The Luminaries (92 page)

‘Wells,’ said Lauderback, coming up short.

‘Good evening,’ said Francis Carver. He was sitting in a chair facing the gangway. There was a pistol in his hand.

‘What is this?’ said Lauderback.

‘Do come in.’

‘What is this?’ he said again.

‘A conversation,’ said Carver.

‘But what’s it about?’

‘I recommend that you step into the cabin, Mr. Lauderback.’

‘Why?’

Carver said nothing, but the muzzle of the pistol twitched a little.

‘I haven’t laid my eyes on her since last we spoke,’ Lauderback said. ‘Upon my honour. When you told me to step away, Mr. Wells, I stepped away. I’ve been in Akaroa these nine months past. I only just arrived back in town tonight—just now, in fact; this very moment. I’ve kept away—just as you asked of me.’

‘Says you,’ said Carver.

‘Yes, says me! Do you doubt my word?’

‘No.’

‘Then what do you mean—says me?’

‘Only that on paper it says different.’

Lauderback faltered. ‘I have not the slightest idea what paper you’re talking about,’ he said after a moment, ‘I shall hazard to guess, however, that you are alluding in some way to the Danforth receipt.’

‘I am,’ said Carver.

With a swift look over his shoulder, Lauderback stepped into the cabin and pulled the hatch closed behind him. ‘All right,’ he said, when he was inside. ‘Something’s cooking. Or cooked.’

‘Yes,’ said Carver.

‘Is this about Crosbie?’ said Lauderback. ‘Is this something to do with Crosbie?’

‘You know,’ said Carver, ‘I worry about old Crosbie.’

He did not go on. After a moment Lauderback said, in a
fearful
voice, ‘Do you?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Carver. ‘One of these days, that poor man is going to drink himself to death.’

Lauderback had begun to sweat. ‘Where’s Raxworthy?’ he said.

‘Getting drunk on Cumberland-street, I believe.’

‘What about Danforth?’

‘The same,’ said Carver.

‘They’re in your pocket, are they?’

‘No,’ said Carver. ‘You are.’

When Francis Carver rapped upon the door of number 35 Cumberland-street some two hours later, the naval party was in full swing: he could hear rhythmic clapping and the stamp of feet, and raucous laughter. He knocked again, more sharply. The maid Lucy appeared after his fourth knock; once she saw that it was Carver, she invited him inside, and flew down the passage to summon Mrs. Wells.

‘Oh, Francis,’ she said, when she saw him. ‘Thank heavens.’

‘It came off,’ said Carver. He patted his breast, where the deed of sale lay folded in his inside pocket. ‘Everything signed, effective instant. I’ve got a boy keeping an eye on him—Lauderback—until the morning. But I doubt he’ll do any talking.’

‘You didn’t hurt him, did you?’

‘No: he’s feeling very sorry for himself, that’s all. What’s been happening here?’

She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘after that awful brawl this morning—and a wretched day—we’ve had the most incredible luck. Crosbie’s taken up with my new girl. Perhaps he thought to spite me, by taking her to bed … but I couldn’t have thought of anything I wanted more, than to have the two of them out of the way for the evening. The moment they were alone, I sent up Lucy with a fresh decanter.’ 

‘Laced?’

‘Of course.’

‘How strong?’

‘I used half the bottle.’

‘Anything come of it?’

‘I haven’t heard a peep,’ she said. ‘Not a sound.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll go up. I’ll need fifteen minutes.’

‘He’s very angry. He knows about the gold—as I told you—and he found out about Lauderback arriving. You must be careful.’

‘I won’t need to be careful if he’s sauced.’

‘You won’t shoot him—will you, Francis?’

‘Don’t worry your head about it.’

‘I want to know.’

‘I’ll tap him on the head,’ said Carver, ‘that’s all.’

‘Not here!’

‘No—not here. I’ll take him someplace else.’

‘The girl’s still up there, you know. She might have gone down with him. I don’t know.’

‘I’ll deal with her. I’ll tell her to leave before anything happens. Don’t you worry.’

‘What should I do?’

‘Get on back to the party. Pour Raxworthy another drink.’

Carver put his ear to the door; hearing nothing, he eased the door handle, very quietly. It opened without a sound. The room was dark, but in the chamber beyond, a small lamp was burning. There was someone in the bed: the bedclothes were mounded, and he could see a splash of dark hair on the pillow. Keeping his hand on his hip, he moved slowly forward, into the room.

He heard the whistle of something heavy slicing through air, and almost turned—but before he could do so, he was clubbed on the back of the head, and he stumbled to his knees. He whirled about, his hand closing around the grip of his pistol—but Crosbie Wells swung the poker again, cracking him across the knuckles, and again, across the jaw. Carver recoiled in pain. He brought his hands
up, instinctively, to protect his face. A fourth strike made contact with his elbow, and a fifth cracked him just above his temple. He collapsed sideways, suddenly weak, upon the floor.

Wells darted forward and tried to yank the pistol from the man’s belt with his free hand. Carver grabbed his arm, and they tussled a moment, until Wells cracked him another time across the side of the head with the poker. He lost his grip, and fell back. At last Wells gained purchase on the pistol, and wrenched it free; once it was in his hand he cocked it, levelled it in Carver’s face, and stood a moment, panting. Carver grunted, bringing his arms up to his face. He was dazed: the lights in the room had begun to pulse.

‘Who are you?’

Carver peered at him. There was blood in his mouth.

Wells was holding the pistol in his left hand, and the poker in his right. He raised the poker a little, threatening to strike again. ‘Are you Francis Carver? You speak or I’ll shoot you dead. Is your name Carver?’

‘Used to be,’ said Carver.

‘What is it now?’

Carver grinned at him, showing bloody teeth. ‘Crosbie Wells,’ he said.

Wells came closer. ‘I’ll kill you,’ he said.

‘Go ahead,’ said Carver, and closed his eyes.

Wells raised the poker again. ‘Where’s my bonanza?’

‘Gone.’

‘Where is it, I said?’

‘Shipped offshore.’

‘Who shipped it? You?’

Carver opened his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You did.’

Wells brought the poker down. It glanced off the other man’s temple—and Carver fainted away. Wells waited a moment, to see if he was shamming, but the faint was plainly real: he was showing the whites of his eyes, and one of his hands was twitching.

Wells laid the poker down, out of Carver’s reach. He transferred the pistol to his right hand. Tentatively, he pushed the muzzle of
the pistol into Carver’s cheek, and nudged him. The man’s head rolled back.

‘Is he dead?’ said Anna, from the doorway. Her face was white.

‘No. He’s breathing.’

With his left hand Wells took his bowie knife from his boot, and unsheathed the blade.

‘Will you kill him?’ Anna whispered.

‘No.’

‘What will you do?’

Wells did not answer. Using his pistol to keep Carver’s head steady, he inserted the point of his knife just below the outer corner of Carver’s left eye. Blood welled up instantly, running thickly down his cheek. With a sudden flick of his wrist, Wells twisted the blade, slicing from his eye down to his jaw. He leaped back—but Carver did not wake; he only gurgled. His cheek was now awash with blood; it was running off the line of his jaw and soaking into his collar.

‘C for Carver,’ said Wells quietly, staring at him. ‘You’re a man to remember now, Francis Carver. You’re the man with the scar.’

He looked up and caught Anna’s eye. Her hands were over her mouth; she looked horrified. He jerked his chin at the decanter on the sideboard. ‘Have a drink,’ he said. ‘You’ll be asleep in a minute. Only you’d better do it fast.’

Anna glanced at the decanter. The laudanum had darkened the whisky very slightly, giving the liquid a coppery glow. ‘How much?’ she said.

‘As much as you can stomach,’ said Wells. ‘And then lie down on your side—not your back. You’ll drown on your own self,
otherwise
.’

‘How long will it take?’

‘No time at all,’ said Crosbie Wells. He wiped his knife on the carpet, sheathed it, and then stood, ready to leave.

‘Wait.’ Anna ran into the bedroom. A moment later she returned with the gold nugget that he had first given her, the
afternoon
of their first encounter. ‘Here,’ she said, pressing it into his hands. ‘Take it. You can use it to get away.’

‘Psst—Bill!’

The official looked up from his newspaper. ‘Who’s that?’

‘It’s Wells. Crosbie Wells.’

‘Come out where I can see you.’

‘Here.’ He emerged into the light, palms up.

‘What are you doing—creeping about in the dark?’

Wells took another step forward. Still with his palms up, he said, ‘I need a favour.’

‘Oh?’

‘I need to get on a ship first light.’

The official’s eyes narrowed. ‘Where you bound?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Wells. ‘Anywhere. I just need to go quiet.’

‘What’s in it for me?’

Wells opened his left fist: there, against his palm, was the nugget that Anna had returned to him. The official looked at it, making a mental estimation of its worth, and then said, ‘What about the law?’

‘I’m on side with the law,’ said Wells.

‘Who’s on your heels, then?’

‘Man named Carver,’ said Wells.

‘What’s he got on you?’

‘My papers,’ said Wells. ‘And a fortune. He lifted a fortune from my safe.’

‘When did you ever make a fortune?’

‘At Dunstan,’ said Wells. ‘Maybe a year ago. Fifteen months.’

‘You kept bloody quiet about it.’

‘Course I did. I never told a soul but Lydia.’

The man laughed. ‘That was your first mistake, then.’

‘No,’ said Wells, ‘my last.’

They looked at each other. Presently Bill said, ‘Might not be worth it. For me.’

‘I go aboard tonight, hide away, sail first thing. You keep this nugget, and I keep my life. That’s all. You don’t need to get me on board—just tell me which ship is leaving, and turn a blind eye as I walk past.’

The official wavered. He put aside his paper and leaned forward to check the schedule pinned above his desk. ‘There’s a schooner bound for Hokitika leaving at first light,’ he said after a moment. ‘The
Blanche
.’

‘You tell me where she’s anchored,’ said Wells. ‘Give me a window. That’s all I’m asking, Bill.’

The official pursed his lips, considering it. He turned back to the schedule, as though the best course of action might somehow
present
itself to him in writing. Then his gaze sharpened, and he said, ‘Hang on—Wells!’

‘What?’

‘This inventory says it was authorised by you.’

Frowning, Wells stepped forward. ‘Let me see.’

But Bill pulled the log towards him, away from Wells’s reach. ‘There’s a crate going to Melbourne,’ he said, scanning the entry. ‘It’s been loaded on
Godspeed
—and you signed for it.’ He looked up, suddenly angry. ‘What’s all this about?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Wells. ‘Can I see it?’

‘You’re spinning me a line,’ said Bill.

‘I’m not,’ said Wells. ‘I never signed that bloody thing.’

‘Your money’s in that crate,’ said Bill. ‘You’re sending your colour offshore, while you hop over to Hokitika to cover your
tracks, and when it’s all safe and sound, you’ll sally across the Tasman and make yourself over, tax-free.’

‘No,’ said Wells. ‘That wasn’t me.’

The official flapped his hand, disgustedly. ‘Go on. Keep your bloody nugget. I don’t want a part in any scheme.’

Wells said nothing for a moment. He stared at the dark shapes of the ships at anchor, the broken needles of light upon the water, the hanging lanterns, squeaking in the wind. Then he said,
speaking
carefully, ‘That wasn’t me who signed.’

Bill scowled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t start. You won’t take me for a fool.’

‘My certificates,’ said Wells. ‘My miner’s right—my papers—everything. It was all in the safe at Cumberland-street. I swear to you. This man Carver. He’s an ex-convict. Served time at Cockatoo. He took it all. I have nothing but the shirt on my back, Bill. Francis Carver is using my name.’

Bill shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That crate’s not going
offshore
. I’m pulling the inventory, first thing in the morning.’

‘Pull it now,’ said Wells. ‘I’ll take the crate with me—to Hokitika. Nothing’s going offshore that way, is it? Everything’s legal that way.’

The official looked down at the inventory, and then back at Wells. ‘I don’t want a part in any racket.’

‘You’ll have done nothing wrong,’ said Wells. ‘Nothing at all. It’s only evasion of duty if you send it offshore. I’ll even sign for it. I’ll sign anything you like.’

Bill did not say anything for a long moment, and Wells knew that he was considering it. ‘I can’t get it on the
Blanche
,’ he said at last. ‘She’s sailing first light, and Parrish has signed off on the cargo already. There isn’t time.’

‘Send it on after, then. I’ll sign a transfer right now. I’m begging you.’

‘No need to beg,’ said Bill, frowning.

Wells came forward and placed the nugget on the desk. For a moment the thing seemed to shiver, like the needle of a compass.

Bill looked at the nugget for a long moment. Then he looked up, and said, ‘No. You keep your nugget, Crosbie Wells. I don’t want a part in any scheme.’