Pieter wiped away a tear from his cheek.
“My sister Agnete is a bad woman. She has used men since she was a young girl, even our father. I hoped that New Zealand would help her find a husband and allow her to settle down. She met Mads on the boat, just as I met Maren, and she married him quickly. An older man who loved her and wanted to care for her.”
“I asked her to let me bring the children to Palmerston,” said Mette. “The Englishman was keen for me to do that, but she said no. I’m afraid of what will happen to them.”
Tears were now running freely down Pieter’s cheeks, and he made no attempt to wipe them away.
“I must go to Wellington and bring back the children,” he said. “Not now, but when Maren has had our son. I will have to leave my work for a few days.”
Mette refrained from saying that the baby might be a girl, or from offering to go to Wellington to bring back the children. Clearly this was not a job suitable for her. It was the job of a brother or a male relative, or perhaps….
“You could ask Sergeant Frank to go down to Wellington and bring her back,” she said before she could stop herself.
But again he surprised her.
“That is an excellent idea, Mette,” he said. “I will talk to him once Maren has had the baby. He will know how to deal with this Englishman you mentioned. He is an Englishman himself.”
Frank fed and watered his horses and went to check if Mette had found Pieter. But Wiremu Karira was waiting out the front of the Royal Hotel, wanting to talk to him.
“A body has been seen in the river, up near the ferry crossing,” he said. “Stuck under the ferry. No one wants to go in after it. I thought you might ride up there with me and give me a hand.”
“Do they know who it is?” asked Frank.
“All they can see is a dark shadow and some hair floating,” said Karira. “Could be anybody.”
Frank fetched his horse and he and Karira headed out towards the ferry crossing.
“Not one of my missing boys, is it?” he said after a bit. That would be a relief. If it was Gottlieb already…
“Wrong place,” said Karira. “Up river. Your missing boys would be downriver, unless they went into the river at a different place than we thought.”
“I found a boot,” said Frank. “Right where they were supposed to have crossed. I think they’re in the river, and they went in where everyone thinks they did. No idea where they can be though.”
“They must be somewhere downstream,” said Karira. “Somewhere between where they crossed and Foxton. They could easily have been carried down to the estuary. If I were you I would start there and work my way up. I can help you search for them if you like. I know the river well and we can use my waka tete. It’s down at the wharf in Foxton.”
“I’d appreciate the help,” said Frank. “Who else could it be? Under the ferry. Anyone missing?”
“One of the men on the road crew has disappeared,” said Karira. “Sergeant Jackson went looking for him. Could be him. A Scandi I think it was — well they’re all Scandies, the men working on the roads, aren’t they?”
Frank said nothing. It was Karlsen, brought downstream by the force of the river through the Gorge. If the tomahawk was still in his head the Armed Constabulary would be out in full force looking for the killer. And they would place him in the area at the right time, penned in by Constables on either end, having previously fought Karlsen. He’d be a prime suspect.
“Karlsen,” said Karira. “Gottlieb Karlsen.”
“What?”
“The man who disappeared, the one from the road crew.”
“Ah,” said Frank. “Karlsen. Yes.”
“The man you beat up a couple of days ago,” said Karira, a slight smile on his face.
Frank gave him a sharp look.
“Heard about it from Jackson,” said Karira. “Well done.”
When Frank still said nothing, he added, “Jackson went looking for him. I think he wants to beat him up again. Doesn’t like the reputation of his road crew being disparaged. Doesn’t help him get road contracts.”
“You don’t think Sergeant Jackson…” said Frank.
“Killed Karlsen and threw him in the river?” asked Karira. “Could be. He was mad as a kakapo when he left.”
Frank was thoughtful the rest of the way. The ferry crossing appeared, the ferry stopped half way across the river, the ferrymen sitting staring at the banks. Two coaches waited for the ferry to complete its aborted crossing, passengers walking back and forth, stamping their feet and looking irritable.
Karira commandeered a small rowboat and they rowed out to the stranded ferry.
“Where is he?”
One of the ferrymen pointed under the side of the ferry.
“Down ‘ere,” he said. “You can just see ‘is legs.”
Frank could see a dark shape that looked like a pair of legs beside the bottom of the ferry; the rest of the body must be caught underneath. The draft was shallow here, not more than a fathom, and the ferry floated a mere foot above the river bottom. The legs were dark, possibly brown, but he could tell little more. Karlsen had been wearing dark coloured trousers when he had fallen into the gorge. Frank could not remember the exact colour – buff perhaps.
Karira stripped off his shirt and boots and jumped into the water. Some of the women on the dock turned away, although one young woman who was a passenger on the ferry leaned over the railing and stared at him until an older woman yanked her back.
“I’m going to tug on his legs, see if I can get him loose,” he said.
He disappeared under the water for a minute, then came up, wiping water from his eyes.
“Not yet.”
One more time seeming much longer, then he appeared again.
“I think I have him.”
The body rose slowly and floated a few inches below the surface. Frank pulled it by the shirt, desperate to see the head. It circled, revealing a bloody gash on the side, but no tomahawk. He pulled again and the body turned slowly over, the face now barely above the surface, the lips pulled back in an agonized grin.
Frank fell back onto the seat of the rowboat, horror-stricken. Not Karlsen. But his old friend “Jack” Jackson stared at him with sightless eyes.
Karira pulled himself back on board and they dragged Jackson onto the boat.
“Looks like Karlsen killed him,” said Karira. “Jackson was looking for him, and he must have found him. They got into a fight and Karlsen hit him. With an axe, I’d say, looking at those wounds.”
Frank said nothing. Could that be what had happened? And what would they think when Karlsen’s body appeared, if it ever did? How would they explain two men killing each other with a blow to the head? Such a thing was unimaginable.
Frank was nowhere to be found the next day when Mette came looking for him, wondering if there had been any consequences to their adventure the previous day. She walked into town after Pieter left for work, much to Maren’s chagrin. The assistant constable was the only one at the police station, and he knew nothing. Hop Li at the Royal Hotel also did not know where Frank might have gone.
She drifted over towards the bookstore, drawn by the thought of all the wonderful books inside. Last time she’d been there Frank was waiting outside for her. Perhaps it would happen again.
On the window she noticed a poster, and stopped to read it. Academy of Music, it read. This evening. Mr. George Sawkins will deliver his second Theologico-Astronomical Lecture on “Satan.” In which the myth of evil to the doctrines of the ancient Sun Worshippers, visits Pandemonium, examines the titles and characters of that Old Serpent, the Devil, and treats of…
She heard someone behind her, and turned to see Mr. Robinson looking at her over his glasses, an amused smile on his face.
“Am I to assume that you are interested in coming to see Mr. Sawkins?” he asked.
Mette glanced back at the poster. “I see it costs one shilling to sit in the back row,” she said. “Eve
n if I could afford it, I don’t think I would want to attend. It sounds scary and exaggerated.”
Mr. Robinson looked relieved. “I’m happy to hear that you’re not interested,” he said. “These fire and brimstone raconteurs should be banned from small towns, in my opinion. All they do is excite the populace and put foolish ideas into their heads. Now my dear, would you like to make an old man happy and take a cup of tea with him? Come into my shop. I have a kettle on the hub at this moment.”
Mette preferred coffee, as did most people from Schleswig, but she knew that the English loved tea so she was happy to take a cup. She followed him into the shop. He set a kettle full of water on top of a coal fired oven, marveling at the fact that water could be heated so easily.
Eventually they sat down with a cup of sweet tea, with real sugar and milk; Mette was in heaven.
“And why are you in town today?” Mr. Robinson said as she finished her tea.
“I was looking for someone,” she said. “Well, actually I was looking for Sergeant Hardy. I came back with him from Woodville on the mail coach yesterday. He was going to the police station to see if there was any news about the man the posse chased up behind the sawmill.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Robinson. “The man the Armed Constabulary have warned us about. No news, I believe. Although there has been another murder.”
Mette stared at him in shock. They had found Gottlieb’s body so soon?
Mr. Robinson was looking at her curiously.
“Whatever is the matter,” he said. “Did you not know that a body was found?”
“A body?” asked Mette, her throat tight.
“Trapped under the ferry punt,” he explained. “One of the road crew was found with a gash on his forehead that looked like he had been hit with a tomahawk. Constable Price believes the man he chased with the posse is the man who killed him. The Armed Constabulary have taken charge, however, and I’m sure they will discover the perpetrator.”
Mette’s nails were dug into her hand and she could feel the skin breaking. If they decided it was Frank, he would hang. Her whole body felt weak at the thought of that. How could she ever bear that?
“And the Armed Constabulary will search for the person who killed, Gott…this man?” she asked.
“Constable Price thinks – as I do – that in this case the Armed Constabulary needs to be in charge. He’s sent them up to Ashhurst to search for the killer. You need not worry, my dear. He is no longer our problem. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.”
Mette looked puzzled, and he added, “I mean to say, it’s just as well that the man is up in Ashhurst and being sought by the Armed Constabulary. If anyone can find him, they can. I believe we can all stop worrying. It’s someone else’s problem now.”
Mette finally let her hands relax and sipped her tea without saying anything. Her heart was still pounding. If the Armed Constabulary thought it was the Hauhauwho had killed Gottlieb, then perhaps they would spend all their time looking for him and not think of anyone else. Of course, if the Hauhau was captured and condemned to die, then Frank would feel obliged…. She could not think of it.
“There is something I wanted to ask you,” he said.
She managed to clear her head and look at him questioningly. She had never felt so comfortable with anyone before, other than Frank.
“You said last time we met that you wanted to write down recipes, and notes about how to use different plants you find in the bush,” he reminded her.
“Yes, I did say that, and I would love to do it – if you would give me one of those lovely pens,” she said, smiling to show she was not serious.
“I have an idea – two ideas really – I want you to think about,” he said. “Don’t answer right away, but tell me next time you’re in town. First, I would like someone to work in this shop. I have another bookshop in Foxton and I can’t open both at once unless I find someone I trust to be in one of them. The job comes with a room out the back – a tiny room, but sufficient for the needs of one person. I’m sure you would be quite comfortable there, and safe as there are neighbours close by. I would also like you to write down your recipes and thoughts so that I can publish them in a little pamphlet. I have a small printing press back in Foxton, and I would sell the pamphlets in both my bookstores. We could share the proceeds — about half what we made each, I should think would be acceptable.”
Mette opened her mouth to speak, and he put up his hand. “No, I said you were not to answer directly, but that you should tell me next time you are in town.”
In answer, Mette stood up and went to look at the room at the back of the store, and came back with her eyes brimming with tears. “It is exactly perfect,” she said. “I will not tell you my answer now, as you request, but I am excited at the thought of living in Palmerston and working in your bookshop.” She would be near Sergeant Frank, she thought, and that would make it even more perfect, if only…
She lingered for half an hour outside the photography studio next door to the bookshop, looking at the photos in the window, hoping she would see Frank, but he was nowhere in sight. She wondered if he had heard that Gottlieb had surfaced so quickly in the Manawatu River, trapped under the ferry punt dock. When he did not appear, she started on the long walk back to the clearing.
20
In the Estuary with Karira
The Armed Constabulary took charge of Sergeant Jackson’s body. Despite the continued disappearance of Gottlieb Karlsen, Captain Andrews was quite sure it was the act of the man they were searching for, the Avenging Angel, in the face of Karira’s insistence it was more likely that Gottlieb Karlsen had killed Jackson.
“They think it was because he was wearing a Die Hard blouse,” Karira said to Frank. “And that it’s just another of the vengeance deaths. He wondered what you people did to make him angry with you, as he seems determined to kill as many of you as he can.”
It was possible that Anahera had killed Jackson, but Frank wondered why he would want to. Did he want to kill all Die Hards, or specific Die Hards he had encountered at some point? And when would that be? Frank could remember several events where the Die Hards were involved. Any one of them could have aroused a feeling of revenge in the other side. But this lot of killings must have something terrible connected to them. He thought of the name Adams again and wished he could remember where he knew it from.
One consolation: if the constables assumed Karlsen had killed Jackson, but his body did not surface, they wouldn’t think to question him. And if the body did surface they would be predisposed to think Anahera had killed Karlsen. He rode out to tell Mette what had happened, but she was not at home. Her sister Maren took a message saying that his friend Sergeant Jackson had been found drowned. She promised to pass on the news, but looked at him strangely, perhaps wondering why Mette would need to know about that.
Frank and Karira rode down to the Foxton Wharf the next day and collected Karira’s waka tete to explore the estuary of the Manawatu River. Frank enjoyed learning how to paddle in the Māoriway. He had only used a rowboat or a punt before this adventure. The waka tete was amazingly light and fast in the water, and smaller than the large waka he had seen Māori use for trading up and down the river. The bow was raised and carved with an approximation of a face with the tongue protruding, reminding Frank of the Haka Anahera had performed after the visit to the Pa.
“How came you to be a constable,” Frank asked him as they began the search. “I spent some time in the Armed Constabulary in ’68 and ‘69, after I was out of the Imperial Forces, but I wasn’t happy with some of the things we did, and left. I worked on the docks in Wanganui for a while, and on a horse farm. I became a coachman back in ’72.”
“One of my hapu, my extended family members,was an early Māori constable,” said Karira. “Up in New Plymouth. He was a member of George Cooper’s detachment of the New Ulster Armed Police Force, helping negotiate land sales. Then in ’53 he joined the Native Police force, the first Māori to do so. He was
appointed to the Native Land Court in the early sixties, and later promoted to Sergeant in Charge of the Native Force. My father was always proud of the connection—we never met him, as we were distant family, but we knew about him—and that encouraged me to join the force when I was old enough.”
“Constable Price said you were educated in England,” said Frank. “You went to one of the Public schools, did you?”
Wiremu gave a wry grin. “No, I was sent to live in London with a friend of Governor Gore-Browne, whom my father knew, a Mr. Nichols, a Solicitor, and he set me up with a tutor. I was there for a few months. Not the best place for a young Māori lad to live, London. My tutor and Mr. Nichols treated me well, but I was pointed at in the street, and invited to visit homes of wealthy people as a specimen for the folks there to stare at. I came home as soon as I could. That was when I joined the force.”
“An uncle of mine served briefly with Gore-Browne in Afghanistan,” commented Frank. “During the invasion that stopped the Russians coming down into India.” He was sensing that he and Karira had a lot in common. “Gore-Browne is the reason I’m in New Zealand, because of his response to the Waitara problem. The Die Hards were brought here to deal with that, mostly. Without him I’d still be in India.”
They paddled in silence for a minute, both thinking of the pasts that had brought them to this point in their lives. “How do you enjoy the work?” asked Frank eventually. “The work of a constable?” He had been thinking of looking for another line of work, and the police force had entered his mind, if only briefly.
“I hope you’re not thinking of joining the constabulary,” said Karira, with a lopsided grin, “believe me, you would not enjoy it. Too much paper work and drudgery; too much time waiting around, dealing with drunks, or separating arguing husbands and wives.” He pointed to the far side of the river where a willow tree dragged its branches across a stretch of water and onto a sand bar. “Let’s look under that one.”
Not the Faintest Trace Page 17