‘Duly noted, Mr. Broham.’
Broham turned back to Mrs. Carver. ‘You first arrived in Hokitika on Thursday the twenty-fifth of January, 1866, upon the steamer Waikato,’ he said. ‘Immediately upon landing, you made an appointment at the Courthouse to contest the sale of your late husband’s cottage and land. Is that correct?’
‘That is correct.’
‘How had you learned of Mr. Wells’s death?’
‘Mr. Carver had conveyed the news to me in person,’ said Mrs. Carver. ‘Naturally I made for Hokitika as swiftly as I was able. I would have liked to have attended the funeral; unfortunately I was too late.’
‘At the time you left Dunedin, did you know that the bulk of Mr. Wells’s estate comprised a fortune of unknown origin?’
‘No: it was not until I arrived in Hokitika that I read the account given in the West Coast Times.’
‘I understand that you sold your house and business in Dunedin prior to your departure, however.’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Mrs. Carver, ‘but it was not as radical a move as you might suppose. I am in the entertainment business, and the crowds at Dunedin are not what they once were. I had been considering a move to the West Coast for many months, and reading the West Coast Times with keen attention, with that future purpose in mind. When I read of Crosbie’s death, it seemed the perfect opportunity. I could start anew in a place where business was sure to be good—and I could also be close to his grave, which I very much desired. As I have said, we did not have a chance to resolve our differences before his death, and our separation had cut me very keenly.’
‘You and Mr. Wells were living apart at the time of his death, were you not?’
‘We were.’
‘How long had you been living apart?’
‘Some nine months, I believe.’
‘What was the reason for your estrangement?’
‘Mr. Wells had violated my trust,’ said Mrs. Carver.
She did not go on, so Broham, with a nervous glance at the justice, said, ‘Can you elaborate on that, please?’
Mrs. Carver tossed her head. ‘There was a young woman in my charge,’ she said, ‘whom Mr. Wells had used abominably. Crosbie and I had a dreadful row over her, and shortly after our disagreement, he quit Dunedin. I did not know where he went, and I did not hear from him. It was only when I read his obituary in the West Coast Times that I found out where he had gone.’
‘The young woman in question …’
‘Miss Anna Wetherell,’ said Mrs. Carver, crisply. ‘I had done her a charity, by taking her in, for which she was, as she asserted, very grateful. Mr. Wells tarnished that charity; Miss Wetherell abused it.’
‘Did the acquaintance between Miss Wetherell and Mr. Wells continue, after their joint relocation to Hokitika?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said Mrs. Carver.
‘Thank you, Mrs. Carver. I have no further questions.’
‘Thank you, Mr. Broham,’ she said, serenely.
Moody was already pushing his chair back, waiting for the invitation from the justice to rise. ‘Mrs. Carver,’ he said promptly, when the invitation came. ‘In the month of March, 1864, your late husband Crosbie Wells made a strike in the Dunstan Valley, is that correct?’
Mrs. Carver was visibly surprised by this question, but she paused only briefly before saying, ‘Yes, that is correct.’
‘But Mr. Wells did not report this bonanza to the bank, is that also correct?’
‘Also correct,’ said Mrs. Carver.
‘Instead, he employed a private escort to transport the ore from Dunstan back to Dunedin—where you, his wife, received it.’
A flicker of alarm showed in Mrs. Carver’s expression. ‘Yes,’ she said, cautiously.
‘Can you describe how the ore was packed and then transported from the field?’
She hesitated, but Moody’s line of questioning had evidently caught her off guard, and she had not time enough to form an alibi.
‘It was packed into an office safe,’ she said at last. ‘The safe was loaded into a carriage, and the carriage was escorted back to Dunedin by a team of men—armed, of course. In Dunedin I collected the safe, paid the bearers, and wrote at once to Mr. Wells to let him know that the safe had arrived safely, at which point he sent on the key.’
‘Was the gold escort appointed by you, or by Mr. Wells?’
‘Mr. Wells made the appointment,’ said Mrs. Carver. ‘They were very good. They never gave us an ounce of trouble. It was a private business. Gracewood and Sons, or something to that effect.’
‘Gracewood and Spears,’ Moody corrected. ‘The enterprise has since relocated to Kaniere.’
‘Indeed,’ said Mrs. Carver.
‘What did you do with the bonanza, once it was delivered safely to you?’
‘The ore remained inside the safe. I installed the safe at our residence on Cumberland-street, and there it stayed.’
‘Why did you not take the metal to a bank?’
‘The price of gold was fluctuating daily, and the market for gold was very unpredictable,’ said Mrs. Carver. ‘We thought it best to wait until it was a good time to sell.’
‘By your degree of caution, I would hazard to guess the value of the bonanza was considerable.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Several thousand, we thought. We never had it valued.’
‘Following the strike, did Mr. Wells remain upon the field?’
‘Yes, he continued to prospect for another year: until the following spring. He was buoyed by his success, and felt that he might get lucky a second time; but he did not.’
‘Where is the bonanza now?’ Moody asked.
She hesistated again, and then said, ‘It was stolen.’
‘My condolences,’ said Moody. ‘You must have been devastated by the loss.’
‘We were,’ said Mrs. Carver.
‘You speak on behalf of yourself and Mr. Wells, presumably.’
‘Of course.’
Moody paused again, and then said, ‘I presume that the thief gained access, somehow, to the key.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs. Carver, ‘or perhaps the lock was unreliable. The safe was of a modern design; and as we all know, modern technologies are never infallible. It’s also possible that a second key was cast, without our knowledge.’
‘Did you have any idea who might have stolen the bonanza?’
‘None at all.’
‘Would you agree that it is likely to have been someone in your close acquaintance?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Mrs. Carver, tossing her head. ‘Any member of the gold escort might have betrayed us. They knew for a fact that there was a fortune in pure colour at number 35 Cumberland-street; and they knew the location of the safe, besides. It might have been anyone.’
‘Did you open the safe regularly, to check upon the contents?’
‘Not regularly, no.’
‘When did you first discover that the fortune was missing?’
‘When Crosbie returned the following year.’
‘Can you describe what happened when you made this discovery?’
‘Mr. Wells came back from the fields, and we sat down to take stock of our finances together. He opened the safe, and saw that it was empty. You can be sure that he was absolutely furious—as was I.’
‘What month was this?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Mrs. Carver, suddenly flustered. ‘April, maybe. Or May.’
‘April or May—of 1865. Last year.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Mrs. Carver,’ said Moody, and then, to the justice, ‘Thank you, sir.’
He felt, as he sat down, that the atmosphere in the courtroom was quickening. Harrington and Fellowes had ceased their whispering, and the justice was no longer taking notes. Every pair of eyes in the room watched Mrs. Carver as she descended the steps from the witness box and sat down.