The Luminaries

‘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.

‘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 sca

‘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 ca

‘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 ca

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 A

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 A

‘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 Ma

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.