The Luminaries (57 page)

The penny postman was a freckled thing with a mass of yellow curls.

‘This one to Löwenthal at the
Times
,’ Shepard said. ‘This gets delivered first. And this one goes to Harald Nilssen at the Auction Yards on Gibson Quay. All right?’

‘Is there a message?’ said the young man, pocketing the letters.

‘Only for Mr. Nilssen,’ said Shepard. ‘You tell Mr. Nilssen that he’s expected at work to-morrow morning. Can you remember that? Tell him no complaints, no hard feelings, and no questions asked.’

Aubert Gascoigne had what one might call a lubber’s love of ships. In the last three weeks he had ventured to the Hokitika spit several times, in order to meditate upon the fractured hull of the
Godspeed
, and to chart her progress as she was shunted, by degrees, closer and closer to the shore. Now that the wreck had at last been hauled onto the sand, he had a much better opportunity to look her over, and to gauge, with his lubber’s eye, the extent of the damage that she had sustained. It was here that he had come, upon taking his leave of Moody—having no other occupation, that Sunday
afternoon
, for he had read the papers already, and he was not thirsty, and the day was much too bright and cheerful to remain indoors.

He had been sitting with his back against the beacon for some hours, watching the progress of the ship’s recovery, and turning a green-flecked stone in his hands; beside him he had constructed a little castle, the ramparts made of stacks of flattened pebbles, pressed into mounds of sand. When, some time after five, the wind suddenly changed direction, blowing his collar against his neck, and sending a damp chill down his spine, Gascoigne decided to retire. He stood, dusting himself down, and was wondering whether he ought to kick his castle apart or leave it intact when he perceived that a man was standing some fifty yards away. The
man’s feet were planted rather far apart, and his arms were folded, as though in disapproval; his posture in general communicated an implacability of the most humourless kind, as did his dress, which was sombre. He turned his head slightly, and Gascoigne caught, for a brief moment, the glassy shine of a scar.

Gascoigne and Francis Carver had never formally met, though of course the latter’s reputation was well known to Gascoigne, coloured chiefly by the report that Anna Wetherell had given more than a month ago on the subject of the murder of her unborn child. Such a report was more than sufficient provocation to avoid the former captain altogether, but Gascoigne’s ill-feeling was of the kind that needed private affirmation, rather than public display: he gained a real pleasure in befriending a man whom he privately had cause to despise, for he liked very much the feeling that his regard for others was a private font, a well, that he could muddy, or drink from, at his own discreet pleasure, and on his own time.

He walked up to Carver, already raising his hat.

‘Excuse me, sir—are you the captain of this craft?’

Francis Carver eyed him, and then, after a moment, nodded. ‘I was.’

The white scar on his cheek was slightly puckered at one end, as when a seamstress leaves the needle in the fabric, before she quits for the day; this phantom needle lay just beyond the edge of his mouth, and seemed to tug it upward, as if trying to coax his stern expression—unsuccessfully—into a smile.

‘If I could introduce myself: Aubert Gascoigne,’ Gascoigne said, putting out his hand. ‘I am a clerk at the Magistrate’s Court.’

‘A clerk?’ Carver eyed him again. ‘What kind?’ Rather
reluctantly
, he shook Gascoigne’s hand—showing his reluctance by way of a grip that was limp and very brief.

‘Very low-level,’ Gascoigne said, without condescension. ‘Petty claims, mostly—nothing too large—but there is the occasional insurance claim that comes across our desks.
That
craft, for
example
.’ He pointed to the wreck of a steamer, lying on its side just beyond the river mouth, some fifty yards from where they were standing. ‘We managed to scrape even on that one, though barely.
The master was very well pleased; he had been facing down a
five-hundred
-pound debt.’

‘Insurance,’ said Carver.

‘Among other things, yes. I have some personal acquaintance with the subject also,’ Gascoigne added, pulling out his cigarette case, ‘for my late wife’s father was a maritime insurer.’

‘Which firm?’ said Carver.

‘Lloyd’s—of London.’ Gascoigne snapped open the silver case. ‘I have been charting
Godspeed
’s progress, these past few weeks. I am gratified to see that she has been hauled clear of the surf at last. What a project it has been! A monumental effort, if I may praise the work of the crew … and
your
work, sir, in
commandeering
it.’

Carver watched him for a moment, and then turned his gaze back to the deck of the
Godspeed
. With his eyes fixed on his foundered craft, he said, ‘What do you want?’

‘Certainly not to offend you,’ Gascoigne said, holding his
cigarette
lightly between his fingers, and pausing a moment, his palms upturned. ‘I am sure I do not mean to intrude upon your privacy in any way. I have been watching the progress of the ship’s
recovery
, that’s all. It is rather a rare privilege, to see such a craft upon dry land. One really gets a sense of her.’

Carver kept his eyes on the ship. ‘I meant: are you set to sell me something?’

Gascoigne was lighting his cigarette, and took a moment to answer. ‘Not at all,’ he said at last, blowing a white puff of smoke over his shoulder. ‘I’m not affiliated with any insurance firms. This is a personal interest, you might say. A curiosity.’

Carver said nothing.

‘I like to sit on the beach on Sundays,’ Gascoigne added, ‘when the weather is nice. But you must tell me if my private interest offends you.’

Carver jerked his head. ‘Didn’t mean to be uncivil.’

Gascoigne waved the apology away. ‘One hates to see a fine ship come to ground.’

‘She’s fine all right.’

‘Marvellous. A frigate, is she not?’

‘A barque.’

Gascoigne murmured his appreciation. ‘British-made?’

He nodded. ‘That’s copper sheathing you can see.’

Gascoigne nodded absently. ‘Yes, a fine craft … I do hope she was insured.’

‘You can’t drop anchor at a port without insurance,’ Carver said. ‘Same for every vessel. Without it they won’t let you land. Thought you’d know that, if you know anything about insurance at all.’

He spoke in a voice that was flat and full of contempt, seeming not to care how his words might be interpreted, or remembered, or used.

‘Of course, of course,’ Gascoigne said airily. ‘I mean to say that I am glad that you are not out of pocket—for your sake.’

Carver snorted. ‘I’ll be a thousand pounds down when all is said and done,’ he said. ‘Everything that you can see right now is
costing
money—and out of my pocket.’

Gascoigne paused a moment before asking, ‘What about P&I?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Protection and indemnity,’ Gascoigne explained. ‘Against extraordinary liabilities.’

‘Don’t know,’ Carver said again.

‘You don’t belong to a shipowners’ association?’

‘No.’

Gascoigne inclined his head gravely. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘So you’ll have been liable for all this’—indicating, with a sweep of his hand, the beached hull before him, the screw jacks, the horses, the tugboats, the rollers, and the winch.

‘Yes,’ said Carver, still without emotion. ‘Everything you can see. And I’m bound to pay every man a guinea more than he’s worth, for standing about and tying his shoelaces—and untying them—and conferencing about conferencing, until everyone’s out of breath, and I’m a thousand pounds down.’

‘I am sorry,’ Gascoigne said. ‘Would you like a cigarette?’

Carver eyed his silver case. ‘No,’ he said after a moment. ‘Thanks. Don’t care for them.’

Gascoigne drew deeply on his own cigarette and stood for a moment, thinking.

‘You certainly seem set to sell me something,’ Carver said again.

‘A cigarette?’ Gascoigne laughed. ‘That was offered quite free of charge.’

‘I reckon I’m still freer for having turned it down,’ said Carver, and Gascoigne laughed again.

‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘How long ago did you purchase this ship?’

‘You’ve got a lot of questions,’ Carver said. ‘What’s your business asking them?’

‘Well, I suppose it doesn’t really matter,’ Gascoigne said. ‘It would only matter if you made the purchase less than a year ago. Never mind.’

But he had snagged Carver’s interest. The other man looked over at him and then said, ‘I’ve had her ten months. Since May.’

‘Ah!’ Gascoigne said. ‘Well. That’s very interesting. That could work in your favour, you know.’

‘How?’

But Gascoigne didn’t answer at once; instead he squinted his eyes, and pretended to brood. ‘The man who sold it to you. Did he pass on conventional cover? That is to say: did you inherit an extant policy, or did you take out a policy on your own account?’

‘I didn’t take out anything,’ Carver said.

‘Was the vendor a shipowner in the professional sense? Did he own more than just
Godspeed
, for example?’

‘He had a couple of others,’ Carver said. ‘Clipper ships. Charters.’

‘Not steam?’

‘Sail,’ said Carver. ‘Why?’

‘And where did you say you were coming from, when you ran aground?’

‘Dunedin. Are you going to tell me where all these questions are headed?’

‘Only from Dunedin,’ Gascoigne said, nodding. ‘Yes. Now, if you’ll forgive my impertinence once last time, I wonder if I might ask about the circumstances of the wreck itself. I trust there was no
dereliction of duty, or anything of that kind, that caused the ship to founder?’

Carver shook his head. ‘Tide was low, but we were well offshore,’ he said. ‘I dropped sixty-five feet of chain and she caught, so I dropped two anchors and another twenty feet of chain. I made the call to keep her on a reasonable leash and wait until the morning. Next thing we knew, we were broadside on the spit. It was raining, and the moon was clouded over. The wind blew out the beacons. Wasn’t anything anyone could have done. Nothing that might be called dereliction. Not under my command.’

This, for Francis Carver, was a very long speech; at its conclusion he folded his arms across his chest, and his expression closed. He frowned at Gascoigne.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘What’s your interest on account of? You’d do well to tell me plain: I don’t like a slippery dealer.’

Gascoigne remembered that the man had murdered his own child. The thought was strangely thrilling. Lightly he said, ‘I’ve thought of something that might be of some help to you.’

Carver’s scowl deepened. ‘Who says I need help?’

‘You’re right,’ said Gascoigne. ‘I am impertinent.’

‘Say it, though,’ said Carver.

‘Well, here,’ said Gascoigne. ‘As I mentioned before, my late wife’s father worked in shipping insurance. His speciality was P&I—protection and indemnity.’

‘I told you I don’t have that.’

‘Yes,’ Gascoigne said, ‘but there’s a good chance that the man who sold you this ship—what was his name?’

‘Lauderback,’ said Carver.

Gascoigne paused in a show of surprise. ‘Not the politician!’

‘Yes.’

‘Alistair Lauderback? But he’s in Hokitika now—running for the Westland seat!’

‘Go on with what you were saying. P&I.’

‘Yes,’ Gascoigne said, shaking his head. ‘Well. There’s a good chance that Mr. Lauderback, if he owned several ships, belonged to some sort of a shipowners’ association. There’s a good chance
that he paid a yearly fee into a mutual fund, called P&I, as an
additional
insurance that was of a slightly different nature than what you and I might think of as conventional cover.’

‘To protect the cargo?’

‘No,’ said Gascoigne. ‘P&I works more like a mutual pool, into which all the shipowners pay a yearly fee, and out of which they can then draw down funds if they find themselves liable for any damages that regular insurers refuse to touch. Liabilities of the kind that you’re facing now. Wreck removal, for instance. It’s possible that
Godspeed
could remain protected, even though the ownership of the ship has changed.’

‘How?’ He spoke the word without curiosity.

‘Well, if P&I was taken out some years ago, and this is the first significant accident that this particular ship has sustained, then Mr. Lauderback might be in credit against
Godspeed
. You see, P&I doesn’t work like regular insurance—there aren’t any shareholders, and no company, really: nobody’s looking to make a profit off anyone else. Instead it’s a co-operative body of men, all of them shipowners themselves. Every man pays his dues every year, until there’s enough in the pool to cover them all. After that, the ships stay covered—at least, until something goes wrong, and then
somebody
has to dip into the pool for some reason. The notion of being “in credit” applies very nearly.’

‘Like a private account,’ Carver said. ‘For
Godspeed
.’

‘Exactly.’

Carver thought about this. ‘How would I know about it?’

Gascoigne shrugged. ‘You could ask around. The association would have to be registered, and the shipowners would have to be listed by name. This is assuming that Lauderback indeed belongs to such a group, of course—but I would venture to say that it’s very likely that he does.’

In fact this was more than likely: it was certain. Alistair Lauderback
did
have protection and indemnity against all his crafts, and each ship
was
in credit to the tune of nearly a thousand pounds, and Carver
was
legally entitled to draw down these funds to help pay for the removal of the wreck from the Hokitika spit, so long as he
filed his appeal before the middle of May—whereupon a year would have passed since the sale of the craft, and Lauderback’s legal obligation to
Godspeed
would cease. Gascoigne knew all this for
certain
because he had made the inquiries himself, first in the offices of Balfour Shipping, and then in the news archives of the
Times
, and then at the Harbourmaster’s office, and then at the Reserve Bank. He knew that Lauderback belonged to a small co-operative of shipowners called the Garrity Group, so named for its most
prominent
member, John Hincher Garrity, who was (as Gascoigne had discovered) an enthusiastic champion of the Age of Sail, the
imminent
twilight of that era notwithstanding, and who was also, it transpired, the incumbent Member of Parliament for the electorate of Heathcote in the East, and Lauderback’s very good friend.