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.
‘A cigarette?’ Gascoigne laughed. ‘That was offered quite free of charge.’
‘I reckon I’m still freer for having turned it down,’ said Carver, and Gascoigne laughed again.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘How long ago did you purchase this ship?’
‘You’ve got a lot of questions,’ Carver said. ‘What’s your business asking them?’
‘Well, I suppose it doesn’t really matter,’ Gascoigne said. ‘It would only matter if you made the purchase less than a year ago. Never mind.’
But he had snagged Carver’s interest. The other man looked over at him and then said, ‘I’ve had her ten months. Since May.’
‘Ah!’ Gascoigne said. ‘Well. That’s very interesting. That could work in your favour, you know.’
‘How?’
But Gascoigne didn’t answer at once; instead he squinted his eyes, and pretended to brood. ‘The man who sold it to you. Did he pass on conventional cover? That is to say: did you inherit an extant policy, or did you take out a policy on your own account?’
‘I didn’t take out anything,’ Carver said.
‘Was the vendor a shipowner in the professional sense? Did he own more than just Godspeed, for example?’
‘He had a couple of others,’ Carver said. ‘Clipper ships. Charters.’
‘Not steam?’
‘Sail,’ said Carver. ‘Why?’
‘And where did you say you were coming from, when you ran aground?’
‘Dunedin. Are you going to tell me where all these questions are headed?’
‘Only from Dunedin,’ Gascoigne said, nodding. ‘Yes. Now, if you’ll forgive my impertinence once last time, I wonder if I might ask about the circumstances of the wreck itself. I trust there was no dereliction of duty, or anything of that kind, that caused the ship to founder?’
Carver shook his head. ‘Tide was low, but we were well offshore,’ he said. ‘I dropped sixty-five feet of chain and she caught, so I dropped two anchors and another twenty feet of chain. I made the call to keep her on a reasonable leash and wait until the morning. Next thing we knew, we were broadside on the spit. It was raining, and the moon was clouded over. The wind blew out the beacons. Wasn’t anything anyone could have done. Nothing that might be called dereliction. Not under my command.’
This, for Francis Carver, was a very long speech; at its conclusion he folded his arms across his chest, and his expression closed. He frowned at Gascoigne.