A Cold Wind Down the Grey

by Wendy M Wilson

  “Indeed,” said Card. He had said the same thing at the inquest. “What a loss he has been. So much that needs to be done in these parts if we are to make a go of the gold fields, and now one of our most accomplished young surveyors has gone.”

  “And that was Saturday morning, the 26th of May,” said James. “You have no doubt about that?” He had seen the flaws in Sullivan’s testimony regarding the time and he wanted to be certain when the murder had taken place. So far, all the testimony fit perfectly, and an upright citizen like Robert Card would be a convincing witness.

  Card pulled out a notebook from his trouser pocket. “Yes. Saturday morning, May 26th. I note here that I was in Saltwater that morning and I walked up with Mr. Dobson.” He closed the notebook and tucked it back into his pocket. “I keep good records and I’m sure the date is correct.”

  He left Mr. Card and took the road towards Rutherglen, a new town that had sprung up as a centre for some of the gold diggings. He reached Rutherglen in just over an hour. A recent article in the Argus had described Rutherglen as “A collection of dwellings of wood, calico and iron, put together without much, if any, regard for architectural or picturesque effect.” In other words, a place much like all the other impromptu towns that had sprung up around the West Coast. Like Maori Gully, Rutherglen was situated in a long valley between high terraces and the whole area had been torn up by tunnels and diggings in a tireless search for gold. From Rutherglen, he would walk down to Saltwater, along a swampy flat and from there, if he was so inclined, take the tram to Greymouth. He was almost home and starting to think of the warm room and the good meal that would be waiting for him when he arrived.

  He picked his way through the muddy streets of Rutherglen and on down to Saltwater. It was getting dark by the time he arrived, and the tram was sitting at its stop, about to leave. He hopped aboard and sat back for the relatively luxurious journey home in a tram pulled along a rail track by a team of horses. That was more like it. If only there were trams like this throughout the district, everyone would be happy.

  Greymouth felt like the finest town in the colony when he arrived home. His trousers were covered in mud to mid-thigh, the soles of his filthy boots were almost worn through, and his back was aching from carrying his swag for three days, but the streets of the town, although muddy, were bordered by shops, restaurants and hotels, and he could see the trappings of civilization everywhere he looked: the police camp, the warden’s office, the council chambers, the opera house, even the newspaper office for god’s sake.

  He trudged down Boundary and along Gresson to his home on Arney Street and found Elizabeth sitting in the kitchen unpicking the hem of Louisa’s frock, which Louisa was still wearing. Louisa, who kept growing out of her clothes, was seated patiently on a footstool watching her mother work on the hem. She held a book in her hands, a reader intended for children much younger than she.

  “Louisa has been reading to me,” said Elizabeth through a mouthful of pins. “My goodness. Look how filthy you are. Did you have a difficult walk?”

  “I was hoping to wash myself,” he said. He patted Louisa on the head. “How is your schoolwork progressing?”

  “I don’t like it very much,” said Louisa. “Miss Heaphy isn’t very kind and the other children know nothing. I wish I could go to the other school. It’s much closer, and…”

  “It’s only Mackay Street,” said James. “Barely two hundred yards away. When I was your age I walked…”

  “But St. Patrick’s School is right across the road on Arney Street, and they learn Geography and History and the pianoforte, and…”

  “It’s a boys’ school,” said James. “And besides, it’s Catholic.” The Church of England had held a meeting soon after he first arrived in Greymouth and decided that a schoolhouse could be erected and used for church services on Sundays. A committee was formed to move that idea forward, but so far nothing had happened.

  “Nothing is wrong with Miss Heaphy’s school,” said James. “You can learn everything you need there. Your mother can teach you to sew, and I can teach you to play the pianoforte…”

  Louisa took the pins from her mouth one at a time and pushed them carefully into a pincushion. “St. Patrick’s school has protestant children attending,” she said. “They send them away during religious instruction. Mr. Harrison told me it’s an excellent school, and there’s no reason a girl couldn’t attend.”

  “It would cost two and six a week,” said James. “The other school is in the Misses Heaphy’s home and they are paid by the town. I’m sorry, Louisa, but I’m afraid you must continue to attend the Mackay Street school.”

  He saw mother and daughter exchange a glance. They had discussed this question before, thereby undermining his authority. “I’d like to wash myself in some hot water, if that’s possible,” he said, knowing it was. “Where’s the girl?”

  “Upstairs with Harry,” said Elizabeth. “He was feeling poorly and she’s helping him get to sleep. Poor dear…he seems to need so much sleep.”

  “Louisa, go upstairs and tell the girl I would like her to fetch some water from the cistern,” said James.

  “I have some hot water ready,” said Elizabeth. “I was making tea. But send the girl for some more. Louisa, make sure you’re very quiet when you talk to her and don’t wake Harry.”

  “On second thoughts,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll go down to the camp first and have a word with Sergeant Slattery. Then I can stop off at the hairdressing saloon and have a hot shower. He’s open until ten o’clock.” Perhaps also have some tea…a pie, or…

  “Why not go and talk to Sergeant Slattery and then come home for a sponge bath?” said Elizabeth. “Why waste three shillings? The girl will have the sponging bath ready by the time you return. I have some tea for you as well. Some leftover mutton chops, and some boiled onions and potatoes.”

  “Contact Mr. Ross at the Argus,” he told Sergeant Slattery twenty minutes later. “And tell him to put out the story that Inspector James has returned from his trip and believes that Mr. Tapperell has not fallen prey to villains.”

  “Yes sir,” said Slattery. “And what do you think has become of Mr. Tapperell?”

  “Same story as usual,” said James. “He wandered off into the bush in a state of inebriation.”

  “And what about the body without the head?” asked Slattery.

  “No need to mention that one,” said James. “I’m fairly certain that it was an accident of some kind. He wasn’t a victim of foul play; just one of the countless, nameless men who’ve been lost in the bush through an accident. He and Mr. Tapperell, victims of their circumstances.”

  “There’s far too much drinking in these parts,” said Slattery. “I wish we could do something to quell it.”

  “Not much chance of that,” said James. “Wherever there’s a large body of men gathered in one place, they’ll fall to drinking and gambling. That will never change.”

  Sergeant Slattery pursed his lips, as if he disagreed, but said nothing.

  20

  Greymouth, 1866: The Skittle Alley

  He arrived home from the police camp the following day to find Elizabeth sitting on the verandah, a copy of the newspaper on her lap, rocking furiously back and forward, Harry asleep on her lap and a drowsy Charlie flopped at her side. He was glad to see she was looking spirited again, even if the spirit evinced was anger.

  “Something has upset you.” He sat on the step below her and massaged his aching calves, which the shower at the barbershop the night before had done little to improve.

  She moved Harry against her shoulder and opened the paper to the letters page.

  “You remember that horrible leader the Argus had about you last week before you left?”

  He did, and had tried to put it from his mind.

  “Someone has written a letter…listen to this. ‘Had there been a vagrancy act, Mr. James could have…wait a minute…you must be aware that Mr. James is not like the Argus of old, possesse
d of a hundred eyes…what does he mean by Argus? Is he talking about the newspaper?’”

  “It’s a reference to a Greek myth,” said James. “Argus was a giant with a hundred eyes. I find two are enough, myself. How has this story made you angry?”

  She turned to an earlier page “The letter was very kind, but listen to what the fools at the Argus had to say in response—in another leader.” She spoke in a different voice, putting on a Scottish accent, pretending she was the editor of the Argus, Mr. James Kerr. “We are perhaps better able than ‘Scrutator’– that’s the nom de plume of the letter writer—to form an opinion of the zeal and industry of the police department stationed in this district, and we gladly subscribe to the opinion that Mr. Inspector James has, since his arrival here, been indefatigable in his exertion to prevent and detect crime—exertions entailing a vast amount of hard work and anxiety. Nor would we for a moment exclude the subordinate members of the force…”

  “I’m happy to hear that this rag is complimenting my subordinates…”

  Elizabeth raised her finger, “No, but William, listen to this. They say, ‘When we, as we think correctly, expressed the opinion that the police authorities were not free from blame respecting the non-arrest of Burgess, Kelly, and Co., we include the whole department, which is responsible for the preservation of society from such scoundrels as the men who are now charged with such terrible crimes…’”

  “I do feel that to be the case, somewhat,” said James. “Although I wouldn’t admit it in court. And anyway, Scrutator is the bane of Mr. Kerr…I almost feel pity for the man. He has to respond somehow.”

  “Here’s what else they say. ‘We do not for one moment doubt that Inspector James acted according to the best of his knowledge and ability to stay the career of these men when they were here; but the question is - was that sufficient for the intended purpose?’” She raised her eyes from the paper briefly to look at him angrily. “And here’s the bit that troubles me. ‘We say not, and we believe we are expressing the general opinion of the public in saying so. In fact, the further the inquiry is pushed the stronger are the reasons for thinking that much more might have been done than was done.’ The gall of this newspaper…”

  “I’d like to know what they think I should have done,” he said. “You know that I’ve hardly been home for the past few weeks…”

  She smiled, folded the newspaper, and threw it at him. “And I’ve missed you, you great dobick,” she said. “Now go and put this newspaper in the privy, where we can put it to better use than reading.”

  After tea - mutton stew again - he took Charlie out for a walk, heading down to Mawhera Quay, thinking he might find the Wallaby docked there. Businesses had closed for the day, and the drunkards had not yet settled in for their evening of carousing, but men were wandering up and down seeking tonics against the tediousness of their lives.

  He could see several ships, both screw and paddle steamers, grounded in the river, waiting for the tide to refloat them. A notice posted outside the shipping office reported that the Wallaby was late coming from Nelson, delayed by bad weather. The seas from Nelson and down the West Coast were treacherous and even after making it safely down the coast, boats often had to wait out in the roads for the tides to float them in. The Lioness had grounded on the bar in January, run up on the beach while attempting to free herself and been dragged in by tug. And the schooner Northern Light had gone aground in June while being towed across the bar and sat stranded at the mouth of the lagoon for days while the paddle ship Woodpecker brought its cargo up to the wharf.

  A steamer bobbed out in the roads, probably the Wallaby. In the meantime, Jack’s Nonpareil Pie House and his “always ready” coffees called to him like a Siren. He preferred tea, but coffee was better for energizing his brain. John Heron would be waiting for the Wallaby to deliver the fresh eggs he advertised, and would alert James when the boat arrived.

  Passing Tait Brothers’ Photographic shop he noticed a photograph on display; a panorama of Greymouth taken from the South Spit showing the town, the river, and the wharf. It made a pretty picture. He would purchase one for Elizabeth for her birthday. The photographs they could take these days were astounding, almost as true to life as paintings. He thought he might just be able to see the roof of his own house in the photograph.

  A smaller photograph to one side showed two children seated beside each other on a settee. He leaned forward to take a better look, then recoiled in revulsion. One of the children, a boy of perhaps nine or ten, was obviously dead, his eyes flat, his head flopped slightly to one side. His left hand had been placed limply on the shoulder of his sister, who sat beside him looking stunned - but alive. Memento mori: he’d heard of those, portraits taken after children had died to capture an image of the child for eternity. Mostly the children were arranged in a seated position on the floor, their lifeless heads resting on their mothers’ laps. He walked away quickly towards the government shipping office, trying not to imagine how the photograph had been accomplished. He could tolerate the sight of deceased adults, but bodies of children disturbed him.

  At the shipping office, a tall, thin serious-faced man sitting at a desk on one side of the room asked if he could help. A sign on the front of his desk, had his name painted onto a piece of polished wood: H. Smith, Clerk of Shipping.

  “I have a question about last month’s sailing of the Wallaby,” said James.

  “Early June, it went,” said the clerk. He consulted a large register sitting on a podium to one side of his desk. “Here we are, leaving June 3rd and arriving in Nelson on June 6th. Then on up to Wanganui and Taranaki. Carried a large load of coal, from the Buller, up to the North Island. Then back in Nelson July 12th and returning here soon. I received a telegram when it left, but no sign of it yet. Are you awaiting something?”

  James shook his head. “No. I’m an inspector with the police.” He took out his warrant card and showed the clerk.

  “Ah,” said the clerk. “You’ll be looking for information about Burgess and his crew no doubt. They went off on the S.S. Wallaby on that trip. Pity they weren’t stopped before they…”

  “Yes, yes. A great pity. Is there something you can tell me about them? How much they paid for the trip…”

  “You should talk to the Greek boatman. I heard they got some money off him. He’s that mad now because he’s not going to get it back, especially if they hang. A few quid it was, too.”

  “Where would I find this Greek boatman? And does he have a name?”

  “He’s the Greek boatman,” said the clerk, looking mystified at the question. “You’ll probably find him at the skittle alley. The one at the Alabama Hotel, down on Richmond Quay. Spends a lot of time there, he does.”

  “What about the Wallaby? Is that her sitting out on the roads?” He could wait for her at Jack’s and go to the Alabama Hotel later, when things were more likely to be heating up there.

  “Could be,” said Smith helpfully. “The Wallaby is due soon. If it’s her, she’ll come across at high tide, in an hour or two.”

  Dr. Foppoly was sitting in Jack’s having a thick black coffee and reading the Grey River Argus. Inspector James fetched himself a strong coffee heavily diluted with warm milk and doused with sugar and pulled up a chair at the doctor’s table.

  “I see you’re reading our magnificent local rag.”

  Dr. Foppoly smiled. “The editor is not fond of you apparently.”

  “It would seem not.”

  “Don’t let yourself become upset about what they write,” said Dr. Foppoly. “Anyone close to the investigation, as I am for example, knows you’ve done all you possibly could.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ve become somewhat tired of the local politics,” said the doctor. “Especially regarding the hospital. The board is reluctant to take my advice, and I can’t make the improvements I would like. They refuse to believe in the need for cleanliness during surgery, for example. I’m thinking of leaving Greymouth soon
—in fact I’ve decided to leave. I’ll be returning to Italy.”

  “You’ll be missed,” said James, carefully sipping his coffee and thinking about Elizabeth’s accouchement. “Who’ll be taking over your women’s surgery? Specifically, with childbirth?”

  “Dr. Strehz is an outstanding doctor,” said Dr. Foppoly. “Why do you…”

  “My wife,” said James. Perhaps they should just find a woman with experience, as Elizabeth wished. Elizabeth didn’t want to go to the lying-in hospital anyway.

  “Although I’ve never met him, Dr. Jackson has an excellent reputation as well,” said Dr. Foppoly. He took one last sip of coffee, scooped out the dregs with his finger and licked it, then set the cup on the table. “He’s coming to us from the Dunstan District Hospital and is a Licentiate of Midwifery in Edinburgh and the Rotunda Lying-in Hospital in Dublin…”

  Dr. Foppoly returned to reading his paper, and Inspector James sat thinking about his case against Wilson. What was Wilson’s level of importance within the gang? Generally, the press talked about the Burgess gang as consisting of four men: Burgess, Kelly, Levy and Sullivan. But there seemed to be several hangers on—DeLacey for example, who kept stables in Greymouth and across the river in Cobden and frequently escorted the gold buyers for whom he supplied horses; and the unknown connection or connections within the police. Of course, that could very well turn out to be Carr, the constable from Hokitika who had been arrested for stealing guns and trousers, although that sounded more like a theft of convenience. Trousers? Why trousers? He would have to talk to Broham in Hokitika about the robbery, when he got a chance to ride down there.

  Dusk had fallen when the S.S. Wallaby finally crossed the bar; he left Jack’s to return to Mawhera Quay. The steamer was pulling alongside of the wharf as he arrived, and sailors were leaping from the gunwale and to secure the mooring. As soon as the gangplank was dropped he boarded the vessel and went to find the captain. Captain Palmer was at the bridge, watching his crew perform their duties. He greeted Inspector James with a brief nod.