we are hardly alone.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Devlin, feeling uncomfortable. ‘But here’s the question. Does Miss Wetherell know how to read?’

  Lydia Wells raised her eyebrows. ‘That is a very odd question,’ she replied, ‘though not because of its answer. I wonder what prompted the asking.’

  Anna returned with a cup and saucer, and set it beside the others on the tray.

  ‘What is the answer?’ Devlin said quietly.

  ‘You play mother, Anna,’ said Lydia Wells, her voice ringing out. ‘Reverend: be seated, please. There you are. How nice, to have a clergyman to tea! It makes one feel quite civilised. I will have a biscuit, I think, and sugar too.’

  Devlin sat.

  ‘The answer, to the best of my knowledge, is no,’ the widow said, sitting down herself also. ‘And now I have an odd question of my own. Is it a different class of falsehood, when a minister of God tells a lie?’

  He balked. ‘I do not see the pertinence of your question.’

  ‘But Reverend, you are not playing fair,’ the widow said. ‘I answered your question without begging to know the reason why; will you not now do the same for me?’

  ‘What was his question?’ said Anna, looking around—but she was ignored.

  ‘Is it a different class of falsehood, I ask,’ the widow went on, ‘when the liar is a minister of God?’

  Devlin sighed. ‘It would be a different class of falsehood,’ he said, ‘only if the minister was using the authority of his office for ill. So long as the falsehood did not pertain to his office, there would be no difference. We are equal in the eyes of God.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the widow. ‘Thank you. Now. You said just now that you were talking of theology, Reverend. Would you care to count me in to the debate?’

  Devlin flushed. He opened his mouth—and faltered: he did not have an alibi prepared.

  Anna came to his rescue. ‘When I woke up in gaol,’ she said, ‘the Reverend Devlin was there. He prayed for me, and he has been praying ever since.’

  ‘Then you have been talking about prayer?’ the widow said, still addressing Devlin.

  The chaplain recovered his composure. ‘Among other things,’ he said. ‘We have also been discussing acts of great providence, and unexpected gifts.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Lydia Wells. ‘And do you make it your habit, Reverend, to drop in on young women when their guardians are otherwise engaged, in order to discuss, without a chaperone, matters of theology?’

  Devlin was offended by the accusation. ‘You are hardly Miss Wetherell’s guardian,’ he said. ‘She lived alone for months until you arrived in Hokitika; what sudden need has she of a guardian?’

  ‘A very great one, I should judge,’ said Lydia Wells, ‘given the degree to which she has been formerly exploited in this town.’

  ‘I wonder at your adverb, Mrs. Wells! You mean to say that she is exploited no longer?’

  Lydia Wells seemed to stiffen. ‘Perhaps you do not think it a gladness,’ she said coldly, ‘that this young woman is no longer prostituting her body every night, and risking every kind of violence, and concussing herself daily with a contemptible drug. Perhaps you wish that she had her former life back again.’

  ‘Don’t perhaps me,’ Devlin said, flaring up. ‘That’s cheap rhetoric. It’s nothing better than bullying, and I won’t stand for a bully; I won’t.’

  ‘I am astonished by your accusation,’ said Lydia Wells. ‘In what way am I a bully?’

  ‘The girl has no freedoms, for heaven’s sake! She was brought here against her will, and you keep her on the shortest leash imaginable!’

  ‘Anna,’ said Lydia Wells, still addressing Devlin. ‘Did you come to the Wayfarer’s Fortune against your will?’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ Anna said.

  ‘Why did you come and take up lodgings here?’

  ‘Because you made me an offer, and I accepted it.’

  ‘What was my offer?’

  ‘You offered to pay my debt to Mr. Clinch up front, and you said that I could come and live with you as your compa
nion, so long as I helped you on the business end.’

  ‘Did I keep my end of the bargain?’

  ‘Yes,’ Anna said, miserably.

  ‘Thank you,’ the widow said. She had not taken her eyes from Devlin’s, and nor had she touched her cup of tea. ‘As for the length of the girl’s leash, I find it very wonderful that you should protest a life of virtue and austerity, in favour of—what did you call them—“freedoms”? Freedoms to do what, exactly? Freedom to fraternise with those very men who once defiled and abused her? Freedom to smoke herself senseless in a Chinaman’s saloon?’

  Devlin could not resist countering this. ‘But why did you make your offer, Mrs. Wells? Why did you offer to repay Miss Wetherell’s debts?’

  ‘Out of concern for the girl, naturally.’

  ‘Moonshine,’ said Devlin.

  ‘Pardon me,’ said Lydia Wells. ‘I have ample concern for Anna’s welfare.’

  ‘Look at her! The poor girl’s half the size she was a month ago; you can’t deny that. She’s starving. You’re starving her.’

  ‘Anna,’ said Lydia Wells, spitting out the girl’s name. ‘Do I starve you?’

  ‘No,’ said Anna.

  ‘Are you, in your own opinion, starving?’

  ‘No,’ Anna said again.

  ‘You can spare me the pantomime,’ said Devlin, who was becoming angry. ‘You don’t care two straws for that girl. You’ve no more concern for her than you do for anyone—and from what I have heard about you, that’s a paltry kind of concern indeed.’

  ‘Another terrible accusation,’ said Lydia Wells. ‘And from the chaplain of a prison, no less! I suppose I ought to try to clear my name. Anna, tell the good Reverend what you did while you were in Dunedin.’

  There was a pause. Devlin glanced at Anna, his confidence faltering.

  ‘Tell him what you did,’ said Lydia Wells again.

  ‘I played the serpent in your household,’ said Anna.

  ‘Meaning what, precisely? Tell him exactly what it was you did.’

  ‘I lay down with your husband.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lydia Wells. ‘You seduced my husband, Mr. Wells. Now tell the good Reverend this. What did I do, in retaliation?’

  ‘You sent me away,’ Anna said. ‘To Hokitika.’

  ‘In what condition?’

  ‘With child.’

  ‘With whose child, please?’

  ‘With your husband’s child,’ Anna whispered. ‘Crosbie’s child.’

  Devlin was astonished.

  ‘So I sent you away,’ the widow said, nodding. ‘Do I still maintain that my reaction was the right one?’

  ‘No,’ Anna said. ‘You have repented. You have begged for my forgiveness. More than once.’

  ‘Are you quite sure?’ said Mrs. Wells, feigning astonishment. ‘According to our good Reverend here, I have no concern at all for the welfare of others, and presumably still less for those who have played temptress beneath my roof! Are you quite sure that I am even capable of begging your forgiveness?’

  ‘Enough,’ said Devlin. He raised his hands. ‘Enough.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Anna said. ‘It’s true that she has asked for my forgiveness.’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘Now that you have insulted my integrity in virtually every way imaginable,’ said the widow, picking up her teacup at last, ‘would you mind telling me, without falsehood this time, what you are doing in my parlour?’

  ‘I was delivering a private message to Miss Wetherell,’ Devlin said.

  The widow turned to Anna. ‘What was it?’

  ‘You don’t have to tell her,’ Devlin said quickly. ‘Not if you don’t want to. You don’t have to say a single word to her.’

  ‘Anna,’ said Lydia Wells, dangerously. ‘What was the message?’

  ‘The Reverend showed me a document,’ Anna said, ‘by the authority of which, half of that fortune in Crosbie’s cottage belongs to me.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Lydia Wells—and although she spoke coolly Devlin thought he saw a flash of panic in her eye. ‘To whom does the other half belong?’

  ‘Mr. Emery Staines,’ said Anna.

  ‘Where is this document?’

  ‘I hid it,’ said Anna.

  ‘Well, go and fetch it out,’ Lydia snapped.

  ‘Don’t,’ Devlin said quickly.

  ‘I won’t,’ said Anna. She made no move to touch her bodice.

  ‘You might at least do me the courtesy of telling me the whole truth,’ Lydia said. ‘Both of you.’

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t do that,’ Devlin said, speaking before Anna could have a chance. ‘This information, you see, pertains to a crime that has not yet been fully investigated. It concerns, among other things, the blackmail of a certain Mr. Alistair Lauderback.’

  ‘Pardon me?’ said Lydia Wells.

  ‘What?’ said Anna.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t disclose anything further,’ Devlin said—observing, to his great satisfaction, that the widow had become very pale. ‘Anna, if you wish to go to the Courthouse directly, I will escort you there myself.’

  ‘You will?’ Anna said, peering at him.

  ‘Yes,’ Devlin said.

  ‘What on earth do you think you’ll be doing at the Courthouse?’ said Lydia Wells.

  ‘Seeking legal counsel,’ said Anna. ‘As is my civil right.’

  Mrs. Wells fixed Anna with an impenetrable look. ‘I consider this a very poor way to repay my kindness,’ she said at last, and in a quiet voice.

  Anna went to Devlin’s side, and took his arm. ‘Mrs. Wells,’ she said, ‘it is not your kindness that I mean to repay.’

  JUPITER IN CAPRICORN

  In which Aubert Gascoigne is very much amused; Cowell Devlin abdicates responsibility; and Anna Wetherell makes a mistake.

  The Hokitika Courthouse, home of the Resident Magistrate’s Court, was a scene of robust but much-approximated ceremony. The courtroom had been cordoned with ropes, rather like a shearing yard. District officials sat behind a row of desks that protected them from the milling crowd; when the court was in session, these desks would form a kind of barricade between the figures of the court and the public, who was required to stand. The magistrate’s seat, currently vacant, was only a captain’s chair on a raised dais, though the chair had been draped with sheepskins to give it a more dignified aspect. Beside it stood an outsize Union Jack, hung on a stand that was rather too short for the size of the flag. The flag might have pooled on the dusty ground, had an enterprising soul not thought to place an empty wine cask beneath the bottom of the stand—a detail that served to diminish, rather than enhance, the flag’s effect.

  It had been a busy morning in the petty courts. Mrs. Wells’s appeal to revoke the sale of Crosbie Wells’s estate had been approved at last, which meant that the Wells fortune, formerly held in escrow at the Reserve Bank, had been surrendered to the Magistrate’s purse. Harald Nilssen’s four-hundred-pound commission had not likewise been revoked, for two reasons: firstly, because the sum constituted his legal payment for a service adequately rendered; and secondly, because the commission had since been donated, in its entirety, to assist in the erection of the new gaol-house at Seaview. It was unseemly, the Magistrate declared, to revoke a gift of charity, especially when the gift was such a handsome and selfless one; he commended Nilssen, in absentia, for his benevolence.

  There were sundry other legal expenses to be itemised, most of which reflected the many hours the Magistrate’s office had spent on the project of trying to find the late Mr. Wells’s birth certificate. These expenses would come out of Mrs. Wells’s inheritance also—which, less the estate taxes and fees, and after these many corrections had been made, now totalled a little over £3500. This sum was to be made payable to Mrs. Wells as soon as the fortune had been cleared by the Reserve Bank, in whatever form of currency the widow desired. Did Mrs. Wells have anything to say? No, she did not—but she gave Aubert Gascoigne a very broad smile as she swept away from the
Courthouse, and he saw that her eyes were shining.

  ‘Oi—Gascoigne!’

  Gascoigne had been staring into the middle distance. He blinked. ‘Yes?’

  His colleague Burke was in the doorway, a fat paper envelope in his hand. ‘Jimmy Shaw tells me you’ve a flair for maritime insurance.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Gascoigne.

  ‘Do you mind taking on another job? Something’s just come in.’

  Gascoigne frowned at the envelope. ‘What kind of a “something”?’

  ‘Letter from a John Hincher Garrity,’ said the other, holding it up. ‘Regarding one of the wrecks on the bar. Godspeed is the name of the craft.’

  Gascoigne held out his hand. ‘I’ll take a look at it.’

  ‘Good man.’

  The envelope had been postmarked in Wellington, and slit already. Gascoigne opened it and withdrew its contents. The first document enclosed was a short letter from John Hincher Garrity, M.P. for the electoral district of Heathcote in Canterbury. The politician authorised a representative of the Hokitika Courthouse to act as his agent in drawing down funds from the Garrity Group’s private account at the Bank of New Zealand. He trusted that the enclosed documents would explain the matter sufficiently, and thanked the representative in advance for his efforts. Gascoigne put this letter aside and turned to the next document. It was also a letter, forwarded by Garrity; it had been addressed to the Garrity Group.

  Hokitika, 25 Feb. 66

  Sirs—

  I write to inform you of the regrettable wreck of the barque Godspeed, of which I was until very recently the operating master, upon the treacherous Hokitika Bar. The shipowner, Mr. Crosbie F. Wells, is recently deceased, and I am settling matters as his proxy. I understand that in purchasing Godspeed Mr. Crosbie F. Wells inherited all extant policies from former owner A. Lauderback, member of the Garrity Group, and therefore, that Godspeed is protected and indemnified by said authority. I seek now to draw down all funds designated by Mr. Lauderback for this purpose in order to facilitate the removal of the wreck. I enclose the full record of all expenses, deeds of sale, receipts, quotes, inventories, &c., and remain,