He slammed the door shut and leaned against it, squeezing his thumb to dull the pain of the burn. “They’re in there. Three of them. Take Barnard to the kitchen and bring back a candle.”
Walsh grabbed Barnard by the scruff of his neck and marched him away. He returned alone holding a lit candle propped inside a glass bottle with a wire handle.
“He’s sitting at the kitchen table,” he said. “I told him if he ran for it you’d blow his head off. Told him you were a crack shot and would love the chance to pop one into the back of his skull.”
James smiled grimly and pulled out his gun. “Stand behind me with the candle so I can see inside. I’m going to open the door. Let’s hope they’re unarmed.”
He took a stance, both hands on the gun, and nudged the door open with his foot.
“I know you’re in there, Burgess. Come on out with your hands above your head.”
Behind him, Walsh raised the candle. “I can’t see—yes I can. Over to the left. Careful.”
James moved to the right of the doorway and peered into the darkness on his left. The candlelight showed three figures once more. They had moved since he first saw them in the match light, had crawled over into the corner and were hunkered down low, with grey coats dragging on the floor. Two were barely visible, but one face he could see, and recognized.
“Joseph Thomas Sullivan,” said James. “We meet again. You can come out first.” He had met Sullivan years ago, when they were both in Victoria. The man was a villain, no doubt about it, but he was also a coward. He would be the easiest to handle.
A fair-complexioned man of about forty came slowly forward on all fours, looking up at James through heavy eyebrows. He reached the door and used the handle to pull himself up, straining with the effort. He was almost the height of James, but stouter, with broad shoulders, an overly large face, and dark whiskers along his jawline.
“Sullivan,” said James. “Not the first time we’ve met. But this time you’ll be staying around, not running off and leaving me to fight off your attackers.”
“I didn’t run off,” said Sullivan. “I was just going to get help, and…”
Walsh put down the candle in the doorway and grabbed Sullivan roughly by the shoulders. “Against the wall.”
Holding Sullivan’s hands on the wall with his loaded stick, he ran his free hand down either side of Sullivan’s body to check for weapons. He removed a set of brass knuckles and slipped them into his own pocket. “You know this one?”
“Knew him in Victoria,” said James. “Up near Wedderburn. Biggest coward I ever met. Saved his life from some Germans who were about to stab him and he left me with them, took off into the bush. Used to hang around with Black Douglas and Gypsy Smith. Probably killed a few people up there as well, although…”
“I was never convicted of anything,” said Sullivan defensively.
“I was about to say that,” said James. “You were charged, however. You were lucky to get off.” He contemplated the room again. “The next man can come out.”
The second man crawled forward and rose to his feet slowly, staring at James contemptuously as he did so, his lips pulled back in a sneer. He was a brutish looking fellow of the criminal type, short with a small head, a sallow complexion and deep-set eyes. A heavy moustache met up with full whiskers, so that his eyes seemed to look out at the world through a pelt. His rolled-up shirt sleeves revealed well-muscled forearms with tattoos of mermaids and sailors. The top of a crucifix tattoo showed above his shirt collar at the neck. Above his shirt collar on his chest. Where Sullivan had been nervous and obedient, this man was a surly and belligerent. Not as intelligent as Sullivan, James thought, and likely to be his own worst enemy.
“Sullivan,” said James. “Tell me this man’s name.”
“Say nothing, Jack,” said a soft voice from inside the room.
Walsh gave Sullivan an encouraging tap on the head with his loaded stick.
“He’s Kelly,” said Sullivan, rubbing his head. “Tommy Kelly. Sorry master, I…”
Kelly made a lunge for Sullivan and got his left hand briefly onto Sullivan’s throat. Walsh grabbed Kelly and slammed him face forward against the wall, putting his stick against Kelly’s temple. “Keep still now or I’ll give ye a good kick up the arse.” Kelly raised his bent arm and smacked Walsh’s nose with his elbow.
“Hell’s bells,” said Walsh, doubling over and pinching his nose to stem the flow of blood. “You little bastard, I’ll…”
Sullivan took advantage of the distraction and lurched in the direction of the bar parlour door. He was almost there, gathering speed, when Walsh stood up, elbowed Kelly in the solar plexus, raised the loaded stick and sent it spinning towards Sullivan’s calves. Sullivan fell heavily to the floor with the stick tangled between his knees. Walsh strode over to retrieve it.
“Stay there Sullivan or I’ll clout you good and proper with my stick,” he said. “And you, Kelly. Get down on the floor beside him.” He watched as Kelly obeyed him, glaring at him through narrowed eyes, and lying on the floor face down, his whiskers brushing the filthy carpet. Walsh stood over them and nodded to James. “Over to you again.”
“Thank you,” said James. “Well done with the stick.”
“Ah, she’s me old shillelagh,” said Walsh, patting the stick as he slipped it back into his belt. “Couldn’t do without her.” He placed his boot toes against the top of the two prisoners’ heads, giving each of them a quick kick as he did so. Sullivan protested loudly, but Kelly took it without a murmur.
James was grateful to Walsh, doing what he himself could not, but he knew the worst ruffian was still in the room. In the flickering light of the candle he could see the third man crouching against the wall. He took a stance with both hands on his revolver and said sharply, “Now you, Burgess. Out you come. One wrong move and I’ll shoot you right between the eyes. I won’t miss from this distance.”
The third man rose from his corner and sauntered forward smiling; he was short, with a strong body that exuded power. Despite his diminutive stature, he was clearly the leader of the three, heavily bearded, like Kelly, but with a receding hairline. He walked straight at James and stopped inches away, so that the barrel of the revolver almost touched his face.
“Good morning, sir.” he said. “Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?” His smile did not extend to his eyes, which were deep set and as black as two lumps of coal.
James stared along the barrel of his Dean and Adams at the eyes; despite his calmness and his smile, this was a man who didn’t care if he lived or died, a man with no soul who would kill a man as easily as he would swat a biting sand fly.
“It’s Mr. Inspector James, master,” said Sullivan, lifting his face from the floor. “From the police.” Burgess eyes flickered briefly in Sullivan’s direction and back to James.
“I’m here to warn you off, Burgess,” said James. “Or are you going by Hill these days?”
“Warn me off?” said Burgess, his tone light and curious. “Warn me off what precisely? What bloody crimes do you suppose I have done that you must warn me off?”
The sibilant similarity between the v and the w and the missing aitches, pointing to a cockney heritage, confirmed this man’s identity for James. He knew something of Burgess’ early years. Like James, Burgess was a Londoner, but one forged in the muck and depravity of the rookeries, where he ran with a gang of Street Arabs. He’d been sentenced to transportation for the theft of a handkerchief at seventeen. He’d been sent to await transportation in Pentonville, the new model prison, where mental and physical isolation were the preferred methods of punishment: prisoners wore masks when they were out of their cells, and exercised in silent, shuffling rows before returning to solitary cells.
Shortly after his eighteenth birthday, as was the law, he was transported to Australia with a conditional release, meaning he could not return home; by then he was a hardened criminal and Australia did nothing to change that. Within a few years, he w
as sentenced to the floating hell of the prison hulks in Melbourne, brutalized by regular floggings. Released early on a ticket of leave, he’d met Kelly in the gold fields of Victoria, and together with a third man—Levy—the gang had followed the gold to Otago, then to the West Coast.
“I know your history,” said James. “You’re a violent felon from the goldfields of Victoria who washed up in this country when the gold ran out; you were run out of Otago by the force after time in gaol for attempted murder of a police officer; since you arrived on this coast the police have had eyes on you in Hokitika. Broham warned me about you.”
“Broham?” Burgess said, chuckling. “Oh, you mean Inspector Broham.” He jerked his head sideways at Walsh, his eyes still holding James’ eyes steadily. “One of his people, isn’t he? A vile Irish…”
Walsh leaned forward and gave Burgess a sharp smack on the back of his head with his loaded stick. Burgess’s eyes flickered, but he did not move and his eyes held James’s.
“We don’t need your type here,” said James. His right hand had begun to tremble, and he tightened his grip so as not to reveal himself to Burgess. How could a man who smiled at him exude such malevolence? “I want to see you gone from my district by tomorrow.”
“Or you’ll do what? Put me in gaol?” He sighed and shook his head. “Ah, God assist me in my hour of need. Gaol? I spent six years in the convict hulks in chains and the Lord taught me many things…to endure many things.”
“I’ll have the Argus publish a warning about you,” said James. He lowered his revolver and stepped back, but kept it at the ready. “Stop you from doing anything in this town, from buying anything, from staying anywhere. And I’ll have a man on you at all times.”
Burgess was half a head shorter than James, but had positioned his head so he could look along his nose at him; he stared at James with hooded eyes, like a cobra about to strike.
“Inspector James, never would a greater wrong be enacted towards one fellow against another. But the Lord will forgive you. I give you his blessing.” he said.
James pulled himself up so the four of five-inch height difference between him and Burgess was amplified, stepped forward and pushed the gun barrel hard against Burgess’ temple. Their noses were just inches apart.
“People you work with, perhaps not. But none of the merchants will sell you anything and you won’t be able to travel anywhere except by foot. And if I see you around after tomorrow I’ll arrest you on suspicion of robbery in Hokitika. Broham knows you were up to something down there. He’ll get a warrant if I ask him for it.” No need to reveal Wilson’s role by mentioning the conspiracy to murder Mr. Fox. That warrant was already on its way.
He saw a quick flash of something in Burgess’ eyes—amusement he thought. He’d already done something, and James was wide of the mark talking about a robbery in Hokitika.
Burgess stared at him for several minutes without speaking, the smile fading from his eyes but lingering on his lips. Why did he seem to be amused that he was merely being accused of robbery? What else had he done?
“We’re leaving, Mr. Inspector James,” said Sullivan, breaking the silence. “We’ve got…”
“You must not speak, Joseph,” said Burgess. He spat on the floor next to Sullivan’s head without looking at him. “You must say nothing to this copper.”
Sullivan raised his face from the ground and looked up at Burgess. “I didn’t mean nothing, master,” he said. Burgess turned slowly in his direction, causing Sullivan to flinch visibly and drop his head.
James put one hand on Burgess’ shoulder and propelled him towards the door. “If I see you again in Greymouth I’ll arrest you…have you doing hard labour on the roads.”
Burgess shrugged, took a couple of steps towards the door, then stopped and looked back at James, smiling as if he had just remembered something.
“Oh, Inspector James,” he said. “I believe I know your wife. I’ve seen her at the opera house…”
James leapt forward and caught him by the throat.
“Anything happens to my wife, you’re a dead man,” he said. “Law be damned. I’ll cut out your guts and throw them to the gulls. Then I’ll kill you.” Burgess let him squeeze his throat and said nothing, still smiling slightly. When he finally removed his hand, there was a red mark on Burgess’s throat, which Burgess ignored. James could feel his heart pounding and breathed slowly to calm himself. He couldn’t let this bastard bring him down.
He nodded at Walsh to let the other two men go; Walsh pulled them up roughly by the arms and stood with James at the door of the hotel as the three trudged off along the quay. Barnard came out from the kitchen wringing his hands, his eyes darting from James to the retreating backs, clearly wondering who was the greater threat.
“Maybe we should have put them in the lockup,” said Walsh. “Charged them with something. Use of abusive language would hold them.”
“Not for long,” said James. “And the trial could take weeks—months even—leaving them free to do whatever they liked in this district. I want them gone. Come back here tomorrow and make sure they haven’t returned. But I have the feeling they were leaving town anyway. Did you hear what Sullivan started to say?”
He picked up the candle and went into the room where the three men had been hiding. Their bed rolls were piled in one corner, and dirty tin plates and mugs had been flung carelessly on the floor. The room smelled of unwashed bodies. On a table in the corner flies hovered around a loaf of bread, a hardening wedge of cheese, and a tin of jam.
“If they come back for their bedrolls, let them have them,” he said to Barnard. “But if you allow them stay you’re going to gaol. Sergeant Walsh here will be around to check on you. Did you know them before they paid you to lodge here?”
Barnard shook his head, avoiding James’ eyes. “Not exactly. One of them said he’d seen me when I was on the Kanieri, at the diggings, but I don’t remember him.”
“Do you have any idea where’ll they’ll go now”
“They spoke of going back to…to…Hokitika,” said Barnard.
“Charge him with harbouring bad characters,” James said to Walsh as they left.[iii]“We’ll check here again tomorrow with the conspiracy warrant for Burgess, Kelly and Sullivan. It should be on the mail coach tonight.”
“It’s to be hoped they’ll leave,” said Walsh. “Go back to Hokitika where Broham can deal with them again.”
“I’ll believe that when I see them gone,” said James sourly. “Barnard is no more honest than any of them. They’ll either find another place to hide, or catch a steamer north somewhere. Wilson wants to leave the country. I hope that’s their plan as well. Australia can take them back. They’ll fit in there.” He was feeling uneasy. What was it that Burgess had done, that he, James, did not know about? Had the gang been up to something in Greymouth he didn’t know about? He shook away his misgivings. Whatever it was Burgess had done it was better that he and his crew left town.
He returned his weapon to the armory, once again to the relief of the constable on guard. As he was leaving, Sergeant Slattery came huffing out of the station holding a letter. “Inspector Broham sent this,” he said. “Wanted to let you know that the Bank of New Zealand in Okarita was robbed last week—on Tuesday. He’s requesting you to be on the qui vivefor anyone attempting to sell a large amount of gold.”
“How much did they get?”
“Six hundred ounces,” said Slattery.
Sergeant Walsh whistled. “Almost a thousand-quid’s worth. Not bad for a day’s work.”
“Oh, and we’ve got a missing man,” said Slattery, not looking at Walsh, his disapproval evident. “One of Mr. Rochfort’s survey boys.”
“What does Mr. Rochfort think happened to him?” asked James. He was not particularly alarmed. Men were always going missing around here. Sooner or later they turned up, or their bodies did. Mostly it was drink that did them in.
“He went up through Maori Gulley from Hokitika to check the t
racks, and was coming back along the Arnold. Mr. Fox came in and said he expected to meet him in Greymouth. He said he’d been talking to you but forgot to mention it. They met on the Arnold, and Fox saw him head in this direction a few days ago. He should’ve been here by now.”
“Maybe he made camp somewhere,” said James.
Slattery shook his head. “He had no blankets or supplies with him—Mr. Fox wondered if he fell down a gully and broke his leg. He was apparently an excellent bush man and not likely to get lost. A good swimmer as well, by all accounts.”
“Have you sent a search party out to look for him?”
“We did. With a group of Maori trackers—the best trackers they could muster. They just returned and found no sign of him.”
“Give him a couple of days to find his way home, then send out another party,” said James. He started to leave, then turned. “What did you say his name was, this missing boy?”
“Dobson,” said Sergeant Slattery. “George Dobson.”
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Greymouth, 1866: The Arrest
A Cold Wind Down the Grey Page 9