The Luminaries

of
Godspeed
’s insurance policy, Carver
was
legally entitled to draw down those funds, and Mr. Garrity had already seen fit to approve the transaction. But the politician was loath to accept such sensible advice, and persisted in sighing, clutching his hair, and cursing Francis Carver. By five o’clock Balfour’s patience was long since spent.
    ‘I’m not the man to talk to,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t know a scrap about the ins and outs of the law. You shouldn’t be talking to me.’
    ‘Who then?’
    ‘Go and talk to the Commissioner.’
    ‘He’s out of town.’
    ‘What about the Magistrate?’
    ‘On the eve of the elections! Are you mad?’
    ‘Shepard, then. Show this to George Shepard and see what he thinks.’
    ‘Mr. Shepard and I are not on good terms,’ Lauderback said.
    ‘Well, all right,’ Balfour said, exasperated, ‘but Shepard’s not on good terms with Carver, don’t forget! He might be able to give you a leg-up on that account.’
    ‘What’s Shepard’s beef with Carver?’ Lauderback asked.
    Balfour frowned at him. ‘Carver did his time under Shepard,’ he said. ‘As a convict. Shepard was a penitentiary sergeant on Cockatoo Island at Port Jackson, and Carver did his time there.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Lauderback.
    ‘Didn’t you know that?’
    ‘No,’ said Lauderback. ‘Why should I?’
    ‘I just expected that you might,’ said Balfour.
    ‘I don’t know George Shepard from a stick of chalk,’ said Lauderback, stoutly.

    Aubert Gascoigne had completed his business at the Reserve Bank in the mid-afternoon; when the clock struck five, he was back at the Courthouse, compiling a record of that day’s petty sessions for the
West Coast Times
. He was surprised when the foyer door opened and Anna Wetherell walked in.
    She gave him only a cursory greeting, however, en route to shake Mr. Fellowes’ hand. They exchanged several words that Gascoigne could not hear, and then the lawyer gestured her into a private office, and closed the door.
    ‘What’s Anna doing with Fellowes?’ Gascoigne said to his colleague Burke.
    ‘Haven’t the foggiest,’ said Burke. ‘She came by earlier, while you were at the bank. Wanted to speak to a lawyer about something private.’
    ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
    ‘Because it wasn’t bloody news,’ said Burke. ‘Hello, there’s Gov. Shepard.’
    George Shepard was striding across the hall towards them.
    ‘Mr. Gascoigne, Mr. Burke,’ he said. ‘Good afternoon.’
    ‘Good afternoon.’
    ‘I’ve come to collect a warrant for a Chinaman’s arrest.’
    ‘It’s ready for you, sir.’
    Burke went to fetch the warrant. Shepard waited, with restrained impatience, his hands on his hips, his fingers tapping. Gascoigne was staring at Fellowes’ office door. Suddenly, from behind it, there came a muffled thump—rather like the sound of a body falling down stairs—and in the next moment Fellowes was shouting, ‘Give us a hand—give us a hand in here!’
    Gascoigne crossed the hall to the office and opened the door. Anna Wetherell was lying prone, her eyes closed, her mouth half-open ; the lawyer Fellowes was kneeling beside her, shaking her arm.
    ‘Out for the count,’ said Fellowes. ‘She just collapsed! Pitched forward, right over the table!’ He turned to Gascoigne, pleading. ‘I didn’t do anything! I didn’t touch her!’
    The gaoler had come up behind them. ‘What’s going on?’
    Gascoigne knelt and leaned close to her. ‘She’s breathing,’ he said. ‘Let’s get her up.’ He lifted her into a sitting position, marvelling at how thin and wasted her limbs had become. Her head lolled back; he caught it in the crook of his elbow.
    ‘Did she hit her head?’
    ‘Nothing like that,’ said Fellowes, who was wearing a very frightened look. ‘She just fell sideways. Looks like she’s drunk. But she didn’t seem drunk, when she walked in. I swear I didn’t touch her.’
    ‘Maybe she fainted.’
    ‘Use your heads, both of you,’ said Shepard. ‘I can smell the laudanum from here.’
    Gascoigne could smell it too: thick and bitter. He slipped a finger into Anna’s mouth and worked her jaw open. ‘There’s no staining,’ he said. ‘If it were laudanum, her tongue would be brown, wouldn’t it? Her teeth would be stained.’
    ‘Take her to the gaol-house,’ Shepard said.
    Gascoigne frowned. ‘Perhaps the hospital—’
    ‘The gaol,’ Shepard said. ‘I’ve had enough of this whore and her theatrics. Take