The Luminaries (65 page)

He sighed, and turned again to scan the faces of the crowd.

‘I say, Mr. Nilssen,’ Balfour said, ‘I’ve thought of something. Apropos of … of … well, of nothing at all really. Here. Next time I have some commission work—next time something comes across my desk, you know—I might not go to Mr. Cochran after all. You know he’s had my business for a long time—but, well, I wonder if it might be time for a change. I’ll wager we’ll all come out of this business looking for a man to lean on. Looking for a man to trust. As I say—you’ll have it—my business—in the future.’

He did not look at Nilssen; he began to fish in his jacket pocket for a cigar.

‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Nilssen. He watched Balfour for a moment longer, and then, nodding slowly, turned away. Balfour found a cigar, unwrapped it, bit off its end, and placed it between 
his teeth; then he struck his match, angled it so the flame caught, and held the flame to the square end of the cigar. He puffed at it three times, blowing out his cheeks; then he shook out the match, plucked the cigar from his mouth, and turned it around, to make sure that the tobacco was burning.

‘Mr. Clinch.’

‘Yes,’ said Clinch. ‘What is it?’

‘I have a question,’ Tauwhare said.

‘Well then—ask.’

‘Why did you buy the cottage of Crosbie Wells?’

The hotelier groaned. ‘Not that,’ he said. ‘Let’s not talk about that. Not tonight.’

‘Why?’

‘Just leave it,’ Clinch snapped. ‘I’m out of humour. I’m not discussing Crosbie bloody Wells.’

He was watching the widow as she moved from guest to guest. Her crinoline was so wide that she parted the crowd wherever she walked, leaving an aisle of space behind her.

‘She has a cruel face,’ Tauwhare observed.

‘Yes,’ Clinch said, ‘I think so, too.’

‘Not a friend of Maori.’

‘No, I expect not. Nor of the Chinese—as we can very well see. Nor of any man in this room, I don’t doubt.’ Clinch drained his glass. ‘I’m out of humour, Mr. Tauwhare,’ he said again. ‘When I am out of humour, do you know what I like to do? I like to drink.’

‘That’s good,’ Tauwhare said.

Clinch reached for the decanter. ‘You’ll have another?’

‘Yes.’

He refilled both their glasses. ‘Anyway,’ he said, as he returned the decanter to the sideboard, ‘the appeal will go through, and the sale will be revoked, and I’ll get my deposit back, and that will be that. The cottage won’t belong to me any longer: it will belong to Mrs. Wells.’

‘Why did you buy?’ Tauwhare persisted.

Clinch exhaled heavily. ‘It wasn’t even my idea,’ he said. ‘It was Charlie Frost’s idea. Buy up some land, he said: that way nobody will ask any questions.’

Tauwhare said nothing, waiting for Clinch to go on; presently he did.

‘Here’s the argument,’ he said. ‘You don’t need a miner’s right if the land’s your very own, do you? And if you find a piece of gold on your own land, it’s yours, isn’t it? That was the idea—his idea, I mean: it wasn’t mine. I couldn’t take the gowns to the bank—not without a miner’s right. They’d ask where it came from, and then I’d be stuck. But if I had a piece of land for my very own, then nobody asks anything at all. I never knew about Johnny Quee, you see. I thought the gold had been in the dresses all along—still pure. So I saved up for a deposit. Charlie, he said to wait for either a deceased estate or a subdivision: either the one or the other, he said, for the sake of staying clean. So when the Wells tract came up for sale, I bought it first thing, thinking that—well, I don’t know. It was stupid. Settling there, with—I don’t know. Of course, Anna comes home from gaol in a different dress, the very next day—and then, after she quits the place, I find out the other dresses have been stripped. It was the leaden makeweights that I was feeling. The whole plan’s gone to custard. I’ve got a piece of land I don’t want, and no money to call my own, and Anna—well. You know about her.’

Tauwhare was frowning. ‘The Arahura is a very sacred place,’ he began.

‘Yes, well,’ said Clinch, waving a hand to silence him, ‘the law’s the law. If you want to buy the cottage back again, you’re more than welcome; but it’s not me you should be talking to. It’s her.’

They gazed across the room at Mrs. Wells.

‘The problem with beautiful women,’ Clinch said presently, ‘is that they always know it, and the knowing turns them proud. I like a woman who doesn’t know her own beauty.’

‘A stupid woman,’ Tauwhare said.

‘Not stupid,’ Clinch said. ‘Modest. Unassuming.’

‘I do not know those words.’

Clinch waved a hand. ‘Doesn’t say too much. Doesn’t speak about herself. Knows when to keep quiet, and knows when to speak.’

‘Cunning?’ said Tauwhare.

‘Not cunning.’ Clinch shook his head. ‘Not cunning, and not stupid either. Just—careful, and quiet. And innocent.’

‘Who is this woman?’ said Tauwhare slyly.

‘No: this isn’t a real woman,’ said Clinch. He scowled. ‘Never mind.’

‘Hi—Edgar. Do you have a moment?’

Löwenthal had come up behind them.

‘By all means,’ said Clinch. ‘Excuse me, Mr. Tauwhare.’

Löwenthal blinked, seeing Tauwhare for the first time. ‘You must have gone down to the wreck,’ he said. ‘Find anything?’

Tauwhare did not like to be addressed with condescension, as though he belonged to a servile class; nor could he forgive Löwenthal for having shamed him earlier that day.

‘No,’ he replied, scornfully. ‘Nothing.’

‘Pity,’ said Löwenthal, already turning away.

‘What’s on your mind, Ben?’ said Clinch, when they were alone.

‘It’s an indelicate question, I’m afraid,’ said Löwenthal. ‘About the child of Anna’s—the baby that never came to term.’

‘All right,’ said Clinch, cautiously.

‘You recall the night I found her—after the dust-up with Carver.’

‘Of course.’

‘That was the night she confessed that Carver was the child’s father.’

‘Yes—I remember.’

‘I would like to know whether you knew that fact already, or whether, like me, you heard that confession for the first time that evening,’ Löwenthal said. ‘You will please forgive my indelicacy—and the impertinence of the subject in question.’

Clinch was silent for a long time. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘That was the first time she spoke of it. She kept mum on the subject until that night.’

‘But did you have an inkling?’ Löwenthal pressed. ‘Some idea?
Were you of the opinion, perhaps, that Carver might have been the—ah—the sire?’

Clinch looked uncomfortable. ‘It was some fellow from Dunedin days,’ he said. ‘That’s all I knew. It wasn’t a Hokitika chap: the months didn’t match up.’

‘And Carver knew Anna in Dunedin.’

‘She came over on
Godspeed
,’ Clinch said shortly. ‘Beyond that, I couldn’t tell you. What’s this in aid of?’

Löwenthal explained what had happened in the office of the
West Coast Times
that afternoon. ‘Anna might not have been telling the truth, you see. She might have been spinning us a line. Of course we never had reason to doubt her word—until now.’

Clinch scowled. ‘But who else could it be—if not Carver?’

Löwenthal pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Any number of men, I suppose. Perhaps it’s no one we know.’

‘This is just Carver’s word against Anna’s,’ Clinch said hotly. ‘You aren’t taking Carver’s part—on the strength of a single declaration? Any man can deny a thing, you know; it doesn’t cost a man a penny, to deny a thing!’

‘I’m not taking either part—yet,’ Löwenthal said. ‘But I do think that the timing of Anna’s confession could be significant. Perhaps.’

Frowning, Clinch reached up to stroke the side of his face. As he did so Löwenthal caught the spice of his cologne and realised that Clinch must have paid for a scented shave at the barbershop, rather than the penny lather that was the standing order of most Hokitika men—a guess that was further confirmed when Clinch moved his hand, and Löwenthal saw a reddish spray of irritation upon the man’s soft cheeks. Discreetly, Löwenthal looked the hotelier up and down. Clinch’s jacket had been brushed, and his collar starched; the shirt he was wearing seemed very white, and the toes of his boots were freshly blackened.
Oh
, Löwenthal thought, with pity:
he made himself handsome, for Anna.

‘So she only named the father after the child was dead,’ Clinch said at last, and in a very harsh voice. ‘That’s a whore’s honour—that’s all that is.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Löwenthal said, more kindly. ‘Let’s drop the subject.’

‘Mr. Walter Moody—Mrs. Lydia Wells,’ said Gascoigne. ‘Mr. Moody is come to Hokitika from Scotland, Mrs. Wells, to make his fortune in the gorge; Mrs. Wells, as you will know, Mr. Moody, is the mistress of this establishment, and a great enthusiast of realms.’

Lydia made a very pretty curtsey, and Moody a short but respectful bow. Moody then paid the necessary compliments to his hostess, thanking her very nicely for the evening’s entertainment, and praising her renovations of the old hotel. Despite his best efforts, the compliments came out very flat: when he looked at her, he thought only of Lauderback, and Crosbie Wells.

When he had finished speaking she said, ‘Do you have an
interest
in the occult, Mr. Moody?’—a question which Moody could not answer honestly without risking offence.

He paused only a moment, however, before replying, ‘There are many things that are yet arcane to me, Mrs. Wells, and I hope that I am a curious man; if I am interested in those truths that are yet unknown, it is only so that they might, in time, be made known—or, to put it more plainly, so that in time, I might come to know them.’

‘You are wonderfully free with one verb, I notice,’ the widow returned. ‘What does it mean for you, Mr. Moody, to
know
something
? I fancy you put rather a lot of stock in
knowing
—judging from the way you speak.’

Moody smiled. ‘Why,’ he said, ‘I suppose that to know a thing is to see it from all sides.’

‘To see it from all sides,’ the widow repeated.

‘But I confess you catch me off guard; I have not spent any time working on the definition, and should not like to hear it quoted back to me—at least not until I have spent some time thinking about how I might defend it.’

‘No,’ the widow agreed, ‘your definition leaves much to be desired. There are so many exceptions to the rule! How could one
possibly see a
spirit
from all sides, for example? The notion is incredible.’

Moody gave another short bow. ‘You are quite right to name that as an exception, Mrs. Wells. But I am afraid I do not believe a spirit can be known at all—by anyone—and I certainly do not believe a spirit can be seen. I do not mean to impugn your talents in the slightest—but there it is: I do not believe in spirits,
categorically
.’

‘And yet you applied for a ticket to the
séance
this evening,’ the widow pointed out.

‘My curiosity was piqued.’

‘By the particular spirit in question, perhaps?’

‘Mr. Staines?’ Moody shrugged. ‘I have never met the man. I arrived in Hokitika some fortnight after he disappeared. But since then I have heard his name many times, of course.’

‘Mr. Gascoigne says that you have come to Hokitika to make your fortune.’

‘Yes: so I hope.’

‘And how will you make it?’

‘By dint of hard work and good planning, I expect.’

‘Of course, there are many rich men who work little, and plan nothing at all.’

‘Those men are lucky,’ Moody said.

‘Do you not wish to be lucky also?’

‘I wish to be able to call myself deserving of my lot,’ Moody said carefully. ‘Luck is by nature undeserved.’

‘What an honourable answer,’ said Lydia Wells.

‘And a truthful one, I hope,’ said Moody.

‘Aha,’ said the widow. ‘We are back to “truth” again.’

Gascoigne had been watching Lydia Wells. ‘You see how her mind is working,’ he said to Moody. ‘She will swoop down in a moment, and savage your argument. Prepare yourself.’

‘I hardly know how to prepare to be savaged,’ Moody said.

Gascoigne was right. The widow lifted her chin and said, ‘Are you a man of religion, Mr. Moody?’