On his twenty-first birthday, he was asked where he wished to go in the world, to which he immediately responded ‘Otago’—knowing that the rushes in Victoria had abated, and having long been enamoured of the idea of the prospector’s life, which he conceived of in terms quixotic and alchemical. He saw the metal shining, unseen, undiscovered, upon some lonely beach of some uncharted land; he saw the moon rising full and yellow over the open sea; he saw himself riding on horseback through the shallows of a creek, and sleeping on the bare earth, and running water through a wooden cradle, and twining digger’s dough around a stick to bake above the embers of a fire. What a fine thing it would be, he thought, to be able to say that one’s fortune was older than all the ages of men and history; to say that one had chanced upon it, had plucked it from the earth with one’s own bare hands.

His request was granted: passage was duly bought upon the steamer Fortunate Wind, bound for Port Chalmers. On the day of his departure his father advised him to keep his wits about him, to practise kindness, and to come home once he had seen enough of the world to know his place in it. Foreign travel, he said, was the very best of educations, and it was a gentleman’s duty to see and understand the world. Once they had shaken hands, he presented young Staines with an envelope of paper money, advised him not to spend it all at once, and bid him good morning, quite as if the boy were simply stepping out for a stroll, and would be back in time for dinner.

‘What does he do for a living?’ said Carver.

‘He’s a magistrate,’ said Staines.

‘A good one?’

The boy sighed, throwing his head back a little. ‘Oh … yes, I suppose he is good. How do I paint a picture of my father? He is a reading man, and he is well regarded in his profession, but he has a queer sense of things. For example: he tells me my inheritance comprises only his fiddle and his shaving razor—saying that if a man is to make his way in the world, all he needs is a good shave and the means to make some music. I believe he’s written it into his will like that, and portioned everything else to my mother. He’s a little peculiar.’

‘Hm,’ said Carver.

They were breakfasting together at the Hawthorn Hotel for the very last time. The next morning, the schooner Blanche was scheduled to depart for Hokitika, with the barque Godspeed, newly caulked and fitted, bound for Melbourne some hours later.

‘Do you know,’ Staines added, as he tapped his egg, ‘that is the first time since my landing in Dunedin that somebody has asked me what my father does for a living; but I have been asked where I shall make my fortune no less than a dozen times, and I have been offered all kinds of sponsorship, and I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve been asked what I mean to do with my pile, once I have amassed a competence! What a curious phrase that is—a “competence”. It seems to sell the notion awfully short.’

‘Yes,’ said Carver, his eyes on the Otago Witness.

‘Are you expecting someone?’ said Staines.

‘What?’ said Carver, without looking up.

‘Only that you’ve been reading the shipping news for the past ten minutes,’ said Staines, ‘and you’ve hardly touched your breakfast.’

‘I’m not waiting for anyone,’ said Carver. He turned a page of the paper and began to read the goldfields correspondence.

They lapsed into silence for a time. Carver kept his eyes upon the paper; Staines finished his egg. Just as Staines was about to rise from the table and excuse himself, the front door opened, and a penny postman walked in. ‘Mr. Francis Carver,’ he called.

‘That’s me,’ said Carver, raising his hand.

He tore open the envelope and scanned the paper briefly. Staines could see, through the thinness of the paper, that the letter was composed of only one line of script.

‘I do hope it’s not bad news,’ he said.

Carver did not move for a long moment; then he crushed the paper in his hand and tossed it sideways into the fire. He reached into his pocket for a penny, and once the postman had scurried away, he turned to Staines and said, ‘What would you say to a gold sovereign?’

‘I don’t believe I’ve ever addressed one before,’ said Staines.

Carver stared at him.

‘Do you need help?’ Staines said.

‘Yes. Come with me.’

Staines followed his sponsor up the stairs. He waited while Carver unlocked the door to his private quarters, and then stepped into the room after him. He had never set foot in Carver’s room before. It was much larger than his own, but similarly furnished. It still held the musty, bodily smell of sleep: Carver’s bedclothes were twisted in the centre of the mattress. In the centre of the room was an iron-strapped chest. Pasted to the lid was a yellow bill of lading:

BEARER ALISTAIR LAUDERBACK

SHIPPER DANFORTH SHIPPING

CARRIER GODSPEED

‘I need you to watch over this,’ said Carver.

‘What’s inside it?’

‘Don’t you mind what’s inside it. I just need you to watch over it, until I come back. Two hours, maybe. Three hours. I’ve got some business up town. There’d be a sovereign in it for you.’

Staines raised his eyebrows. ‘A whole sovereign—to watch a chest for three hours? Whatever for?’

‘You’d be doing me a favour,’ said Carver. ‘I don’t forget a favour.’

‘It must be terribly valuable,’ said Staines.

‘To me it is,’ said Carver. ‘Do you want the job?’

‘Well—all right,’ said Staines, smiling. ‘As a favour. I’d be glad.’

‘You’d best have a pistol,’ said Carver, going to the bureau.

Staines was so astonished he laughed. ‘A pistol?’ he said.

Carver found a single-loading revolver, snapped open the breech, and peered into it. Then he nodded, snapped it back together, and passed it to Staines.

‘Should I expect to use this?’ said Staines, turning it over.

‘No,’ said Carver. ‘Just wave it about, if anyone walks in.’

‘Wave it about?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who’s going to walk in?’

‘Nobody,’ said Carver. ‘Nobody’s going to walk in.’

‘What’s in the trunk?’ Staines said again. ‘I really think I ought to know. I can keep a secret.’

Carver shook his head. ‘The less you know, the better.’

‘It’s not a matter of knowing less; it’s a matter of knowing nothing at all! Am I some kind of an accomplice? Is this some kind of a heist? Truly, Mr. Carver, I can keep a secret.’

‘There’s another thing,’ said Carver. ‘Just for today, my name isn’t Carver. It’s Wells. Francis Wells. If anyone comes asking, I’m Francis Wells. Never mind why.’

‘Good Lord,’ said the boy.

‘What?’

‘Only that you’re being dreadfully mysterious.’

Carver rounded on him suddenly. ‘If you run off, it’ll be a breach of our contract. I’ll have grounds to seek recompense in whatever way I see fit.’

‘I won’t run off,’ said the boy.

‘You keep your eye on that trunk until I get back, and you’ll walk away with a pound coin. What’s my name?’

‘Mr. Wells,’ said the boy.

‘Mind you remember it. I’ll be three hours.’

Once Carver had gone, Staines set the pistol on the bureau, the muzzle faced away, and knelt to look at the trunk. The hasp had been padlocked. He lifted the padlock to examine the profile of the keyhole—observing, to his satisfaction, that the lock was of a very simple design. Smiling suddenly, he took out his clasp knife, unfolded the blade, and fitted the point of his knife into the keyhole. He jimmied it for nearly a minute before the mechanism clicked.

COPPER

In which Wells’s suspicion deepens; Anna becomes alarmed; and a package arrives at the House of Many Wishes, addressed to Mrs. Wells.

Crosbie Wells read the Otago Witness from top to bottom, and in perfect silence. When he was done, he shook out the paper, folded it crisply along the seam, and rose from his chair. Mrs. Wells was sitting opposite him. Her expression was cold. He advanced upon her, tossed the paper into her lap—she flinched slightly—and then placed his hands on his hips, surveying her.