‘I’ve known Lydia since I was a young man,’ said Carver, ‘and we’d always thought we’d marry. But then I got ten years on Cockatoo, and during that time she fell in with Wells. By the time I got my leave ticket, they were married. I couldn’t fault her. Ten years is a long time to wait. I couldn’t fault him either. I know what calibre of woman she is. But I said to myself, if that marriage ever comes to an end, I’ll be next in line.’

‘You married shortly after Mr. Wells’s death, is that right?’

Carver stared at him. ‘There was nothing disrespectful about it,’ he said.

Moody inclined his head. ‘No, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if I implied otherwise. Allow me to backtrack a little. When was it that you were released from prison?’

‘June of ’sixty-four,’ said Carver. ‘Nearly two years ago now.’

‘What did you do, upon your release from Cockatoo Island?’

‘I made for Dunedin,’ said Carver. ‘Found myself some work on a ship making the trans-Tasman run. That was Godspeed.’

‘Were you captaining this craft?’

‘Crew,’ said Carver. ‘But I made captain the following year.’

‘Mr. Wells was digging the field at Dunstan at this time, is that correct?’

Carver hesitated. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘And Mrs. Carver—then wife of Mr. Wells—was residing in Dunedin.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you see Mrs. Wells often, over this period?’

‘I had a drink at her place every now and again,’ said Carver. ‘She kept a tavern on Cumberland-street. But I was mostly at sea.’

‘In May of 1865, Crosbie Wells returned to Dunedin,’ said Moody. ‘I understand that he made a purchase at that time.’

Carver knew very well that he was being led into a trap, but he was powerless to stop it. ‘Yes,’ he said, curtly. ‘He bought Godspeed.’

‘Quite a purchase,’ said Moody, nodding, ‘not the least because it was made so abruptly. The fact that he chose to invest in a ship, of all things, is also curious. Had Mr. Wells any prior interest in seafaring, I wonder?’

‘Couldn’t tell you,’ said Carver. ‘But he must have done, if he made the purchase.’

Moody paused; then he said, ‘I understand that the deed of sale is currently in your possession.’

‘It is.’

‘How did it come to be in your possession, please?’

‘Mr. Wells entrusted it to me,’ said Carver.

‘When did he entrust this deed to you?’

‘At the time of sale,’ said Carver.

‘Which was …?’

‘In May,’ said Carver. ‘Last year.’

‘Immediately before Mr. Wells quit Dunedin, in other words, and relocated to the Arahura Valley.’

Carver could not deny it. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘What was Mr. Wells’s reason, in entrusting this deed of sale to you?’ said Moody.

‘So that I could act as his proxy,’ said Carver.

‘In case of injury, you mean,’ said Moody. ‘Or death.’

‘Yes,’ said Carver.

‘Ah,’ said Moody. ‘Now, let me see if I have this straight, Mr. Carver. As of the beginning of last year, Mr. Wells was the rightful possessor of several thousand pounds’ worth of ore, excavated from a claim in the Dunstan Valley. The ore was stashed in a safe at his residence in Dunedin, where his wife—an old and very fond acquaintance of yours—was living. In May, Mr. Wells returned home to Dunedin from the fields at Dunstan, and, without notifying his wife, cleared the safe. He immediately sank the entire bonanza into the purchase of the barque Godspeed, entrusted that ship and its operation to you, and promptly fled to Hokitika without informing any person of his destination or his design.

‘Of course,’ Moody added, ‘I am making an assumption, in presuming that it was Mr. Wells, and not another party, who removed the ore from the safe … but how else could he have purchased Godspeed? He possessed no shares or bonds of any kind—we are quite sure of that—and the transfer of ownership, printed in the Otago Witness upon the fourteenth of May that year, explicitly states that the ship was bought for gold.’

Carver was scowling. ‘You’re leaving out the whore,’ he said. ‘She was the reason he quit Dunedin. She was the reason he fell out with Lydia.’

‘Perhaps she was—but I will correct you in pointing out that Miss Wetherell was not, at that point in time, a member of the old profession,’ Moody said. ‘The promissory note penned by Mr. Richard Mannering, which I submitted to the court this morning, explicitly states that Miss Wetherell is to be outfitted with an appropriate gown, a muff pistol, perfumes, petticoats, and all other items “in which she is currently deficient”. It is dated June of last year.’

Carver said nothing.

‘You will forgive me,’ said Moody after a moment, ‘if I remark that Mr. Wells does not seem to have benefited very greatly from the sequence of events that unfolded in Dunedin last May. You, however, seem to have benefited a very great deal.’

Justice Kemp waited until Carver had seated himself beside his wife before calling the room sharply to order. ‘All right, Mr. Moody,’ he said, folding his hands, ‘I see that you have a clear direction here, and I will allow you to continue with your present argument, though I will make the remark that we seem to have wandered rather far from the course as set down in this morning’s bulletin. Now: you have submitted the names of two witnesses for the defence.’

Moody bowed. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘In the case of the defence witnesses, Mr. Moody will examine, and Mr. Broham will cross-examine,’ said the justice. He consulted the ledger, then looked up, over his spectacles, and said, ‘Mr. Thomas Balfour.’

Thomas Balfour was duly summoned from the cells.

‘Mr. Balfour,’ Moody said, when he had been sworn in. ‘You are in the shipping business, are you not?’

‘Have been for coming up twelve years, Mr. Moody.’

‘You have Mr. Lauderback’s private account, I understand.’

‘I do indeed,’ said Balfour, happily. ‘I’ve had Mr. Lauderback’s business since the winter of 1861.’

‘Can you please describe the most recent transaction between Mr. Lauderback and Balfour Shipping?’

‘I most certainly can,’ said Balfour. ‘When Mr. Lauderback first arrived in Hokitika in January, he came over the Alps, as you might remember. His trunk and assorted effects were sent by sea. He sent down a shipping crate from Lyttelton to Port Chalmers, and once the crate reached Port Chalmers I arranged for one of my vessels—the Virtue—to pick it up and bring it over to the Coast. Well, she got here all right—the Virtue—with the crate aboard. Arrived on the twelfth of January, two days before Mr. Lauderback himself. Next day, the crate was unloaded—stacked onto the quay with all the rest of the cargo—and I signed for it to be transferred into my warehouse, where Mr. Lauderback would pick it up, after he arrived. But that never happened: the crate was swiped. Never made it into the warehouse.’

‘Was the crate identified on the exterior as belonging to Mr. Lauderback?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Balfour. ‘You’ll have seen the crates stacked along the quay—they’d be indistinguishable, you know, were it not for the bills of lading. The bill tells you who owns the goods and who’s the shipper and what have you.’

‘What happened when you discovered the crate was missing?’

‘You can be sure I tore my hair out, looking for it: I hadn’t the faintest clue where it might have gone. Well, Godspeed was wrecked on the bar two weeks later, and when they cleared her cargo, what should turn up but the Lauderback crate! Seems it had been loaded onto Godspeed, when she last weighed anchor from the Hokitika port.’

‘In other words, very early on the morning of the fifteenth of January.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What happened when the Lauderback trunk was finally recovered?’

‘I did some sniffing around,’ said Balfour. ‘Asked some questions of the crew, and they told me how the mistake had come about. Well, here’s what happened. Someone had seen the bill of lading—“Mr. Lauderback, bearer”—and remembered that their skipper—that’s Carver—had been on the lookout for a crate so identified, the previous year. They saw this crate on the wharf, the night of the fourteenth, and they thought, here’s a chance to earn a bit of favour with the master.