‘Something I found,’ Devlin said. ‘But it’s no use to anyone.’
‘No use to anyone?’ Shepard queried, pleasantly. ‘Why on earth do you say that?’
‘It’s invalid,’ Devlin said. ‘The principal hasn’t signed. Therefore it’s not legal.’
Cowell Devlin, like all men who will not admit fault to themselves, was loath to admit fault to any other man. He became very arch and condescending whenever he was accused of doing ill.
‘No indeed,’ said Shepard. ‘It’s not legal.’
‘It’s not binding—that’s what I meant,’ Devlin said, with a slight frown. ‘It’s not binding, in the legal sense.’
Shepard did not blink. ‘Which is rather a shame, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Why is that?’
‘If only Emery Staines had signed it—why, half of the fortune discovered at Crosbie Wells’s cottage would belong to Anna Wetherell! That would be a turn of events, would it not?’
‘But the fortune in the hermit’s cottage never belonged to Emery Staines.’
‘No?’ Shepard said. ‘Forgive me: you seem to be rather more certain of that fact than I am.’
Cowell Devlin knew very well that the gold in Crosbie Wells’s cottage had originated from four gowns, sewn up by Lydia Wells, purchased by Anna Wetherell; he knew that the gold had been siphoned and then retorted by the goldsmith Ah Quee, only to be stolen by Staines, and concealed in Wells’s cottage at some point thereafter. He could not say any of this to Shepard, however; instead he said, ‘There is no reason to think that the fortune belonged to Mr. Staines.’
‘Beyond the fact that Mr. Staines vanished upon the day of Mr. Wells’s death, and Mr. Wells was not, to popular understanding, a man of means.’ Shepard stabbed the deed with his index finger. ‘This certainly seems pertinent, Reverend, to our case at hand. This document appears to indicate that the fortune originated with Staines—and that Staines meant to give half of it—exactly half—to a common prostitute. I would hazard to guess that Crosbie Wells, as his witness, was keeping the fortune for him, when he died.’
This was a reasonable hypothesis. Perhaps Shepard was right upon the latter point, Devlin thought, though of course he was mistaken upon the former. Aloud he said, ‘You are right that it seems pertinent; however, as I have told you already, the contract is not valid. Mr. Staines has not signed his name.’
‘I presume that you found this deed in Crosbie Wells’s cottage, the day you went to collect his remains.’
‘That is correct,’ Devlin said.
‘If you have kept such careful custody of it,’ Shepard said, ‘then I dare say it occurred to you how very valuable this deed might be. To certain persons. To Anna Wetherell, for instance. By this paper’s authority, she could become the richest woman this side of the Southern Alps!’
‘She could not,’ Devlin said. ‘The deed is unsigned.’
‘If it were to be signed,’ Shepard said.
‘Emery Staines is dead,’ Devlin said.
‘Is he?’ Shepard said. ‘Dear me. Another certainty that we do not share.’
But Cowell Devlin was not easily intimidated. ‘The promise of great riches is a dangerous thing,’ he said, folding his hands across his navel in the clerical way. ‘It is a temptation like no other, for it is the temptation of great influence and great opportunity, and these are things we all desire. If Miss Wetherell were to be told about this deed, her hopes would be falsely raised. She would start dreaming of great influence and great opportunity; she would no longer be contented with the life she led before. This was a circumstance I feared. I therefore resolved to keep the information to myself, at least until Emery Staines was either recovered, or found to be dead. If he is found dead, I will destroy the deed. But if he lives, I shall go to him, and show him the paper, and ask him whether he wishes to sign it. The choice would be his own.’
‘And what if Staines is never found?’ the gaoler said. ‘What then?’
‘I made my decision with compassion, Mr. Shepard,’ Devlin said firmly. ‘I feared very much what would happen to poor Miss Wetherell, should that deed of gift be made public, or should it fall into the wrong hands. If Mr. Staines is never found, then no hopes will be dashed, and no blood spilled, and no faith lost. I judge that to be no small mercy. Don’t you?’
Shepard’s pale eyes had become wet: a sign that he was thinking hard. ‘As witnessed by Crosbie Wells,’ he murmured, ‘presiding.’
‘In any case,’ Devlin added, ‘it’s hardly likely that a man would give such a great deal of money to a prostitute. Most likely it is a joke or deceit of some kind.’
Shepard looked suddenly amused. ‘You doubt the woman’s talents?’
‘You mistake me,’ Devlin said calmly. ‘I only meant that for a man to give two thousand pounds to a whore is a very unlikely situation. As a gift, I mean—and all at once.’
Abruptly Shepard shut the Bible with a snap, trapping the purloined document between the pages. He handed the book back to the chaplain, already reaching with his other hand for his pen, as though the affair was no longer of any interest to him.
‘Thank you for the loan of your Bible,’ he said, and nodded to indicate that Devlin was free to leave. He then bent over his ledger, and began to tally up his columns.
Devlin hovered uncertainly for a moment, the Bible in his hand. The charred document protruded from one edge, dividing the profile of the book into unequal halves.
‘But what do you think?’ he said at last. ‘What do you make of it?’
Shepard did not pause in his writing. ‘What do I make of what?’
‘The contract!’
‘I imagine you are right: it must be a joke or deceit of some kind,’ Shepard said. He placed a finger on his ledger, to hold his place, and then reached over to dip his pen into his inkwell.
‘Oh,’ said Devlin. ‘Yes.’
‘The contract is invalid, as you say,’ Shepard said conversationally. He tapped the nib of the pen against the rim of the inkwell.
‘Yes.’
‘The witness is certainly dead, and the principal almost certainly so.’
‘Yes.’
‘But if you want an answer from the horse’s mouth, then perhaps you ought to go along to the Wayfarer’s Fortune tonight, with all the other heathens.’
‘To speak with Mr. Staines?’
‘To speak with Anna,’ the gaoler said, with pointed disapproval. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, Reverend, I have rather a lot of work to do.’
After Devlin had closed the door behind him, Shepard laid down his pen, went to his bookcase, and pulled out a file, out of which he extracted a single sheet of paper: the only copy of the contract he had made, three weeks ago, with Harald Nilssen, under which the commission merchant had promised not to speak of his four-hundred pound investment to any other man. Shepard struck a match on the side of the cabinet and touched it to the piece of paper, holding it lightly by one corner and tilting it until the document was aflame, and the signatures obscured. When he could hold it no longer he tossed it to the floor, watched it shrink to a grey nothing, and kicked the ashes aside with the toe of his boot.
Sitting back down at his desk, he pulled a fresh sheet of paper from beneath his ledger, took up his pen, and dipped his nib. Then, in a slow, measured hand, he wrote:
A GIFT OF CONSCIENCE—To the Editor of the West Coast Times.
18 February 1866
Sir—
I write in response to Mr. ALISTAIR LAUDERBACK, Provincial Councilman, M.P., who casts damaging aspersions upon the undersigned, and therefore, upon all his associates, including the Westland Public Works Committee, the Municipal Council, the Office of the Commissioner, the Hokitika Board, &c. It is my duty to correct Mr. Lauderback’s errors: of propriety, of decency, and of fact.
Indeed the construction of the future Hokitika Gaol-House was aided in the large part by a donation made by a Westland man. Mr. Harald Nilssen, of Nilssen & Co., donated to the Council
a sum of approximately four hundred pounds, to be used, as per his personal instruction, for public good. This sum represented the commission received by him as payment for honest employment. It was, as Mr. Lauderback attests, a portion of the fortune discovered on Mr Crosbie Wells’s estate, to which Mr. Nilssen, commission merchant, was legally entitled, as payment for services satisfactorily rendered. Mr. Lauderback will be pleased to recall that, in legal phrasing, a ‘donation’ is distinct from an ‘investment’ in that a donation does not create a relationship of the debtor-creditor variety; in plain language, a donation does not have to be repaid. In understanding that Mr. Nilssen’s donation was an act of charity of the most virtuous and selfless order, Mr. Lauderback will further acknowledge that no laws have been broken and no regulations breached.
I hold that the profoundest and most enduring testament to progress in civilisation is the creation of public works, and I am satisfied that the Hokitika Gaol-House will bear up under this definition in every respect. Should Mr. Lauderback find this explanation insufficiently transparent for his tastes, I cordially invite him to disclose to the voting public what he has hitherto concealed: that he has enjoyed a formerly intimate relation with Mrs. Lydia Wells, widow to Crosbie. I anticipate Mr. Lauderback’s full disclosure upon this matter, and remain,
Yours &c,
GEORGE M. SHEPARD
When he was done Shepard blotted the page, reached for a clean sheet of paper, and transcribed the letter in full—creating a replica so exact, in fact, that one would have to compare them for quite some time before one perceived the smallest difference. He then folded both pages, sealed them, and wrote two addresses in his laborious hand. Once the wax was dry, he rang the bell for Mrs. George, and asked her to summon the penny postman for the second time that day. This instruction was promptly carried out.
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.’
MARS IN CAPRICORN
In which Gascoigne finds common ground with Francis Carver; Sook Yongsheng acts upon a false impression; and Quee Long gives the avenger some advice.
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.