‘I am,’ said Carver.
With a swift look over his shoulder, Lauderback stepped into the cabin and pulled the hatch closed behind him. ‘All right,’ he said, when he was inside. ‘Something’s cooking. Or cooked.’
‘Yes,’ said Carver.
‘Is this about Crosbie?’ said Lauderback. ‘Is this something to do with Crosbie?’
‘You know,’ said Carver, ‘I worry about old Crosbie.’
He did not go on. After a moment Lauderback said, in a fearful voice, ‘Do you?’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Carver. ‘One of these days, that poor man is going to drink himself to death.’
Lauderback had begun to sweat. ‘Where’s Raxworthy?’ he said.
‘Getting drunk on Cumberland-street, I believe.’
‘What about Danforth?’
‘The same,’ said Carver.
‘They’re in your pocket, are they?’
‘No,’ said Carver. ‘You are.’
TAR
In which Carver comes to finish the deed; Crosbie Wells makes a counter-attack; and the laudanum takes effect.
When Francis Carver rapped upon the door of number 35 Cumberland-street some two hours later, the naval party was in full swing: he could hear rhythmic clapping and the stamp of feet, and raucous laughter. He knocked again, more sharply. The maid Lucy appeared after his fourth knock; once she saw that it was Carver, she invited him inside, and flew down the passage to summon Mrs. Wells.
‘Oh, Francis,’ she said, when she saw him. ‘Thank heavens.’
‘It came off,’ said Carver. He patted his breast, where the deed of sale lay folded in his inside pocket. ‘Everything signed, effective instant. I’ve got a boy keeping an eye on him—Lauderback—until the morning. But I doubt he’ll do any talking.’
‘You didn’t hurt him, did you?’
‘No: he’s feeling very sorry for himself, that’s all. What’s been happening here?’
She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘after that awful brawl this morning—and a wretched day—we’ve had the most incredible luck. Crosbie’s taken up with my new girl. Perhaps he thought to spite me, by taking her to bed … but I couldn’t have thought of anything I wanted more, than to have the two of them out of the way for the evening. The moment they were alone, I sent up Lucy with a fresh decanter.’
‘Laced?’
‘Of course.’
‘How strong?’
‘I used half the bottle.’
‘Anything come of it?’
‘I haven’t heard a peep,’ she said. ‘Not a sound.’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll go up. I’ll need fifteen minutes.’
‘He’s very angry. He knows about the gold—as I told you—and he found out about Lauderback arriving. You must be careful.’
‘I won’t need to be careful if he’s sauced.’
‘You won’t shoot him—will you, Francis?’
‘Don’t worry your head about it.’
‘I want to know.’
‘I’ll tap him on the head,’ said Carver, ‘that’s all.’
‘Not here!’
‘No—not here. I’ll take him someplace else.’
‘The girl’s still up there, you know. She might have gone down with him. I don’t know.’
‘I’ll deal with her. I’ll tell her to leave before anything happens. Don’t you worry.’
‘What should I do?’
‘Get on back to the party. Pour Raxworthy another drink.’
Carver put his ear to the door; hearing nothing, he eased the door handle, very quietly. It opened without a sound. The room was dark, but in the chamber beyond, a small lamp was burning. There was someone in the bed: the bedclothes were mounded, and he could see a splash of dark hair on the pillow. Keeping his hand on his hip, he moved slowly forward, into the room.
He heard the whistle of something heavy slicing through air, and almost turned—but before he could do so, he was clubbed on the back of the head, and he stumbled to his knees. He whirled about, his hand closing around the grip of his pistol—but Crosbie Wells swung the poker again, cracking him across the knuckles, and again, across the jaw. Carver recoiled in pain. He brought his hands up, instinctively, to protect his face. A fourth strike made contact with his elbow, and a fifth cracked him just above his temple. He collapsed sideways, suddenly weak, upon the floor.
Wells darted forward and tried to yank the pistol from the man’s belt with his free hand. Carver grabbed his arm, and they tussled a moment, until Wells cracked him another time across the side of the head with the poker. He lost his grip, and fell back. At last Wells gained purchase on the pistol, and wrenched it free; once it was in his hand he cocked it, levelled it in Carver’s face, and stood a moment, panting. Carver grunted, bringing his arms up to his face. He was dazed: the lights in the room had begun to pulse.
‘Who are you?’
Carver peered at him. There was blood in his mouth.
Wells was holding the pistol in his left hand, and the poker in his right. He raised the poker a little, threatening to strike again. ‘Are you Francis Carver? You speak or I’ll shoot you dead. Is your name Carver?’
‘Used to be,’ said Carver.
‘What is it now?’
Carver grinned at him, showing bloody teeth. ‘Crosbie Wells,’ he said.
Wells came closer. ‘I’ll kill you,’ he said.
‘Go ahead,’ said Carver, and closed his eyes.
Wells raised the poker again. ‘Where’s my bonanza?’
‘Gone.’
‘Where is it, I said?’
‘Shipped offshore.’
‘Who shipped it? You?’
Carver opened his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You did.’
Wells brought the poker down. It glanced off the other man’s temple—and Carver fainted away. Wells waited a moment, to see if he was shamming, but the faint was plainly real: he was showing the whites of his eyes, and one of his hands was twitching.
Wells laid the poker down, out of Carver’s reach. He transferred the pistol to his right hand. Tentatively, he pushed the muzzle of the pistol into Carver’s cheek, and nudged him. The man’s head rolled back.
‘Is he dead?’ said Anna, from the doorway. Her face was white.
‘No. He’s breathing.’
With his left hand Wells took his bowie knife from his boot, and unsheathed the blade.
‘Will you kill him?’ Anna whispered.
‘No.’
‘What will you do?’
