A POSTHUMOUS INVESTMENT?—To the Editor of the West Coast Times.
18 February 1866
Sir—
It is desirable for Mr. GEORGE SHEPHERD to publish in these pages a list of names of persons appointed to the construction of the Hokitika gaol-house upon the terrace at Seaview; also to transmit a statement of works contracted for, and entered into; to reveal the amount of money voted for all such works, the subsidies of sums advanced to date, and the extra amounts required (if any) for their completion, or to render them more serviceable.
Such a publication may serve to ameliorate what the undersigned believes to have been a gross breach of conduct on Mr. Shepherd’s part: that the preliminary construction of the Hokitika gaol-house was funded by a private donation made without the consent of the Provincial Council, the Westland Public Works Committee, the Municipal Board, or indeed, the investor himself—for the investment was made some two weeks after the man’s own death! I allude here to Mr. CROSBIE WELLS whose estate has been the subject of much speculation in these pages. It is my understanding that the endowment (such as it might be termed) was extracted from Mr. Wells’s dwelling posthumously, and later apportioned, without public knowledge, to the erection of the future gaol. If this understanding is a false one I shall stand corrected; in the meantime I request immediate clarification from Mr. Shepherd himself.
I hold that the transparency of Mr. Shepherd’s conduct in this affair is desirable not least because of the nature of the institution he wishes to build, and the origin of the sum in question; but also for the reason that financial transparency in the management of public funds is of paramount importance given that this undeveloped region of our province is so rich in gold and therefore so sadly prey to the primitive temptations of corruption.
I maintain a high regard for Mr. Shepherd’s intentions, &c., in the instigation of this project, as I am sure he acts in the interests of the common settler and with due respect for colonial law. I beg only to restate my belief that all private endorsements of public works must be made transparent for the benefit of all, and to assure you, Sir, and all of the province of Westland that I am
Yours, &c.,
Mr. ALISTAIR LAUDERBACK, PROVINCIAL COUNCILMAN, M.P.
He sat back and read the document through aloud, and in ringing tones, as if in rehearsal for an important public address; then, satisfied, he folded the paper, slid it into an envelope, and addressed the envelope to the editor of the West Coast Times, marking it as both ‘to be read upon receipt’, and ‘urgent’. When the thing was sealed he reached into his vest, and checked the time: it was almost two o’clock. If Augustus Smith rode direct for Hokitika now, he could reach Löwenthal before the Monday morning edition of the Times had gone to proof. Better sooner than later, Lauderback thought, and went in search of his aide.
MERCURY IN CAPRICORN
In which Gascoigne repeats his theories, and Moody speaks of death.
Walter Moody was finishing his luncheon at Maxwell’s dining hall when he received a message that the cargo of the Godspeed had at last been cleared, and his trunk had been delivered to his room at the Crown Hotel.
‘Well!’ he exclaimed, as he passed the messenger a twopenny bit, and the boy scampered away. ‘That puts paid to my so-called apparition at last—does it not? If Emery Staines was on board, they would have surely found his corpse among the cargo.’
‘I doubt it would have been so neat as all that,’ said Gascoigne.
‘You mean his corpse might not have been reported?’
‘I mean his corpse might not have been found,’ Gascoigne said. ‘A man—even an injured man—could fight his way towards a hatch … and the wreck was not entirely submerged. I think it far more likely that he was swept away.’
Over the past three weeks Moody had struck up a very cordial acquaintance with Aubert Gascoigne, having discovered that the latter’s character improved very much in successive interviews—for Gascoigne was very skilled at adapting himself to every kind of social situation, and could court another man’s favour with great success if only he put his mind to the task. Gascoigne had determined that he would befriend Moody with a force of ambition that, if known, might have caused the latter some alarm; as it was, however, Moody thought him a very sophisticated personage, and was pleased to have an intellectual equal with whom he could comfortably converse. They took luncheon together nearly every day, and smoked cigars at the Star and Garter in the evenings, where they played partners at whist.
‘You are persisting with your original theory,’ Moody observed. ‘Jetsam, not flotsam.’
‘Either that, or his remains have been destroyed,’ Gascoigne said. ‘Perhaps he called to be rescued, only to be killed, tied to something heavy, and then dropped into the sea. Carver has rowed out to the wreck a fair few times, as you know—and there has been ample opportunity for drowning.’
‘That is also possible,’ Moody said, folding the delivered message into halves, and then quarters, and running his thumbnail along each fold. ‘But the problem remains that we cannot know for certain one way or another, and if you are right that Staines has drowned, whether by chance or by design, then we shall never know at all. What a poor crime this is—when we have no body, and no murderer!’
‘It is a very poor crime,’ Gascoigne agreed.
‘And we are very poor detectives,’ Moody said, meaning this as a closing statement of a kind, but Gascoigne was reaching for the gravy boat, and showed no sign at all of wishing to conclude their discussion.
‘I dare say we shall feel excessively foolish,’ he said, pouring gravy over the remainder of his meal, ‘when Staines is found in the bottom of a gully, with a broken neck, and not a sign of harm upon him.’
Moody pushed his knife a little closer to his fork. ‘I am afraid that we all rather want Mr. Staines to have been murdered—even you and I, who have never met the man in our lives. We would not be contented with a broken neck.’
Moody’s jacket was hanging over the back of his chair. He knew that it would be impolite to reach back and put it on, when his friend had not yet finished his luncheon … but now that he knew his trunk had been recovered at last, he was very anxious to leave, and go to it. Not only did he not yet know whether his belongings had survived the wreck, he had not changed his jacket and trousers in three weeks.
Gascoigne chuckled. ‘Poor Mr. Staines,’ he agreed. ‘And how Mrs. Wells is making sport of him! If my shade were summoned to a shilling séance … why, I should be aghast, you know. I should not know how to take the invitation.’
‘If mine were summoned, I should be relieved; I should accept at once,’ Moody said. ‘I daresay the afterlife is a very dreary place.’
‘How do you conceive it so?’
‘We spend our entire lives thinking about death. Without that project to divert us, I expect we would all be dreadfully bored. We would have nothing to evade, and nothing to forestall, and nothing to wonder about. Time would have no consequence.’
‘And yet it would be entertaining, to spy upon the living,’ Gascoigne said.
‘On the contrary, I should consider that a very lonely prospect,’ Moody said. ‘Looking down on the world, unable to touch it, unable to alter it, knowing everything that had been, and everything that was.’