The Luminaries

pure and simple!’
    ‘I’m afraid that will be very difficult to prove,’ said Gascoigne.
    ‘Why?’ said Lauderback.
    ‘Because, as I have already told you, there is no proof of CrosbieWells’s true signature,’ said Gascoigne. ‘There were no papers of any kind in his cottage, and his birth certificate and his miner’s right are nowhere to be found.’
    Lauderback opened his mouth to make a retort, and again seemed to change his mind.
    ‘Oh,’ said Gascoigne, suddenly. ‘I’ve just thought of something.’
    ‘What?’ said Lauderback.
    ‘His marriage certificate,’ said Gascoigne. ‘That would bear his signature, would it not?’
    ‘Ah,’ said Lauderback. ‘Yes.’
    ‘But no,’ said Gascoigne, changing his mind, ‘it wouldn’t be enough: to prove a forgery of a dead man’s hand, you would need more than one example of his signature.’
    ‘How many would you need?’ said Lauderback.
    Gascoigne shrugged. ‘I am not familiar with the law,’ he said, ‘but I would imagine that you would need several examples of his true signature in order to prove the abberations in the false one.’
    ‘Several examples,’ Lauderback echoed.
    ‘Well,’ said Gascoigne, rising, ‘I hope for your sake that you find something, Mr. Lauderback; but in the meantime, I’m afraid that I am legally obliged to carry out Mr. Garrity’s instruction, and take these papers to the bank.’

    Upon quitting the Wayfarer’s Fortune the chaplain had not escorted Anna Wetherell directly to the Courthouse. He took her instead into the Garrick’s Head Hotel, where he ordered one portion of fish pie—the perennial lunchtime special—and one glass of lemon cordial. He directed Anna to be seated, placed the plate of food in front of her, and bid her to eat, which she did obediently, and in silence. Once her plate was clean, he pushed the sugared drink across the table towards her, and said,
    ‘Where is Mr. Staines?’
    Anna did not seem surprised by the question. She picked up the glass, sipped at it, winced at the sweetness, and then sat for a moment, watching him.
    ‘Inland,’ she said at last. ‘Somewhere inland. I don’t know exactly where.’
    ‘North or south of here?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘Is he being held against his will?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘You
do
know,’ said Devlin.
    ‘I don’t,’ Anna said. ‘I haven’t seen him since January, and I’ve no idea why he vanished like he did. I only know that he’s still alive, and he’s somewhere inland.’
    ‘Because you’ve been getting messages. Inside your head.’
    ‘Messages wasn’t the right way to describe it,’ Anna said. ‘That wasn’t right. It’s more like … a feeling. Like when you’re trying to remember a dream that you had, and you can remember the shape of it, the sense of it, but no details, nothing sure. And the more you try and remember, the more hazy it becomes.’
    Devlin was frowning. ‘So you have a “feeling”.’
    ‘Yes,’ Anna said.
    ‘You have a feeling that Mr. Staines is somewhere inland, and that he is alive.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Anna. ‘I can’t give you any details. I know it’s somewhere muddy. Or leafy. Somewhere near water, only it isn’t the beach. The water’s quick-moving. Over stones … You see: as soon as I try and put it into words, it trips away from me.’
    ‘This all sounds very vague, my dear.’
    ‘It’s not vague,’ Anna said. ‘I’m certain of it. Just as when you’re certain you did have a dream … you
knew
you dreamed … but you can’t remember any of the details.’
    ‘How long have you been having these “feelings”? These dreams?’
    ‘Only since I stopped whoring,’ Anna said. ‘Since my blackout.’
    ‘Since Staines disappeared, in other words.’
    ‘The fourteenth of January,’ said Anna. ‘That was the date.’
    ‘Is it always the same—the water, the mud? The same dream?’
    ‘No.’
    She did not elaborate, and to prompt her Devlin said, ‘Well, what else?’
    ‘Oh,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘Just sensations, really. Snatches. Impressions.’
    ‘Impressions of what?’
    She looked away from him. ‘Impressions of me,’ she said.
    ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand you.’
    She turned her hand over. ‘What he thinks of me. Mr. Staines, I mean. What he dreams about, when he imagines me.’
    ‘You see yourself—but through his eyes.’
    ‘Yes,’ Anna said. ‘Exactly.’
    ‘Ought I to infer that Mr. Staines holds you in high