‘I have but one item of business to speak with you about,’ Devlin said calmly, ‘and I am a member of the clergy, and this is a respectable hour. Would your mistress deny you so little?’
Anna’s mistress would certainly her deny so little, and a great deal more—it being against the widow’s policy ever to admit exceptions to the regulations she imposed at whim. But in a moment Anna decided to be reckless.
‘Come through into the kitchen,’ she said, ‘and I’ll make us a pot of tea.’
‘You are most kind.’
Devlin followed her down the corridor to the kitchen at the rear of the house, where he waited, still standing, for Anna to fill the kettle and place it on the stove. She had certainly become extraordinarily thin. Her cheeks were hollow, and her skin had a waxy sheen; her wasted carriage bespoke malnourishment, and when she moved, it was with a trembling exhaustion, as though she had not eaten a decent meal in weeks. Devlin glanced quickly around the kitchen. On the washboard the plates from breakfast had been stacked to dry, and he counted two of everything, including two ceramic egg cups, printed with a raised blackberry design. Unless Lydia Wells had had a guest to dine early that morning—which was doubtful—then Anna must have eaten breakfast, at least. There was a half-round of bread on the breadboard, wrapped in a linen cloth, and the butter dish had not yet been put away.
‘Will you have a biscuit with your tea?’
‘You are most kind,’ Devlin said again, and then, embarrassed at having repeated the platitude, he rushed on: ‘I was gratified, Miss Wetherell, to learn that you had conquered your dependence upon the Chinese drug.’
‘Mrs. Wells won’t permit it in the house,’ Anna said, swiping a strand of hair from her face. She fetched the biscuit tin from the pantry shelf.
‘She is right to be strict,’ Devlin said, ‘but it is you who deserves congratulation. You must have shown great fortitude, in throwing off your dependency. I have known grown men who have not managed such a feat.’
Whenever Devlin was nervous, his speech became very formal and correct.
‘I just stopped,’ Anna said.
‘Yes,’ Devlin said, nodding, ‘an abrupt cessation is the only way, of course. But you must have battled every kind of temptation, in the days and weeks afterward.’
‘No,’ Anna said. ‘I just didn’t need it any more.’
‘You are too modest.’
‘I’m not mincing,’ Anna said. ‘I kept going, for a while—until the lump ran out. I ate all of it. But I just couldn’t feel it any more.’
Devlin appraised her with a calculating look. ‘Have you found that your health has much improved, since your cessation?’
‘I expect it has,’ Anna said, fanning the biscuits in an arc over the plate. ‘I’m well enough.’
‘I am sorry to contradict you, Miss Wetherell, but you do not seem at all well.’
‘You mean I’m too thin.’
‘You are very thin, my dear.’
‘I’m cold,’ said Anna. ‘I’m always cold these days.’
‘I expect that is on account of your being very thin.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I expect so too.’
‘I have observed,’ Devlin said after a moment, ‘in persons of low morale—particularly those who have contemplated suicide—that the loss of appetite is a common symptom.’
‘I have an appetite,’ she said. ‘I eat. I just can’t seem to keep the weight on.’
‘Do you eat every day?’
‘Three meals,’ she said, ‘two of them hot. I manage the cooking for both of us.’
‘Mrs. Wells must be very grateful,’ Devlin said, speaking in a tone that made it clear he did not entirely believe her.
‘Yes,’ she said, vaguely. She turned away to fetch cups and saucers from the rack above the washboard.
‘Will you continue in your present circumstances after Mrs. Wells is married?’ Devlin inquired.
‘I expect so.’
‘I imagine that Mr. Carver will take up residence here.’
‘Yes, I believe he means to.’
‘Their engagement was announced in the West Coast Times this morning. It was a very modest announcement; even, one might have said, subdued. But a wedding is always a happy event.’
‘I love a wedding,’ Anna said.
‘Yes,’ said Devlin. ‘A happy event—no matter what the circumstances.’
It had been suggested, following the scandal precipitated by George Shepard’s letter to the editor of the West Coast Times one month ago, that only remarriage could ameliorate the damage the widow’s reputation had sustained. Mrs. Wells’s claim upon Crosbie Wells’s inheritance had been considerably weakened by the revelation that she had made him a cuckold in the years before his death, and her position had been weakened still further by the fact that Alistair Lauderback had made a full and very frank confession. In a public reply to George Shepard, Lauderback admitted that he had concealed the fact of the affair from the voting public, to whom he offered his sincere apologies. He wrote that he had never been more ashamed of himself, and that he accepted full responsibility for all consequences, and that until the day he died he would regret that he had arrived at Mr. Wells’s cottage half an hour too late to beg the man’s forgiveness. The confession had its desired effect; indeed, by the outpouring of sympathy and admiration that followed it, some even supposed Lauderback’s reputation to have been improved.
Anna had finished arranging the saucers. ‘Let us go into the parlour,’ she said. ‘I’ll hear the kettle when it boils.’
She left the tray, and padded back down the corridor to the parlour, which was set up for the widow’s afternoon appointments, with the two largest armchairs drawn very close to one another, and the curtains closed. Devlin waited for Anna to sit before he did so himself, and then he opened his Bible and withdrew the charred deed of gift from between its pages. He handed it to her without a word.
On this 11th day of October 1865 a sum of two thousand pounds is to be given to MISS ANNA WETHERELL, formerly of New South Wales, by MR. EMERY STAINES, formerly of New South Wales, as witnessed by MR. CROSBIE WELLS, presiding.
Anna took up the deed with a rather glazed look: she was all but illiterate, and did not expect to make sense of the words in a single glance. She knew her alphabet, and could sound out a line of print if she worked very slowly and in a very good light; it was a laborious task, however, and she made many errors. But in the next moment she snatched it up, and, with an exclamation of surprise, held it close to her eyes.
‘I can read this,’ she said, speaking almost in a whisper.
Devlin did not know that Anna had never learned to read, and this pronouncement was not remarkable to him. ‘I found this document in the bottom of Crosbie Wells’s stove the day after his death,’ he said. ‘As you can see, it is an extraordinary sum of money—still more because the sum is intended as a bequest—and I confess I do not know quite what to make of it. I must warn you at the outset that, in terms of legality, the document is not good. Mr. Staines did not sign his name, which, in turn, makes Mr. Wells’s signature invalid. The witness cannot sign before the principal.’
Anna said nothing. She was still looking at the paper.
‘Have you ever seen this document before?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘Did you know of its existence?’
‘No!’
Devlin was alarmed: she had almost shouted the word. ‘What is it?’ he said.
‘I just—’ Her hand went to her throat. ‘May I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
‘Have you ever—I mean, in your experience—’ She stopped herself, bit her lip, and began again. ‘Do you know why I can read this?’
His eyes were searching hers. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘I never learned to read,’ Anna explained, ‘not properly. I mean—I can sound out a line of letters—and I know labels and signs; but that’s more like remembering
than reading, because I see them every day. I could never read a paper. Not front to back. It would take me hours and hours. But this—I can read it. Without any effort, I mean. Quick as thinking.’
‘Read it out loud.’
She did, fluently.
Devlin was frowning. ‘Are you quite sure that you have never seen this document before?’
‘Quite sure,’ Anna said.
‘Did you know already that Mr. Staines intended to give you two thousand pounds?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘What about Mr. Wells? Did you ever speak with Mr. Wells about it?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m telling you: it’s the first I’ve seen of it.’
‘Perhaps,’ Devlin said, ‘if you had been told about it—but you had forgotten …’
‘I wouldn’t forget a dirty great fortune,’ said Anna.
Devlin paused, watching her. Then he said, ‘One hears stories of children with Continental nannies, waking up one day, and speaking fluent Dutch, or French, or German, or whatever it is—’
‘I never had a nanny.’
‘—but I have never heard of a person suddenly acquiring the ability to read,’ he finished. ‘That is most peculiar.’
There was a sceptical accent in his voice.
‘I never had a nanny,’ Anna said again.
Devlin sat forward. ‘Miss Wetherell,’ he said, ‘your name is associated with a great many unsolved crimes, including a possible murder, and I am sure that I do not need to impress upon you the gravity of a Supreme Court trial. Let us talk frankly—and in confidence.’ He pointed at the deed in Anna’s hand. ‘This bequest was written three months before Mr. Staines disappeared. It represents exactly half of the Wells inheritance. Mr. Wells died the very day that Mr. Staines vanished, and on the morning after his death I found this paper in the stove. The events are clearly related, and a lawyer will be able to join the dots, even if I cannot. If you are in a difficult position, I may be able to help you; but I cannot help you if you do not trust me. I am asking you to take me into your confidence, and tell me what you know.’
Anna was frowning. ‘This paper doesn’t have anything to do with the Wells inheritance,’ she said. ‘This is about Emery’s money, not Crosbie’s.’
‘You are right; but it is doubtful that the gold discovered in Mr. Wells’s cottage ever belonged to Mr. Wells,’ Devlin said. ‘You see, the ore was not discovered pure: it had been smelted by a goldsmith, and pressed into a kind of bullion. The smelting bears a signature, and by this signature the bank has been able to trace the gold back to a goldmine belonging to Mr. Staines. The Aurora.’
‘The what?’ said Anna.
‘The Aurora,’ Devlin said. ‘That’s the name of the goldmine.’
‘Oh,’ she said. She was clearly confused; feeling pity for her, Devlin explained it all again, more slowly. This time she understood. ‘So the fortune was Emery’s, all along?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Devlin, cautiously.
‘And he meant to give exactly half of it to me!’
‘This document certainly seems to imply that Mr. Staines meant to give you two thousand pounds—and that Mr. Wells, as of the night of the eleventh of October, knew about this intention, and possibly even endorsed it. But as I have already told you, the document is not valid: Mr. Staines never signed.’
‘What if he did sign it?’
‘Until Mr. Staines is found,’ Devlin said, ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done.’ He watched her for a moment, and then said, ‘It has taken me a very long time to bring this document to your attention, Miss Wetherell, and for that I ask your forgiveness. The reason is simply that I have been waiting for a chance to speak with you alone; as you know, those chances have been very hard to come by.’
‘Who knows about this?’ she said suddenly. ‘Besides you and me.’
Devlin hesitated. ‘Governor Shepard,’ he said, deciding to tell the truth, but not the whole truth. ‘I spoke with him about the matter perhaps a month ago.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He imagined that it must have been a joke of some kind.’
‘A joke?’ She looked crestfallen. ‘What kind of a joke?’
Devlin reached forward to take her hand, crushing her fingers slightly in his sympathy. ‘Don’t be disappointed, my dear. It is the poor in spirit who are blessed, and every one of us awaits a much greater inheritance than any that can be gifted in gold.’
There came a shrill piping from the kitchen, and a hiss as the hot water spouted onto the cast-iron plate.
‘There’s our kettle,’ said Devlin, smiling at her.
‘Reverend,’ Anna said, withdrawing her hand from his grip, ‘would you mind very much if I asked you to pour out the tea? I’m feeling a little strange, and I would like some time alone.’
‘Certainly,’ said Cowell Devlin with courtesy, and he left the room.
As soon as he was gone Anna rose and crossed the parlour in two quick steps, the charred deed of gift still in her hand. Her heart was beating fast. She stood unmoving for a moment, gathering confidence, and then, in one fluid motion, she went to the widow’s writing desk, laid the deed of gift upon the table, uncorked a pot of ink, picked up Mrs. Wells’s pen, wet the nib in the inkwell, leaned forward, and wrote:
Emery Staines
Anna had never seen Emery Staines’s signature before, but she knew without a doubt that she had replicated the form of it exactly. The letters of Staines’s last name followed a careless diminution, and the letters of his first were cheerfully illegible; the signature was confidently sloppy, and underlined with a casual relish, as if to say that the shape had been formed so many times before as not to be disproved by any minor variation. There was a doubled curlicue preceding the E—a personal touch—and the S had a slightly flattened quality.
‘What have you done?’
Devlin was standing in the doorway with the tea tray in his hands and an expression of fearsome admonition on his face. He set the tray upon the sideboard with a clatter and advanced upon her, holding out his hand. Mutely, Anna passed the document to him, and he snatched it up. For a moment, his outrage was such that he could not speak; then he controlled himself, and said, very quietly,
‘This is an act of fraud.’
‘Maybe,’ said Anna.
‘What?’ Devlin shouted, suddenly furious. He rounded on her. ‘What did you say?’
He had expected her to cower, but she did not. ‘That’s his signature,’ she said. ‘The deed is good.’
‘That is not his signature,’ Devlin said.
‘It is,’ said Anna.
‘That is a forgery,’ Devlin snapped. ‘You have just committed forgery.’
‘Maybe I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Anna.
‘Your insolence is unbecoming,’ Devlin said. ‘Will you add the crime of perjury to the crime of fraud?’
‘Maybe I don’t know anything about fraud.’
‘The truth will bear out,’ said Devlin. ‘There are analysts, Miss Wetherell, who can tell a forgery at sight.’
‘Not this one,’ Anna said.
‘Do not delude yourself,’ Devlin said. ‘Shame on you.’
But Anna was feeling quite without delusion, and quite without shame; she was feeling, in fact, sharper than she had felt in many months. Now that Emery Staines’s signature was upon the deed of gift, it was no longer invalid. By the authority of this document, two thousand pounds must be given, as a present, to Miss Anna Wetherell, by Mr. Emery Staines; the deed had been signed, and witnessed, and the signature of the donor was a good one. Who could fault her word, when one of the signatories had vanished, and the other was dead?
‘Can I look at it again?’ she said, and Devlin, red-faced with anger, handed the deed back to her. Once it was in her hand, Anna darted away, loosed the bodice of Agathe Gascoigne’s dress, and slipped the paper between the buttons, so that it lay against her skin. Placing her hands over her bodice, she
stood a moment, panting, her eyes searching Devlin’s—who had not moved. There was ten feet of space between them.
‘For shame,’ Devlin said quietly. ‘Explain yourself.’
‘I want a second opinion, that’s all.’
‘You have just falsified that deed, Miss Wetherell.’
‘That can’t be proved.’
‘By my oath, it can.’
‘What’s to stop me swearing an oath against you?’
‘That would be a falsehood,’ Devlin said. ‘And it would be a very grave falsehood, if you swore to it in court, which you would certainly be forced to do. Don’t be foolish.’
‘I’ll get a second opinion,’ she said again. ‘I’ll go to the Courthouse and ask.’
‘Miss Wetherell,’ Devlin said. ‘Calm yourself. Think. It would be the word of a minister against the word of a whore.’
‘I’m not whoring any more.’
‘A former whore,’ said Devlin. ‘Forgive me.’
He took a step towards her, and Anna retreated. Her hand was still pressed flat over her breast.
‘If you come one step closer,’ she said, ‘I’ll scream, and I’ll rip my bodice open, and say you did it. They’ll hear me from the street. They’ll rush in.’
Devlin had never before been threatened in this way. ‘I will come no closer,’ he said, with dignity. ‘I will retreat, in fact, and at once.’ He returned to the chair he had formerly occupied, and sat down. ‘I do not wish to brawl with you,’ he said, speaking quietly now. ‘I do wish to ask you several questions, however.’
‘Go on,’ said Anna, still breathing hard. ‘Ask.’
Devlin decided upon a direct approach. ‘Did you know that the gowns you purchased salvage last winter had once belonged to Lydia Wells?’
Anna gaped at him.
‘Kindly answer the question,’ Devlin said. ‘I am referring to the five gowns which Mrs. Wells used to blackmail Mr. Alistair Lauderback, with Francis Carver’s help.’
‘What?’ she said.
‘The gowns,’ Devlin went on, ‘which each contained a small fortune in pure ore, stitched into the lining, around the bodice, and around the hem. One of these dresses was made of orange silk; the other four were muslin, and coloured cream, grey, pale blue, and striped pink. These four are currently stowed in a box beneath the stairs at the Gridiron Hotel; the orange gown is in the possession of Mr. Aubert Gascoigne, at his private residence.’
The Luminaries Page 59
