The Luminaries (91 page)

‘Mr. Wells,’ said the boy.

‘Mind you remember it. I’ll be three hours.’

Once Carver had gone, Staines set the pistol on the bureau, the muzzle faced away, and knelt to look at the trunk. The hasp had been padlocked. He lifted the padlock to examine the profile of the keyhole—observing, to his satisfaction, that the lock was of a very simple design. Smiling suddenly, he took out his clasp knife, unfolded the blade, and fitted the point of his knife into the
keyhole
. He jimmied it for nearly a minute before the mechanism clicked.

Crosbie Wells read the
Otago Witness
from top to bottom, and in perfect silence. When he was done, he shook out the paper, folded it crisply along the seam, and rose from his chair. Mrs. Wells was sitting opposite him. Her expression was cold. He advanced upon her, tossed the paper into her lap—she flinched slightly—and then placed his hands on his hips, surveying her.

‘Arrivals caught my eye,’ he said.

She said nothing.

‘One name in particular.
Active
is the name of the steamer. Arriving at the top of the tide. When’s that? Sundown.’

Still she said nothing.

‘Seems odd you didn’t tell me,’ said Wells. ‘I’ve only been
waiting
—what—twelve years? Twelve years, and no reply. All these years I’ve been in the highlands, digging for gold. Now the man himself arrives in town, and you knew about it, and you made no mention. No: it’s worse than keeping quiet. You set out to deceive me. You burned the paper in the bloody stove. That’s a black deceit, Mrs. Wells. That’s a cold deceit.’

She kept composure. ‘You are quite right,’ she said. ‘I should never have deceived you.’

‘Why did you burn it?’

‘I didn’t want the news to spoil the party,’ she said. ‘If you’d
discovered
he was arriving tonight, you might have gone down to the quay—and he might have spurned you—and you might have become upset.’

‘But that is just what has me confounded, Mrs. Wells.’

‘What?’ she said.

‘The party.’

‘It’s only a party.’

‘Is it?’

‘Crosbie,’ she said, ‘don’t be foolish. If you go looking for a
conspiracy
, you will find a conspiracy. It’s a party, and that’s all.’

‘“Gentlemen with marine connexions”,’ said Wells. ‘Naval types. What do you care about naval types?’

‘I care that they are men of considerable rank and influence, because I care about my business, and the party will do my business good. Everybody loves a theme. It lends a flavour to an evening.’

‘Does Mr. Alistair Lauderback get an invite, I wonder?’

‘Of course not,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘Why should I invite
him
? I’ve never set eyes upon the man in my life. And anyway—as I told you—it was precisely because I didn’t want you to get upset that I burned this morning’s paper. You’re very right: I shouldn’t have, and I’m very sorry to have deceived you. But the party, I assure you, is only a party.’

‘What about the bonanza?’ said Wells. ‘And my papers? How do they fit in?’

‘I’m afraid they don’t,’ said Mrs. Wells.

‘I have half a mind to take a stroll down to Port Chalmers,’ said Wells. ‘Around sundown. Nice night for it. Bit chilly, perhaps.’

‘By all means do so,’ said Mrs. Wells.

‘I’d miss the party, of course.’

‘That would be a shame.’

‘Would it?’

She sighed. ‘Crosbie,’ she said, ‘you are being very silly.’

He leaned closer. ‘Where’s my money, Mrs. Wells?’

‘It is in a vault at the Reserve.’

‘Liar. Where is it?’

‘It is in a vault at the Reserve.’

‘Where is it?’

‘It is in a vault at the Reserve.’

‘
Liar
.’

‘Insulting me,’ said Mrs. Wells, ‘will not—’

He slapped her, hard, across the face. ‘You’re a dirty liar,’ he said, ‘a rotten thief, and I’ll call you worse before I’m through with you.’

A perfect silence followed. Mrs. Wells did not reach up to touch her cheek where he had slapped her. She stayed perfectly still—and Wells, suddenly vexed, turned away from her, and crossed the room to where the decanters and bottles were set out upon their silver tray. He poured himself a measure, drank it off, and then poured another. Anna kept her eyes on her rope wreath, which was
becoming
misshapen under her trembling fingers. She did not dare to look at Mrs. Wells.

Just then there came a swift knock at the front door, and then a voice, calling through the slot: ‘Package for Mrs. Lydia Wells.’

Mrs. Wells made to rise, but Crosbie Wells shouted, ‘
No
.’ He had become very flushed. ‘You’ll stay right there.’ He pointed to Anna with the hand that held his glass. ‘You,’ he said. ‘Go and see.’

She did. It was a bottle, pint-sized, wrapped in brown paper, and stamped with the matrix of the chemist on George-street.

‘What is it?’ called Wells, from the floor above.

‘It’s a package from the chemist’s,’ Anna called back.

There was a pause, and then Mrs. Wells said, speaking clearly, ‘Oh: I know what it is. It’s hair tonic. I placed the order last week.’

Anna returned upstairs, the package in her hand.

‘Hair tonic,’ said Wells.

‘Really, Crosbie,’ said Mrs. Wells, ‘you are becoming paranoiac.’ To Anna she said, ‘You can put it in my room. On the nightstand, please.’

Wells was still glaring at his wife. ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ he said. ‘Not until you tell me the truth. You’re staying right here—where I can keep an eye on you.’

‘In that case I look forward to a very dull afternoon,’ said Mrs. Wells.

Crosbie Wells responded angrily to this, and they continued bickering. Anna, glad to have a reason to exit, took the
paper-wrapped
bottle across the hallway and into the hushed darkness of Mrs. Wells’s bedroom. She went to set the bottle down upon the nightstand when something caught her eye: a bottle of hair tonic, half the size of the bottle she was holding in her hand, and not at all alike in its dimensions. Frowning, she looked at the package in her hand—and then, on a sudden impulse, slid her finger
underneath
the wrapping, and sloughed the paper away. The bottle was unmarked; it had been corked, and the cork had been sealed with candle wax. She held it up to the light. It contained a thick,
treacly
liquid, the colour of rust.

‘Laudanum,’ she whispered.

Staines held the gown up to the light, wondering. There were five in total—one of orange silk, and the rest of muslin—but apart from them the chest was quite empty. What was the meaning of it? Perhaps they held some sentimental value for Carver … but if so, then why had he outfitted Staines with a pistol, in watching over them? Perhaps they were stolen goods, though they did not look at all valuable … or perhaps, Staines thought, Carver was going mad. This thought cheered him; he chuckled aloud, and then, shaking his head, returned the gowns to the chest.

There came a sharp knock upon the door.

‘Who is it?’ said Staines.

There was no answer; but after a moment the caller knocked again.

‘Who’s there?’ said Staines again.

The caller knocked a third time, more urgently. Staines felt his heartbeat quicken. He went to the bureau and picked up the pistol. Holding it flat against his thigh, he walked to the door, unlatched it, and opened it a crack.

‘Yes?’ he said.

In the hallway stood a Chinese man of perhaps thirty years, dressed in a tunic and a woollen cape.

‘Francis Carver,’ he said.

Staines remembered Carver’s instruction. ‘I’m afraid there’s nobody of that name here,’ he said. ‘You don’t mean Mr. Wells—Francis Wells?’

The Chinese man shook his head. ‘Carver,’ he said. He produced a piece of paper from his breast, and held it out. Curious, Staines took it. It was a letter from the Cockatoo Island Penitentiary,
thanking
Mr. Yongsheng for his inquiry, and informing him that upon his release from gaol Mr. Francis Carver had sailed for Dunedin, New Zealand, upon the steamer
Sparta
. At the bottom of the letter—and in a much darker shade of ink—somebody else had written
Hawthorn Hotel.
Staines stared at the note for a long time. He had not known that Carver was a former convict; the news was striking to him, but he found, upon further reflection, that it was not wholly unexpected. At last, and with great reluctance, he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, passing the piece of paper back to the Chinese man, and smiling apologetically. ‘There’s nobody named Francis Carver here.’

An interminable afternoon passed at number 35,
Cumberland-street
. Together Anna and Mrs. Wells had constructed fifteen plaited wreaths, which they installed in the parlour downstairs, watched over by Wells, who drank steadily and did not speak. Behind the rostrum they had fashioned a ‘mainsail’ made from an oar and a white bedsheet, which they reefed with lengths of twine; behind the bar they had hung a string of admiralty flags. Once the wreaths had been arranged, they set out lemons and spruce liquor, trimmed candles, polished glasses, refilled the spirit lamps, and dusted—stretching each task out as long as possible, and taking every excuse to make small trips upstairs and to the kitchen, so as to avoid the dreadful silence of embittered company.

They were interrupted, a little after four, by a brisk knock at the front door.

‘Who can that be?’ said Mrs. Wells, frowning. ‘The girls aren’t due until seven. I never receive callers at this time of day.’

‘I’ll answer it,’ said Wells.

On the threshold was a Chinese man in a tunic and a woollen cape.

‘What have we got here?’ said Wells. ‘
You’re
not a naval man.’

‘Good afternoon,’ said the other. ‘I look for Francis Carver.’

‘What?’ said Crosbie Wells.

‘I look for Francis Carver.’ 

‘Carver, you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘He live here,’ said the Chinese man.

‘Afraid he doesn’t, mate. This place belongs to a Mrs. Lydia Wells. I’m her lucky husband. Crosbie’s my name.’

‘Not Carver?’

‘I don’t know anyone by the name of Carver,’ said Wells.

‘Francis Carver,’ the man supplied.

‘Can’t help you, I’m afraid.’

The Chinese man frowned. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the same letter that he had presented to Emery Staines, some two hours prior. He handed it to Wells. The words
Hawthorn Hotel
had been scratched out; beneath them, in a different hand, someone had written
House of Many Wishes, Cumb’d-st.

‘Someone gave you this address?’ said Wells.

‘Yes,’ said the Chinese man.

‘Who?’ said Wells.

‘Harbourmaster,’ said the Chinese man.

‘I’m afraid the Harbourmaster’s put you wrong, mate,’ said Wells, passing the letter back to him. ‘There’s no one of that name at this address. What’s it you’re wanting him for?’

‘To bring to justice,’ said the Chinese man.

‘Justice,’ said Wells, grinning. ‘All right. Well, I hope he deserves it. Good luck.’

He closed the door—and then suddenly stopped, his hand upon the frame. Suddenly he turned, and, taking the steps two at a time, returned upstairs to the boudoir, where the
Otago Witness
was folded upon the bureau. He snatched it up. After scanning the columns for several minutes he saw, listed among the projected departures for the following day:

‘Who was that at the door?’

Anna had come up behind him. She was holding a brass
candleholder
in each hand. ‘Was it Lucy, back from the store? Mrs. Wells is wanting her.’

‘It was a Chinaman,’ said Wells.

‘What did he want?’

‘He was looking for someone.’

‘Who?’

Wells studied her. ‘Do you know anyone who ever did time at Cockatoo Island?’

‘No.’

‘Nor do I.’

‘That’s hard labour,’ said Anna. ‘Cockatoo is hard labour.’

‘Not for the faint-hearted, I should think.’

‘Who was he looking for?’

Wells hesitated, but then he said, ‘Ever heard of a Francis Carver?’

‘No.’

‘Ever seen an ex-con?’

‘How would I know one?’

‘I suppose you wouldn’t,’ said Wells.

There was a pause; presently she said, ‘Should I tell Mrs. Wells?’

‘No,’ said Wells. ‘Stop a moment.’

‘I was only supposed to come up for these,’ said Anna, holding up the candleholders. ‘I really ought to be getting back.’

Wells rolled the
Otago Witness
into a tube. ‘She’s a heartless woman, Anna. Not a bone of true feeling in Mrs. Lydia Wells: it’s profit or bust. She’s taken my money, and she’ll take yours, and we’ll be ruined—both of us. We’ll be ruined.’

‘Yes,’ Anna said, miserably. ‘I know.’

He brandished the rolled paper. ‘Do you know what this says? Man named Carver listed as a crewman on a private charter. Leaving on to-morrow’s tide. A gentleman with a marine
connexion
, in other words.’

‘I suppose that means he’ll be at the party,’ Anna said.

‘And another thing: the master of the craft. Raxworthy.’

‘Mrs. Wells mentioned him at breakfast,’ Anna said.

‘Indeed she did,’ said Wells, striking the paper upon his leg. ‘Everything’s beginning to add up. Only I can’t quite see it yet. The picture.’

‘What’s adding up?’

‘All day,’ he explained, ‘I’ve been wondering one thing: what could
she
possibly want with my papers? My miner’s right. My birth certificate. I’ve no doubt she lifted them, as she lifted the bonanza too; but she wouldn’t bother with anything unless it could be put to some use, and what use for an old man’s papers could she
possibly
have? None at all, I thought. In that case, she must have dispatched them somehow. Passed them on. But to whom? What kind of a man might have need for another man’s papers? That’s when it struck me. A man running from his past, I thought. A man with a tarnished name, who wants to start over with a better one. A man looking to put some chapter of his life behind him.’

Anna waited, frowning.

‘Here’s a d—n certainty,’ said Wells, holding up the rolled paper like a sceptre. ‘I don’t know how, and I don’t know why or what for, but I’ll tell you here and now, little Anna, that tonight I’ll be making the acquaintance of a Mr. Francis Carver.’