‘I’ve an appointment at the Courthouse,’ said Anna Wetherell, politely disengaging her hands, and stepping back from him.
Clinch’s smile vanished at once. ‘Have you been summoned?’ he said anxiously. ‘Are you to be tried?’
‘It’s nothing like that. I’ve engaged a solicitor, that’s all. Of my own volition.’
‘A solicitor!’
‘Yes,’ Anna said. ‘I’m going to contest the widow’s claim.’
Clinch was astonished. ‘Well!’ he said, smiling again, to cover his bewilderment. ‘Well! You must tell me all about it, Anna—and we must take tea together. I’m so very happy you’ve come.’
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Anna. ‘I feared you might resent me.’
‘I could never resent you!’ Clinch cried. ‘I could never—but why?’ In the next moment he understood. ‘You’re going to contest the widow’s claim—on that fortune.’
She nodded. ‘There’s a document that names me as an inheritor.’
‘Is there?’ said Clinch, wincing. ‘Signed, and everything?’
‘Found in his stove. In Crosbie Wells’s stove. Someone tried to burn it.’
‘But is it signed?’
‘Two thousand pounds,’ said Anna. ‘Oh—you have always been such a father to me, Edgar—I don’t mind telling you. He meant it as a present! Two thousand pounds, as a present, all at once. He loves me. He’s loved me all along!’
‘Who?’ said Edgar Clinch sourly, but he already knew.
As Löwenthal was returning to the newspaper offices on Weld-street he heard someone call his name. He turned, and saw Dick Mannering striding towards him, a paper folded beneath his arm.
‘I have a juicy piece of news for you, Ben,’ Mannering said. ‘Though you may have heard it already. Would you like to hear a juicy piece of news?’
Löwenthal frowned, distracted. ‘What is it?’
‘Rumour has it that Gov. Shepard’s taken out a warrant for Mr. Sook’s arrest. Apparently Mr. Sook turned up in Hokitika this morning, and laid down cash money for a military weapon! How about that?’
‘Does he mean to use it?’
‘Why would one buy a gun,’ said Mannering cheerfully, ‘except to use it? I dare say that we can expect a shoot-out in the thoroughfare. A shoot-out—in the American style!’
‘I have some news also,’ said Löwenthal, as they turned into Revell-street, and began walking south. ‘Another rumour—and no less juicy than yours.’
‘About our Mr. Sook?’
‘About our Mr. Staines,’ said Löwenthal.
Quee Long was slicing vegetables for soup at his hut in Chinatown when he heard hoof beats approaching, and then someone shouting hello. He went to the doorway, and pulled back the hessian curtain with one hand.
‘You there,’ said the man on the threshold, who had just dismounted. ‘You’ve been summoned by the law. I’m to take you to the Hokitika Courthouse.’
Quee Long put up his hands. ‘Not Ah Sook,’ he said. ‘Ah Quee.’
‘I bloody well know who you are,’ the man said, ‘and it’s you I want. Come along: quick as you’re able. There’s a buggy waiting. Come.’
‘Ah Quee,’ said Ah Quee again.
‘I know who you are. It’s to do with a fortune you dug up on the Aurora.’
‘The Arahura?’ said Ah Quee, mishearing him.
‘That’s right,’ the man said. ‘Now get a move on. You’ve been summoned by a Mr. John Fellowes, on behalf of the Magistrate’s Court.’
After leaving the Reserve Bank Mr. Fellowes paid a call upon Harald Nilssen, at Nilssen & Co. He found the commission merchant in his office, drawing up a balance sheet on George Shepard’s behalf. The work was dreary, and Nilssen was pleased to be roused from it—pleased, that is, until the lawyer handed him the charred contract bearing the signatures of Emery Staines and Crosbie Wells. Nilssen’s face drained of colour at once.
‘Have you ever seen this document before?’ said Fellowes.
But Nilssen was a man who learned from his mistakes.
‘Before I answer you,’ he said cautiously, ‘I’d like to know who sent you, and what’s your purpose with me.’
The lawyer nodded. ‘That’s fair,’ he said. ‘The girl Wetherell received this document this morning from an anonymous source. Slid under the front door while her mistress was out. It’s a tidy sum of money, and by all appearances it’s bound for her pocket, as you can see. But it stinks of a set-up. We don’t know who sent it—or why.’
Nilssen had already betrayed Cowell Devlin once; he would not do so a second time. ‘I see,’ he said, keeping his face impassive. ‘So you are working for Miss Wetherell.’
‘I’m not associated with any whores,’ Fellowes said sharply. ‘I’m just doing a bit of research, that’s all. Getting the lay of the land.’
‘Of course,’ Nilssen murmured. ‘Forgive me.’
‘You were the man who cleared Crosbie Wells’s estate,’ Fellowes went on. ‘All I want to know is whether this piece of paper was among his possessions, when you were called in to clear the place.’
‘No, it was not,’ said Nilssen, truthfully. ‘And we cleared that cottage top to bottom: you have my word on that.’
‘All right,’ Fellowes said. ‘Thanks.’
He stood, and Nilssen rose also. As they did so the bells in the Wesleyan chapel rang out the hour: it was a quarter before five.
‘Very fine donation you made, by the way,’ said Fellowes, as he made to leave. ‘Your support of the new gaol-house on Seaview. Very fine.’
‘Thank you,’ said Nilssen, speaking tartly.
‘It’s a rare thing in this day and age, to meet a truly charitable man,’ said the lawyer. ‘I commend you for it.’
‘Mr. Staines?’
The boy’s eyes fluttered open, blurred, focused, and came to rest on Joseph Pritchard, who was crouching over him.
‘Why, it’s Pritchard,’ he said. ‘The druggist.’
Pritchard reached out a gentle hand and pulled back the collar of Staines’s shirt, to expose the blackened wound beneath. The boy did not protest. His eyes searched Pritchard’s face as the chemist examined the wound.
‘Did you manage to scrape up a piece of it?’ he whispered.
Pritchard’s face was sombre. ‘A piece of what?’
‘A piece of the resin,’ the boy said. ‘You said you’d stand me a piece of it.’
‘I brought something to take the edge away,’ Pritchard said shortly. ‘You’ve found a thirst for the smoke, have you? That’s a nasty wound you’ve got there.’
‘A thirst,’ the boy said. ‘I said it was like a thorn. I never heard the shot, you know. I was in the coffin at the time.’
‘How long have you been here? When was the last time you ate?’
‘Three days,’ the boy said. ‘Was it three days? It’s very good of you. Excessively kind. I suppose it was midnight. I fancied a walk.’
‘He’s not talking sense,’ Pritchard said.
‘No,’ said Tauwhare. ‘Will he die?’
‘He doesn’t look too thin,’ Pritchard said, feeling Staines’s cheek and forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Someone’s been feeding him, at least … or he’s managed to scavenge, wherever he’s been. Christ! Eight weeks. Something more than prayers is holding this one together.’
Staines’s gaze drifted over Pritchard’s shoulder to Tauwhare, standing behind him. ‘The Maoris are the very best of guides,’ he said, smiling. ‘You’ll do beautifully.’
‘Listen,’ Pritchard said to Staines, pulling his collar over the wound again. ‘We’ve got to get you onto the trap. We’re going to take you back to Hokitika, so that Dr. Gillies can take that bullet out of your shoulder. Once you’re on the trap I’ll give you something to take the edge away. All right?’