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.’
VENUS IS A MORNING STAR
In which a temptation presents itself, under a guise.
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, wo
rrying 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.
EXALTED IN ARIES
In which the defendant waxes philosophical; Mr. Moody gains the upper hand; Lauderback gives a recitation; and the Carvers are caught in a lie.
The afternoon sessions began promptly at one o’clock.
‘Mr. Staines,’ said the justice, after the boy had been sworn in. ‘You have been indicted for three charges: firstly, the falsification of the January 1866 quarterly report. How do you plead?’
‘Guilty, sir.’
‘Secondly, the embezzlement of ore lawfully submitted by your employee Mr. John Long Quee against the goldmine Aurora, since discovered in the dwelling belonging to the late Mr. Crosbie Wells, of the Arahura Valley. How do you plead?’
‘Guilty, sir.’
‘And lastly, dereliction of duty to claims and mines requiring daily upkeep, the period of your absence being in excess of eight weeks. How do you plead?’
‘Guilty, sir.’
‘Guilty all round,’ said the justice, sitting back. ‘All right. You can be seated for the moment, Mr. Staines. We have Mr. Moody for the defendant, again, and Mr. Broham for the plaintiff, assisted by Mr. Fellowes and Mr. Harrington of the Magistrate’s Court. Mr. Broham: your statement please.’
As before, Broham’s statement was one designed to discredit the defendant, and as before, it was excessively long-winded. He itemised all the trouble that had been caused by Staines’s absence, casting Wells’s widow, in particular, as a tragic figure whose hopes had been falsely raised by the promise of a windfall inheritance that she had mistakenly (but reasonably) supposed to be a part of her late husband’s estate. He spoke of the inherent corruption of wealth, and referred to both fraud and embezzlement as ‘those clear-sighted, cold-blooded crimes’. Moody’s statement, when he gave it, asserted simply that Staines was very aware of the trouble he had caused by his extended absence, and very willing to pay for all damages or debts incurred as a result.
‘Mr. Broham,’ said Justice Kemp, when he was done. ‘Your witness.’
Broham rose. ‘Mr. Staines.’ He held up a piece of paper in the manner of one brandishing a warrant for arrest, and said, ‘I have here a document submitted by Nilssen & Co., Commission Merchants, which inventories the estate of the late Mr. Crosbie Wells. The estate, as recorded by Mr. Nilssen, includes a great deal of pure ore, since valued by the bank at four thousand and ninety-six pounds exactly. What can you tell me about this bonanza?’
Staines answered without hesitation. ‘The ore was found upon the claim known as the Aurora,’ he said, ‘which, until recently, belonged to me. It was excavated by my employee Mr. Quee in the middle months of last year. Mr. Quee retorted the metal into squares, as was his personal custom, and then submitted these squares to me as legal earnings. When I received the bonanza, I did not bank it against the Aurora as I was legally obliged to do. Instead I bagged it up, took it to the Arahura Valley, and buried it.’
He spoke calmly, and without conceit.
‘Why the Arahura, specifically?’ said Broham.
‘Because you can’t prospect on Maori land, and most of the Arahura belongs to the Maoris,’ said Staines. ‘I thought it would be safest there—at least for a while; until I came back and dug it up again.’
‘What did you intend to do with the bonanza?’
‘I planned to cut it down the middle,’ said Staines, ‘and keep half of it for myself. The other half I meant to give to Miss Wetherell, as a gift.’
‘Why should you wish to do such a thing?’
He looked puzzled. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand the question, sir.’
‘What did you mean to achieve, Mr. Staines, by presenting Miss Wetherell with this sum of money?’
‘Nothing at all,’ said the boy.
‘You meant to achieve nothing at all?’
‘Yes, exactly,’ said Staines, brightening a little. ‘It wouldn’t be a gift otherwise, would it?’
‘That fortune,’ said Broham, raising his voice above the sca
ttered laughter, ‘was later discovered in the cottage belonging to the late Crosbie Wells. How did this relocation come about?’
‘I don’t know for sure. I expect that he dug it up and took it for himself.’
‘If that was indeed the case, why do you suppose that Mr. Wells did not take it to the bank?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ said Staines.
‘I’m afraid it isn’t,’ said Broham.
‘Because the ore was smelted, of course,’ said Staines. ‘And each one of those blocks bore the word “Aurora”—engraved into the very metal, by my Mr. Quee! He could hardly pretend he’d lifted it from the ground.’
‘Why did you not bank the bonanza against the Aurora, as you were legally obliged?’
‘Fifty percent shares on the Aurora belong to Mr. Francis Carver,’ said Staines. ‘I have a poor opinion of the man, and I did not want to see him profit.’
Broham frowned. ‘You removed the bonanza from the Aurora because you did not want to pay the fifty percent dividends legally owing to Mr. Carver. However, you intended to give fifty percent of this same bonanza to Miss Anna Wetherell. Is that right?’
‘Exactly right.’
‘You will forgive me if I consider your intentions somewhat illogical, Mr. Staines.’
‘What’s illogical about it?’ said the boy. ‘I wanted Anna to have Carver’s share.’
‘For what reason?’
‘Because she deserved to have it, and he deserved to lose it,’ said Emery Staines.
More laughter, more widespread this time. Moody was becoming anxious: he had warned Staines against speaking too fancifully, or too pertly.
When it was quiet again the justice said, ‘I do not believe that it is your prerogative, Mr. Staines, to adjudicate what a person does or does not deserve. You will kindly restrict yourself, in the future, to factual statements only.’
Staines sobered at once. ‘I understand, sir,’ he said.
The justice nodded. ‘Continue, Mr. Broham.’