The Luminaries

the cottage before or after Wells’s death, Balfour did not know, but Tauwhare had assured him that Carver’s arrival had occurred
before
Lauderback’s—and Lauderback, by his own testimony, had arrived at the cottage not long after the event of the hermit’s death, for when he entered the man’s kettle had been boiling on the range, and had not yet run dry. It stood to reason, therefore, that Francis Carver had been present in the cottage
before
Crosbie Wells passed away, and perhaps (Balfour realised with a chill) had even witnessed his death.
    Löwenthal stroked his moustache. ‘This is very interesting news,’ he said. ‘
Godspeed
sailed late that evening, well after sundown. So Carver must have come straight back to Hokitika from the Arahura Valley, made his way directly for the ship, and weighed anchor, all before the dawn. That is a very hasty departure, I think.’
    ‘Rum to my eye,’ said Balfour. He was thinking about his vanished shipping crate.
    ‘And when one considers that Staines disappeared around the very same time—’
    ‘And Anna,’ said Balfour, cutting across him. ‘That was the nightof her collapse—because Lauderback found her, you remember, in the road.’
    ‘Ah,’ said Löwenthal. ‘Another coincidence.’
    ‘
You
might say only a weak mind puts faith in coincidence,’ said Balfour, ‘but I say—
I
say—a string of coincidences cannot be a coincidence. A string of them!’
    ‘No indeed,’ said Löwenthal, distantly.
    Presently Balfour said, ‘But young Staines. That’s a perfect shame, that is. There’s no use being soft about it, Ben—he’s been murdered, surely. A man doesn’t vanish. A poor man, maybe. But not a man of means.’
    ‘Mm,’ said Löwenthal—who was not thinking about Staines. ‘I wonder what Carver was doing with Wells in the Arahura. And what he was running away from, for that matter. Or running towards.’ The editor thought a moment more, and then exclaimed, ‘I say:
Lauderback’
s not mixed up with Carver, is he?’
    Balfour expelled a long breath. ‘Well, that’s the real question,’ he said, with a show of great reluctance. ‘But I’d be breaking Lauderback’s confidence if I told you. I’d be breaking my word.’ He looked again at the wick of the candle, hoping that his friend would prompt him to continue.
    Unhappily for Balfour, however, Löwenthal’s moral code did not accept the kind of violation that Balfour was proposing he indulge. After studying Balfour dispassionately for a moment, he sat back in his chair, and changed the subject. ‘Do you know,’ he said, speaking in a brisker tone, ‘you are not the first man to come by my office and ask me about that notice in the paper—the one about Emery Staines.’
    Balfour looked up, both disappointed and surprised. ‘Why—who else?’
    ‘A man came by in the middle of the week. Wednesday. Or perhaps it was Tuesday. Irish. A clergyman by profession—but not a Catholic; he was a Methodist, I think. He’s to be the chaplain of the new gaol.’
    ‘Free Methodist,’ Balfour said. ‘I met him this morning. Strange looking. Very unfortunate teeth. What was
his
interest on account of?’
    ‘But I can’t remember his name,’ Löwenthal murmured, tapping his lip.
    ‘Why was he interested in Staines?’ Balfour asked again—for he did not know the chaplain’s name, and could not offer it.
    Löwenthal folded his hands together again, on the tabletop. ‘Well, it was rather odd,’ he said. ‘Apparently he went along with the coroner to Crosbie Wells’s cottage, to collect the man’s remains.’
    ‘Yes—and then buried him,’ said Balfour, nodding. ‘Dug the grave.’
    ‘Devlin,’ said Löwenthal, striking the table. ‘That’s his name: Devlin. But I haven’t got the first name. Give me another moment.’
    ‘But anyway,’ said Balfour. ‘As I was asking. What’s
he
got to do with Staines?’
    ‘I don’t exactly know,’ Löwenthal admitted. ‘From our brief conversation I gathered that he needed to speak to Mr. Staines very urgently—either about the death of Crosbie Wells, or about something related to the death of Crosbie Wells. But I can’t tell you any more than that. I didn’t ask.’
    ‘It’s a shame you didn’t,’ said Balfour. ‘That’s a loose end, that is.’
    ‘Why, Tom,’ said Löwenthal, with a sudden smile, ‘you are sounding like a detective!’
    Balfour flushed. ‘I’m not really,’ he said. ‘I’m only trying to