The boy’s head had fallen forward. ‘Hokitika,’ he mumbled. ‘Anna Magdalena.’
‘Anna’s in Hokitika, waiting for you,’ said Pritchard. ‘Come on, now. The sooner the better. We’ll have you in town before dark.’
‘He wrote her an aria,’ said the boy. ‘As a token. I never made a vow.’
Pritchard lifted Staines’s good arm, draped it over his shoulder, and stood. Tauwhare grabbed the boy around the waist, and together the two men carried him out of the cottage and hauled him onto the trap. The boy was still mumbling. His skin was slick with sweat, and very hot. They arranged him on the seat of the trap in such a way that Pritchard and Tauwhare could sit on either side of him, and prevent him from falling forward, and Tauwhare tucked his woollen coat about the boy’s legs. At last Pritchard produced the jar of laudanum from his pocket, and uncorked it.
‘It’s very bitter, I’m afraid, but it’ll take the edge off,’ he said, cupping the back of Staines’s neck with one hand, and holding the bottle to his mouth. ‘There it is,’ he said. ‘There it is. Goes down easy, doesn’t it? One more swallow. There it is. One more. Now settle back, Mr. Staines, and close your eyes. You’ll be asleep in no time.’
Alistair Lauderback, upon quitting the Hokitika Courthouse, had gone immediately to the office of the shipping agent, Thomas Balfour. He flung his copy of Godspeed’s bill of sale onto Balfour’s desk, seated himself without invitation, and cried, ‘He’s still at it, Tom! Francis Carver is still at it! He’ll bleed me till the bloody day I die!’
It took Balfour a very long time to make sense of this theatrical statement, to understand in full the protection and indemnity scheme under which Godspeed had been insured, and to venture his own opinion, finally, that perhaps Lauderback ought to admit defeat, in this round at least. Francis Carver, it seemed, had bested him. The ambiguous signature was a piece of cleverness that Lauderback could not easily contest, and as for the matter of Godspeed’s insurance policy, Carver was legally entitled to draw down those funds, and Mr. Garrity had already seen fit to approve the transaction. But the politician was loath to accept such sensible advice, and persisted in sighing, clutching his hair, and cursing Francis Carver. By five o’clock Balfour’s patience was long since spent.
‘I’m not the man to talk to,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t know a scrap about the ins and outs of the law. You shouldn’t be talking to me.’
‘Who then?’
‘Go and talk to the Commissioner.’
‘He’s out of town.’
‘What about the Magistrate?’
‘On the eve of the elections! Are you mad?’
‘Shepard, then. Show this to George Shepard and see what he thinks.’
‘Mr. Shepard and I are not on good terms,’ Lauderback said.
‘Well, all right,’ Balfour said, exasperated, ‘but Shepard’s not on good terms with Carver, don’t forget! He might be able to give you a leg-up on that account.’
‘What’s Shepard’s beef with Carver?’ Lauderback asked.
Balfour frowned at him. ‘Carver did his time under Shepard,’ he said. ‘As a convict. Shepard was a penitentiary sergeant on Cockatoo Island at Port Jackson, and Carver did his time there.’
‘Oh,’ said Lauderback.
‘Didn’t you know that?’
‘No,’ said Lauderback. ‘Why should I?’
‘I just expected that you might,’ said Balfour.
‘I don’t know George Shepard from a stick of chalk,’ said Lauderback, stoutly.
Aubert Gascoigne had completed his business at the Reserve Bank in the mid-afternoon; when the clock struck five, he was back at the Courthouse, compiling a record of that day’s petty sessions for the West Coast Times. He was surprised when the foyer door opened and Anna Wetherell walked in.
She gave him only a cursory greeting, however, en route to shake Mr. Fellowes’ hand. They exchanged several words that Gascoigne could not hear, and then the lawyer gestured her into a private office, and closed the door.
‘What’s Anna doing with Fellowes?’ Gascoigne said to his colleague Burke.
‘Haven’t the foggiest,’ said Burke. ‘She came by earlier, while you were at the bank. Wanted to speak to a lawyer about something private.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because it wasn’t bloody news,’ said Burke. ‘Hello, there’s Gov. Shepard.’
George Shepard was striding across the hall towards them.
‘Mr. Gascoigne, Mr. Burke,’ he said. ‘Good afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon.’
‘I’ve come to collect a warrant for a Chinaman’s arrest.’
‘It’s ready for you, sir.’
Burke went to fetch the warrant. Shepard waited, with restrained impatience, his hands on his hips, his fingers tapping. Gascoigne was staring at Fellowes’ office door. Suddenly, from behind it, there came a muffled thump—rather like the sound of a body falling down stairs—and in the next moment Fellowes was shouting, ‘Give us a hand—give us a hand in here!’
Gascoigne crossed the hall to the office and opened the door. Anna Wetherell was lying prone, her eyes closed, her mouth half-open; the lawyer Fellowes was kneeling beside her, shaking her arm.
‘Out for the count,’ said Fellowes. ‘She just collapsed! Pitched forward, right over the table!’ He turned to Gascoigne, pleading. ‘I didn’t do anything! I didn’t touch her!’
The gaoler had come up behind them. ‘What’s going on?’
Gascoigne knelt and leaned close to her. ‘She’s breathing,’ he said. ‘Let’s get her up.’ He lifted her into a sitting position, marvelling at how thin and wasted her limbs had become. Her head lolled back; he caught it in the crook of his elbow.
‘Did she hit her head?’
‘Nothing like that,’ said Fellowes, who was wearing a very frightened look. ‘She just fell sideways. Looks like she’s drunk. But she didn’t seem drunk, when she walked in. I swear I didn’t touch her.’
‘Maybe she fainted.’
‘Use your heads, both of you,’ said Shepard. ‘I can smell the laudanum from here.’
Gascoigne could smell it too: thick and bitter. He slipped a finger into Anna’s mouth and worked her jaw open. ‘There’s no staining,’ he said. ‘If it were laudanum, her tongue would be brown, wouldn’t it? Her teeth would be stained.’
‘Take her to the gaol-house,’ Shepard said.
Gascoigne frowned. ‘Perhaps the hospital—’
‘The gaol,’ Shepard said. ‘I’ve had enough of this whore and her theatrics. Take her to the Police Camp, and chain her to the rail. And sit her upright, so she can breathe.’
Fellowes was shaking his head. ‘I don’t know what happened,’ he said. ‘One moment she was stone-cold sober, the next she came over all drowsy, and the next—’
The foyer door opened again. ‘A Mr. Quee for Mr. Fellowes,’ came the call.
Burke had come up behind them. ‘Excuse me, Mr. Shepard,’ he said. ‘Here’s your warrant for Mr. Sook’s arrest.’
‘Mr. Quee?’ said Gascoigne, turning. ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘Take the whore away,’ the gaoler said.
Sook Yongsheng, lying on the bare boards beneath George Shepard’s bed, was listening to the bells in the Wesleyan chapel ring out half past five when there came another rap at the cottage door. He turned his head to the side, and listened for Margaret Shepard’s footsteps. She padded down the hall, lifted the latch, and drew the bolt, and then the square of lightness on the calico wall widened again, and he felt the cool breath of the outside air. The light was bluer now, and less intense, and the shadow in the doorway was a muted grey.