A Cold Wind Down the Grey

by Wendy M Wilson

James went back to the Provincial Hotel the following day, this time with a warrant for the arrest of Burgess, Kelly and Sullivan, but they had gone, or so Barnard said. He had asked Mr. Revell to include James Wilson, also known as James Murray, on the warrant, and before he went looking for Burgess again he left a letter at the Criterion Hotel suggesting that Wilson meet him at the post office. Wilson replied saying he would be there the following day.

  He was starting to wonder about the missing boy. Mr. Fox had unexpectedly decided to stop overnight in Arnold Township before proceeding to Greymouth. He had watched Dobson leave along the Twelve Mile after suggesting he stay the night in Arnold Township and take a boat down the Grey. If Dobson had been on the track at the time Mr. Fox was expected, could Burgess and his crew have attempted to rob him, thinking he was Mr. Fox? Could they have killed him because he wasn’t? It was possible the boy had not met with foul play, had fallen and broken his leg after straying from the track. But why would searchers not have found him in that case? Have heard him calling out? He could be dead, buried, murdered by Burgess and Kelly. Was that what Burgess was hiding with his smile, when James told him to leave town or he’d have him arrested for burglary?

  On the 5th. of June, at nine o’clock at night, he was waiting at the window of the post office, talking to Mr. Stevenson, the postmaster, when Wilson arrived. Wilson was dressed in a grubby white pea jacket, a red muffler, and the same black felt hat he had worn when he came to James’ home earlier in the week. Seeing James, he took of his hat and twisted it in his hands.

  “You wanted to talk to me, Mr. Inspector James?”

  “When did Burgess and Kelly leave?”

  Wilson avoided his eyes. “Dunno. Yesterday? A couple of days ago?”

  “And where did they go?”

  “Up north, I think.”

  “To Nelson?”

  Wilson nodded. “Or south to Hokitika, one or the other.” He stared out the door for a minute, then added, “I saw in the paper there’s a surveyor missing on the Twelve Mile.”

  “George Dobson,” said James. “What do you know about that?”

  Wilson kept his gaze on the doorway. “When was ‘e last seen, this Dobson?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Was it between the Arnold and Twelve Mile, or Twelve Mile and Greymouth? The paper said at the Arnold. On May 29th.”

  “He was last seen at the Arnold and Twelve Mile, on May 29th,” said James. “Should that make a difference?”

  “If it was between the Twelve Mile and Greymouth, then no doubt Kelly and Sullivan put him away,” said Wilson.

  James felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “You think Burgess and Sullivan killed - murdered him?”

  “I thought Burgess and Kelly went up to the Buller,” said Wilson, ignoring James’ question. “But I went up the Arnold Track as far as the iron shanty with Burgess on the 28thand we met Kelly and Sullivan there, at about nine in the morning. We had a cup of hot tea, then we went up the track to find a place to amb—to wait for Mr. Fox.”

  “Did you see Dobson pass by?” asked James.

  “We only stayed there an hour, and it came on to rain,” said Wilson. “So we went back to the iron store. Sullivan and Kelly stayed at the iron store to dry their clothes, and I came back to Greymouth. Burgess too.” He looked directly at James for the first time. “I slept that night at the Criterion Hotel. You can ask them there if…and I slept in late. I went into the main street in the morning and met Tommy—Kelly I mean—and he asked me where Dick was. He gave me a swag, which I took to Coburn, George Coburn.”

  “What was in this swag that you took to Coburn?”

  “Guns,” said Wilson. “There was guns in the swag.”

  James sighed. That was it then. They’d murdered Dobson and were trying to hide the evidence, he was sure of it. Wilson had come to him just days after the murder with the story about the plot against Mr. Fox because he was afraid of being implicated in the murder, a murder that had already happened, not because he wanted to stop the robbery and possible murder of Mr. Fox.

  “James Wilson, also known as James Murray,” he said. “I am arresting you for…” He saw Wilson’s eyes widen in fear. “For the conspiracy to commit murder of Mr. Fox, the gold buyer from Maori Gulley.” Wilson relaxed perceptibly. He wouldn’t swing for conspiracy to commit. James cautioned him and took out his cuffs. “Come on then, we’re going to the station.”

  “I told you before anything happened,” protested Wilson. He was looking past James at the postmaster’s window. “I swore out a statement to Mr. Warden Revell. He said…”

  “He promised you nothing,” said James. “And neither did I.”

  At the station, he searched Wilson in the presence of Sergeant Slattery, discovering three one pound notes and two shillings and three pence in silver in Wilson’s pockets. More than he’d expected from someone who’d recently had to borrow five shillings from him.

  “I’m not divulging nothing more,” said Wilson as he watched the money disappear into a cash box. “Nothing. I don’t trust you no more Mr. Inspector James.”

  The following day Mr. Edward Dobson arrived from Christchurch on the Cobb’s Coach and began organizing a hunt for his son, still with the faint hope that his son was alive somewhere near the track. James met him at his hotel and told him bluntly of his fears.

  Dobson said nothing for several minutes, then sighed. “He’s a first-rate bushman,” he said. “I can’t imagine that he would lose himself. Drown, perhaps, even fall down a ravine or into an old mining shaft. But murder…”

  “Nothing is certain,” said James. “It’s no more than a suspicion at the moment…”

  “His mother will be upset,” said Dobson, running his hands through his thick grey hair. “I have to let her believe for a little longer that George is merely lost; however, I believe you are correct in thinking he’s been murdered.” He gave a deep sigh. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

  James went to the lockup to persuade Wilson to give the Dobson family some relief by telling him where the body was buried, but Wilson refused.

  “I swear, Mr. Inspector James, I don’t know nothing about where the young man might be.”

  James placed the government reward poster beside him on the bench. Wilson glanced at it and looked away, then stared straight ahead for a long time. Finally, he said, “I took some old clothes up to the track. For them to disguise themselves when they jumped Mr. Fox.”

  “Clothes? Why would clothes disguise them?”

  “I shaped out four cloth masks. I used a waistcoat for that. I planted them up between the iron shanty and Alabaster’s. You can probably still find them there. I don’t think…”

  “You don’t think Burgess and Kelly used them? Was it too late for them?”

  “I don’t remember,” said Wilson. He looked sullen. “I don’t know what they did with the stuff. But if it’s still there you can find it behind that big rock, the one with the red stripe down its side. About halfway between the shanty and Alabaster’s. You can’t miss it. I stuffed it under a log behind the rock.”

  James left the reward poster in Wilson’s cell and went outside. His neighbour Mr. Bain, the government surveyor, and one of his assistants was talking to Sergeant Slattery on the steps.

  “He’s told me where he left some clothing they were going to use as disguises,” he said. “And some masks he made for them. I’ll ride out tomorrow and check it out. He won’t tell me anything about what happened to Dobson or where he might be buried.

  “You think George Dobson is dead?” asked Bain, looking startled.

  James nodded. “I’m afraid so. It’s starting to look as if he may have fallen victim to Burgess and his crew.”

  “I’ll ride out with you,” said Bain. He gestured to the man beside him. “And George here as well. George Sayle. He’s my articled assistant. We can keep an eye open for a possible burial…” he stopped, as if realizing what he had just said. He’d wo
rked with George Dobson and knew him well. Now, less than two weeks after the young man had disappeared he understood that a murder could very well have taken place.

  They rode out along the Twelve Mile the next morning, and soon found the place Wilson had described. While Bain and his assistant scoured the area looking for signs of a burial, James searched for the log. He found it quickly, a fallen totara tree, partly rotted and crawling with slimy white huhu grubs the size of pencils stubs. He brushed them aside and knelt behind the log. The clothing had not been well hidden, and he pulled outtwo pairs of old trousers, a woolen jumper, and four pieces of cloth which he assumed were the masks Wilson had mentioned.

  “No sign of digging, or anything untoward,” said Bain, coming back along the track. “We should search more in this area. Perhaps you should drag the bed of the river.”

  “Good idea,” said James. “I’ll get that underway in a day or two.

  Bain stood for a moment, staring at the log. “I hope you find him soon,” he said. “He was one of the most promising young men to work for me for a long time. He worked on some of the largest engineering undertakings on the west coast, and explored the west coast road. He delighted in his work. A good colonial man…it would be such a waste if…”

  James nodded. “I understand. But if I find him, he won’t be alive you know Bain.”

  “That’s the tragedy, Inspector James,” said Bain. “The tragedy and the enormous waste.”

  13

  Greymouth, 1866: The Reporter

  Inspector James was lunching at Jack’s Nonpareil Pie Shop on Mawhera Quay, and watching anxiously as boats rode higher in the Grey, hinting at flooding upstream, when the reporter from the Argus sat down across from him. He placed both hands on the table between them and leaned forward with a knowing look.

  “So you ‘ave Jamie Murray in the lockup, then?”

  “If you’re talking about James Wilson, then yes, I have,” said James.

  “Saying anything, is he?”

  James shook his head.

  “E’s connected to that Burgess character, don’t you know?”

  James ignored him and kept eating his pie, a pork pie, which reminded him that John Heron, the proprietor of Jack’s, kept his pigs - illegally - within the town limits.

  “There’s been four serious robberies on the West Coast recently, ain’t there?”

  James pushed aside his plate and wiped his lips with the table napkin. “Four? Can you enumerate them for me?”

  “Well, there’s the robbery of Mr. Walmsley,” said the reporter. “He was the agent of the Bank of New South Wales sent up country to purchase gold…”

  “That was last year,” said James. “Before my time.” The Walmsley robbery was partly responsible for the establishment of the gold escort that had brought him to this district; the case had been used to put pressure on the Canterbury government. The West Coast Times had railed about it at the time, painting a picture of a single bank agent who traversed countryside ideal for bushranging, “his horse sinking nearly to its girths in the mud, or stumbling over the stumps of trees hidden far below the slimy surface, with dense bush on either side, offering alike excellent cover for the lurking thief and a secure hiding place when the crime is committed.”

  “The second one was the abstraction of the gold from the escort,” said the reporter, counting off on his fingers. That was the escort from the southern gold fields up to Hokitika, James remembered.

  “And…?”

  “The robbery of the Ross mailman. That’s three.” The reporter raised all four fingers and leaned in triumphantly. “And the robbery of the Bank of New Zealand at Okarita.”

  “Inspector Broham is looking after that,” said James.

  “Last, but not least,” said the reporter, leaving his four fingers in place although he was now up to five events, “Is the disappearance of Mr. Dobson under circumstances that lead to the opinion that he has been foully robbed and murdered. Is that not the case?”

  “We have no way of knowing that,” said James, rising from his seat. “We have no body, as yet…”

  He could feel the reporter’s eyes on his back as he left the pie shop, and wondered what was in store for him in the next day’s paper.

  The following day the Argus arrived at his office featuring a long article calling for an increased police presence on the West Coast, especially in the up-country districts, to “discover and punish the lawless scoundrels who have been let loose on society.” He had already considered sending the resourceful Sergeant Walsh up country, and decided he should give it more thought when he had the time. Walsh excelled in his handling of rough characters, partly because he was somewhat rough around the edges himself. Perhaps he could take a constable or two with him as well, establish a camp of his own in one of the gold mining areas. As evidence of the need for more police, the paper mentioned two men who had recently been released from gaol in Otago after serving time for robbery under arms and were now charged with stealing revolvers from the police camp in Hokitika. Revolver cases had been found on one of the suspects but the magistrate had released him after a witness had sworn he had seen the suspect pick the cases up in the street. According to the paper, however, the witness was not of sufficient character to justify releasing the suspect.

  James read the rest of the article with sinking heart. Could it be Burgess who had supposedly found the revolver cases? No names were mentioned, but he knew Burgess and Kelly had been in gaol in Otago. To make matters worse, the paper went on to say that the two men in question had moved on to Greymouth where “the first thing they did was to concoct an elaborate plan for waylaying and murdering one of the Arnold gold buyers, and they were only defeated in their plans by the accidental discovery of their intentions.”

  He should have realized…the reporter had known about Burgess and Kelly and their possible connection to the disappearance to George Dobson before he accosted him in the pie shop, and had been looking for a good quote. Thank God he had not said anything untoward.

  As to the words accidental discovery, that was outrageous. Wilson had come to him in the middle of the night because he knew that if he didn’t, and James discovered what he had done, he would come after him. There was nothing accidental about it. It was the natural result of months of good police work, and the reputation that followed that work.

  The reporter went on to say that although the men could not have been arrested merely because they were known to be thieves, the English Vagrancy Act could have been used, or at least attempted, to arrest them before they left the area. But no attempt had been made. No attempt! He had waited for a warrant from Hokitika, and by the time he had received it the men had gone. And yet here he was, implicitly blamed for failing to arrest Burgess and Kelly when he’d had the chance. And now, the paper said, these ruffians, meaning Burgess and Kelly, were suspects in the mysterious disappearance of George Dobson.

  “Got the Argus, I see.” Sergeant Slattery appeared at the door to his office.

  “Can’t you see the steam coming out of my ears?” asked James, slapping the back of his hand on the offending article.

  “They say it’s our fault because we think our job is detecting not preventing,” said Slattery, who had not detected anything for years. “They say we would rather catch the criminals at it, instead of stopping them before they commit a crime.”

  James did not reply. Sergeant Slattery would understand that James was being blamed for not arresting the men when he had the chance, thereby preventing the murder of George Dobson. But was that the case? He believed now that George Dobson was already dead when Wilson came to see him, raising questions about his honesty and intentions, not to mention his motives.

  “I have some more information on the robbery of the Bank of New Zealand at Okarita,” said Slattery. “Inspector Broham has sent a warrant for the arrest of Mr. Henry Jones, proprietor of the Manuherikia store. He thinks he may be in Greymouth. Jones purchased some gold from a man named
Richard Banner and Broham thinks it’s part of the Okarita robbery. He’s sending a report on the gold tomorrow, as soon as he receives it from the bank. The bank claims it’s been identified as coming from them.”

  “Send someone to arrest…”

  “You may want to arrest him yourself,” said Slattery. “There were three men involved in the sale. Richard Banner was one, and a second was named Sullivan…”

  “Richard B…,” said James. “And Sullivan. You’re right. I will arrest him myself.”

  Henry Jones was enjoying a fine breakfast of bacon, eggs, fried bread and blood sausage - washed down with a pint of ale - at the Union Hotel when James arrived to arrest him. He was a portly man with large whiskers who obviously relished the repast in front of him. He looked questioningly at James when he sat down across the table from him but continued eating.

  “Good morning,” said James. He leaned forward and added quietly. “Henry Jones, I arrest you for the felonious receipt of a portion of the gold stolen from the Bank of New Zealand in Okarita on the 22nd of May, of this year, 1866. I must caution you that anything you say may be taken down and used against you in the event of a trial.”

  “I didn’t…” began Jones; he belched loudly as he pushed away his unfinished plate of food.

  “The courts will go easier on you if you can give me information pertaining to the robbery.”

  Jones wiped his lips with a napkin, blinking nervously. “I had no idea…robbery you say? I’ll give you all the information I can…I don’t wish to keep anything secret…”

  James pulled out his notebook and pencil. “Can you tell me when you received the gold?”

  Jones muffled another belch with the napkin. “Sometime between May 29th and June 2nd.”

  Right before James had told Burgess and his gang to get out of town then - and after the murder of George Dobson. James noted the dates in his notebook, and asked, “And from whom did you purchase the gold?”