As he told the court about the brandy bottle they had found, followed by the footprints, and then finally the sighting of the tip of the boot sticking up from the grave, he noticed the jury were all leaning forward, straining to hear every word. He heard a groan from the courtroom, which was crowded with residents of Greymouth, men and women both; he thought it may have come from Mr. Todhunter. The rest of the assemblage were so utterly silent that they might well have been asleep, if not for the fixed stares with which they regarded James.
He continued with his evidence: “When the earth was removed, we found that Mr. Dobson’s Inverness cape was lying across the lower part of his body and legs, and that his Albert gold guard was hanging on his vest, and his silver watch in his vest pocket. On removing the cape to one side I found a prismatic compass in a case, a tape, and a field book lying on the legs, and on each side of the body two leather straps were lying. On examining the watch, I found that it had stopped at twenty-seven minutes to four o’clock, but it had been run down.”
He dropped his bombshell quietly. “I have today received a copy of Sullivan’s confession, wherein he states that the articles found in the grave, and now produced, were buried with the body.”
He heard a hum within the court, causing Mr. Revell to frown and tap his gavel gently on the table in front of him. One of the gang had confessed! And it was Joseph Sullivan who had done so, the same gang member who had pointed the search party, unsuccessfully as it turned out, to the site where the body might be buried, the place where the gang had supposedly pitched their tent. The entire courtroom was transfixed.
James next told the court that Mr. Todhunter had identified the body on the spot, using various garments, the general appearance of the body, and the watch chain, and that Mr. Matthew Russell, who was well acquainted with the deceased, had confirmed the identification.
A member of the jury raised his hand with a question. He had seen the face and wondered about the condition of the grave and how that had affected the body in the weeks it had lain there. “The earth was not removed from the face,” James answered. “There were no rat holes about, the earth was hard on the surface, having been apparently trodden down. There was a greater depth of earth on the upper than on the lower part of the body. The earth was mixed with fern and clay, and as tenacious as if it had been trodden down.”
He concluded by explaining a theory he had in mind that George Dobson’s hands or legs had been bound, possibly to a tree, but loosened after the body was placed in its grave. He had no proof, but marks on the body had indicated that it might be the case. He knew that the leather straps found in the grave did not belong to Dobson, or at least no one had identified them as belonging to him. He stood and ceded his spot to Mr. Todhunter who was to confirm the identification he had made at the site.
Todhunter, blinking rapidly as if to stop tears, began by mentioning the watch and the Inverness cape, adding that he also recognized his brother-in-law’s hands, teeth, hair, the shape of one leg, and a bone which projected from his thumb. When he finished, Mr. Russell stood to confirm his own identification.
Then it was the turn of Dr. Foppoly. Inspector James had already made notes from the autopsy while he drank his tea at the pie shop. He sat staring at the court, prepared to re-ask his question about acid or vitriol and waited. After he finally had the opportunity to ask Dr. Foppoly his question, and have it answered, a juror wanted to know if it was possible that the wounds were self-inflicted. The doctor replied, with an audible sigh, that it was not possible that they had been. His part was finished, and he left the stand. Mr. Revell pulled out his watch and suggested they adjourn until Tuesday. Witnesses were travelling from various places along the Arnold, from Maori Gulley, and from other places in the district and may need time to get to Greymouth.
Inspector James had one more request, and he stood to make it.
“I wish to charge James, Wilson—alias James Murray—with the willful murder of George Dobson, on the Grey and Arnold track, on or about the 28thof May last,” he began. He noticed the reporter from the Grey River Argus start to scribble madly in his notebook. “The prisoner has been in custody in Hokitika on another charge,” he continued, “but I now bring him up on the charge of murdering George Dobson.” He outlined the circumstances of the murder, repeating what he had already said about finding the body, and concluded by asking for a remand. “There are other parties implicated in the murder.” He would need Sullivan and his confession to convict Wilson, and getting the man from Nelson to Hokitika, where the supreme court trial would be held, would take time.
The magistrate granted the application and remanded Wilson to Hokitika until the following Monday. As Wilson was led away, he exchanged a frantic look with James. “It weren’t me as did it,” he said. “You know it weren’t.” James looked back at him coldly and did not reply. Perhaps there was not enough yet to prove Wilson’s culpability, but there would be. He just needed to accumulate facts and eye witness accounts to make his case. A strong circumstantial case accompanied by Sullivan’s confession should do it.
He sat for a while in the court room, thinking. The Rees inquest had been set for Monday and he was free until then, other than attending the Dobson funeral. Mr. Revell came down from the bench to talk to him.
“It’s been a busy week,” he said to the magistrate.
Mr. Revell nodded. “I had one of your fellows in here on Thursday. Did you hear about it? Up on larceny.”
“One of my fellows?” asked James, surprised. He hadn’t heard about any problems in his camp, and usually he would…although he had been up on the Arnold track most of the week.
“One of Inspector Broham’s men, strictly speaking,” said Revell. “Constable John Carr, from the police camp in Hokitika. The same Constable Carr who shot himself in the thigh with his own revolver during the New Year’s Eve Irish riots down there. He was captured here by your men. I merely remanded him to Hokitika.”
“I was told about Mr. Rees, the bank manager,” said James, “but…”
“A busy week, as you said.”
“What did Constable Carr steal?”
Mr. Revell marked the items off with his fingers. “Two pairs of riding pants, one cross-belt and pouch, one large sized Colt’s revolver, one small sized Colt’s revolver, two Dean and Adam’s revolvers and cases—from the police camp in Hokitika.”
Inspector James frowned. “Guns I can understand, but riding pants? Why would anyone want to steal a pair of riding pants?” He would have to go down to Hokitika and talk with Broham about this robbery. Apart from the fact that he reported to Broham and needed to keep him up to date on developments, the robbery could very well have some connection to his own case against Wilson, although how was unclear.
As he left the courthouse the reporter from the Argus accosted him. He was a small man, thin, with a suit that might have been passed down by an older brother and a greasy-looking bowler. He carried a notebook and a pencil in front of him, ready to write down anything Inspector James might say.
“Mr. James, Mr. James.”
“I have nothing to say to the Argus.”
“Could you tell our readers why you didn’t arrest the gang, before they went to Nelson and…”
He shook his head firmly and walked on, ignoring the reporter’s entreaties to let him have at least a word or two. What was the use? They were going to have his hide in the press anyway. They always did.
6
Greymouth, 1866: The Funeral
The rain was coming down in icy sheets as Inspector James left his house the next afternoon, a steady, cold rain that looked like it had set in for the day. He had his umbrella with him, and a good Inverness cape lined with India rubber that would keep him relatively dry and warm for George Dobson’s funeral, taking place at the cemetery near South Beach.
It was Sunday, which he usually spent with his wife and children, but they were still in Hokitika. He expected them back later in the day, if the rain didn�
��t strand them south of the Teremakau. The river, half way between Hokitika and Greymouth, would be in full spate, making a crossing difficult. A ferry punt had been swept off its ropes last year, and barely saved by a man holding his horse behind the ferry on a short rope; the horse had pulled the ferry punt with all the passengers to shore. And just a few weeks ago a young lad had been swept away and drowned while trying to ford the river on his horse.
He took Charlie with him, to give him a walk, which was usually Louisa’s job.
Less than a fortnight ago, a two-day rainfall, coupled with unseasonably warm weather that melted snow up in the ranges, had filled the Grey until it burst its banks. Boundary Street, Gresson Street, and his street, Arney Street, were all several feet under water, and when townspeople began to use boats to navigate the streets some jokingly began to call the town Venice on the Grey. Mr. Revell had navigated his boat from the Court House down the Lagoon, around the outskirts of town, and moored it to the verandah of a store in Boundary street, much to the amusement of the storekeeper. He and Elizabeth and the children had passed an extremely difficult night sitting on the piano trying not to fall asleep, with water swirling around their feet, cold and hungry. The flood had taken them all by surprise, even Charlie, who had taken off somewhere, returning happily the next day, his coat damp, but otherwise no worse for wear. He was an expert swimmer and James suspected he had spent the time of the flood exploring the town.
He’d rubbed Charlie’s neck and murmured, “You were supposed to keep us safe.” The dog had favoured him with a wagging tail and a “woof,” to show his appreciation of what he naturally assumed was a compliment.
As he walked along Mawhera Quay to his destination he could see a dozen vessels in port, all of them with ensigns lowered to half-mast. A sign of respect for George Dobson and his family, no doubt. It seemed most of Greymouth was set on attending the funeral. A throng of humanity was moving towards the Union Hotel, from where the funeral procession would proceed. Every class of person in town was represented: shopkeepers, businessmen, bankers, lawyers and men from the public service, many of whom had worked with George Dobson in Hokitika, even diggers. They moved forward in a stream of black umbrellas, dark suits, and tall hats, a few accompanied by wives and daughters in dark gowns and shawls.
He stayed back from the surging tide, which came to an abrupt halt as it neared the Union Hotel. Charlie was not fond of crowds and he tugged at his leash, wanting to return home. James put his hand down and stroked the animal’s back, calming him. He’d trained the dog well, and he would attack anyone who threatened the family if his master said the word. But in a crowd like this he seemed cowed and uncertain of himself.
The body had been taken to the hotel after the autopsy, and would go from there in a funeral procession to Greymouth Cemetery, where the Lord Bishop of Christchurch was to perform a graveside service. At Edward Dobson’s request, George Dobson was to be buried beside Mr. Whitmore and Mr. Townsend, two surveyors who had drowned during an expedition with Julius von Haast.
James stood by the steps of the Shotover Hotel and waited for the funeral procession to leave the Union. The hotel was for sale, he noticed. Perhaps he should leave the police and buy it. Being a hotel-keeper might be an interesting change, although owning one of the fifty-seven hotels in town might also be foolish: as he’d seen in Victoria, the halcyon days of a gold rush did not last forever and he’d be left with an empty hotel.
The crowd was noisy, almost festive, but when the double doors of the hotel opened a hush fell. The owner of the hotel and two members of his staff, all dressed in black, hats in hand, came out first and held the doors wide. Then came the Bishop, looking resplendent in his purple cassock and white surplice. A young boy walked beside him and quickly deployed an umbrella over the Bishop’s head. Next came the coffin, placed on a stretcher, carried by four black-clad undertakers. A group of young men in suits and bowlers had been waiting on the verandah, and they sprang forward to take hold of the coffin; George Dobson’s friends and workmates, by the look of them, as well as Mr. Rochfort, his supervisor. Behind the coffin came three men: Mr. Edward Dobson, and his two sons-in-law, Dr. Julius von Haast, the geologist, and Charles Todhunter. James wondered briefly if Arthur Dobson, George’s closest brother in age, would be with them, but did not see him. Although Mr. Todhunter and Mr. Dobson were already in town, and had been for some time, he’d not seen Arthur at all. Not for the search, and now not for the funeral. Curious. The mother and sisters he could understand; the trip would be too grueling for them. But his brother, who had explored this district in the early days…?
The cortege walked down Mawhera and Richmond Quays and made its way to the bridge on Boundary Street. He could see a horse-drawn dray forcing its way through the water beside the Blaketown Bridge, which was large enough only for foot traffic or a small trap. A new bridge was to be built at the end of his own street, across the lagoon, which would mean that coaches travelling south to Hokitika wouldn’t have to ford the lagoon and would reach Hokitika that much faster. With each improvement, the town became more accessible to the world, making it more comfortable to live there, but bringing in more and more of the sort he wanted to keep out.
They crossed the bridge, the rain still pouring down, and walked down the track through Blaketown to the beach. A dray pulled by two large black Percherons sat there waiting to convey the coffin along the sand to South Beach; but Dobson’s workmates refused to give up their burden. They intended to carry it all the way to the cemetery, more than two miles along the beach from where the dray sat.
He cast a wistful look at the dray, which all the mourners now felt obliged to refuse. Walking on a wet beach at any time was difficult, and the rain was making things worse, although at least the gravel gave his boots some purchase. To make matters worse, the frequent holes made by diggers in search of gold in the black sand forced the procession to weave up and down the beach above the tide mark, the coffin bearers struggling bravely with determined looks on their faces. Every now and then a townsperson stepped forward to relieve one of the young men, but each one would return to his task as soon as he felt able.
Edward Dobson, Mr. Todhunter, and Dr. von Haast walked behind the coffin without umbrellas, hats in hand, heads high, shoulders squared. Behind them came Mr. Warden Revell, Mr. Warden Kynnersley of Cobden, and Commissioners Sale and Shearman. It was Shearman who had brought James to New Zealand, had hired him for the gold escort, and had given him his current assignment. Shearman fell into step with James, and said quietly, “Well done, finding the body.”
“It took me some time,” said James. “But now we must find and charge the culprits.”
“I have complete trust in you, Inspector James,” said Shearman. “This case could be the making of you, so give it your best. It will help wipe away the stain from Timaru as well. Inspector Broham will report to me on your findings.”
The stain. Would he ever live it down, that momentary loss of control?
Finally, they reached the place where they would turn inland: a small creek that ran down from the cemetery to the beach.[ii]The track beside the creek was well-worn and muddy, and they were forced to climb over fallen logs on the way to the grave site. Dr. Harper led the way, holding his skirts aloft, the umbrella boy still at his side, until the mourners were clustered at the graveside. The rain was accumulating in the tarpaulin covering the grave and the men carrying the coffin put it down to shake off the water. The grave would be partially flooded as well, but they were used to that. This was Greymouth, the wettest town in the Middle Island. Large pools of stagnant water also surrounded the burial sites, most of which were nothing more than mounds of sand, some with crosses stuck into them.
When everyone had gathered, Dr. Harper began by offering a quick prayer, followed by the suggestion that they sing a hymn: For the Beauty of the Earth, most appropriately. He led off the singing, his deep voice firm and on key:
For the beauty of the earth,
&
nbsp; For the beauty of the skies,
For the love which from our birth
Over and around us lies,
Lord of all, to thee we raise
This our hymn of grateful praise.
For the beauty of each hour
Of the day and of the night,
Hill and vale, and tree and flow’r,
Sun and moon, and stars of light,
For the joy of human love,
Brother, sister, parent, child,
Friends on earth, and friends above,
For all gentle thoughts and mild,
Lord of all, to thee we raise
This our hymn of grateful praise.
The townsfolk joined in enthusiastically, their voices rising above the sound of the not-too-distant surf and the patter of rain on the mud. Edward Dobson, Dr. von Haast and Charles Todhunter added their voices as well; the two older men remained stoic, but Charles Todhunter had tears streaming down his cheeks, only partly disguised by the rain.
The Dobson crew were a tough lot, it seemed. Inspector James watched the three of them, as well as John Rochfort, who stood nearby, dressed in a flashy suit and bowler hat, a bit of a swell it seemed. Rochfort had been George Dobson’s supervisor at the survey department, and was engaged to marry the sister of Arthur Dobson’s fiancée. An interconnected group, not only by interest but by marriage. One of the larger mountains in the Southern Alps was named for Rochfort—by Dr. von Haast as it happened. Rochfort’s role in finding gold and coal in the area had led to von Haast’s geological survey. The extended Dobson family must feel that this was their town, their mountains, and their coastline, making it that much more difficult to accept the loss of the eldest son of the family patriarch.
A Cold Wind Down the Grey Page 5