The Luminaries

by Eleanor Catton

  He had her full attention now. ‘How do you know this?’ she whispered.

  ‘I have made it my business to find out a good deal about you,’ said Devlin. ‘Now answer the question.’

  Her face was pale. ‘Only the orange gown had gold,’ she said. ‘The other four had makeweights—made of lead.’

  ‘Did you know that they had once belonged to Lydia Wells?’

  ‘No,’ Anna said. ‘Not for sure.’

  ‘But you suspected it.’

  ‘I—I’d heard something,’ she said. ‘Months ago.’

  ‘When did you first discover what the gowns contained?’

  ‘The night after Emery disappeared.’

  ‘After you were gaoled for attempted suicide.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Mr. Gascoigne paid your bail, on promise, and together you took apart the orange gown at his cottage on Revell-street, and hid the tatters under his bed, thereafter.’

  ‘How—?’ she whispered. She looked terrified.

  Devlin did not pause. ‘Presumably, after you returned to the Gridiron that evening, your first move was to go back to your wardrobe and check the four remaining gowns.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anna. ‘But I didn’t cut them open. I only felt along the seams. I didn’t know that it was lead that I was feeling: I thought it was more colour.’

  ‘In that case,’ Devlin said, ‘you must have believed that you were suddenly extraordinarily rich.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you did not open the hems of those dresses, in order to use that gold to repay your debt to Edgar Clinch.’

  ‘Later, I did,’ said Anna. ‘The following week. That’s when I found the makeweights.’

  ‘But even then,’ Devlin said, ‘you did not tell Mr. Gascoigne what you surmised. Instead, you pretended helplessness and ignorance, claimed to have no money, and begged him for aid!’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Anna said.

  ‘I will ask the questions, thank you,’ Devlin said. ‘What were you intending to do with that gold?’

  ‘I wanted to keep it back,’ Anna said. ‘As a nest egg. And I didn’t have anywhere to hide the metal. I thought I might ask Emery about it. There was no one else I trusted. But by then he was gone.’

  ‘What about Lydia Wells?’ Devlin said. ‘What about Lydia Wells, who came to the Gridiron that same afternoon—who paid your debt to Mr. Clinch—and who has shown you every kind of hospitality ever since?’

  ‘No.’ Anna’s voice had become very small.

  ‘You never told her about those gowns?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because you suspected they had once belonged to her.’

  ‘I’d heard something,’ Anna said. ‘I never knew—not for certain—but I knew that there was something—and she was desirous to get them back.’

  Devlin folded his arms. Anna was plainly fearful of how much he knew about her situation, and how he had come to know it. This pained him, but he reflected that, given the circumstances, it was better to keep her frightened, than to risk her becoming bold. It would not do, to have her flapping that forged signature about.

  ‘Where is Mr. Staines?’ he said next.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I think you do.’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘I shall remind you that you have committed serious fraud by forging a signature in a dead man’s hand.’

  ‘He’s not dead.’

  Devlin nodded; he had been hoping for a definite answer. ‘How do you know that?’

  Anna did not reply, so Devlin said again, more sharply, ‘How do you know that, Miss Wetherell?’

  ‘I’ve been getting messages,’ Anna said at last.

  ‘From Mr. Staines?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What kind of messages?’

  ‘They’re private.’

  ‘How does he communicate them?’

  ‘Not with words,’ said Anna.

  ‘How then?’

  ‘I just feel him.’

  ‘You feel him?’

  ‘Inside my head.’

  Devlin exhaled.

  ‘I suppose you doubt my word now,’ Anna said.

  ‘I most certainly do,’ Devlin said. ‘It goes rather hand in hand with your being a fraudster, I’m afraid.’

  Anna thumped a hand over the paper hidden in her breast. ‘You held onto this for a mighty long time,’ she said.

  Devlin glared at her. He opened his mouth to make a retort, but before he could find the words, he heard brisk steps upon the porch, and the rattle of the door handle, and the sudden noise of the street as the front door swung inwards, and someone walked in. Anna looked at Devlin with frightened eyes. The widow had returned from the Courthouse, and she was calling Anna’s name.

  SATURN IN VIRGO

  In which George Shepard does not appoint a deputy; Quee Long is mistaken for another man; and Dick Mannering draws the line.

  George Shepard had spent the morning of the 20th of March supervising various deliveries of materials and hardware to the site of the future gaol-house at Seaview—which, two months into the project of its construction, was looking more and more imposing every day. The walls had gone up, the chimneys had been bricked, and inside the main residence the fortified doors had all been fitted and hung in their steel frames. There were still many details to be ironed out, of course—the lamps had yet to be delivered; the gaol-house kitchen still lacked a stove; there was still no glass in the gaoler’s cottage windows; the pit beneath the gallows had not yet been dug—but all in all everything had moved splendidly quickly, thanks to Harald Nilssen’s four-hundred pound ‘donation’, and additional funding, finally paid out, from the Westland Public Works Committee, the Hokitika Council, and the Municipal Board. Shepard had predicted that the felons could be moved from the Police Camp before the end of April, and several of them already spent their nights upon the Seaview premises, watched over by Shepard, who preferred, now that the prison was so near completion, to sleep there also, and to take his suppers cold.

  When the bell in the Wesleyan chapel rang out noon Shepard was in the future asylum, digging an alternate pit for the latrine. As the sound of the bell drifted up from the town below the foreman called for the felons to break. Shepard put down his spade, wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve, and clambered bodily out of the hole—perceiving as he did so that a young ginger-haired man was standing on the far side of the iron gate, peering through the bars, and evidently waiting for an interview.

  ‘Mr. Everard,’ Shepard said, striding forward.

  ‘Gov. Shepard.’

  ‘What brings you up to Seaview this morning? Not idle curiosity, I think.’

  ‘I’d hoped to beg an audience with you, sir.’

  ‘I trust you haven’t been waiting long.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Do you wish to come in? I can call for the gate to be unlocked.’ Shepard was still perspiring from his recent exertion: he mopped his forehead a second time with his sleeve.

  ‘It’s all right,’ the man said. ‘I’ve only got a message.’

  ‘Deliver it,’ said Shepard. He placed his hands on his hips.

  ‘I’ve come on behalf of Mr. Barnes. Of Brunton, Solomon and Barnes.’

  ‘I do not know any of those men.’

  ‘They’re outfitters. They’ve a new warehouse,’ said Everard. ‘On Camp-street. Only the sign hasn’t been painted yet. Sir,’ he added hastily.

  ‘Continue,’ Shepard said, still with his hands on his hips.

  ‘A couple months back you made it known that you’d be very grateful for a watch to be placed on a certain Chinaman.’

  Shepard’s expression sharpened at once. ‘You remember rightly.’

  ‘I’m here to report to you that a Chinaman bought a pistol this morning,’ the young man said.

  ‘From Mr. Barnes’s establishment, I presume.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Where is this C
hinaman now?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you that,’ said Everard. ‘I saw Barnes just now, and he said he’d sold a Kerr Patent to a Chinaman this morning, and I came straight to you. I don’t know if the Chinaman in question is your man or not … but I thought it would do well to advise you, either way.’

  Shepard offered neither thanks nor congratulation for this. ‘How long ago did the sale occur?’

  ‘Two hours ago at least. Perhaps more. Barnes said that the fellow must have acted on a tip: he wouldn’t lay down any more than five pounds for the Kerr. Five pounds even, he kept saying, like he’d been tipped. He knew not to be overcharged.’

  ‘How did he pay for it?’

  ‘With a paper note.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Everard. ‘He loaded the piece in the store.’

  ‘Who loaded it?’

  ‘Barnes. On the Chinaman’s behalf.’

  Shepard nodded. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Now. Listen closely. You go back to Hokitika, Mr. Everard, and you tell every man you see that George Shepard is on the lookout for a Chinaman called Sook. Let it be known that if anybody sees Johnny Sook in town today, no matter what for and no matter where, I’m to be sent for, at once.’

  ‘Shall you offer a reward for the man’s capture?’

  ‘Don’t say anything about a reward, but don’t deny it either, if anyone asks.’

  The young man drew himself up. ‘Am I to be your deputy?’

  Shepard did not answer at once. ‘If you come upon Johnny Sook,’ he said at last, ‘and you find a way to apprehend him without a great deal of fuss, then I shall turn a blind eye to whatever your method of capture might have been. That’s as much as I will say.’

  ‘I understand you, sir.’

  ‘There’s another thing you can do for me,’ said Shepard. ‘Do you know a man named Francis Carver by sight?’

  ‘The man with the scar on his face.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Shepard. ‘I want you to take him a message for me. You’ll find him at the Palace Hotel.’

  ‘What’s it to be, sir?’

  ‘Tell him exactly what you just told me,’ said Shepard. ‘And then tell him to buckle on his holsters.’

  Everard sagged a little. ‘Is he your deputy, then?’

  ‘I don’t have a deputy,’ Shepard said. ‘Go on now. We’ll speak later.’

  ‘All right.’

  Shepard raised his arms and placed his hands on the bars of the gate; he watched the youth’s retreating form. Then he called, ‘Mr. Everard!’

  The young man stopped and turned. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do you want to be a lawman?’

  He brightened. ‘One day, I hope, sir.’

  ‘The best lawmen can enforce the law without a badge,’ Shepard said, gazing at him coolly through the bars of the gate. ‘Remember that.’

  Emery Staines had now been absent for over eight weeks, an interval judged by the Magistrate to be sufficient to nullify ownership of all gold-bearing ground. By the Magistrate’s ruling, all mines and claims owned by Mr. Staines had been returned to the Crown, a repossession that had taken effect on Friday of the previous week. The Aurora, naturally, was one of the many claims surrendered, and as a consequence of this surrender, Quee Long had been released, at long last, from his fruitless obligation to that barren patch of ground. He made for Hokitika first thing Monday, in order to inquire where he was to be indentured next, and to whom.

  Ah Quee disliked going to the Company offices very much, for he was never treated courteously while he was there, and he was always made to wait. He bore the officials’ jeers with equanimity, however, and pretended not to notice as their junior clerks flicked him with pellets made of spit and paper, and held their noses whenever they passed the chair in which he sat. At length he was invited forward to explain his purpose to the bureaucrat at the front desk. After another long delay, the purpose of which was not explained to him, he was allocated another claim in Kaniere, given a receipt of the transfer, and sent on his way—by which time the ginger-haired Mr. Everard had reached Hokitika proper, and was dispensing George Shepard’s message left and right.

  As Ah Quee exited the Company offices on Weld-street, clutching the paper proof of his indenture in his hand, he heard somebody shout. He looked up, confused, and saw to his alarm that he was being rushed at from both sides. He cried out, and flung up his arm. In the next moment he was on the ground.

  ‘Where’s the pistol, Johnny Sook?’

  ‘Where’s the pistol?’

  ‘Check in his waistband.’

  There were hands on his body, patting and punching. Somebody aimed a kick at his ribs and he gasped.

  ‘Stashed it, most likely.’

  ‘What’s that you’ve got? Coolie papers?’

  His indenture was wrenched from his hand, scanned briefly, and tossed aside.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Now what have you got to say for yourself, Johnny Sook?’

  ‘Ah Quee,’ said Ah Quee, managing to speak at last.

  ‘Got a tongue in his head, does he?’

  ‘You’ll speak in English if you speak at all.’

  Another kick in the ribs. Ah Quee gave a grunt of pain and doubled up.

  ‘He’s not the right one,’ said one of his attackers.

  ‘What’s the difference?’ responded the other. ‘He’s still a Chinaman. He still stinks.’

  ‘He doesn’t have a pistol,’ the first man pointed out.

  ‘He’ll give us Sook. They’re all in thick.’

  Ah Quee was kicked again, in the buttocks this time; the toe of the man’s boot caught his tailbone and shot a jolt of pain up his spine to his jaw.

  ‘You know Johnny Sook?’

  ‘You know Johnny Sook?’

  ‘You seen him?’

  ‘We want to talk to Johnny Sook.’

  Ah Quee grunted. He attempted to raise himself up onto his hands, and fell back.

  ‘He’s not going to spill,’ observed the first man.

  ‘Here. Move away a bit—’

  The second man danced away on light feet and then ran at Ah Quee like a kicker hoping to make a conversion. Ah Quee felt him coming at the last moment, and rolled fast towards him, to cushion the blow. The pain in his ribs was excruciating. He could only breathe with the topmost part of his lung. The men were laughing now. Their voices had receded into a throbbing haze of sound.

  Then a voice thundered out over the street:

  ‘You’ve got the wrong man, my friends.’

  The attackers turned. Standing in the open doorway of the Weld-street coffee house, his arms folded across his chest, was the magnate Dick Mannering. His bulk quite filled the doorway: he made for an imposing presence, despite the fact that he was unarmed, and at the sight of him the two men shrank away from Quee Long at once.

  ‘We’re under instructions to apprehend a Chinaman with the name of Johnny Sook,’ said the first man, sticking his hands into his pockets, like a boy.

  ‘That man’s name is Johnny Quee,’ said Mannering.

  ‘We didn’t know that, did we?’ said the second man, his hands stealing into his pockets also.

  ‘Instructions from the gaoler,’ said the first man.

  ‘The chink called Johnny Sook is on the loose,’ said the second.

  ‘He’s got a pistol.’

  ‘Armed and dangerous.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got the wrong man,’ said Mannering, descending the stairs to the street. ‘You know that because I’m telling you, and I’m telling you for the last time. This man’s name is Johnny Quee.’

  Mannering seemed rather more menacing for the fact that he was advancing upon them, and at his approach the men finally balked.

  ‘Didn’t mean any trouble,’ the first man muttered. ‘Had to make

  ‘Yellow-lover,’ muttered the other, but quietly, so that Mannering didn’t hear.

  Mannering waited until they had departed, and then looked down
at Ah Quee, who rolled onto his side, checked his ribs for breakage, and clambered laboriously to his feet, picking up his trampled certificate of indenture as he did so, and brushing it clean of dust. His throat was very tight.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, when he could breathe at last.

  Mannering seemed annoyed by this expression of gratitude. He frowned, looking Ah Quee up and down, and said, ‘What’s this about Johnny Sook and a pistol?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Ah Quee.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Have you seen him? Anywhere at all?’

  Ah Quee had not seen Ah Sook since the night of the widow’s séance, one month prior: late that night he had returned from the Wayfarer’s Fortune to find Ah Sook packing his few belongings and vanishing, with a grim efficiency, into the rustle of the night. ‘No,’ he said.

  Mannering sighed. ‘I suppose you’ve been reassigned, now that Aurora’s gone back to the bank,’ he said after a moment. ‘Let’s have a look at your paper, then. Let’s see where they’ve placed you. Hand it over.’

  He held out his hand for the certificate. The document was brief, and had been written without consultation with Ah Quee: it provided his ‘apparent age’ instead of his actual age; the origin of the ship he had arrived on, rather than his actual birthplace in Canton; and a brief list of his attributes as a worker. It was heralded with the numeral five, indicating that the length of his indenture was five years, and had been stamped with the Company seal. Mannering cast his eye down the document. In the box marked ‘present site of employment’ the word Aurora had been recently scratched out, and replaced with the words Dream of England.

  ‘Can’t get a bit of luck, can you?’ Mannering said. ‘That claim belongs to me! One of mine. Belongs to me.’ He tapped himself on the chest. ‘You’re working for me again, Johnny Quee. Just like the good old days. Back when you were running rings around me with your bloody crucible, and bleeding Anna Magdalena for dust.’