“He said his name was Sullivan,” said Jones. “There were three of them, but the one who sold me the gold was Sullivan.”
“And the names of the others?”
“One of them was Richard Banner. The other I’m not sure.”
“Can you describe them for me?”
“Sullivan was above average in height, about your height I would say, brown hair and fair complexion,” said Jones. The other two I don’t remember as well. But both short men. Darker than Sullivan and less…less pleasant to look at.”
Burgess and Kelly, thought James. Or possibly Burgess and Levy, as Levy was the money man. “How much did you purchase?”
Jones scratched his chin and looked thoughtful. “Eighty ounces,” he said. “At a cost of three pounds and fifteen shillings per ounce.”
“Did you not wonder where they found the gold?” asked James.
Jones shook his head firmly. “No. They told me they found it at Saltwater Creek. I had no reason to doubt…”
“And was the gold in the form of dust or nuggets?”
Jones leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “I also purchased some from Sullivan later, and that was in the form of amalgam.” Amalgam was formed during the process of finding gold. Miners placed mercury in the riffles of the sluices and when it connected with small particles of gold the two formed an alloy. Later the mercury could be separated out and reused. It did point to gold that had come directly from a mine, rather than from the bank, but he would have to await the report from the bank before he could be sure.
“You gave them a rather large sum of money,” he said.
“No,” said Jones. “It wasn’t all in the form of money. I gave Banner some of his in goods. A bag of flour and a side of bacon.”
James pushed himself from the table and rose to his feet. “I’m going to need to search you,” he said. “Would you prefer it at the station, or will you allow me to search you here?”
Jones opted to be searched at the hotel rather than at the station, and James took him outside to the lean-to beside the kitchen.
“Banner told me he’d supply me regularly with parcels of gold,” said Jones, as James searched him. “He said he’d have some for me every week. But I told him I was unable to purchase any more. I told him to see Mr. Broadbent.”
“You were suspicious, then,” said James. He pulled a pocketbook from Jones’ vest pocket, opened it and found a large wad of cash. “I’m going to count this and I’ll have to take it into custody. But you can sign for it and you’ll get it back…in due course.”
“There’s almost eight hundred pounds there,” said Jones. He narrowed his eyes. “Or shall we say, seven hundred pounds…”
“No, we shall not,” said James. “If you’re trying to bribe me it won’t work. No officer of my force would take a bribe.”
“It works sometimes,” said Jones, looking unhappy. “Oh well.”
James wrote the exact amount in his notebook—788 pounds—and had Jones sign his notebook on the same page. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cuff you,” he said.
Jones put his hands out and sighed heavily as James locked the cuffs.
“Could I carry my coat over the cuffs?”
James walked with him to the station, holding Jones by the elbow, the coat draped casually over the cuffs. We probably look like two old friends out for a stroll, he thought.
The reporter was lurking on Gresson Street, just outside the station. “‘Ullo Mr. Inspector James,” he said. “Who’s this then?”
“Mr. Jones is helping us with our enquiries,” said James.
“Can I sit in?” asked the reporter. “With the enquiries, I mean.”
“I’m off to Stillwater today,” said James. “Perhaps when I return.” Or when hell froze over. It was drizzling rain as he accompanied Jones into the station, but he smiled to himself anyway.
14
Greymouth, 1866: The Interview
It had been several days since Inspector James had been to Stillwater looking for the masks; heavy rain and snowmelt in the mountains had swollen the river. After he left Henry Jones at the station with Sergeant Slattery he gathered a team and took them up the river in a flat boat loaded with all the equipment they would need to pull up a body.
James and his team dragged the Arnold and all the creeks in the vicinity. The heavy flooding upstream had not reached Greymouth when they left, and the search was more difficult than he had expected. As well, while he was searching a heavy storm hit. The Arnold rose six feet and began to run so rapidly it was difficult to sink the drags. He spent several days looking before he gave up.
He returned to news that four men were missing in the Nelson area. Dudley, Kempthorne, de Pontius, and Mathieu were friends and businessmen who were moving all their gold and money down to the Bank of New Zealand in Nelson, possibly as much as a thousand pounds’ in cash and gold. A friend had planned to meet the group in Canvastown and travel with them for the last forty miles into town, and when they had not appeared after several days he alerted the police. In Nelson, people worried, but in Greymouth everyone’s minds flew immediately to George Dobson, making a connection between his disappearance and that of the four men in Nelson. Rumours began to circulate that a gang was on the rampage and that as many as twenty or thirty men had been robbed and murdered on the coast road between Hokitika and Greymouth and buried in the sand. The passage of gold between the diggings and the banks dropped to a trickle.
James went to talk to Wilson in the lockup at the police camp. He was slumped on a bench in his cell, staring blankly at the opposite wall, chewing his nails. His curly hair was standing up on end, giving him an annoying air of youthful innocence. James had had hair like that once.
The poster James had left lay in the corner, crumpled in a ball, but he had another one with him; he thrust it through the bars.
“Wilson, I want you to look at this reward poster.”
Wilson turned towards him with a vacant stare. “Poster?”
“Two hundred and fifty pounds,” said James. “It’s a lot of money Wilson. Think about it. If you could just tell me…”
“You never gave it to me before, when you could have, the reward,” said Wilson. He rose and came towards the door, clutching at the bars. “If you don’t find them it’s your fault, not mine.”
“You mean you knew all along where…wait a minute. Find them? What do you mean them? Who else have Burgess and his crew murdered in this area?”
Wilson shook the bars of his cell. He was becoming agitated. “I don’t know if anyone was murdered. But it stands to reason, doesn’t it? If they killed one man and didn’t get anything, wouldn’t they kill again?”
James put his face close to the bars and said urgently, “Wilson, his family must know what has become of him. Think of that. Just give me a hint, like you did with the clothing, and I’ll do the rest.”
Wilson returned to his bench and leaned against the wall, his eyes closed. Clearly nothing more was to be got from him.
As James left the lockup, Slattery, the Sergeant of the Watch, came out of the station with two men. James recognized them both: Charles Todhunter, who had been in Greymouth searching for his brother-in-law for most of June, and Edward Dobson, George Dobson’s father, to whom he had already spoken. Sergeant Slattery introduced the men, and James shook their hands, offering his sympathy.
“Mr. Inspector James,” said Dobson. “You have no more information for us? Anything more on George’s fate?” Edward Dobson, the provincial engineer, was a tall, hawk-faced man with intense blue eyes with a frown line between them, gingery side-whiskers and a firm mouth. In normal circumstances James knew Dobson would be the kind of man who would expect any order he gave to be followed to the letter. But these weren’t normal circumstances, and Mr. Dobson seemed at a loss for ideas.
“Mr. Dobson,” said James. “Mr. Todhunter.” He gestured towards the door of the lockup. “I’ve been talking to Wilson, trying to get somethin
g out of him, but he refuses to say any more than he has.”
“You offered him the reward?” asked Todhunter. Mr. Dobson made a noise that sounded like a tsk.
“I have no intention of giving him the reward,” said James, more for Dobson’s sake than Todhunter’s. “But I’ve implied that I would.”
“Could we speak with him?” said Todhunter.
James glanced at Dobson. “Would you wish to?” Dobson nodded.
“Give me your stick,” said James to the guard standing nearby. “We’ll go into his cell, the three of us. We may have more luck that way.”
Wilson was huddled under a grey blanket, and jumped to his feet when he saw them, looking at Dobson with a panicked expression. James wondered how much the younger Mr. Dobson resembled his father. Edward Dobson’s face was closed, expressionless, and he moved away from Wilson and stood behind James and Todhunter.
“What are you going to do?” asked Wilson. He stared at the stick in James’ hand.
James tapped it lightly against the side of his leg. “Nothing. Why do you ask?”
“And who are these toffs?”
“My name is Charles Todhunter,” said Todhunter. He moved forward as if he intended to shake Wilson’s hand, then thought better of it. “I’ve been in town assisting the search for George…for Mr. Dobson, the young surveyor who has gone missing.”
“Don’t know nothing about him,” said Wilson. “I told that to Mr. Inspector James.” He sat back down on the bench and folded his arms dismissively.
“You were in the area, however,” said Todhunter. “At about the time he went missing, or shortly before. We just wanted to know if you had seen anything, or heard anything, anything, that would help us find his bo…to find him.”
Wilson looked up at him suspiciously through narrowed eyes and said nothing. Todhunter moved forward and squatted in front of him, his hands held forward, almost as if he were praying. “You see, Mr. Wilson, he’s a much-loved young man, and his family would very much like to…”
“For Christ’s sake, Charles,” said Edward Dobson suddenly. He took three steps in the direction of Wilson. His whole body was tense, vibrating with rage, and his face had turned a dark wine colour. “For Christ’s sake. Don’t speak to this less-than-human piece of filth in that way. Don’t treat him as if he were…as if he were an equal.” He spat the last word out contemptuously.
Todhunter stood up abruptly; Wilson turned sideways and drew his legs up onto the bench, putting one arm over his face. “You can’t talk to me like that,” he said. “Mr. Inspector James, he can’t speak to me like that.”
“Like what?” asked James. “I don’t see anything wrong with the way he’s speaking. He’s the model of politeness.”
“Dobson,” said Todhunter. “Let me continue, please. The important thing is that we find out…”
Dobson strode to the other side of the cell and slapped his hand against the wall. “Speak to him how you damn well like.” He remained standing with his back to Wilson, his chest heaving with rage.
“Now Mr. Wilson,” said Todhunter, resuming his squatting position. “As you know, the government has offered a substantial reward…”
Edward Dobson made a sound that was half way between a growl and a laugh.
“A substantial reward,” Todhunter repeated, “and I’m sure there would be some kind of consideration if you gave us any useful information…” He stopped and looked at James, who gave a curt nod. “We need information, and we are certain you have it. Surely you can tell us something, anything…”
Burgess and Kelly done it,” said Wilson. “That’s all I can say. If anything has happened to your man, then Burgess and Kelly done it. I don’t know for positive, but if anything happened to him, they done it.”
James stepped forward. “That’s good Wilson. That’s what we think already, but that’s good. Now if you can just tell us where…”
Wilson set his mouth in a thin line and shook his head firmly. “I told you before, and I’m telling you now, I don’t know nothing.”
“Nothing?” said Todhunter. “Surely…”
James sighed and looked at Todhunter. “We’re not getting any more out of him,” he said. He reached over and picked up the grey blanket, now lying beside Wilson in a dirty heap. “This looks like it needs a wash. I’ll take it to the laundry. Wouldn’t want you to catch an infection from it.”
“But I’ll freeze without it,” objected Wilson.
“It will be washed and back to you in a day or so,” said James. “Three days, at most.” He stepped towards the door, and the other two men followed him. “If you have anything to tell me, just let the guard know, and I’ll come immediately. With the blanket of course…”
Outside, Edward Dobson managed to calm himself enough to talk.
“Thank you for your efforts, Inspector James,” he said. “I’m not sure there’s anything more I can do here. I think I may have to return to Christchurch. Mr. Todhunter will remain, however, and will offer any assistance you may need.”
“He’s just a bloody waste of space, Wilson is,” said James. “I wish I could strangle him with his own…”
Sergeant Slattery was hurrying towards them waving something in his hand. “Mr. Inspector James,” he said. “Cobb’s Coach just arrived from Westport with this telegram for you.” A telegraph office had not yet been opened in Greymouth, although one was expected within the month. The line was being built alongside the road from Hokitika, the road that George Dobson and his men had helped build.
James snatched the telegram from Slattery and scanned it.
“What does it say?” asked Edward Dobson. “Is it something about…?”
James looked up from his reading. “Those Nelson men who were missing on the Maungatapu Track,” he said. “There are no bodies yet, but they’ve just arrested four men for murder.” He paused, almost hating to say the names. “Levy, Kelly, Sullivan, and…and…Burgess.”
Edward Dobson’s head dropped into his hands and he rubbed his eyes. “He’s gone,” he said. “They killed my son.”
“Have they…” said Todhunter, his voice husky. He tried again. “Have they found any trace of the bodies? Or their equipment?”
James nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. They’ve found the pack horse belonging to the missing men in a gorge near Franklyn’s Flat, still wearing the pack saddle and the swags attached to it. It was dead, shot in the head. It’s just a matter of time before they find the bodies. They have no doubt that they’re victims of Burgess and his crew. They’re all in custody, the four of them. They’re setting up a committee to search for the bodies.”
Edward Dobson did not respond, but stared ahead, his face drawn and tired, with a hint of sadness in his eyes. Charles Todhunter took him by the elbow and said, “Come along Dobson. Let’s see if we can still buy a ticket to Christchurch on Cobb’s Coach for you. I’ll stay here and take care of things. I’ll let you know the minute there’s news.”
James watched them go then turned to Slattery. “The horse had been backed to the edge of the gorge, and shot in the temple so it fell down into the gorge. The police believe the men were led into the bush with pistols to their heads and shot some distance away—possibly strangled to make sure they were dead. They’re brutal men, Slattery. Brutal. I hold out little hope for Dobson at this point.”
Later, James wondered why Edward Dobson would not to want to stay and continue the search for his son, now that it seemed the search was showing signs of progress; could it be that he did not wish to be present when the body was discovered? He seemed to be made of sterner stuff than that. His question was answered by Charles Todhunter, whom he encountered in Jack’s Nonpareil Pie Shop the next day.
“Mr. Dobson got away safely, I hope?” he said.
Todhunter was sipping a cup of coffee and reading the Argus. “Thank you, yes. He would have preferred to stay, but his wife, George’s mother, is upset - understandably - and he felt he should return to Christchur
ch to comfort her.”
“Ah,” said James. That made sense to him. “And there are other children? George was…is not his only child. I know of Arthur, of course, but…”
Todhunter nodded. “Arthur, yes…” he stared out the window, something obviously on his mind. “Arthur is two years younger than George…he worships him. And then Caroline, my wife, is the next eldest. The Dobson’s have ten children in all.”
“A large family,” said James.
“He has a brother in Nelson, as well.” Todhunter added. “Mr. Edward Dobson, I mean. Arthur, like his nephew. The boys stayed with him for a time after they returned from Tasmania.” He took a sip of his coffee, looking thoughtful. “Mr. Dobson came to Canterbury with the two boys, George and Arthur, in 1850, on one of the first four ships to the colony. His wife and several more children followed a year later. But the two boys were somewhat difficult to manage, and he sent them to Tasmania to another brother, the Reverend Charles Dobson, and they stayed there for three years. Of course, their high spirits were a sign of their intelligence and persistence, as is often the case with boys.”
“They must be very close,” said James. “George and Arthur.”
Todhunter put his coffee down, wiped his lips with a handkerchief and pulled a watch from his vest. “Goodness, look at the time. I’d best be going.” Clearly he did not intend to answer James’ question. He started towards the door, then turned back and said, “Mr. Dobson and I would like to start a fund for the search for the men missing up on the Maungatapu track. Perhaps your sergeant would like to collect the funds and see them forwarded to Nelson.”
15
Greymouth, 1866: The Body
As things transpired, it took some time to find the bodies of the men missing in Nelson, despite the large number of volunteers joining the search. News of the search filtered down to Greymouth by mail, steamer and travelers. Rain initially caused delays, and when the search party did go out they returned with nothing, frustrated by their lack of success. Finding the horse had led them to believe that it would be a simple matter to find the bodies of the four men…or what they believed would be four men.
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