The Luminaries

by Eleanor Catton

  Abruptly, Broham changed the subject. ‘You were absent from Hokitika for over two months,’ he said. ‘What caused your absence?’

  ‘I’m ashamed to say that I’ve been under the effects of opium, sir,’ said Staines. ‘I was astonished to discover, upon my return, that over two months had passed.’

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I believe I have spent much of the time in the opium den at Kaniere Chinatown,’ said Staines, ‘but I couldn’t tell you for sure.’

  Broham paused. ‘The opium den,’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Staines. ‘The proprietor was a fellow named Sook. Ah Sook.’

  Broham did not want to dwell on the subject of Ah Sook. ‘You were discovered,’ he said, ‘on the twentieth of March, in the cottage that once belonged to Crosbie Wells. What were you doing there?’

  ‘I believe I was looking for my bonanza,’ said Staines. ‘Only I got a little muddled—I was unwell—and I couldn’t remember where I’d buried it.’

  ‘When did you first develop a dependency upon opium, Mr. Staines?’

  ‘I first touched the drug on the night of the fourteenth of January.’

  ‘In other words, the very night that Crosbie Wells died.’

  ‘So they tell me.’

  ‘A bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’

  Moody objected to this. ‘Mr. Wells died of natural causes,’ he said. ‘I cannot see how any coincidence with a natural event can be a significant one.’

  ‘In fact,’ said Broham, ‘the post-mortem revealed a small quantity of laudanum in Mr. Wells’s stomach.’

  ‘A small quantity,’ Moody repeated.

  ‘Continue with your interrogation, Mr. Broham,’ said the justice. ‘Sit down, Mr. Moody.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Broham to the justice. He turned back to Staines. ‘Can you think of a reason, Mr. Staines, why Mr. Wells might have taken any quantity of laudanum together with a great quantity of whisky?’

  ‘Perhaps he was in pain.’

  ‘Pain of what kind?’

  ‘I am speculating,’ said Staines. ‘I’m afraid I can only speculate: I did not know the man’s personal habits intimately, and I was not with him that evening. I mean only that laudanum is often taken as a pain relief—or as an aid to sleep.’

  ‘Not on top of a bottle of whisky, it’s not.’

  ‘I certainly would not attempt such a combination myself. But I cannot answer for Mr. Wells.’

  ‘Do you take laudanum, Mr. Staines?’

  ‘Only when prescribed; not as a habit.’

  ‘Do you have a prescription currently?’

  ‘Currently I do,’ said Staines, ‘but it is a very recent prescription.’

  ‘How recent, please?’

  ‘It was first administered to me on the twentieth of March,’ said Staines, ‘as a pain relief, and as a method of weaning me from my addiction.’

  ‘Prior to the twentieth of March, have you ever purchased or otherwise obtained a phial of laudanum from Pritchard’s drug emporium on Collingwood-street?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A phial of laudanum was discovered in Crosbie Wells’s cottage some days after his death,’ said Broham. ‘Do you know how it got there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was Mr. Wells, to your knowledge, dependent upon opiates?’

  ‘He was a drunk,’ said Staines. ‘That’s all I know.’

  Broham studied him. ‘Please tell the Court how you spent the night of the fourteenth of January, in sequence, and in your own words.’

  ‘I met with Anna Wetherell at the Dust and Nugget around seven,’ said Staines. ‘We had a drink together, and after that we went back to my apartment on Revell-street. I fell asleep, and when I woke—around ten-thirty, I suppose—she had gone. I couldn’t think why she might have left so suddenly, and I went out to find her. I went to the Gridiron. There was nobody at the front desk, and nobody on the landing, and the door of her room upstairs was unlocked. I entered, and saw her laid out on the floor, with her pipe and the resin and the lamp arranged around her. Well, I couldn’t rouse her, and while I was waiting for her to come to, I knelt down to take a look at the apparatus. I’d never touched opium before, but I’d always longed to try it. There’s such a mystique about it, you know, and the smoke is so lovely and thick. Her pipe was still warm, and the lamp was still burning, and everything seemed—serendipitous, somehow. I thought I might just taste it. She looked so marvellously happy; she was even smiling.’

  ‘What happened next?’ said Broham, when Staines did not go on.

  ‘I went under, of course,’ said Staines. ‘It was heavenly.’

  Broham looked annoyed. ‘And after that?’

  ‘Well, I had a pretty decent go at her pipe, and then I lay down on her bed, and slept for a bit—or dreamed; it wasn’t sleep exactly. When I came up again, the lamp was cold, and the bowl of the pipe was empty, and Anna was gone. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t even spare her a thought. All I wanted was another taste. It was such a thirst, you see: from the first sip, I was enchanted. I knew I couldn’t rest until I tried the drug again.’

  ‘All this from your very first taste,’ said Broham, sceptically.

  ‘Yes,’ said Staines.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I made for the den in Chinatown at once. It was early—just past dawn. I saw no one on the road at all.’

  ‘How long did you remain in Kaniere Chinatown?’

  ‘I think a fortnight—but it’s hard to recall exactly; each day blurred into the next. Ah Sook was ever so kind to me. He took me in, fed me, made sure I never ate too much. He kept tally of my debts on a little chalkboard.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else, over this period?’

  ‘No,’ said Staines, ‘but really, I can’t remember much at all.’

  ‘What is the next thing you remember?’

  ‘I woke up one day and Ah Sook was not there. I became very upset. He had taken his opium with him—he always did, when he left the den—and I turned the place over, looking for it, becoming more and more desperate. And then I remembered Miss Wetherell’s supply.

  ‘I set off for Hokitika at once—in a frenzy. It was raining very heavily that morning, and there were not many people about, and I made it to Hokitika without seeing anyone I knew. I entered the Gridiron by the rear door, and ascended the servants’ staircase at the back. I waited until Anna went down to luncheon, and then I slipped into her room, and found the resin, and all her apparatus, in her drawer. But then I got trapped—someone struck up a conversation in the hallway, just outside the door—and I couldn’t leave. And then Anna came back from lunch, and I heard her coming, and I panicked again, so I hid behind the drapes.’

  ‘The drapes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Staines. ‘That’s where I was hiding, when I took the bullet from Anna’s gun.’

  Broham’s face was growing red. ‘How long did you remain hidden behind the drapes?’

  ‘Hours,’ said Staines. ‘If I were to guess, I’d say from about twelve until about three. But that is an estimation.’

  ‘Did Miss Wetherell know that you were in her room on that day?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Mr. Gascoigne—or Mr. Pritchard?’

  ‘No,’ said Staines again. ‘I kept very quiet, and stood very still. I’m certain that none of them knew that I was there.’

  Fellowes was whispering intently in Harrington’s ear.

  ‘What happened when you were shot?’ said Broham.

  ‘I kept quiet,’ said Staines again.

  ‘You kept quiet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr. Staines,’ said Broham, in a voice that pretended to scold him. ‘Do you mean to tell this courtroom that you were shot, quite without warning and at a very close range, and you did not cry out, or move, or make any noise at all that might have alerted any one of the three witnesses to your presence?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Staines.
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  ‘How on earth did you not cry out?’

  ‘I didn’t want to give up the resin,’ said Staines.

  Broham studied him; in the ensuing pause, Harrington passed him a piece of paper, which Broham scanned briefly, then looked up, and said, ‘Do you think it possible, Mr. Staines, that Miss Wetherell might have known that you were present, upon the afternoon of the twenty-seventh of January, and that she might have fired her pistol deliberately in the direction of the drapes with the express purpose of causing you harm?’

  ‘No,’ said Staines. ‘I do not think it possible.’

  The courtroom had become very still.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I trust her,’ said Staines.

  ‘I am asking if you think it possible,’ said Broham, ‘not if you think it probable.’

  ‘I understand the question. My answer is unchanged.’

  ‘What induced you to place your trust in Miss Wetherell?’

  ‘Trust cannot be induced,’ he burst out. ‘It can only be given—and given freely! How am I possibly to answer that?’

  ‘I will simplify my question,’ the lawyer said. ‘Why do you trust Miss Wetherell?’

  ‘I trust her because I love her,’ said Staines.

  ‘And how did you come to love her?’

  ‘By trusting her, of course!’

  ‘You make a circular defence.’

  ‘Yes,’ the boy cried, ‘because I must! True feeling is always circular—either circular, or paradoxical—simply because its cause and its expression are two halves of the very same thing! Love cannot be reduced to a catalogue of reasons why, and a catalogue of reasons cannot be put together into love. Any man who disagrees with me has never been in love—not truly.’

  A perfect silence followed this remark. From the far corner of the courtroom there came a low whistle, and, in response to it, smothered laughter.

  Broham was plainly irritated. ‘You will forgive me for remarking, Mr. Staines, that it is rather unusual to steal opiates from the person one professes to love.’

  ‘I know it’s very bad,’ Staines said. ‘I’m very ashamed of what I did.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm your movements over the past two months?’

  ‘Ah Sook can vouch for me.’

  ‘Mr. Sook is deceased. Anyone else?’

  Staines thought for a moment, and then shook his head. ‘I can’t think of anybody else.’

  ‘I have no further questions,’ said Broham, curtly. ‘Thank you, Mr. Justice.’

  ‘Your witness, Mr. Moody,’ said the justice.

  Moody thanked him also. He spent a moment putting his notes in order, and waiting for the whispering in the room to subside, before he said, ‘You have testified that your opinion of Mr. Carver is a poor one, Mr. Staines. What caused this poor opinion?’

  ‘He assaulted Anna,’ said Staines. ‘He beat her—in cold blood—and she was carrying a child. The child was killed.’

  The courtroom was quiet at once.

  ‘When did this assault take place?’ said Moody.

  ‘On the afternoon of the eleventh of October, last year.’

  ‘The eleventh of October,’ Moody echoed. ‘Did you bear witness to this assault?’

  ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘How did you learn of its occurrence?’

  ‘From Mr. Löwenthal, later that afternoon. He was the one who found her in the road—all battered and bloody. He can vouch for her condition when he found her.’

  ‘What was your business with Mr. Löwenthal that afternoon?’

  ‘An unrelated matter,’ said Staines. ‘I called on him because I wanted to put a notice in the paper.’

  ‘Regarding—?’

  ‘The purchase of a crate of Long Toms.’

  ‘When you heard the news that Miss Wetherell had been assaulted,’ said Moody, ‘were you surprised?’

  ‘No,’ said Staines. ‘I already knew Carver was a beast—and already I regretted our association ten times over. He’d offered to be my sponsor when I first arrived in Dunedin—that was how I met him, you see, when I was just off the boat, that very day. I didn’t suspect anything foul. I was very green. We shook hands in good faith, and that was that, but it wasn’t long before I started hearing things about him—and about Mrs. Carver too: they work as a team, of course. When I heard what they did to Mr. Wells, I was horrified. I’ve gone into business with a perfect swindler, I thought.’

  The boy was getting ahead of himself. Moody coughed, to remind him of the narrative sequence upon which they had agreed, and said, ‘Let’s go back to the night of the eleventh of October. What did you do, when Mr. Löwenthal advised you that Miss Wetherell had been assaulted?’

  ‘I made for the Arahura Valley directly, to give the news to Mr. Wells.’

  ‘Why did you consider the information to be of importance to Mr. Wells?’

  ‘Because he was the father of the child Miss Wetherell was carrying,’ said Staines, ‘and I thought he might want to know that his child had been killed.’

  By now the courtroom was so quiet that Moody could hear the distant bustle of the street. ‘How did Mr. Wells respond upon receipt of the news that his unborn child was dead?’

  ‘He was very quiet,’ said Staines. ‘He didn’t say much at all. We had a drink together, and sat awhile. I stayed late.’

  ‘Did you discuss any other matters with Mr. Wells that evening?’

  ‘I told him about the fortune I had buried near his cottage. I said that if Anna survived the night—she had been very badly beaten—then I would give her Carver’s share.’

  ‘Was your intention put down in writing on that night?’

  ‘Wells drew up a document,’ said Staines, ‘but I didn’t sign.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t exactly remember why not,’ said Staines. ‘I had been drinking, and by then it was very late. Perhaps the conversation turned to other themes—or perhaps I meant to, and I forgot about it. Anyway, I slept awhile, and then returned to Hokitika in the early morning to check on Miss Wetherell’s progress to recovery. I never saw Mr. Wells again.’

  ‘Did you tell Mr. Wells where the ore was buried?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Staines. ‘I described the site in general terms.’

  Next the Magistrate’s Court heard the testimonies of Mannering, Quee, Löwenthal, Clinch, Nilssen, and Frost—all of whom described the discovery and deployment of the fortune discovered in Crosbie Wells’s cottage quite as if the retorted gold had indeed been discovered upon the Aurora. Mannering testified to the conditions under which the Aurora had been sold, and Quee to the fact of the ore’s retortion. Löwenthal detailed his interview with Alistair Lauderback on the night of the 14th of January, during which he learned about the death of Crosbie Wells. Clinch testified that he had purchased the estate the following morning. Nilssen described how the gold had been hidden in Crosbie Wells’s cottage, and Frost confirmed its value. They made no mention whatsoever of Anna’s gowns, nor of the foundered barque, Godspeed, nor of any of the concerns and revelations that had precipitated their secret council in the Crown Hotel three months ago. Their examinations passed without incident, and in very little time, it seemed, the justice was calling Mrs. Lydia Carver to the stand.

  She was dressed in her gown of striped charcoal, and over it, a smart black riding jacket with puffed leg-o’-mutton sleeves. Her copper hair, wonderfully bright, was piled high upon her head, the chignon held in place with a black band of velvet. As she swept by the barristers’ bench, Moody caught the scent of camphor, lemons, and aniseed—an emphatic scent, and one that recalled him, in a moment, to the party at the Wayfarer’s Fortune, prior to the séance.

  Mrs. Carver mounted the steps to the witness box almost briskly; but when she saw Emery Staines, seated on the stand behind the rail, she appeared momentarily to falter. Her hesitation was very brief: in the next moment she collected herself. She turned her back on Staines, smiled at the bailiff, and raised her mil
ky hand to be sworn in.

  ‘Mrs. Carver,’ said Broham, after the bailiff had stepped back from the stand. ‘Are you acquainted with the defendant, Mr. Emery Staines?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve never had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of a Mr. Emery Staines,’ said Mrs. Carver.

  Moody, glancing at the boy, was surprised to see that he was blushing.

  ‘I understand that on the night of the eighteenth of February you staged a séance in order to make contact with him, however,’ Broham said.

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Why did you choose Mr. Staines, of all people, as the object of your séance?’

  ‘The truth is rather mercenary, I’m afraid,’ said Mrs. Carver, smiling slightly. ‘At that time his disappearance was the talk of the town, and I thought that his name might help to draw a crowd. That was all.’

  ‘Did you know, when you advertised this séance, that the fortune discovered in your late husband’s cottage had originated upon the goldmine Aurora?’

  ‘No, I did not,’ said Mrs. Carver.

  ‘Did you have any reason to connect Mr. Staines with your late husband?’

  ‘No reason at all. He was just a name to me: all I knew about him was that he had vanished from the gorge, and that he had left a great many assets behind him.’

  ‘Did you not know that your husband Mr. Carver owned shares in Mr. Staines’s goldmine?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I don’t talk investment with Francis.’

  ‘When did you first learn of the bonanza’s true origin?’

  ‘When the Reserve Bank published the notice in the paper in late March, asserting that the gold had in fact been found smelted, and was therefore traceable.’

  Broham turned to the justice. ‘The Court will note that this announcement appeared in the West Coast Times on the twenty-third day of March this year.’

  ‘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?’