The Luminaries (64 page)

‘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
t
inkling
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 Lydia 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.’

Pritchard stared at Frost with a vacant expression. ‘No,’ he said, at last. ‘I don’t trust Anna. I don’t trust her a straw. I don’t even love her. But I wish I did. Isn’t that a curious thing? I wish I did.’

Frost was uncomfortable. ‘Hardly worth three shillings, is it?’ he said, referring to the party. ‘I must say I expected more.’

Pritchard seemed embarrassed also. ‘Just remember,’ he said, ‘during the
séance
, keep both eyes on Mrs. Wells.’

They turned away from one another, pretending to scan the faces of the crowd, and for a moment the two men shared the very same expression: the distant, slightly disappointed aspect of one who is comparing the scene around him, unfavourably, to other scenes, both real and imagined, that have happened, and are happening, elsewhere.

‘Mr. Balfour. May I speak with you a moment alone?’

Balfour glanced up: it was Harald Nilssen, looking
characteristically
dapper in a vest of imperial blue. He saw on Nilssen’s face the hardened expression of a man who is resolved to ask a difficult question, and his heart became heavy in his chest. ‘Of course—naturally, naturally,’ he said. ‘You can speak to me—of course you can speak to me! Naturally!’

What fools men became, he thought, when they knew they were about to be shamed. He followed Nilssen through the crowd.

When they were out of earshot of the parlour, Nilssen stopped abruptly. ‘I’ll get right to it,’ he said, turning on his heel.

‘Yes,’ said Balfour. ‘Get right to it. That’s always best. How do you like the party?’

From the sitting room came a roar of laughter, and a woman’s indignant squeal.

‘I like it very well,’ said Nilssen.

‘No sign of Anna, though.’

‘No.’

‘And three shillings,’ said Balfour. ‘That’s a price! We’ll be
drinking
our money’s worth—won’t we?’ He looked into his glass.

‘I’ll get right to it,’ Nilssen said again.

‘Yes,’ said Balfour. ‘Do.’

‘Somehow,’ Nilssen began, ‘Mr. Lauderback knows about my commission. He’s publishing a letter in the paper about it,
t
o-morrow
. Lambasting Shepard’s character and so forth. I haven’t seen it yet.’

‘Oh dear,’ Balfour said. ‘Oh dear—yes, I see. I see.’ He nodded vigorously, though not at Nilssen. They were standing almost
side-by
-side. Nilssen was directing his speech at a framed print upon the wall, and Balfour, at the wainscot.

‘Governor Shepard penned a reply,’ Nilssen went on, still
addressing
the print, ‘which is to appear directly underneath Lauderback’s, in to-morrow’s paper. I’ve seen the reply: Shepard sent me a copy this afternoon.’

He gave a brief account of Shepard’s response—causing Balfour’s anxiety to dissolve, in a moment, into pure astonishment.

‘Well,’ he said, looking squarely at Nilssen for the first time, ‘I’m blowed. That’s a shark in shallow water, all right. Fancy Gov. Shepard coming up with something like
that
. Saying it’s all
your
instigation—the investment—as a donation! I’m blowed! He’s got you in a corner, hasn’t he? What a confident devil that man is! What a snake!’

‘Did you tell Mr. Lauderback about my commission?’ Nilssen said.

‘No!’ said Balfour.

‘You didn’t even mention it—off-hand?’

‘No!’ said Balfour. ‘Not a bit!’

‘All right,’ Nilssen said heavily. ‘Thanks. I’m sorry to have
troubled
you. I suppose it has to be one of the others.’

Balfour started. ‘One of the others? You mean—one of the fellows from the Crown?’

‘Yes,’ Nilssen said. ‘Somebody must have broken his oath.
I
certainly didn’t tell Mr. Lauderback anything—and I’m certain that nobody else knows about the investment, beyond the twelve who swore.’

Balfour was looking panicked. ‘What about your boy?’ he said.

Nilssen shook his head. ‘He doesn’t know.’

‘Someone at the bank, maybe.’

‘No: it was a private agreement—and Shepard has the only copy of the deed.’ Nilssen sighed. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry for having sprung it on you—for having asked, you know—and doubted you. But I knew you were Lauderback’s man—and, well, I had to make sure.’

‘Naturally you did…! Of course!’

Nilssen nodded gloomily. He looked through the drawing-room doorway to the crowd beyond—to Pritchard, who stood a clear head taller than any other man in the room—to Devlin, who stood in conversation with Clinch—to Löwenthal, who was talking to Frost—to Mannering, who was refilling his glass from the decanter on the sideboard, and laughing very freely at another man’s joke.

‘Hang tight,’ said Balfour suddenly. ‘You said that Shepard’s letter mentioned Lauderback and Lydia Wells.’

‘Yes,’ said Nilssen, uncomfortably. ‘He’s made their affair all but public knowledge—saying that Lauderback must come clean about her. That’s the—’

Balfour interrupted him. ‘But how in all heaven does Shepard know about the affair in the first place? I hardly think that Lauderback would have—’

‘I told him,’ Nilssen burst out. ‘I broke my oath. Oh, Mr. Balfour—he had me in a corner—and he knew I was hiding
something
—and I buckled. I couldn’t think fast enough. You’ve every right to be furious with me. You’ve every right. I don’t mind.’

‘Not at all,’ said Balfour—to whom this confession had come as a strange relief.

‘Now Lauderback will know you didn’t keep his confidence,’
Nilssen went on, miserably, ‘and by to-morrow morning all of Westland will know that he took a mistress in Mrs. Wells, and perhaps he’ll lose the seat in Parliament, and it’s all my fault. I’m ever so sorry—truly, I am.’

‘What else did you tell him?’ Balfour said. ‘About Anna—and the blackmail—and the gowns?’

‘No!’ said Nilssen, looking shocked. ‘And nothing about Carver, either. All I said was that Mrs. Wells had been Lauderback’s
mistress
. That was all. But now Governor Shepard’s gone and said as much—in the paper.’

‘Well, that’s quite all right,’ said Balfour, clapping Nilssen on the shoulder. ‘That’s quite all right! Governor Shepard might have found that out from anywhere. If Lauderback asks, I’ll tell him that I’ve never spoken two words to Shepard in all my life, and that will be the truth.’

‘I’m dreadfully sorry,’ said Nilssen.

‘Not a bit,’ said Balfour, patting him. ‘Not a bit of it.’

‘Well, you’re very kind to say so,’ said Nilssen.

‘Happy to help,’ said Balfour.

‘I still don’t know who sold me out to Lauderback in the first place,’ Nilssen said, after a moment. ‘I’ll have to keep asking, I
suppose
.’