It had been a busy morning in the petty courts. Mrs. Wells’s appeal to revoke the sale of Crosbie Wells’s estate had been approved at last, which meant that the Wells fortune, formerly held in escrow at the Reserve Bank, had been surrendered to the Magistrate’s purse. Harald Nilssen’s four-hundred-pound commission had not likewise been revoked, for two reasons: firstly, because the sum constituted his legal payment for a service adequately rendered; and secondly, because the commission had since been donated, in its entirety, to assist in the erection of the new gaol-house at Seaview. It was unseemly, the Magistrate declared, to revoke a gift of charity, especially when the gift was such a handsome and selfless one; he commended Nilssen, in absentia, for his benevolence.
There were sundry other legal expenses to be itemised, most of which reflected the many hours the Magistrate’s office had spent on the project of trying to find the late Mr. Wells’s birth certificate. These expenses would come out of Mrs. Wells’s inheritance also—which, less the estate taxes and fees, and after these many corrections had been made, now totalled a little over £3500. This sum was to be made payable to Mrs. Wells as soon as the fortune had been cleared by the Reserve Bank, in whatever form of currency the widow desired. Did Mrs. Wells have anything to say? No, she did not—but she gave Aubert Gascoigne a very broad smile as she swept away from the Courthouse, and he saw that her eyes were shining.
‘Oi—Gascoigne!’
Gascoigne had been staring into the middle distance. He blinked. ‘Yes?’
His colleague Burke was in the doorway, a fat paper envelope in his hand. ‘Jimmy Shaw tells me you’ve a flair for maritime insurance.’
‘That’s right,’ said Gascoigne.
‘Do you mind taking on another job? Something’s just come in.’
Gascoigne frowned at the envelope. ‘What kind of a “something”?’
‘Letter from a John Hincher Garrity,’ said the other, holding it up. ‘Regarding one of the wrecks on the bar. Godspeed is the name of the craft.’
Gascoigne held out his hand. ‘I’ll take a look at it.’
‘Good man.’
The envelope had been postmarked in Wellington, and slit already. Gascoigne opened it and withdrew its contents. The first document enclosed was a short letter from John Hincher Garrity, M.P. for the electoral district of Heathcote in Canterbury. The politician authorised a representative of the Hokitika Courthouse to act as his agent in drawing down funds from the Garrity Group’s private account at the Bank of New Zealand. He trusted that the enclosed documents would explain the matter sufficiently, and thanked the representative in advance for his efforts. Gascoigne put this letter aside and turned to the next document. It was also a letter, forwarded by Garrity; it had been addressed to the Garrity Group.
Hokitika, 25 Feb. 66
Sirs—
I write to inform you of the regrettable wreck of the barque
Godspeed,
of which I was until very recently the operating master, upon the treacherous Hokitika Bar. The shipowner, Mr. Crosbie F. Wells, is recently deceased, and I am settling matters as his proxy. I understand that in purchasing
Godspeed
Mr. Crosbie F. Wells inherited all extant policies from former owner A. Lauderback, member of the Garrity Group, and therefore, that
Godspeed
is protected and indemnified by said authority. I seek now to draw down all funds designated by Mr. Lauderback for this purpose in order to facilitate the removal of the wreck. I enclose the full record of all expenses, deeds of sale, receipts, quotes, inventories, &c., and remain,
Yours,
Francis W. R. Carver
Gascoigne frowned. What did Carver mean by this? Crosbie Wells had certainly not purchased Godspeed; Carver had purchased the craft himself, using the alias Wells. Gascoigne shuffled through the remaining pages, which had evidently been forwarded by Carver to Mr. Garrity as evidence of the validity of his claim. He passed over the harbourmaster’s assessment of the wreck, a balance sheet of all the debts incurred, and sundry receipts and testimonials, until he found, at the bottom of the pile, a copy—presumably Carver’s personal copy—of Godspeed’s bill of sale. Gascoigne took up this last item and looked at the signature closely. It had been signed by a Francis Wells! What was Carver playing at? Looking at the signature a moment longer, however, Gascoigne perceived that the large loop on the side of the F could easily have been a C … why, yes! There was even a dot of ink, fortuitously placed, between the C and the F. The longer Gascoigne looked at it, the more the ambiguity became clear to him: Carver must have signed the false name with this future purpose in mind. Gascoigne shook his head, and then, after a moment, laughed aloud.
‘What’s tickled you?’ said Burke, looking up.
‘Oh,’ said Gascoigne, ‘nothing of consequence.’
‘You just laughed,’ said Burke. ‘What’s the joke?’
‘There is no joke,’ said Gascoigne. ‘I was expressing my appreciation, that’s all.’
‘Appreciation? What for?’
‘A job well done,’ said Gascoigne. He returned the letters to the envelope and stood, intending to take John Hincher Garrity’s letter of authorisation to the bank at once—but just as he did so the foyer door opened, and Alistair Lauderback walked in, shadowed at his heels by Jock and Augustus Smith.
‘Ah,’ said Lauderback, perceiving the letter in Gascoigne’s hand. ‘I’m just in time, then. Yes: I had a message from Garrity myself this morning. There’s been a mix-up, and I’m here to set it straight.’
‘Mr. Lauderback, I presume,’ said Gascoigne dryly.
‘I want a private interview with the Magistrate,’ Lauderback said. ‘It’s urgent.’
‘The Magistrate is taking his luncheon at present.’
‘Where does he take it?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ said Gascoigne. ‘The afternoon sessions begin at two o’clock; you are welcome to wait until then. Excuse me, gentlemen.’
‘Hold up,’ said Lauderback, as Gascoigne bowed, and made to exit. ‘Where do you think you’re going with that letter?’
‘To the bank,’ said Gascoigne—who could not bear officious rudeness of the kind that Lauderback had just displayed. ‘I have been deputised by Mr. Garrity to facilitate a transaction on his behalf. I beg you to excuse me.’
Again he made to leave.
‘Hold up a moment,’ said Lauderback. ‘Just hold up a moment! It’s on account of this very business that I want an audience here; you’re not to go off to the bank, before I’ve said my piece!’
Gascoigne stared at him coolly. Lauderback seemed to realise that he had begun on the wrong foot, and said, ‘Hear me out, would you? What’s your name?’
‘Gascoigne.’
‘Gascoigne, is it? Yes, I had you for a Frenchman.’
Lauderback held out his hand, and Gascoigne shook it.
‘I’ll speak to you, then,’ Lauderback said. ‘If I can’t get the Magistrate.’
‘I imagine you would prefer to do so in private,’ said Gascoigne, still without warmth.
‘Yes, good.’ Lauderback turned to his aides. ‘You wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll be ten minutes.’