turn?’
‘I haven’t spoken five words to Lauderback in all my life,’ Harald Nilssen said, with much indignation.
‘Who, then?’ Shepard looked up, his utensils loose in his hands.
Nilssen said nothing. He had begun to perspire.
‘You are keeping a digger’s honour, I see,’ Shepard said with disapproval. ‘Well, at least someone has your loyalty, Mr. Nilssen.’
He turned back to his dinner, and did not speak for what Nilssen felt was a very long while. Shepard was dressed in his Sunday suit of black; he had flung his coat-tails to the sides of his chair so that they would not be creased beneath him while he ate. His high-waisted trousers and collarless vest had a disapproving, funereal look, and his wide cravat—somewhat out of fashion, Nilssen noticed with a touch of condescension; his own cravat was thin and loosely tied, following the style of the day—seemed to accent the gaoler’s aspect of admonishment still further. Even his cold supper was abstemious in its plainness. Nilssen himself had dined upon half a boiled chicken, served with mashed buttered turnip and a great deal of white sauce; he had drunk half a pitcher of a very nice wine, besides.
From elsewhere in the house, a clock sounded the quarter hour. Mrs. George moved beyond the flimsy walls, padding from room to room. Shepard remained fixated on his meal. Nilssen waited until Shepard had cleaned his plate of every last crumb, hoping that once his meal was concluded, the gaoler might begin to speak. When it became evident that this hope was a false one, he said, somewhat feebly, ‘Well—what are you going to do?’
‘My first action,’ Shepard replied, daubing his mouth with a table napkin, ‘will be to relieve you of all duties pertaining to the construction of the gaol-house. I will not be served by a man who breaks his word.’
‘The investment will be returned to me?’ said Nilssen.
‘Not at all,’ said Shepard. He tossed the table napkin onto his plate. ‘In fact I consider that a most unreasonable request, given that the work is already well underway.’
Nilssen worked his mouth. At length he said, ‘I understand.’
‘You will not break your digger’s code.’
‘No.’
‘Incredible.’
‘I am sorry.’
Shepard pushed his plate away, becoming brisk. ‘Mr. Lauderback’s letter will be published to-morrow in the
Nilssen saw that there was an opened letter on the table next to the gaoler’s plate. He stepped forward, putting out his hand. ‘May I—?’
But Shepard ignored him. ‘The letter,’ he went on, raising his voice slightly, ‘does not refer to you by name. You should know that I will be writing to the editor myself tonight, in order to correct that omission. My response will be published below Mr. Lauderback’s, as a formal reply.’
Nilssen tried again. ‘May I read it?’
‘You may read it to-morrow in the paper, along with every other man in Westland.’ Shepard uttered the phrase with a dangerous emphasis.
‘All right,’ Nilssen said. He withdrew his hand. ‘I take your meaning.’
Shepard paused before adding, ‘Unless, of course, there’s something that you’d like to tell me.’
In a voice of loathsome dejection, Nilssen said, ‘Yes.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes—there’s something.’
Poor Harald Nilssen! Thinking that he might regain the gaoler’s trust by means of a second transgression, as though by committing a second disloyalty, he might reverse the fact of the first! He had conceded in a panic— for it crushed Nilssen’s spirit to be held in low esteem by other men. He could not bear to know that he was disliked, for to him there was no real difference between being disliked, and being dislikeable; every injury he sustained was an injury to his very selfhood. It was for reasons of self-protection that Nilssen dressed in the latest fashions, and spoke with affectation, and placed himself as the central character of every tale: he built his persona as a shield around his person, because he knew very well how little his person could withstand.
‘Pray continue,’ Shepard said.
‘It’s about—’ (Nilssen cast about wildly) ‘—Mrs. Wells.’
‘Indeed,’ Shepard said. ‘How so?’
‘She was Lauderback’s mistress.’
Shepard raised his eyebrows. ‘Alistair Lauderback was cuckolding Crosbie Wells?’
Nilssen thought about it. ‘Yes, I suppose he was. Well, it would depend on when Crosbie and Lydia got married, of course.’
‘Go on,’ Shepard said.
‘The thing is—the thing is—he was blackmailed—Lauderback, I mean—and Crosbie Wells took home the ransom. That’s the fortune, you see—in Crosbie’s cottage.’
‘How did this blackmail happen? And how do you know about it?’
Nilssen hesitated. He did not trust the gaoler’s expression, which had suddenly become very greedy and intense.
‘How do you know about it?’ Shepard demanded.
‘Somebody told me.’
‘Who?’
‘Mr. Staines,’ said Nilssen—settling upon the man to whom he could do the least damage, in the short term at least.
‘Was he the blackmailer—Staines?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Nilssen, momentarily confused. ‘I mean, yes, maybe.’
‘Are you with him, or against him?’
‘I—I don’t know.’
Shepard looked annoyed. ‘What have you got on him, then?’ he said. ‘You must have something on the man, if you’re not sure about your allegiance.’
‘There was a deed of gift,’ Nilssen said miserably. ‘In Crosbie Wells’s stove—partly burned, as though someone tried to destroy it. The chaplain found it. When he went to the cottage to collect the body, the day after his death. He didn’t tell you about it; he kept it for himself. He didn’t tell Dr. Gillies either.’
Shepard betrayed no flicker of emotion at all. ‘What kind of a deed of gift?’
Nilssen briefly detailed the particulars of the contract. He kept his eyes upon a spot some three feet to the left of the gaoler’s face, and squinted oddly—for a bubble of despair was growing in his chest, pushing out against his breastbone. He had meant to reassure the gaoler of his loyalty by betraying this secret; now he saw that he had only confirmed his disloyalty, and his worthlessness. And yet—despite his misery—there was something terribly relieving about speaking of the Crown conspiracy aloud. He felt that a great weight was being lifted off his shoulders, just as he felt that a terrible weightlessness was settling in its place. He glanced at the gaoler quickly, and then away.
‘Is Devlin your man?’ Shepard said. ‘Did you tell Devlin about this investment—and did he tell Lauderback?’
‘Yes,’ Nilssen said. ‘That’s right.’ (What kind of wretched man was he—to accuse a
‘So Devlin is Lauderback’s man,’ Shepard said.
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Nilssen. ‘I don’t know about that at all.’
Shepard nodded. ‘Well, Mr. Nilssen,’ he said, rising from the table. ‘That concludes our discussion, I think.’
It panicked Nilssen still further to be dismissed. ‘The part about the deed,’ he said. ‘It’s just—if you’re going to mention it to the Reverend—’
‘I imagine that I will, yes.’
