The Luminaries

  Yours,

  Francis W. R. Carver

  Gascoigne frowned. What did Carver mean by this? Crosbie Wells had certainly not purchased Godspeed; Carver had purchased the craft himself, using the alias Wells. Gascoigne shuffled through the remaining pages, which had evidently been forwarded by Carver to Mr. Garrity as evidence of the validity of his claim. He passed over the harbourmaster’s assessment of the wreck, a balance sheet of all the debts incurred, and sundry receipts and testimonials, until he found, at the bottom of the pile, a copy—presumably Carver’s personal copy—of Godspeed’s bill of sale. Gascoigne took up this last item and looked at the signature closely. It had been signed by a Francis Wells! What was Carver playing at? Looking at the signature a moment longer, however, Gascoigne perceived that the large loop on the side of the F could easily have been a C … why, yes! There was even a dot of ink, fortuitously placed, between the C and the F. The longer Gascoigne looked at it, the more the ambiguity became clear to him: Carver must have signed the false name with this future purpose in mind. Gascoigne shook his head, and then, after a moment, laughed aloud.

  ‘What’s tickled you?’ said Burke, looking up.

  ‘Oh,’ said Gascoigne, ‘nothing of consequence.’

  ‘You just laughed,’ said Burke. ‘What’s the joke?’

  ‘There is no joke,’ said Gascoigne. ‘I was expressing my appreciation, that’s all.’

  ‘Appreciation? What for?’

  ‘A job well done,’ said Gascoigne. He returned the letters to the envelope and stood, intending to take John Hincher Garrity’s letter of authorisation to the bank at once—but just as he did so the foyer door opened, and Alistair Lauderback walked in, shadowed at his heels by Jock and Augustus Smith.

  ‘Ah,’ said Lauderback, perceiving the letter in Gascoigne’s hand. ‘I’m just in time, then. Yes: I had a message from Garrity myself this morning. There’s been a mix-up, and I’m here to set it straight.’

  ‘Mr. Lauderback, I presume,’ said Gascoigne dryly.

  ‘I want a private interview with the Magistrate,’ Lauderback said. ‘It’s urgent.’

  ‘The Magistrate is taking his luncheon at present.’

  ‘Where does he take it?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ said Gascoigne. ‘The afternoon sessions begin at two o’clock; you are welcome to wait until then. Excuse me, gentlemen.’

  ‘Hold up,’ said Lauderback, as Gascoigne bowed, and made to exit. ‘Where do you think you’re going with that letter?’

  ‘To the bank,’ said Gascoigne—who could not bear officious rudeness of the kind that Lauderback had just displayed. ‘I have been deputised by Mr. Garrity to facilitate a transaction on his behalf. I beg you to excuse me.’

  Again he made to leave.

  ‘Hold up a moment,’ said Lauderback. ‘Just hold up a moment! It’s on account of this very business that I want an audience here; you’re not to go off to the bank, before I’ve said my piece!’

  Gascoigne stared at him coolly. Lauderback seemed to realise that he had begun on the wrong foot, and said, ‘Hear me out, would you? What’s your name?’

  ‘Gascoigne.’

  ‘Gascoigne, is it? Yes, I had you for a Frenchman.’

  Lauderback held out his hand, and Gascoigne shook it.

  ‘I’ll speak to you, then,’ Lauderback said. ‘If I can’t get the Magistrate.’

  ‘I imagine you would prefer to do so in private,’ said Gascoigne, still without warmth.

  ‘Yes, good.’ Lauderback turned to his aides. ‘You wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll be ten minutes.’

  Gascoigne led him into the Magistrate’s office, and closed the door behind him. They sat down on the Windsor chairs that faced the Magistrate’s desk.

  ‘All right, Mr. Gascoigne,’ said Lauderback at once, sitting forward, ‘here’s the long and short of it. This whole business is a set-up. I never sold Godspeed to a man named Crosbie Wells. I sold it to a man who told me that his name was Francis Wells. But the name was an alias. I didn’t know it at the time. This man. Francis Carver. It was him. He took the alias—Francis Wells—and I sold the ship to him, under that name. You see he kept his Christian name. Only the surname changed. The point is this: he signed the deed with a false name, and that’s against the law!’

  ‘Let me see if I understand you correctly,’ Gascoigne said, pretending to be bemused. ‘Francis Carver claims that a man named Crosbie Wells purchased Godspeed … and you claim that this is a lie.’

  ‘It is a lie!’ said Lauderback. ‘It’s an out-and-out fabrication! I sold the ship to a man named Francis Wells.’

  ‘Who doesn’t exist.’

  ‘It was an alias,’ said Lauderback. ‘His real name is Carver. But he told me that his name was Wells.’

  ‘Francis Wells,’ Gascoigne pointed out, ‘and Crosbie Wells’s middle name was Francis, and Crosbie Wells does exist—at least, he did. So perhaps you were mistaken about the purchaser’s identity. The difference between Francis Wells and C. Francis Wells is not very great, I observe.’

  ‘What’s this about a C?’ said Lauderback.

  ‘I have examined the forwarded copy of the deed of sale,’ Gascoigne said. ‘It was signed by a C. Francis Wells.’

  ‘It most certainly was not!’

  ‘I’m afraid it was,’ said Gascoigne.

  ‘Then it’s been doctored,’ said Lauderback. ‘It’s been doctored after the fact.’

  Gascoigne opened the envelope in his hand, and extracted the bill of sale. ‘On first inspection, I believed that it read merely “Francis Wells”. It was only on leaning closer that I saw the other letter, cursively linked to the F.’

  Lauderback looked at it, frowned, and looked closer—and then a deep blush spread across his cheeks and neck. ‘Cursive or no cursive,’ he said, ‘C or no C, that deed of sale was signed by the blackguard Francis Carver. I saw him sign it with my own two eyes!’

  ‘Was the transaction witnessed?’

  Lauderback said nothing.

  ‘If the transaction was not witnessed, then it will be your word against his, Mr. Lauderback.’

  ‘It’ll be the truth against a lie!’

  Gascoigne declined to answer this. He returned the contract to the envelope, and smoothed it flat over his knee.

  ‘It’s a set-up,’ Lauderback said. ‘I’ll take him to court. I’ll have him flayed.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘False pretences, of course,’ Lauderback said. ‘Impersonation. Fraud.’

  ‘I’m afraid that the evidence will bear out against you.’

  ‘Oh—you’re afraid of that, are you?’

  ‘The law has no grounds to doubt this signature,’ Gascoigne said, smoothing the envelope a second time, ‘because no other documentation survives Mr. Crosbie Wells, official or otherwise, that might serve as proof of his hand.’

  Lauderback opened his mouth; he seemed about to say something, but then he shut it again, shaking his head. ‘It was a set-up,’ he said. ‘It was a set-up all along!’

  ‘Why do you think Mr. Carver saw the need to take an alias with you?’

  The politician’s answer was surprising. ‘I’ve done some digging on Carver,’ he said. ‘His father was a prominent figure in one of the British merchant trading firms—Dent & Co. You might have heard of him. William Rochfort Carver. No? Well, anyway. Some time in the early fifties he gives his son a clipper ship—the Palmerston—and the son starts trading Chinese wares back and forth from Canton, under the banner of Dent & Co. Carver’s still a young man. He’s being coddled, really, becoming master of a ship so young. Well, here’s what I found out. In the spring of 1854 the Palmerston gets searched when it’s leaving the Sydney harbour—just a routine job—and Carver’s found to be foul of the law on several counts. Evading duty, and failing to declare, and a pile of other misdemeanours. Each small enough that a judge might turn a blind eye, but the charges come in all at once; when they’re stacked up like that
, the law has to come down. He’s given ten years at Cockatoo, and that’s ten years of penal servitude, no less. A real dishonour. The father’s furious. Revokes the ship, disinherits the son, and as a final touch, makes sure to tarnish his name at every dock and shipyard in the South Pacific. By the time Francis Carver gets out of gaol, he has about as good a character as Captain Kidd—in seafaring circles at least. No shipowner’s going to lease a ship to him, and no crew’s going to take him on.’

  ‘And so he assumed an alias.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Lauderback, sitting back.

  ‘I am curious to know why he only assumed an alias with you,’ Gascoigne said lightly. ‘He does not seem to have assumed the name Wells in any other context, save for when he purchased this ship. He introduced himself to me, for example, as Mr. Francis Carver.’

  Lauderback glared at him. ‘You read the papers,’ he said. ‘Don’t make me spell it out to you. I’ve made my apology in public: I won’t do it again.’

  Gascoigne inclined his head. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Carver assumed the alias Francis Wells in order to exploit your former entanglement with Mrs. Wells.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Lauderback. ‘He said that he was Crosbie’s brother. Told me he was settling a score on Crosbie’s behalf—on account of my having made a bad woman of his wife. It was an intimidation tactic, and it worked.’

  ‘I see,’ said Gascoigne, wondering why Lauderback had not explained this so sensibly to Thomas Balfour two months ago.

  ‘Look,’ said Lauderback, ‘I’m playing straight with you, Mr. Gascoigne, and I’m telling you that the law is on my side. Carver’s break with his father is commonly known. He had a thousand provocations to assume an alias. Why, I could call in the father’s testimony, if need be. How would Carver like that?’

  ‘Not very well, I should imagine.’

  ‘No,’ cried Lauderback. ‘Not very well at all!’

  Gascoigne was annoyed by this. ‘Well, I wish you luck, Mr. Lauderback, in bringing Mr. Carver to justice,’ he said.

  ‘Spare the bromide,’ Lauderback snapped. ‘Talk to me plain.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Gascoigne said, shrugging. ‘You know without my telling you that proof of provocation is not evidence. A man cannot be convicted simply because it can be proved that he had good reason to commit the crime in question.’

  Lauderback bristled. ‘Do you doubt my word?’

  ‘No indeed,’ said Gascoigne.

  ‘You just think my case is weak. You think I don’t have a leg to stand on.’

  ‘Yes. I think it would be very unwise to take this matter to court,’ said Gascoigne. ‘I am sorry to speak so bluntly. You have my compassion for your troubles, of course.’

  But Gascoigne felt no compassion whatsoever for Alistair Lauderback. He tended to reserve that emotion for persons less privileged than himself, and although he could acknowledge that Lauderback’s current situation was pitiable, he considered the politician’s wealth and eminence to be ample consolation for whatever inconveniences the man might be encountering in the short term. In fact, enduring a spot of injustice might do Lauderback a bit of good! It might improve him as a politician, thought Gascoigne—who was, in his private adjudications at least, something of an autocrat.

  ‘I’ll wait for the Magistrate,’ said Lauderback. ‘He’ll see sense.’

  Gascoigne tucked the envelope into his jacket, next to his cigarettes. ‘I understand that Carver is now attempting to draw down funds from your protection and indemnity scheme, in order to finance the debts that he incurred in disposing of the shipwreck.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘And you wish to refuse him access to this money.’

  ‘Also correct.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  Lauderback turned very red. ‘On what grounds?’ he cried. ‘The man has stiffed me, Mr. Gascoigne! He was planning this from the outset! You’re a fool if you think I’ll take it lying down! Is that what you’re telling me? To take it lying down?’

  ‘Mr. Lauderback,’ Gascoigne said, ‘I do not presume to give you any kind of advice at all. What I am observing is that no laws appear to have been broken. In his letter to Mr. Garrity, Mr. Carver made it very plain that he is acting on Mr. Wells’s behalf—for Mr. Wells, as you know, is dead. To all appearances Carver is merely doing the charitable thing, in settling matters as the shipowner’s proxy, because the shipowner is not able to do the job himself. I do not see that you have any evidence to disprove this.’

  ‘But it’s not true!’ Lauderback exploded. ‘Crosbie Wells never bought that ship! Francis Carver signed that bloody contract in another man’s name! It’s a case of forgery, pure and simple!’

  ‘I’m afraid that will be very difficult to prove,’ said Gascoigne.

  ‘Why?’ said Lauderback.

  ‘Because, as I have already told you, there is no proof of Crosbie Wells’s true signature,’ said Gascoigne. ‘There were no papers of any kind in his cottage, and his birth certificate and his miner’s right are nowhere to be found.’

  Lauderback opened his mouth to make a retort, and again seemed to change his mind.

  ‘Oh,’ said Gascoigne, suddenly. ‘I’ve just thought of something.’

  ‘What?’ said Lauderback.

  ‘His marriage certificate,’ said Gascoigne. ‘That would bear his signature, would it not?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Lauderback. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But no,’ said Gascoigne, changing his mind, ‘it wouldn’t be enough: to prove a forgery of a dead man’s hand, you would need more than one example of his signature.’

  ‘How many would you need?’ said Lauderback.

  Gascoigne shrugged. ‘I am not familiar with the law,’ he said, ‘but I would imagine that you would need several examples of his true signature in order to prove the abberations in the false one.’

  ‘Several examples,’ Lauderback echoed.

  ‘Well,’ said Gascoigne, rising, ‘I hope for your sake that you find something, Mr. Lauderback; but in the meantime, I’m afraid that I am legally obliged to carry out Mr. Garrity’s instruction, and take these papers to the bank.’

  Upon quitting the Wayfarer’s Fortune the chaplain had not escorted Anna Wetherell directly to the Courthouse. He took her instead into the Garrick’s Head Hotel, where he ordered one portion of fish pie—the perennial lunchtime special—and one glass of lemon cordial. He directed Anna to be seated, placed the plate of food in front of her, and bid her to eat, which she did obediently, and in silence. Once her plate was clean, he pushed the sugared drink across the table towards her, and said,

  ‘Where is Mr. Staines?’

  Anna did not seem surprised by the question. She picked up the glass, sipped at it, winced at the sweetness, and then sat for a moment, watching him.

  ‘Inland,’ she said at last. ‘Somewhere inland. I don’t know exactly where.’

  ‘North or south of here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Is he being held against his will?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You do know,’ said Devlin.

  ‘I don’t,’ Anna said. ‘I haven’t seen him since January, and I’ve no idea why he vanished like he did. I only know that he’s still alive, and he’s somewhere inland.’

  ‘Because you’ve been getting messages. Inside your head.’

  ‘Messages wasn’t the right way to describe it,’ Anna said. ‘That wasn’t right. It’s more like … a feeling. Like when you’re trying to remember a dream that you had, and you can remember the shape of it, the sense of it, but no details, nothing sure. And the more you try and remember, the more hazy it becomes.’

  Devlin was frowning. ‘So you have a “feeling”.’

  ‘Yes,’ Anna said.

  ‘You have a feeling that Mr. Staines is somewhere inland, and that he is alive.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anna. ‘I can’t give you any details. I know it’s somewhere muddy. Or leafy. Somewhere near water,
only it isn’t the beach. The water’s quick-moving. Over stones … You see: as soon as I try and put it into words, it trips away from me.’

  ‘This all sounds very vague, my dear.’

  ‘It’s not vague,’ Anna said. ‘I’m certain of it. Just as when you’re certain you did have a dream … you knew you dreamed … but you can’t remember any of the details.’

  ‘How long have you been having these “feelings”? These dreams?’

  ‘Only since I stopped whoring,’ Anna said. ‘Since my blackout.’

  ‘Since Staines disappeared, in other words.’

  ‘The fourteenth of January,’ said Anna. ‘That was the date.’

  ‘Is it always the same—the water, the mud? The same dream?’

  ‘No.’

  She did not elaborate, and to prompt her Devlin said, ‘Well, what else?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘Just sensations, really. Snatches. Impressions.’

  ‘Impressions of what?’

  She looked away from him. ‘Impressions of me,’ she said.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand you.’

  She turned her hand over. ‘What he thinks of me. Mr. Staines, I mean. What he dreams about, when he imagines me.’

  ‘You see yourself—but through his eyes.’

  ‘Yes,’ Anna said. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Ought I to infer that Mr. Staines holds you in high esteem?’

  ‘He loves me,’ she said, and then after a moment, she said it again. ‘He loves me.’

  Devlin studied her critically. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Has he made an avowal of his love?’

  ‘No,’ Anna said. ‘He doesn’t need to. I know it, just the same.’

  ‘Do you get these feelings frequently?’

  ‘Very frequently,’ she said. ‘He thinks of me all the time.’

  Devlin nodded. The situation was at last becoming clear to him, and with this dawning clarity his heart was sinking in his chest. ‘Are you in love with Mr. Staines, Miss Wetherell?’

  ‘We spoke of it,’ she said. ‘The night he vanished. We were talking nonsense, and I said something silly about unrequited love, and he became very serious, and he stopped me, and he said that unrequited love was not possible; that it was not love. He said that love must be freely given, and freely taken, such that the lovers, in joining, make the equal halves of something whole.’