‘And out for blood, no doubt,’ said the woman.
‘I don’t like a man beyond his own control.’
‘No,’ the woman agreed, ‘and Moody is of the worst variety—the kind of man who loves to be offended, so that he can vent his temper—for he knows not how to vent it, otherwise. He’s a decent man when he’s sober.’
‘But anyway,’ the man said, ‘if this chap Gascoigne is in thick with one of the Moody family, he ought to do us fine. His advice ought to be fine.’
‘The family resemblance is excessively slight. The mother’s features must have been strong.’
The man laughed. ‘You’re never short of an opinion, Greenway. An opinion is one thing you’ve always got on hand.’
There was another pause, and then the woman said, ‘He came over on Godspeed, in fact.’
‘Moody?’
‘Yes.’
‘No. He can’t have.’
‘Francis! Don’t contradict me. He told me himself, that evening.’
‘No,’ the man said. ‘There was no one with the name of Moody. There were only eight of them, and I looked the paper over. I would have remembered that name.’
‘Perhaps you overlooked it,’ said the woman. ‘You know I hate to be contradicted. Let’s not disagree.’
‘How would I overlook the name Moody? Why, that’s like overlooking Hanover, or—or Plantagenet.’
The woman laughed. ‘I would hardly compare Adrian Moody to a royal line!’
Ah Sook heard the squeak of a chair, and the shifting of weight over floorboards. ‘I only mean I’d have recognised it. Would you pass over the name Carver?’
The woman made a noise in her throat. ‘He most definitely said that he’d come over on Godspeed,’ she said. ‘I remember it vividly. We exchanged some words on the subject.’
‘Something’s not right,’ the man said.
‘Well, have you got the passenger list? Surely you’ve a copy of the Times—from when the ship came in. Why don’t you check it?’
‘Yes. You’re right. Hang a bit; I’ll go and look in the smoking room. They keep a stack of old broadsheets on the secretary.’
The door opened and closed.
The lamp in the next room came on, illuminating one corner of the allotment in a glow of muted yellow. Carver was in the smoking room of the Crown Hotel—and away from Lydia Wells at last. Ah Sook raised himself up slightly. He saw through the window that Carver had his back to the door, and was shuffling through the papers on the secretary. As far as he could see, there was nobody else in the room. In the bedroom, Lydia Wells began to hum a little ditty to herself.
Ah Sook got to his feet. Holding the Kerr Patent against his thigh, and moving as softly as he was able in his digger’s boots, he crept around the back of the house to the tradesman’s door. He turned into the alley—and froze.
‘Drop your arms.’
Standing on the far side of the alley, his face in shadow, a long-handled pistol in his hand, was the gaol’s governor, George Shepard. Ah Sook did not move. His eyes went to Shepard’s pistol, and then back to Shepard’s face.
‘Drop it,’ Shepard said. ‘I will shoot you. Drop the piece now.’
Still Ah Sook said nothing; still he did not move.
‘You will kneel down and place your revolver on the ground,’ Shepard said. ‘You will do that now, or you will die. Kneel.’
Ah Sook sank to his knees, but he did not release the Kerr Patent. His finger tightened on the hammer.
‘I will shoot you dead before you have time to cock and aim,’ Shepard said. ‘Make no mistake about it. Drop your arms.’
‘Margaret,’ said Ah Sook.
‘Yes,’ Shepard said. ‘She sent me a message.’
Ah Sook shook his head: he could not believe it.
‘She is my wife,’ Shepard said curtly. ‘And she was my brother’s wife before me. You remember my brother, I trust. You ought to.’
‘No.’ Again Ah Sook’s finger tightened on the hammer.
‘You do not remember him? Or you do not believe that you ought to remember?’
‘No,’ said Ah Sook, stubbornly.
‘Let me jog your memory,’ Shepard said. ‘He died at the White Horse Saloon at Darling Harbour, shot through the temple at close range. Do you remember him now? Jeremy Shepard was his name.’
‘I remember.’
‘Good,’ said Shepard. ‘So do I.’
‘I did not murder him.’
‘Still singing the same old tune, I see.’
‘Margaret,’ said Sook Yongsheng again, still kneeling.
‘Francis!’
‘Hush a moment. Hush.’
‘… What are you listening for?’
‘Hush.’
‘I can’t hear anything.’
‘Nor can I. That’s good.’
‘It was so close.’
‘Poor lamb. Did it alarm you?’
‘Only a bit. I thought—’
‘Never mind. Most likely it was just an accident. Someone cleaning their piece.’
‘I couldn’t help but imagine that horrible Chinaman.’
‘Nothing’s going to come of him. He’ll head straight to the Palace, and he’ll be rounded up before the morning.’
‘You’ve been so afraid of him, Francis.’
‘Come here.’
‘All right. All right. I’ve recovered now. Let’s see what you’ve found.’
‘Here.’ There was a rustling noise. ‘Look. McKitchen, Morely, Parrish. See? Eight in total—and no mention of a Walter Moody anywhere.’
There was a short period of quiet as she looked the paper over, and checked the date. Presently he said, ‘Strange thing to tell a lie about. Especially when his partner shows up out of nowhere, a few weeks later, and starts yammering to me about insurance. I’m just a chap who tells another chap about loopholes, he said.’
‘One of these names must be a false one. If your passengers truly numbered eight, and Walter Moody was truly among them.’
‘Eight—and all accounted for. They took the lighter in to shore that afternoon—six hours, maybe seven hours, before we rolled.’
‘Then he must have taken a false name.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Well, perhaps he was lying, then. About having come over on Godspeed.’
‘Why would he do that?’
Evidently Lydia Wells could not produce a response to this either, for after a moment she said, ‘What are you thinking, Francis?’
‘I’m thinking to write my old friend Adrian a letter.’
‘Yes, do,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘And I shall make some inquiries of my own.’
‘The insurance money did come through. Gascoigne was as good as his word.’
Presently she said, ‘Let’s to bed.’
‘You’ve had a trying day.’
‘A very trying day.’
‘It’ll all come out right, in the end.’
‘She’ll get what she deserves,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘I should also like to get what I deserve, Francis.’
‘It’s dreary for you, waiting.’
‘Frightfully.’
‘Mm.’
‘Are you not tired of it also?’
‘Well … I cannot show you off in the street as I would like.’
‘How would you show me off?’
Carver did not reply to this; after a short silence he said, low, ‘You’ll be Mrs. Carver soon.’
‘I have set my sights upon it,’ said Lydia Wells, and then nobody spoke for a long time.
EQUINOX
In which the lovers sleep through much commotion.
George Shepard directed Sook Yongsheng’s body to be brought into his private study at the Police Camp and laid out on the floor. The blacking on the man’s chin and throat seemed all the more gruesome in death; Mrs. George, as the body was brought in, breathed very deeply, as though steadying herself internally against a wind. Cowell Devlin, arriving from the Police Camp gaol-house, looked down at the body in shock. The hatter perfectly recalled the hermit, Crosbie Wells, who had been laid out in this very way, two months prior—on the very same sheet of muslin, in fact, his lips slightly parted, one eye showing a glint of white where the lids had not been properly closed. It was a moment before Devlin realised who the dead man really was.