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 Francis Carver?’

‘No.’

‘Ever seen an ex-con?’

‘How would I know one?’

‘I suppose you wouldn’t,’ said Wells.

There was a pause; presently she said, ‘Should I tell Mrs. Wells?’

‘No,’ said Wells. ‘Stop a moment.’

‘I was only supposed to come up for these,’ said Anna, holding up the candleholders. ‘I really ought to be getting back.’

Wells rolled the Otago Witness into a tube. ‘She’s a heartless woman, Anna. Not a bone of true feeling in Mrs. Lydia Wells: it’s profit or bust. She’s taken my money, and she’ll take yours, and we’ll be ruined—both of us. We’ll be ruined.’

‘Yes,’ Anna said, miserably. ‘I know.’

He brandished the rolled paper. ‘Do you know what this says? Man named Carver listed as a crewman on a private charter. Leaving on to-morrow’s tide. A gentleman with a marine connexion, in other words.’

‘I suppose that means he’ll be at the party,’ Anna said.

‘And another thing: the master of the craft. Raxworthy.’

‘Mrs. Wells mentioned him at breakfast,’ Anna said.

‘Indeed she did,’ said Wells, striking the paper upon his leg. ‘Everything’s beginning to add up. Only I can’t quite see it yet. The picture.’

‘What’s adding up?’

‘All day,’ he explained, ‘I’ve been wondering one thing: what could she possibly want with my papers? My miner’s right. My birth certificate. I’ve no doubt she lifted them, as she lifted the bonanza too; but she wouldn’t bother with anything unless it could be put to some use, and what use for an old man’s papers could she possibly have? None at all, I thought. In that case, she must have dispatched them somehow. Passed them on. But to whom? What kind of a man might have need for another man’s papers? That’s when it struck me. A man running from his past, I thought. A man with a tarnished name, who wants to start over with a better one. A man looking to put some chapter of his life behind him.’

Anna waited, frowning.

‘Here’s a d—n certainty,’ said Wells, holding up the rolled paper like a sceptre. ‘I don’t know how, and I don’t know why or what for, but I’ll tell you here and now, little Anna, that tonight I’ll be making the acquaintance of a Mr. Francis Carver.’

TIN

In which Carver takes an alias, and Lauderback signs his name.

‘Wells,’ said Lauderback, coming up short.

‘Good evening,’ said Francis Carver. He was sitting in a chair facing the gangway. There was a pistol in his hand.

‘What is this?’ said Lauderback.

‘Do come in.’

‘What is this?’ he said again.

‘A conversation,’ said Carver.

‘But what’s it about?’

‘I recommend that you step into the cabin, Mr. Lauderback.’

‘Why?’

Carver said nothing, but the muzzle of the pistol twitched a little.

‘I haven’t laid my eyes on her since last we spoke,’ Lauderback said. ‘Upon my honour. When you told me to step away, Mr. Wells, I stepped away. I’ve been in Akaroa these nine months past. I only just arrived back in town tonight—just now, in fact; this very moment. I’ve kept away—just as you asked of me.’

‘Says you,’ said Carver.

‘Yes, says me! Do you doubt my word?’

‘No.’

‘Then what do you mean—says me?’

‘Only that on paper it says different.’

Lauderback faltered. ‘I have not the slightest idea what paper you’re talking about,’ he said after a moment, ‘I shall hazard to guess, however, that you are alluding in some way to the Danforth receipt.’

‘I am,’ said Carver.

With a swift look over his shoulder, Lauderback stepped into the cabin and pulled the hatch closed behind him. ‘All right,’ he said, when he was inside. ‘Something’s cooking. Or cooked.’

‘Yes,’ said Carver.

‘Is this about Crosbie?’ said Lauderback. ‘Is this something to do with Crosbie?’

‘You know,’ said Carver, ‘I worry about old Crosbie.’

He did not go on. After a moment Lauderback said, in a fearful voice, ‘Do you?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Carver. ‘One of these days, that poor man is going to drink himself to death.’

Lauderback had begun to sweat. ‘Where’s Raxworthy?’ he said.

‘Getting drunk on Cumberland-street, I believe.’

‘What about Danforth?’

‘The same,’ said Carver.

‘They’re in your pocket, are they?’

‘No,’ said Carver. ‘You are.’

TAR

In which Carver comes to finish the deed; Crosbie Wells makes a counter-attack; and the laudanum takes effect.

When Francis Carver rapped upon the door of number 35 Cumberland-street some two hours later, the naval party was in full swing: he could hear rhythmic clapping and the stamp of feet, and raucous laughter. He knocked again, more sharply. The maid Lucy appeared after his fourth knock; once she saw that it was Carver, she invited him inside, and flew down the passage to summon Mrs. Wells.

‘Oh, Francis,’ she said, when she saw him. ‘Thank heavens.’