The Luminaries

in paper, and rose from the table. ‘I must be getting back now. I shall call on you tomorrow.’

‘I’ll be waiting,’ Carver said.

‘Thank you, Edward,’ said Mrs. Wells to the boy, taking the pie. ‘And goodbye. I could wish good fortune upon you, but that would be a waste of a wish, would it not?’

The boy laughed.

Carver was smiling too. ‘Did you tell his fortune, then?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘He is to become excessively rich.’

‘Is he, now? Like all the rest?’

‘Not like all the rest,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘Exceptionally rich. Goodbye, Francis.’

‘I’ll be seeing you,’ said Carver.

‘Goodbye, Mrs. Wells,’ said the boy.

She swept from the room, and the two men gazed after her. When she was gone Carver tilted his head at the boy. ‘Your name’s Edward?’

‘Actually—no, it isn’t,’ said the boy, looking a little shamefaced. ‘I made the choice to travel incognito, as you might say. My father always told me, when it comes to whores and fortune tellers, never give your real name.’

Carver nodded. ‘That’s sense.’

‘I don’t know about the whores part,’ the boy went on. ‘It grieves me to think of my father using them—I feel a kind of repugnance about it, out of loyalty to my mother, I suppose. But I like the telling fortunes part. It was rather a thrill, to use another man’s name. It made me feel invisible, somehow. Or doubled—as though I had split myself in two.’

Carver glanced at him, and then, after a moment, put out his hand. ‘Francis Carver’s my name.’

‘Emery Staines,’ said the boy.

MERCURY SETS

In which a stranger arrives upon the beach at Hokitika; the bonanza is apportioned; and Walter Moody quits the Crown Hotel at last.

Even in his best suit, with his hair combed and oiled, his boots blackened, and his handkerchief scented, Mr. Adrian Moody was a great deal less handsome than his younger son. His countenance bore the symptoms of a lifetime’s dependence upon hard drink—his eyes were pouched, his nose swollen, and his complexion permanently flushed—and when he moved, it was without grace or fluidity. He walked in a stiff-hipped, lumbering fashion; his gaze was restless and wary; his hands, stained yellow with tobacco smoke, were always stealing into his pockets, or picking in an anxious way at his lapels.

Upon clambering out of the skiff that had conveyed him from the steamer to the beach, Moody senior took a moment to stretch his back, shake out his aches and cramps, and pat his body down. He directed his luggage to a hotel on Camp-street, shook hands with the customs officer, who was standing by, thanked the oarsmen gruffly for their service, and finally set off down Revell-street with his hands locked behind his back. He walked the length of the street, up one side, and down the other, frowning into each window box he passed, scanning the faces in the street very closely, and smiling at no one. By now the crowd that had gathered outside the Courthouse had dispersed, and the armoured carriage containing Francis Carver’s body had returned to Seaview; the double doors were shut and locked. Moody senior barely glanced at the building as he passed.

At length he mounted the steps to the Hokitika Post Office, where, inside the building, he joined the queue to the postmaster’s window. As he waited, he retrieved a piece of paper from his wallet, and unfolded it, one- handed, against his breast.

‘I want this to find a Mr. Walter Moody,’ he said, when he reached the front of the queue.

‘Certainly,’ said the postmaster. ‘Know where he’s staying?’

As he spoke the bells in the Wesleyan chapel rang out five o’clock.

‘All I know is that he’s been in Hokitika these months past,’ said Moody senior.

‘In town? Or in the gorge?’

‘In town.’

‘At a hotel? Or is he tenting?’

‘I’d guess a hotel, but I couldn’t tell you. Walter Moody is the name.’

‘Mate of yours, is he?’

‘He’s my son.’

‘I’ll have a boy look into it, and charge you collect once we find him,’ said the postmaster, making a note of the name. ‘You’ll have to put a shilling down as surety, but if we find him to-morrow we’ll likely reimburse you sixpence.’

‘That’s fine.’

‘Would you prefer an envelope, or a seal?’

‘An envelope,’ said the other, ‘but hang a moment: I want to read it through one more time.’

‘Step aside, then, and come back when you’re ready. I’m shutting the window in half an hour.’

Adrian Moody did as he was bid. He smoothed the letter flat on the countertop, and then pushed it, with his finger, closer to the light.

Hokitika. 27.Apr.66

Walter—I beg you to read this letter to its very end, and to reserve your judgment upon me until you have done so. From my postmark you will have perceived that I am in Hokitika, as you are. I am to take my lodging at the TEMPERANCE HOTEL on Camp-street, an address which will no doubt cause you some surprise. You have long known that I have the Epicurean temperament. Now I am also of a Stoical cast. I have sworn that I will never take another drop of liquor in this life, and since this oath was made it has not been broken. It is in the spirit of repentance that I set down a brief account of those true intentions that my enslavement to the drink has occluded, even perverted, in recent years.

I left the British Isles on account of debt, and debt alone. Frederick your brother had an acquaintance upon the field at Lawrence in Otago, and by his report the prospects there seemed very good; Frederick had determined to join him. You were in Rome, and meant to winter on the continent. I decided to make the journey in secret, in the hope that I would return as a rich man before the year was out. I confess this was a decision made with shameful provocation, for there were several men in London and also in Liverpool whom I desired very much to escape. Before I left I portioned a sum of ?20 for my wife—the very last of my savings. Much later I learned that this provision never reached its destination: it was stolen, and by the very man who was to be its bearer (the blackguard PIERS HOWLAND, may he live in shame and die in squalor). By the time I discovered this I was in Otago, half a world away; furthermore, I could not make contact without risking pursuit, even conviction, on account of crimes unpunished and debts unpaid. I did nothing. I counted my wife as abandoned, prayed that God would forgive me, and continued with Frederick on the fields.

We made only pay dirt during our first year in Otago. I have heard it said that the men of the comfortable classes have the worst of luck upon the diggings, for they cannot bear privation as the lower orders can. This was certainly true in our case. We struggled mightily and despaired often. But we persevered, and seven months ago your brother struck upon a nugget the size of a snuffbox, caught between two boulders in the elbow of a stream. It was upon this nugget that we were able to begin to build our fortunes at long last.

You might ask why we did not send this nugget home with our apologies and blessings; that question would be a good one. Frederick your brother had long been in favour of writing to you. He had urged me to make contact with my abandoned wife, and even to invite her to join us here, but I resisted. I resisted also his intimations that I should quit the devil drink and mend my ways. We had many arguments along this theme and finally parted on less than civil terms. I am sorry to say that I do not know where Frederick is now.