The Luminaries

apart or leave it intact when he perceived that a man was standing some fifty yards away. Theman’s feet were planted rather far apart, and his arms were folded, as though in disapproval; his posture in general communicated an implacability of the most humourless kind, as did his dress, which was sombre. He turned his head slightly, and Gascoigne caught, for a brief moment, the glassy shine of a scar.
    Gascoigne and Francis Carver had never formally met, though of course the latter’s reputation was well known to Gascoigne, coloured chiefly by the report that Anna Wetherell had given more than a month ago on the subject of the murder of her unborn child. Such a report was more than sufficient provocation to avoid the former captain altogether, but Gascoigne’s ill-feeling was of the kind that needed private affirmation, rather than public display: he gained a real pleasure in befriending a man whom he privately had cause to despise, for he liked very much the feeling that his regard for others was a private font, a well, that he could muddy, or drink from, at his own discreet pleasure, and on his own time.
    He walked up to Carver, already raising his hat.
    ‘Excuse me, sir—are you the captain of this craft?’
    Francis Carver eyed him, and then, after a moment, nodded. ‘I was.’
    The white scar on his cheek was slightly puckered at one end, as when a seamstress leaves the needle in the fabric, before she quits for the day; this phantom needle lay just beyond the edge of his mouth, and seemed to tug it upward, as if trying to coax his stern expression—unsuccessfully—into a smile.
    ‘If I could introduce myself: Aubert Gascoigne,’ Gascoigne said, putting out his hand. ‘I am a clerk at the Magistrate’s Court.’
    ‘A clerk?’ Carver eyed him again. ‘What kind?’ Rather reluctantly , he shook Gascoigne’s hand—showing his reluctance by way of a grip that was limp and very brief.
    ‘Very low-level,’ Gascoigne said, without condescension. ‘Petty claims, mostly—nothing too large—but there is the occasional insurance claim that comes across our desks.
That
craft, for example .’ He pointed to the wreck of a steamer, lying on its side just beyond the river mouth, some fifty yards from where they were standing. ‘We managed to scrape even on that one, though barely.The master was very well pleased; he had been facing down a five-hundred -pound debt.’
    ‘Insurance,’ said Carver.
    ‘Among other things, yes. I have some personal acquaintance with the subject also,’ Gascoigne added, pulling out his cigarette case, ‘for my late wife’s father was a maritime insurer.’
    ‘Which firm?’ said Carver.
    ‘Lloyd’s—of London.’ Gascoigne snapped open the silver case. ‘I have been charting
Godspeed
’s progress, these past few weeks. I am gratified to see that she has been hauled clear of the surf at last. What a project it has been! A monumental effort, if I may praise the work of the crew … and
your
work, sir, in commandeering it.’
    Carver watched him for a moment, and then turned his gaze back to the deck of the
Godspeed
. With his eyes fixed on his foundered craft, he said, ‘What do you want?’
    ‘Certainly not to offend you,’ Gascoigne said, holding his cigarette lightly between his fingers, and pausing a moment, his palms upturned. ‘I am sure I do not mean to intrude upon your privacy in any way. I have been watching the progress of the ship’s recovery , that’s all. It is rather a rare privilege, to see such a craft upon dry land. One really gets a sense of her.’
    Carver kept his eyes on the ship. ‘I meant: are you set to sell me something?’
    Gascoigne was lighting his cigarette, and took a moment to answer. ‘Not at all,’ he said at last, blowing a white puff of smoke over his shoulder. ‘I’m not affiliated with any insurance firms. This is a personal interest, you might say. A curiosity.’
    Carver said nothing.
    ‘I like to sit on the beach on Sundays,’ Gascoigne added, ‘when the weather is nice. But you must tell me if my private interest offends you.’
    Carver jerked his head. ‘Didn’t mean to be uncivil.’
    Gascoigne waved the apology away. ‘One hates to see a fine ship come to ground.’
    ‘She’s fine all right.’
    ‘Marvellous. A frigate, is she not?’
    ‘A barque.’
    Gascoigne murmured his appreciation. ‘British-made?’
    He nodded. ‘That’s copper sheathing you can see.’
    Gascoigne nodded absently. ‘Yes, a