A Cold Wind Down the Grey

by Wendy M Wilson

  Mr. Revell was not at home. After Wilson once more threatened to walk up and down all night if he could not see the warden and make a statement, James left him at the courthouse, little more than a one-roomed shack with a table fronting rows of benches, and went to find the magistrate. It was well after midnight when they returned.

  A sleepy constable was holding the fort, a loaded stick resting across his knees; Wilson was sitting on one of the benches, watched by Charlie. The dog eased himself lazily to his feet, licked James’ hand, and flopped back on the floor, his eyes still on Wilson.

  “Mr. Warden Revell sir,” said Wilson, standing up quickly. “I need a guarantee of forgiveness and money to leave the province, and then I’ll give a…”

  Revell shrugged off his dripping coat and threw it across the chair, stared at Wilson coldly and shook his head. “No.” He paused for a minute, and then added, “But I’ll do my utmost with the government to get you money or a slighter punishment for anything you tell me that results in an arrest. What do you have to tell me?”

  Wilson sat, slumped down in the bench. “I’m a thief, I admit I am,” he said. “I ‘ave been for some time. But I ain’t a murderer. I want you to know that.”

  Mr. Revell nodded slowly. “Who is it that you ain’t…I mean who you aren’t going to murder?”

  “Mr. Fox,” said Wilson

  “Mr. Fox the gold buyer?” asked James, exchanging glances with the magistrate.

  Wilson nodded. “They stole a shovel, said they were going to use it to catch him out, hit him from behind when he weren’t looking. He carries a gun in his hand all the time, Mr. Fox does, and he’d be hard to catch out with…I want no part of that. I’m a thief, but I ain’t…”

  “A murderer, I know,” said Revell. “Who stole the shovel?”

  “Hill and…Burgess and Kelly, I mean. And that’s why I need to get out of the country, with some ready…”

  “When is this attack to take place?” asked James.

  “DeLacy will give them, Burgess and Kelly, the heads up when Mr. Fox leaves Greymouth, and they’ll wait for him on the track.”

  “DeLacey, the stable man?” asked James. Wilson nodded, avoiding their eyes.

  “And do you know when and where this is to take place?”

  “We’re s’posed to go out tomorrow, me and Burgess and Kelly, and Levy as well, to the usual place. The iron store, up towards the coal pits.”

  “Are they armed in any way, other than the shovel?” asked Revell.

  “They had some firearms they got in Hokitika,” said Wilson. “Stolen, they were, but they destroyed most of those. They still have some tools, but those are square. Two guns and a revolver.”

  “And are you sure they intended to kill Mr. Fox?” asked Revell.

  “Sure as anything,” said Wilson. “I made some masks, so as we wouldn’t be recognized. But they said they didn’t need masks as they were going to burke anyone they stopped…”

  “Strangle, you mean,” said James. He had heard the term before, referring to the two killers Burke and Hare, the Scottish murderers who murdered to provide bodies for a doctor to use in his anatomy lectures.

  “Right, strangle,” said Wilson. “And I was afraid to say anything. I thought they might kill me too.”

  “Will you repeat this in court?” asked Revell. He was taking notes with a pencil.

  Wilson shook his head vigorously. “I don’t want anyone to know, and I don’t want it in the paper. They’ll kill me. I just want some ready so I can get out of the province. You can stop them killing Mr. Fox…”

  Mr. Revell sighed and stood up. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell us?”

  Wilson shook his head. “I just want to make sure I get the ready…”

  “If possible,” snapped the magistrate. “But don’t rely on it. Now, make sure you go back to your lodgings and stay out of trouble. Don’t leave Greymouth. I’ll put out a warrant on you if you do.”

  James clicked his tongue at Charlie, and the dog lumbered to its feet, ready to accompany his master home. He waited outside in the shadows until Wilson followed them dejectedly outside. Once out of sight of the magistrate he drew Wilson aside. “Listen, go out on the track with the others tomorrow as planned. I’ll have a word with Mr. Fox to persuade him to go a day later.”

  Wilson nodded nervously. “I won’t let them know he’s going later, I swear I won’t, Mr. Inspector James.” He started to walk away, then stopped. “Do you know anything that would make powder incombustible?”

  “I don’t,” said James. “Why would you ask?”

  “I don’t wish to assist Burgess and Kelly in murdering Mr. Fox,” said Wilson.

  They did have guns then. He would send armed men to arrest the gang the next day, and persuade Mr. Fox to delay his trip.

  After Wilson had come to see him on that Wednesday night at the end of May, he had gone to see Mr. Fox, the Scottish gold buyer and storekeeper, to warn him that there was a plot afoot to steal the money he’d received for the gold he had brought with him to Greymouth from the Maori Gully diggings, and sold at the Bank of New Zealand.

  Mr. Fox, a tall thin, stooped Scot who reminded James somewhat of the recently murdered President Lincoln, listened to James and shook his head in contempt.

  “Away wi ye,” he said. “I dinna think those idiots will tak’ me by surprise. I carry a revolver in my hand, ready tae shoot at th’ scoondrels.”

  “Apparently they intend to get behind you with a shovel and knock you out,” said James.

  Mr. Fox rubbed his sparse beard. “Weel then,” he said. “If I hud a companion…”

  “I’ll accompany you with some men,” said James. “I’ll have them wear plain clothes and follow behind, as if they’re another party. You can handle an attack, no doubt?”

  “Oh aye,” said Fox. “Nae doot at all. How did they ken I was leaving the day?”

  “They have a spy in town. I’m not sure who it is - probably DeLacey.”

  “Oh aye,” said Fox. “He provides mah horses for mah trips. Guides me as well. Nae any more though. And come tae think on it, he asked me to tak a letter for him this morning…wanted tae find out when I was going, nae doubt.”

  James assigned two constables in plain clothes to go up the track ahead of them, and with a sergeant and two constables followed Mr. Fox up the Arnold Track as far as the Twelve Mile, having a difficult time keeping up with the gold buyer’s long loping stride. He stayed back thirty or forty yards from Fox, with his men further behind. Along the way, a horseman passed them at a gallop.

  The sergeant caught up to him. “That was DeLacey.”

  “We’ll catch up to Mr. Fox,” said James. “I’ll walk with him and you keep behind where you are.”

  A short time later they heard a horseman approaching fast down the track.

  “If they see a large party with you they won’t attack,” he said to Fox. “We’ll hide until he passes.”

  From their ambuscade in the bush they watched as DeLacey galloped by once more. James walked with Mr. Fox for several miles after that, with the sergeant and constables behind them but within gunshot distance. Both he and Fox had their revolvers drawn, but no attack came.

  For two days, he wondered what had gone wrong. Then on Friday he received a letter by post from Wilson, asking to meet him at the Grey Hotel near the Blaketown bridge at five o’clock. The letter was signed “Incognito” but it was clear who had written it. In his letter, Wilson requested that James walk into the hotel as if he was not meeting anyone, and to contrive to meet with him accidentally.

  Wilson was waiting in the parlor of the hotel. James bought himself a beer at the bar and took it into the parlor, pretending to be surprised to see Wilson already there, but sure they were fooling no one. He sat down across from him and said abruptly, “Well, what is it you want to tell me?”

  As before, Wilson was jumpy, looking around the room and through the parlor window nervously, as if Burgess or Kel
ly might suddenly appear on the verandah.

  “You received my letter then?”

  James sipped his beer, wiped the froth from his lips, then replied, “Of course.”

  Wilson leaned forwardly and said quietly, “I went up the track and met Burgess at the iron store, but we came back down to town after seeing your party pass by.” He stopped and peered out the window again. “See, things were badly arranged on your side and we knew something had gone wrong. And I didn’t say anything, but Burgess was suspicious. We saw two men looking like constables on the road, going by their dress. They were loitering in the scrub and we went deeper into the bush and hid. Then we saw your party pass by and…”

  James took another sip of beer to hide his consternation. Damn. They had been that close then. He’d known they would be on the lookout for Mr. Fox again, having missed him on Tuesday when he came down from the Arnold by boat a day later than expected.

  “We have a lot of ways of getting information,” Wilson continued. “And we heard that Mr. Fox knew he was going to be stuck up as someone who always goes with him had turned around and was not going.”

  He was going to have to arrest Wilson, that was clear, before Wilson spilled everything to the gang, as well as to keep him safe from them. And DeLacey as well, so it seemed. DeLacey, whom Wilson had already named as a spy for the group, usually accompanied Mr. Fox on his bi-weekly trips to and from Maori Gulley. Wilson was not being straight with him.

  Wilson saw things differently. “You can hardly have acted on your promise to me,” he complained, “bringing that group up to catch us. I hope none of the other details leak out—don’t tell anyone on the force.”

  “Why…” James started to say, but stopped himself. Could there be a spy on the force? An inside man? Not just DeLacey who was keeping them informed? Wilson had said they had many sources of information. Who would it be keeping them informed?

  “And whatever you do, take precautions to stop anything getting into the newspapers,” said Wilson. “Nothing about the wanted party. They’ll take extra precautions if the force speaks to the newspapers about my having been seen on the raid in their company.”

  “I won’t,” said James. “I’m the only one who speaks to the newspapers, I can assure you. And I have very little to say to them.”

  “Let the common constables have a slight down upon me in the matter,” suggested Wilson. He leaned forward and spoke in a whisper, glancing around as he did so. “The party gets information through so many channels that even what the police talk confidentially about is liable to reach their ears.”

  He had said more than he realized, and Inspector James had taken note. An inside man, as he suspected.

  “I’ll pass on that suggestion to Sergeant Slattery,” he said.

  “Good. Try and throw some suspicion on me,” suggested Wilson. “Although not too much, just enough to…”

  “If I can,” said James. “Now, what transpired that day, the day you met Burgess and the others at the iron store?”

  “Burgess, Kelly, Sullivan, and me, we were up the track that day, lying in ambush, and DeLacey rode up and told us that Fox had left Greymouth, but he thought he saw two constables in disguise following him.”

  “You could tell they were constables?” They had been in plain clothes, but it was hard to disguise people on the job. He had frequently been recognized as police himself, even when he first arrived from Australia and no one knew him. Something about the posture and the confidence, perhaps.

  Wilson nodded. “We went further into the bush, as I said, and then you passed, you and your party. We watched you pass. We thought of attacking you, but our lookout had seen other parties following Fox and didn’t want to start an attack.”

  James sighed and stared into his beer, saying nothing. He was no longer thirsty.

  “I don’t suppose you have some ready you could give me Inspector?” Wilson asked. “I’m hard up…”

  James reached into his pocket and came up with five shillings. “This will get you supper and breakfast,” he said. “That’s all I can give you.”

  “What about the government money? Could you advance…”

  James shook his head firmly but said nothing. He was hardly going to recommend a government reward for Wilson for the slight information he had given. And he was clearly fully involved in the attempted stick up, even though he had confessed in advance.

  “Can you tell me where Burgess and Kelly are staying?” he asked. He was waiting for warrants for their arrest for conspiracy to commit robbery against Mr. Fox.

  “At the Provincial Hotel on Richmond Quay,” said Wilson. The hotel was up for auction, the proprietor having failed to make a go of it, what with the regular clientele not being the crème de la crème of the town and there being so much competition amongst hotel keepers. He would go there and arrest Burgess and Kelly as soon as he got the warrant. In the meantime, he would seek them out and give them a warning. If they left town, he wouldn’t have to worry about them. The warrants were for conspiring to rob Mr. Fox, and he’d have a hard time making that case, with Wilson as his main witness. Best if they left town and were no longer his problem…let Broham or Shallcrass deal with them.

  11

  Greymouth, 1866: The Warning

  With Mr. Fox safely on his way back to Maori Gully, James went looking for Burgess and his crew at the Provincial Hotel. He enlisted the help of Sergeant Walsh, who was handy with a loaded stick, even if he didn’t always follow procedures. They stopped first at the Police Camp to collect a gun from the armory. If he drew his weapon it had to be one he had signed out from the armory, not his own personal revolver, which he left at his house.

  A different uniformed constable stood on guard outside the armory hut, his rifle at the ready to fend off thieves; he’d stood there immobile for hours, and was happy for the chance to move. He unlocked the door to the armory hut and ushered them inside.

  “There you go sir,” he said, pointing at the two walls of weapons. “Rifles and carbines on the left, side arms on the right, ammo in the large cartouche boxes at the far end.”

  James thanked him solemnly. He’d set up the armory himself, and they both knew it.

  The rifles were used mostly for guard duty and organized attacks, while the shorter-barreled carbines were used by mounted constables in saddle holsters for fast extraction. James ignored those, and selected a Dean and Adams, his personal favourite, from the side-arms wall. Sergeant Walsh followed him in and picked up one of the newer large Colts.

  “You should give this a try,” he said, handing it to James. “It comes with a very nice belted holster and feels good in your fist. Weighty. Easy to get at as well.”

  James took it from him. “Heavy bugger, isn’t it? But I heard the cylinders tend to rupture after firing.”

  “Not if they’re kept clean,” said Walsh. “You need to keep the powder from the mouth of the chamber. I like to put a bit of lard in the mouth of the cylinder as well, just to be on the safe side.” He took the Colt back from James and sighted down the barrel at the guard standing at the door. “They’re good out to a hundred yards, and pack a wallop. Blow a fist-sized hole in the back of anyone running from us.”

  “I think I’ll go with the Dean and Adams,” said James. “I doubt I’ll need to fire - I just want to put a scare into them. Force them off my patch. I can’t very well shoot them in the back if they run off. You’ll do better with your stick.”

  Walsh patted the loaded stick that hung from his belt loop. “I can bring down a man at twenty yards, needs be.”

  The Provincial Hotel was on Richmond Quay, not far from the police reserve. The quay was busy, as always, but the crowds parted before them, many making a point of not looking at what they recognized as police on a mission. Benjamin Barnard, the proprietor of the hotel, was standing in the doorway of his business soliciting customers. He saw them coming from a hundred yards away, turned and ran back inside the hotel.

  “They�
�re in there and he’s going to warn them,” said James, breaking into a run. “Go down the alley and come in through the back. Make sure no one leaves.”

  Walsh pulled out his stick and ran towards the alley. James gave him a couple of beats to get into place, then burst in through the bar parlor door. Barnard was standing in the hallway looking around wildly like a cornered rat wondering which way he should run. Several doors led from either side of the hallway; a larger door to what appeared to be the rear exit was partly open at the end of the hallway. As Barnard came to a decision and took a step in that direction, Walsh rushed through the rear door. “Just a small yard back there with nowhere to hide,” he said. “The only exit is down the alley. If he warned them they would have run into me.”

  “Where are they?” said James to Barnard.

  “Who?”

  “You damn well know who, Barnard,” said James. “Burgess and his crew.”

  Barnard shifted his eyes away from James and shrugged. “They was here this morning. Must’ve left while I was out getting the post,” he said. “They’re not here now.”

  “How do you know that?” asked James.

  “What do you mean? They’re not here…”

  “You said you were out getting the post. We saw you come in just now. Did you check all the rooms when you came in?”

  Barnard started to shake his head, then realized his quandary.

  “I can’t hear them anywhere,” he said. “They must’ve gone.”

  “They’re still here,” said James. “Aren’t they?”

  He patted his pocket and found his box of Bryant and May’s. “Keep an eye on him,” he said to Walsh. I’m going to check these rooms.” He struck the match against his trouser leg, then remembered it was one of the new safety type that lit only on the box. It took him a couple of tries using the box, but the match lit up. He carried it carefully to the first door and pushed open with his elbow. The flickering light showed four mattress pallets on a rough wooden frame. No room for anyone in there. Holding his palm around the lit match to protect the flame, he pushed open the second door and saw a table and four chairs. A deck of cards lay at one end of the table. The match was almost burned down, but he still had time to look in one more room. He pushed the third door open, expecting once more to see nothing, not wanting to waste a match and felt the flame bite at his thumb. He cursed and dropped the match. He was going to have a blister. The room was lit up by the falling match, then engulfed in darkness, blinding him briefly. But in the last flicker he had seen three dark furtive shapes, arms raised against the light, squatting against the far wall. Rats. Human rats.