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 Chinaman 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.’