Song of the Spirits (84 page)

“From what I understand, those have been stuck in a rail line that, for the moment at least, is sinking in the mud,” Matt murmured. “But I’m not sure. He hasn’t given me much detailed information about his finances.”

When Timothy looked into the matter afterward, he was rather shocked. Naturally, Lambert’s investment in the rail lines would pay off someday—railroad construction was a sure win—but until that day came, they were more or less broke. The modernization of the most important mining structures would indeed have to be financed with a loan—which shouldn’t be a problem since there was plenty of
collateral, after all—but could Marvin Lambert still get credit from the bankers of Greymouth?

When he spoke to his father about it, another serious fight ensued. Timothy was on the verge of booking passage to London right away.

“And then to Cardiff, Lainie! We’ll skip all the theatrics of an engagement and the rest and we’ll marry in Wales. I have contacts there. So we could find a place to stay if the Silkhams don’t want to open their doors. Just imagine your grandmother’s surprise when you send her a card from her old homeland.”

Elaine merely laughed, but Timothy was almost entirely serious. For a while now, it had ceased to be solely the mine and his anger at his father that robbed him of sleep; he was now also concerned for Elaine. She had told him all about her family, and he was scared to high heaven just thinking about it. Sheep barons in the Canterbury Plains, a trading house and a hotel in Otago, connections to the most widely known families of the South Island, and finally, the strange story with her cousin Kura, who had ended up in Greymouth too, of all places. Someone was eventually bound to recognize Elaine, especially if she looked as strikingly like her mother and grandmother as she claimed. Perhaps nobody took a second look at a barroom pianist, but it would be perfectly normal to assume that a Mrs. Lambert had connections to the country’s best families. Someone was sure to notice the resemblance and ask Elaine about it. Perhaps even at this engagement party that was looming in their near future. Timothy would have liked to ship off with Elaine to Cardiff at the earliest possible moment. He felt as if he could hear a bomb’s fuse sizzling.

“Still nothing from Westport?”

John Sideblossom had not offered his informant any whiskey, but he was drinking a second glass himself as he spoke. Not only were his investments in the railroad not proving profitable, but no one had heard a thing about his fugitive daughter-in-law. John Sideblossom, by now almost completely gray-haired, slammed his fist angrily into the table.

“Damn it, I was so sure she would show up on the West Coast. Dunedin is too close to Queenstown, she’d stick out like a sore thumb in Christchurch, and I’ve had an eye on Blenheim since the start. I even have the ferries to the North Island being watched. There’s no way she can have escaped.”

“You’re still not looking at every corner of the country,” the man said. No longer young, he was a typical Coaster in worn-out leather pants and a dirty waxed jacket that he had worn during his stints whaling, seal hunting, and gold mining. His features were hard and weathered, his eyes bright blue and alert. John knew why he paid him. Nothing got past this fellow. “She could be on some farm or among the Maori.”

“I’ve checked the farms,” John explained coolly. He hated when people doubted his competence. “Unless she’s holed up at Kiward Station. But I doubt that’s the case; otherwise, George Greenwood wouldn’t be casting about for her too. The McKenzies are just as in the dark as I am. As for the Maori, something tells me she hasn’t been wandering around with them for two years. If for no other reason than that they don’t wander for two years at a time. They always come back to their villages. Of course they could pass the hussy from one tribe to another. But that doesn’t fit; that’s beyond their level of thinking. No, I’d swear she’s taken up residence in some gold-miners’ camp or coal-mining backwater. Probably in some whorehouse. Westport, Greymouth—”

“Since you mention Greymouth…” The man felt around in the pocket of his raincoat. “I know you have your own man there. But this was is in the paper a few days ago. It probably doesn’t have anything to do with our girl, but it did strike me as funny. The names are so similar.”

Mr. and Mrs. Marvin Lambert of Lambert Manor in Greymouth would like to announce the engagement of their son, Timothy Lambert, to Lainie Keefer of Auckland.

John Sideblossom read with furrowed brow.

“Marvin Lambert. I know him a bit, from the old days on the West Coast.”

He also knew the man in front of him from that wild time in his life. But unlike John Sideblossom and Marvin Lambert, fate had not been kind to this man. As though he had just been reminded of that fact, John raised the bottle and finally poured his informant a glass of whiskey. As he poured, he thought, and his eyes took on an almost febrile gleam.

“‘Lainie,’” he mumbled. “That fits. Her family called her that. ‘Keefer,’ hmm. Well, it’s an interesting possibility, if nothing else. I’ll look into it.” John grinned sardonically. “Who knows, maybe I’ll pay this engagement party a surprise visit.”

Satisfied, he filled his glass once more before counting out the man’s pay. He considered including a bonus, but then decided a small gesture would suffice.

“Take the bottle with you when you go,” he declared, giving the whiskey bottle a tap so that it rolled in the visitor’s direction. “I think we’ll be seeing each other on the West Coast.”

After the man had left, John Sideblossom read the engagement announcement again.

“Lainie Keefer.” It was possible; indeed, more than likely. He considered whether to set out for Greymouth right away. He felt the thrill of the hunt start to burn within him, just as he had when he set after James McKenzie. But he needed to keep a cool head. This bird would not fly away; it felt too safe in its nest for that.

Mr. and Mrs. Marvin Lambert of Lambert Manor in Greymouth would like to announce the engagement of their son…

The old Coaster gnashed his teeth. Elaine must feel herself to be quite secure to agree to an announcement like this. But he would catch her and rip the birdie from her nest.

John closed his fist around the newspaper sheet. He crumpled it into a ball before ripping it into little pieces.

W
illiam Martyn had had enough of the Maori. It wasn’t that he didn’t like them. On the contrary. They were gracious hosts, generally good-natured, and were clearly making every effort not to irritate the genteel
pakeha
with customs that made him uncomfortable. On the West Coast, William had followed his usual strategy of demonstrating respectability by maintaining an air of aloofness. Indeed, the Maori spoke English with him as much as possible, imitated his gestures and expressions, and loved tinkering with his sewing machine. After two weeks of traveling to three different tribes, however, William had had his fill of their
haka
—their long stories told with great gesticulations whose gist he could only inadequately grasp—and their flavorful but repetitive food: sweet potatoes and fish followed by fish and sweet potatoes.

William yearned for a proper steak, a couple of glasses of whiskey in the company of drunk Englishmen, and a decent bed in a private hotel room. The following day, he would organize a demonstration in a pub or church hall. The town of Greymouth seemed big enough to offer him both. There was probably even a hotel worthy of the term that didn’t rent its beds by the hour.

Though it was raining when he reached Greymouth, the small city revealed itself to be more than a midsized settlement and even seemed to boast high-class neighborhoods. A passerby William asked about a hotel at least had to give it some thought, suggesting that there must be a range of options.

“Are you looking for something nicer, with a porter and everything? Or just an inn?”

“Clean, but affordable.” William shrugged.

The man likewise shrugged. “Then Madame Clarisse’s Inn might suit you,” he mused. “But are you looking for lodging for the
whole
night?”

Just as soon as he set out in the direction the man had indicated, he came upon the lighted inn sign, but the brightly painted facade and the adjoining pub, the Lucky Horse, made no promises of a quiet night. However, he might be able to get a steak.

William could not make up his mind. But then the music coming from inside the pub urged him on. The people in there crooning “Auld Lang Syne” to middling piano playing were assuredly more than a little drunk. Of course, it was Saturday—not a bad time to arrive, all things considered. William could attend church first thing the next morning and speak with the pastor about the church’s gathering space.

First though, he spurred his horse on. Maybe there were other, quieter pubs.

A few streets farther down, there was indeed another bar, the Wild Rover. Music issued into the street from this place as well. But something was unusual about it… William halted his carriage and secured his horse. As he tossed a rain blanket over the animal, he listened more closely to the curious sounds coming from the barroom. A piano, played by a virtuoso, and a flute. A Maori instrument.

The music was different from the relatively primitive
haka
that William had heard so many of in recent weeks. Granted, there were parallels, but someone had tinkered with the melody and expression. The dialogue between the instruments had a rousing quality at times, a touching one at others. William recognized a
putorino
as the flutist brought out its feminine voice. It was high and demanding, almost angry, and yet wooing and unquestionably erotic. The piano answered duskily, representing the masculine voice in this conversation. The instruments seemed to be flirting and teasing each other before uniting in a common end note. Then the flute abruptly ceased, as though holding its tongue, while the pianist performed masterful runs into higher registers. Then the
putorino
answered again. A new dialogue, a quarrel this time. Lengthy explanations, interspersed with short, brusque responses, coming together and apart—and, in the end, a
break. A lamenting, dying piano, the flute pausing, only suddenly to begin again.

William listened, fascinated. The spirit voice. He had heard about it many times, but had yet to come across a tribe whose musicians knew how to wring that third voice from their instruments. And now here were these notes drifting out of a dingy pub in Greymouth. Curious, William approached. The spirit voice seemed to be conjured from the building’s own depths. It sounded cavernous, ethereal. He thought he was hearing the voice of the aboriginal spirit world, the whispering of ancestors, the lapping of the waves on the ancient beach of Hawaiki.

As William entered the pub, he let his gaze wander over the smoky room. The customers had just begun applauding, and some were giving the musicians a standing ovation. The strange song had moved even these stolid men. Then William saw the pallid blond pianist, whose stiff nod took the place of a bow, and a girl, who stood motionless, as if she were still listening to the flute’s voice.

“Kura!”

Kura looked up. Her eyes became saucers at the sight of William. As best he could tell in the dim light of the pub, she appeared to turn pale.

“William… it’s not possible…” She stepped closer, looking at him with an expression that suggested she was still held too tightly in the grasp of her music’s magical realm to comprehend reality. “When we arranged this song,” she said finally, “I was thinking about us. Of what brought us together… and tore us apart. And then I sought to have the spirits call you back. But it can’t really be! It’s just a song…” She stood as though frozen, the flute still in her hand.

William smiled.

“You should never underestimate the spirits,” he said, placing a friendly kiss on her cheek. But then her skin and her scent took him prisoner once again, and he could not resist. He put his lips to hers.

The men all around clapped and cheered.

“Encore!”

William was not averse to letting her play again, but the pianist had stood up in the meantime. He was tall and thin with a long, blank face. Her lover?