‘It came off,’ said Carver. He patted his breast, where the deed of sale lay folded in his inside pocket. ‘Everything signed, effective instant. I’ve got a boy keeping an eye on him—Lauderback—until the morning. But I doubt he’ll do any talking.’

‘You didn’t hurt him, did you?’

‘No: he’s feeling very sorry for himself, that’s all. What’s been happening here?’

She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘after that awful brawl this morning—and a wretched day—we’ve had the most incredible luck. Crosbie’s taken up with my new girl. Perhaps he thought to spite me, by taking her to bed … but I couldn’t have thought of anything I wanted more, than to have the two of them out of the way for the evening. The moment they were alone, I sent up Lucy with a fresh decanter.’

‘Laced?’

‘Of course.’

‘How strong?’

‘I used half the bottle.’

‘Anything come of it?’

‘I haven’t heard a peep,’ she said. ‘Not a sound.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll go up. I’ll need fifteen minutes.’

‘He’s very angry. He knows about the gold—as I told you—and he found out about Lauderback arriving. You must be careful.’

‘I won’t need to be careful if he’s sauced.’

‘You won’t shoot him—will you, Francis?’

‘Don’t worry your head about it.’

‘I want to know.’

‘I’ll tap him on the head,’ said Carver, ‘that’s all.’

‘Not here!’

‘No—not here. I’ll take him someplace else.’

‘The girl’s still up there, you know. She might have gone down with him. I don’t know.’

‘I’ll deal with her. I’ll tell her to leave before anything happens. Don’t you worry.’

‘What should I do?’

‘Get on back to the party. Pour Raxworthy another drink.’

Carver put his ear to the door; hearing nothing, he eased the door handle, very quietly. It opened without a sound. The room was dark, but in the chamber beyond, a small lamp was burning. There was someone in the bed: the bedclothes were mounded, and he could see a splash of dark hair on the pillow. Keeping his hand on his hip, he moved slowly forward, into the room.

He heard the whistle of something heavy slicing through air, and almost turned—but before he could do so, he was clubbed on the back of the head, and he stumbled to his knees. He whirled about, his hand closing around the grip of his pistol—but Crosbie Wells swung the poker again, cracking him across the knuckles, and again, across the jaw. Carver recoiled in pain. He brought his hands up, instinctively, to protect his face. A fourth strike made contact with his elbow, and a fifth cracked him just above his temple. He collapsed sideways, suddenly weak, upon the floor.

Wells darted forward and tried to yank the pistol from the man’s belt with his free hand. Carver grabbed his arm, and they tussled a moment, until Wells cracked him another time across the side of the head with the poker. He lost his grip, and fell back. At last Wells gained purchase on the pistol, and wrenched it free; once it was in his hand he cocked it, levelled it in Carver’s face, and stood a moment, panting. Carver grunted, bringing his arms up to his face. He was dazed: the lights in the room had begun to pulse.

‘Who are you?’

Carver peered at him. There was blood in his mouth.

Wells was holding the pistol in his left hand, and the poker in his right. He raised the poker a little, threatening to strike again. ‘Are you Francis Carver? You speak or I’ll shoot you dead. Is your name Carver?’

‘Used to be,’ said Carver.

‘What is it now?’

Carver grinned at him, showing bloody teeth. ‘Crosbie Wells,’ he said.

Wells came closer. ‘I’ll kill you,’ he said.

‘Go ahead,’ said Carver, and closed his eyes.

Wells raised the poker again. ‘Where’s my bonanza?’

‘Gone.’

‘Where is it, I said?’

‘Shipped offshore.’

‘Who shipped it? You?’

Carver opened his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You did.’

Wells brought the poker down. It glanced off the other man’s temple—and Carver fainted away. Wells waited a moment, to see if he was shamming, but the faint was plainly real: he was showing the whites of his eyes, and one of his hands was twitching.

Wells laid the poker down, out of Carver’s reach. He transferred the pistol to his right hand. Tentatively, he pushed the muzzle of the pistol into Carver’s cheek, and nudged him. The man’s head rolled back.

‘Is he dead?’ said Anna, from the doorway. Her face was white.

‘No. He’s breathing.’

With his left hand Wells took his bowie knife from his boot, and unsheathed the blade.

‘Will you kill him?’ Anna whispered.

‘No.’

‘What will you do?’

Wells did not answer. Using his pistol to keep Carver’s head steady, he inserted the point of his knife just below the outer corner of Carver’s left eye. Blood welled up instantly, running thickly down his cheek. With a sudden flick of his wrist, Wells twisted the blade, slicing from his eye down to his jaw. He leaped back—but Carver did not wake; he only gurgled. His cheek was now awash with blood; it was running off the line of his jaw and soaking into his collar.

‘C for Carver,’ said Wells quietly, staring at him. ‘You’re a man to remember now, Francis Carver. You’re the man with the scar.’

He looked up and caught Anna’s eye. Her hands were over her mouth; she looked horrified. He jerked his chin at the decanter on the sideboard. ‘Have a drink,’ he said. ‘You’ll be asleep in a minute. Only you’d better do it fast.’

Anna glanced at the decanter. The laudanum had darkened the whisky very slightly, giving the liquid a coppery glow. ‘How much?’ she said.

‘As much as you can stomach,’ said Wells. ‘And then lie down on your side—not your back. You’ll drown on your own self, otherwise.’

‘How long will it take?’

‘No time at all,’ said Crosbie Wells. He wiped his knife on the carpet, sheathed it, and then stood, ready to leave.

‘Wait.’ Anna ran into the bedroom. A moment later she returned with the gold nugget that he had first given her, the afternoon of their first encounter. ‘Here,’ she said, pressing it into his hands. ‘Take it. You can use it to get away.’

MAKEWEIGHTS

In which Crosbie Wells asks for help; a customs agent becomes angry; and a bill of lading is recalled.

‘Psst—Bill!’

The official looked up from his newspaper. ‘Who’s that?’

‘It’s Wells. Crosbie Wells.’

‘Come out where I can see you.’

‘Here.’ He emerged into the light, palms up.

‘What are you doing—creeping about in the dark?’

Wells took another step forward. Still with his palms up, he said, ‘I need a favour.’

‘Oh?’

‘I need to get on a ship first light.’

The official’s eyes narrowed. ‘Where you bound?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Wells. ‘Anywhere. I just need to go quiet.’

‘What’s in it for me?’

Wells opened his left fist: there, against his palm, was the nugget that Anna had returned to him. The official looked at it, making a mental estimation of its worth, and then said, ‘What about the law?’

‘I’m on side with the law,’ said Wells.

‘Who’s on your heels, then?’

‘Man named Carver,’ said Wells.

‘What’s he got on you?’

‘My papers,’ said Wells. ‘And a fortune. He lifted a fortune from my safe.’

‘When did you ever make a fortune?’

‘At Dunstan,’ said Wells. ‘Maybe a year ago. Fifteen months.’

‘You kept bloody quiet about it.’

‘Course I did. I never told a soul but Lydia.’

The man laughed. ‘That was your first mistake, then.’

‘No,’ said Wells, ‘my last.’

They looked at each other. Presently Bill said, ‘Might not be worth it. For me.’

‘I go aboard tonight, hide away, sail first thing. You keep this nugget, and I keep my life. That’s all. You don’t need to get me on board—just tell me which ship is leaving, and turn a blind eye as I walk past.’