The Luminaries

‘Insulting me,’ said Mrs. Wells, ‘will not—’

He slapped her, hard, across the face. ‘You’re a dirty liar,’ he said, ‘a rotten thief, and I’ll call you worse before I’m through with you.’

A perfect silence followed. Mrs. Wells did not reach up to touch her cheek where he had slapped her. She stayed perfectly still—and Wells, suddenly vexed, turned away from her, and crossed the room to where the decanters and bottles were set out upon their silver tray. He poured himself a measure, drank it off, and then poured another. Anna kept her eyes on her rope wreath, which was becoming misshapen under her trembling fingers. She did not dare to look at Mrs. Wells.

Just then there came a swift knock at the front door, and then a voice, calling through the slot: ‘Package for Mrs. Lydia Wells.’

Mrs. Wells made to rise, but Crosbie Wells shouted, ‘No.’ He had become very flushed. ‘You’ll stay right there.’ He pointed to Anna with the hand that held his glass. ‘You,’ he said. ‘Go and see.’

She did. It was a bottle, pint-sized, wrapped in brown paper, and stamped with the matrix of the chemist on George-street.

‘What is it?’ called Wells, from the floor above.

‘It’s a package from the chemist’s,’ Anna called back.

There was a pause, and then Mrs. Wells said, speaking clearly, ‘Oh: I know what it is. It’s hair tonic. I placed the order last week.’

Anna returned upstairs, the package in her hand.

‘Hair tonic,’ said Wells.

‘Really, Crosbie,’ said Mrs. Wells, ‘you are becoming paranoiac.’ To Anna she said, ‘You can put it in my room. On the nightstand, please.’

Wells was still glaring at his wife. ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ he said. ‘Not until you tell me the truth. You’re staying right here—where I can keep an eye on you.’

‘In that case I look forward to a very dull afternoon,’ said Mrs. Wells.

Crosbie Wells responded angrily to this, and they continued bickering. Anna, glad to have a reason to exit, took the paper-wrapped bottle across the hallway and into the hushed darkness of Mrs. Wells’s bedroom. She went to set the bottle down upon the nightstand when something caught her eye: a bottle of hair tonic, half the size of the bottle she was holding in her hand, and not at all alike in its dimensions. Frowning, she looked at the package in her hand—and then, on a sudden impulse, slid her finger underneath the wrapping, and sloughed the paper away. The bottle was unmarked; it had been corked, and the cork had been sealed with candle wax. She held it up to the light. It contained a thick, treacly liquid, the colour of rust.

‘Laudanum,’ she whispered.

WU XING

In which Emery Staines does Carver’s bidding, and Ah Sook is effectively deceived.

Staines held the gown up to the light, wondering. There were five in total—one of orange silk, and the rest of muslin—but apart from them the chest was quite empty. What was the meaning of it? Perhaps they held some sentimental value for Carver … but if so, then why had he outfitted Staines with a pistol, in watching over them? Perhaps they were stolen goods, though they did not look at all valuable … or perhaps, Staines thought, Carver was going mad. This thought cheered him; he chuckled aloud, and then, shaking his head, returned the gowns to the chest.

There came a sharp knock upon the door.

‘Who is it?’ said Staines.

There was no answer; but after a moment the caller knocked again.

‘Who’s there?’ said Staines again.

The caller knocked a third time, more urgently. Staines felt his heartbeat quicken. He went to the bureau and picked up the pistol. Holding it flat against his thigh, he walked to the door, unlatched it, and opened it a crack.

‘Yes?’ he said.

In the hallway stood a Chinese man of perhaps thirty years, dressed in a tunic and a woollen cape.

‘Francis Carver,’ he said.

Staines remembered Carver’s instruction. ‘I’m afraid there’s nobody of that name here,’ he said. ‘You don’t mean Mr. Wells—Francis Wells?’

The Chinese man shook his head. ‘Carver,’ he said. He produced a piece of paper from his breast, and held it out. Curious, Staines took it. It was a letter from the Cockatoo Island Penitentiary, thanking Mr. Yongsheng for his inquiry, and informing him that upon his release from gaol Mr. Francis Carver had sailed for Dunedin, New Zealand, upon the steamer Sparta. At the bottom of the letter—and in a much darker shade of ink—somebody else had written Hawthorn Hotel. Staines stared at the note for a long time. He had not known that Carver was a former convict; the news was striking to him, but he found, upon further reflection, that it was not wholly unexpected. At last, and with great reluctance, he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, passing the piece of paper back to the Chinese man, and smiling apologetically. ‘There’s nobody named Francis Carver here.’

IRON

In which Crosbie Wells puts two and two together.

An interminable afternoon passed at number 35, Cumberland-street. Together Anna and Mrs. Wells had constructed fifteen plaited wreaths, which they installed in the parlour downstairs, watched over by Wells, who drank steadily and did not speak. Behind the rostrum they had fashioned a ‘mainsail’ made from an oar and a white bedsheet, which they reefed with lengths of twine; behind the bar they had hung a string of admiralty flags. Once the wreaths had been arranged, they set out lemons and spruce liquor, trimmed candles, polished glasses, refilled the spirit lamps, and dusted—stretching each task out as long as possible, and taking every excuse to make small trips upstairs and to the kitchen, so as to avoid the dreadful silence of embittered company.

They were interrupted, a little after four, by a brisk knock at the front door.

‘Who can that be?’ said Mrs. Wells, frowning. ‘The girls aren’t due until seven. I never receive callers at this time of day.’

‘I’ll answer it,’ said Wells.

On the threshold was a Chinese man in a tunic and a woollen cape.

‘What have we got here?’ said Wells. ‘You’re not a naval man.’

‘Good afternoon,’ said the other. ‘I look for Francis Carver.’

‘What?’ said Crosbie Wells.

‘I look for Francis Carver.’

‘Carver, you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘He live here,’ said the Chinese man.

‘Afraid he doesn’t, mate. This place belongs to a Mrs. Lydia Wells. I’m her lucky husband. Crosbie’s my name.’