The Luminaries

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