The Luminaries

way. Shepard was treating his host as a guilty man.
    Nilssen said, ‘And what if I refuse your offer—what then?’
    Shepard pulled his lips back in a rare smile, the effect of which was rather gruesome. ‘You are determined to see this offer as a blackmail,’ he said. ‘I cannot imagine why that might be so.’
    Nilssen could not hold the gaoler’s gaze for long. ‘I will grant you the loan, and offer my services on commission,’ he said at last. His voice was low. He pulled the architect’s plans towards him. ‘Please be so good as to wait a moment,’ he added, ‘while I make a record of the materials you require.’
    Shepard inclined his head, and at last picked up the cup of coffee that was cooling on the desktop before him. He took up the saucer with great care; in his great hand the china seemed impossibly fragile, as if he might close his fist and with a single motion crush the vessel to a dust. He drained the cup and returned it to the exact position it had formerly occupied upon Nilssen’s desk. He thenreplaced his pipe in his mouth, folded his hands, and waited. The irregular scratch of Nilssen’s pen was the only sound between them.
    ‘I shall draw you down a cheque on Monday morning,’ Nilssen said at last, as he penned the final sum. ‘We can advertise for tender in Monday’s paper—I’ll send a note to Löwenthal direct. I shall recommend that the labourers meet here, in the Auction Yards, at ten sharp, to be signed—that will give the men a chance to read the paper and spread the word. By Monday noon, weather permitting, we can begin work on the land.’
    Shepard’s eyes had narrowed. ‘You said Löwenthal? Ben Löwenthal—the Jew?’
    ‘Yes,’ Nilssen said, blinking. ‘We can’t advertise without the paper. You could do it by flyer and gazette if you wanted—but everybody reads the
Times.
’
    ‘I hope that we are understood that the investment of your commission is strictly a private matter.’
    ‘We are understood, sir.’ There was a pause. ‘On my oath,’ Nilssen added, and then immediately regretted the phrase.
    ‘Perhaps we ought to insert a clause into our contract to that tune,’ Shepard said lightly. ‘For peace of mind.’
    ‘You can trust my discretion,’ Nilssen said, blushing again.
    ‘I truly hope I can,’ said Shepard. He stood, and extended his hand.
    Nilssen rose also, and they shook hands.
    ‘Mr. Shepard,’ Nilssen said suddenly, as Shepard made to depart. ‘The way you were speaking before—about the savage and the civil, the old world and the new.’
    Shepard regarded him impassively. ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’m curious to hear how that line of thinking applies to all of this—the estate, the ’bounder, the widow Wells.’
    Shepard took a long time to answer. ‘A homeward bounder is a chance for total reinvention, Mr. Nilssen,’ he said at last. ‘Find a nugget, and a man can buy his own life. That kind of promise isn’t offered in the civil world.’

    Nilssen sat alone in his office for a long time after Shepard left, turning the gaoler’s proposition over and over in his mind. A feeling of doubt was seeding in his breast. He felt that he had missed a connexion somewhere—as if he had come across a knotted handkerchief, balled in the watch-pocket of an old vest, and could not for the life of him recall what the knot was supposed to prompt him to remember—what errand, what responsibility; where he’d been, even, when he tied the corners, and tucked the thing away against his heart. He drummed his fingers; he toyed with his lapel. The rain beat against the window. The grey shadows in the room changed places, as the sun sank behind the cloud.
    Suddenly he got up, went to the door, and opened it a fraction. ‘Albert!’ he called, through the chink.
    ‘Yes, sir,’ Albert called back, from the outer office.
    ‘Crosbie Wells—the man who died.’
    ‘Sir.’
    ‘Who found his body? Remind me.’
    ‘A company of men, sir,’ Albert replied.
    ‘You recall the story?’
    ‘It was in the papers—I can find it for you, if you like.’
    ‘Just tell me what you remember.’
    ‘The party stopped in to refresh themselves, and found Mr. Wells fresh dead—that’s my understanding. Sitting at his kitchen table, the papers had it.’
    ‘Give us the name?’—But he already knew. He rested his head against the doorframe, and felt sick.
    ‘That fellow in contest for the Westland seat,’ said Albert. ‘The Canterbury man. You met him