The Luminaries

Gascoigne did not ask her whom she was mourning, or how recent the death. He filled the kettle, and put it on the range.

Aubert Gascoigne preferred to initiate conversation, rather than fall in with another person’s theme and tempo; he was content to be silent in company until he felt moved to speak. A

While Gascoigne banked the fire for the evening, and spooned tea leaves into a strainer, ready to steep, A

Gascoigne had come up behind her. He took out his bowie knife, to cut the corset free—but he began too like a butcher, and A

‘Please,’ she said. ‘You don’t know how—please let me.’

He hesitated, and then passed her the knife, and stood back to watch. She worked slowly, wanting to preserve the form and shape of the dress: first she took out the hem, then worked her way upward, along each flounce, snicking the threads with the point of the knife, and shaking the gold out of the seams. When she reached the corset, she made a little slice beneath each stay, and then reached up with her fingers to loose the gold from where it had been stuffed, in panels, between the bones. It was these lumpy parcels that had so reminded Gascoigne of chainmail, in the gaol-house.

The gold, shaken out of the folds, shone gloriously. A

At last she was done, and the dress was emptied.

‘Here,’ she said, taking up a nugget roughly the size of the last joint of Gascoigne’s thumb. She pushed it across the table towards him. ‘One pound one shilling: I haven’t forgotten.’

‘I will not touch this gold,’ said Gascoigne.

‘Plus payment for the mourning dress,’ A

‘You might,’ said Gascoigne. He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached into his breast pocket for his cigarettes. He flipped open the silver case, plucked out a cigarette, and lit it with care; only after it was lit, and he had taken several lungfuls, did he turn to her, and say,

‘Who do you work for, Miss Wetherell?’

‘You mean—who runs the girls? Ma

‘I do not know him.’

‘You would if you saw him. He’s very fat. He owns the Prince of Wales.’

‘I have seen a fat man.’ Gascoigne sucked on his cigarette. ‘Is he a fair employer?’

‘He has a temper,’ A

‘Does he give you opium?’

‘No.’

‘Does he know you take it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who sells you the stuff?’

‘Ah Sook,’ said A

‘Who is that?’

‘He’s just a chink. A hatter. He keeps the den at Kaniere.’

‘A Chinese man who makes hats?’

‘No,’ A

Gascoigne paused in his line of questioning to smoke.

‘This hatter,’ he said next. ‘He keeps an opium den—at Kaniere.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you go to him.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes.’

‘Alone.’ He spoke the word accusingly.

‘Most often,’ A

‘Where does he get it from? China, I suppose.’

She shook her head. ‘Jo Pritchard sells it to him. He’s the chemist. Has a drug hall on Collingwood-street.’

Gascoigne nodded. ‘I know Mr. Pritchard,’ he said. ‘Well then, I am curious: why should you bother with Chinamen, if you could buy the stuff from Mr. Pritchard direct?’

A

‘You don’t know,’ said Gascoigne.

‘No.’

‘Kaniere is a long way to walk for a mouthful of smoke, I think.’

‘I suppose.’

‘And Mr. Pritchard’s emporium is—what—not ten minutes’ walk from the Gridiron. Still less if one walked at a pace.’

She shrugged.

‘Why do you go to Kaniere Chinatown, Miss Wetherell?’

Gascoigne spoke acidly; he felt that he knew the probable answer to the question, and wanted her to say the words aloud.

Her face was stony. ‘Maybe I like it there.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Maybe you like it there.’

(For goodness’ sake! What had come over him? What did he care if the whore plied her trade with Chinamen or not? What did he care if she made the trip to Kaniere alone, or with an escort? She was a whore! He had met her for the first time that very evening! Gascoigne felt a rush of bewilderment, and then immediately, a stab of anger. He took refuge in his cigarette.)

‘Ma

‘Once I clear my debt.’

‘How much do you owe?’

‘A hundred pounds,’ said A

The empty dress lay between them, like a flayed corpse. Gascoigne looked at the pile, at its glimmer; A

‘You will be tried at the courts, of course,’ Gascoigne said, gazing at the gold.

‘I was only tight in public,’ said A

‘You will be tried,’ Gascoigne said. ‘For attempted suicide. The gaoler has confirmed it.’

She stared at him. ‘Attempted suicide?’

‘Did you not try and take your life?’

‘No!’ She leaped up. ‘Who’s saying that?’

‘The duty sergeant who picked you up last night,’ said Gascoigne.

‘That’s absurd.’

‘I’m afraid it has been recorded,’ said Gascoigne. ‘You will have to plead, one way or another.’

A

Gascoigne blew out a narrow jet of smoke. ‘Most whores are unhappy,’ he said. ‘Forgive me: I only state a simple truth.’

‘How could they charge me for attempted suicide, without first asking me whether I—? How could they? Where’s the—’

‘—Proof?’

Gascoigne studied her with pity. A

‘The gaoler fears that you are insane,’ he said.

‘I have never spoken one word to Gov. Shepard in all my months in Hokitika,’ said A

‘He mentioned that you had recently lost a child.’

‘Lost!’ said A