‘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.’
‘Not Carver?’
‘I don’t know anyone by the name of Carver,’ said Wells.
‘Francis Carver,’ the man supplied.
‘Can’t help you, I’m afraid.’
The Chinese man frowned. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the same letter that he had presented to Emery Staines, some two hours prior. He handed it to Wells. The words Hawthorn Hotel had been scratched out; beneath them, in a different hand, someone had written House of Many Wishes, Cumb’d-st.
‘Someone gave you this address?’ said Wells.
‘Yes,’ said the Chinese man.
‘Who?’ said Wells.
‘Harbourmaster,’ said the Chinese man.
‘I’m afraid the Harbourmaster’s put you wrong, mate,’ said Wells, passing the letter back to him. ‘There’s no one of that name at this address. What’s it you’re wanting him for?’
‘To bring to justice,’ said the Chinese man.
‘Justice,’ said Wells, grinning. ‘All right. Well, I hope he deserves it. Good luck.’
He closed the door—and then suddenly stopped, his hand upon the frame. Suddenly he turned, and, taking the steps two at a time, returned upstairs to the boudoir, where the Otago Witness was folded upon the bureau. He snatched it up. After scanning the columns for several minutes he saw, listed among the projected departures for the following day:
Jetty Four
: Godspeed,
dest. Port Phillip. Crew comprising J. RAXWORTHY (captain), P. LOGAN (mate), H. PETERSEN (second mate), J. DRAFFIN (steward), M. DEWEY (cook), W. COLLINS (boatswain), E. COLE, M. JERISON, C. SOLBERG, F. CARVER (seamen).
‘Who was that at the door?’
Anna had come up behind him. She was holding a brass candleholder in each hand. ‘Was it Lucy, back from the store? Mrs. Wells is wanting her.’
‘It was a Chinaman,’ said Wells.
‘What did he want?’
‘He was looking for someone.’
‘Who?’
Wells studied her. ‘Do you know anyone who ever did time at Cockatoo Island?’
‘No.’
‘Nor do I.’
‘That’s hard labour,’ said Anna. ‘Cockatoo is hard labour.’
‘Not for the faint-hearted, I should think.’
‘Who was he looking for?’
Wells hesitated, but then he said, ‘Ever heard of a Francis Carver?’
‘No.’
‘Ever seen an ex-con?’
‘How would I know one?’
‘I suppose you wouldn’t,’ said Wells.
There was a pause; presently she said, ‘Should I tell Mrs. Wells?’
‘No,’ said Wells. ‘Stop a moment.’
‘I was only supposed to come up for these,’ said Anna, holding up the candleholders. ‘I really ought to be getting back.’
Wells rolled the Otago Witness into a tube. ‘She’s a heartless woman, Anna. Not a bone of true feeling in Mrs. Lydia Wells: it’s profit or bust. She’s taken my money, and she’ll take yours, and we’ll be ruined—both of us. We’ll be ruined.’
‘Yes,’ Anna said, miserably. ‘I know.’
He brandished the rolled paper. ‘Do you know what this says? Man named Carver listed as a crewman on a private charter. Leaving on to-morrow’s tide. A gentleman with a marine connexion, in other words.’
‘I suppose that means he’ll be at the party,’ Anna said.
‘And another thing: the master of the craft. Raxworthy.’
‘Mrs. Wells mentioned him at breakfast,’ Anna said.
‘Indeed she did,’ said Wells, striking the paper upon his leg. ‘Everything’s beginning to add up. Only I can’t quite see it yet. The picture.’
‘What’s adding up?’
‘All day,’ he explained, ‘I’ve been wondering one thing: what could she possibly want with my papers? My miner’s right. My birth certificate. I’ve no doubt she lifted them, as she lifted the bonanza too; but she wouldn’t bother with anything unless it could be put to some use, and what use for an old man’s papers could she possibly have? None at all, I thought. In that case, she must have dispatched them somehow. Passed them on. But to whom? What kind of a man might have need for another man’s papers? That’s when it struck me. A man running from his past, I thought. A man with a tarnished name, who wants to start over with a better one. A man looking to put some chapter of his life behind him.’
Anna waited, frowning.
‘Here’s a d—n certainty,’ said Wells, holding up the rolled paper like a sceptre. ‘I don’t know how, and I don’t know why or what for, but I’ll tell you here and now, little Anna, that tonight I’ll be making the acquaintance of a Mr. Francis Carver.’
TIN
In which Carver takes an alias, and Lauderback signs his name.
‘Wells,’ said Lauderback, coming up short.
‘Good evening,’ said Francis Carver. He was sitting in a chair facing the gangway. There was a pistol in his hand.