The Luminaries

Mannering said. ‘What?’
    ‘He was in Dunstan,’ Ah Sook said. ‘Otago field.’
    Mannering collapsed in disappointment. ‘What’s the use of
that
?’ he snapped. ‘What’s secret about
that
? Crosbie Wells—in
Dunstan
! When was Dunstan? Two years ago—three years ago! Why—
I
was in Dunstan! All of Hokitika was in Dunstan!’
    Nilssen said to Mannering, ‘You didn’t encounter Wells there—did you?’
    ‘No,’ said Mannering. ‘Never knew him. I knew his wife, though. From Dunedin days.’
    Nilssen looked surprised. ‘You knew his wife? The widow?’
    ‘Yes,’ Mannering said shortly, not caring to elaborate. He turned a page. ‘But never Crosbie. They were estranged. Now hush up, all of you: I can’t hear myself think without a patch of quiet.’

    ‘Dunstan,’ said Walter Moody. He was stroking his chin with his finger and thumb.
    ‘It’s an Otago field.’
    ‘Central Otago.’
    ‘Past its prime now, Dunstan. It’s all company dredges these days. But she was a shiner in her time.’
    ‘That is the second time this particular goldfield has been referenced this evening,’ Moody said. ‘Am I right?’
    ‘You are quite right, Mr. Moody.’
    ‘Steady on. How is he quite right?’
    ‘The gold that was used to blackmail Mr. Lauderback hailed from a Dunstan field. Lauderback said so.’
    ‘Lauderback said so: precisely,’ Moody said. He nodded. ‘I am wondering whether I trust Mr. Lauderback’s intentions, in referencing the name of that goldfield so casually to Mr. Balfour this morning.’
    ‘What do you mean by that, Mr. Moody?’
    ‘Don’t you trust him—Lauderback, I mean?’
    ‘It would be most irrational if I mistrusted Mr. Lauderback,’ Moody said, ‘seeing as I have never met the man in my life. I am very conscious of the fact that the pertinent facts of this tale are being relayed to me second-hand—and, in some cases, third-hand. Take the mention of the Dunstan goldfield, for example. Francis Carver apparently mentioned the name of that field to Mr. Lauderback, who in turn narrated that encounter to Mr. Balfour, who in turn relayed
that
conversation to me, tonight! You will all agree that I would be a fool to take Mr. Balfour’s words to be true.’
    But Moody had misjudged his audience, in questioning so sensitive a subject as the truth. There was an explosion of indignation around the room.
    ‘What—you don’t trust a man to tell his own story?’
    ‘This is all as true as I can make it, Mr. Moody!’
    ‘What else can he tell you, except what he was told?’
    Moody was taken aback. ‘I do not believe that any part of your story has been altered or withheld,’ he replied, more carefully this time. He looked from face to face. ‘I only wished to remark that one should never take another man’s truth for one’s own.’
    ‘Why not?’ This question came from several quarters at once.
    Moody paused a moment, thinking. ‘In a court of law,’ he said at last, ‘a witness takes his oath to speak the truth: his own truth, that is. He agrees to two parameters. His testimony must be the
whole
truth, and his testimony must be
nothing but
the truth. Only the second of these parameters is a true limit. The first, of course, is largely a matter of discretion. When we say
the whole truth
we mean, more precisely, all the facts and impressions that are pertinent to the matter at hand. All that is impertinent is not only immaterial; it is, in many cases, deliberately misleading. Gentlemen,’ (though this collective address sat oddly, considering the mixed company in the room) ‘I contend that there are no whole truths, there are only pertinent truths—and pertinence, you must agree, is always a matter of perspective. I do not believe that any one of you has perjured himself in any way tonight. I trust that you have given me the truth, and nothing but the truth. But your perspectives are very many, and you will forgive me if I do not take your tale for something whole.’
    There was a silence at this, and Moody saw that he had offended. ‘Of course,’ he added, more quietly, ‘I speak importunately ; for you have not yet finished your story.’ He looked from man to man. ‘I ought not to have interrupted. I repeat that I meant no slight to anyone. Please: go on.’

    Charlie Frost was looking at Ah Sook curiously. ‘Why did you say that, Mr. Sook?’ he said. ‘Why did you say that you knew a secret about Crosbie Wells?’
    Ah Sook turned his gaze on Frost