“Perhaps we should walk it out,” said Walsh.
“Walk it out?” asked James. “You mean go back to the scene of the crime? Good idea. We can see how long it takes to walk from Arnold Township to Greymouth, and how we think everything happened. Look at it from the point-of-view of the crime, rather than a search for a body.”
They took a flat boat up to the Arnold and walked back to where the murder had taken place. It was a difficult walk and took almost two hours. Clearly Dobson was a fit, healthy young man. The site of the murder had almost disappeared, the ferns thickening and the bush as dense as ever. James had left a ribbon nailed to a tree near the murder site and a slight indentation remained in the ground where the body had been buried. He stared at it for a while, then walked back to the track, about fifty yards away.
“Now, if you were Kelly and Wilson, where would you put up a tent?” he asked Walsh.
Walsh pointed up the track another fifty yards. “There’s the obvious place,” he said. He walked towards it. “There’s a flat area here, and a good view along…” He bent down. “And look at this.” He jerked a stick from the ground and handed it to James. It had been sharpened at one end with a hatchet or knife. “A tent peg.”
“Good find,” said James. “Although not proof in any way.” He stood by the hole from which Walsh had pulled the peg. “So here they are, waiting for Mr. Fox. One of them, Wilson I think, was inside the tent, and the other, Kelly, was outside. They were alerted to his approach by a signal from Sullivan.” He stared up the track. “Walk back along the track, Walsh, then turn and come back towards me.”
Walsh complied. As he walked towards the tent site, James could imagine it was Dobson, walking with a spring in his step, no cares in the world other than the repairs that need to be made on his track. A healthy young man enjoying a brisk walk in the bush.
Walsh reached him and stopped, smiling in a friendly way. “Good afternoon sir,” he said. “Can you tell me how far I am from the coal pits? Dobson said that to Sullivan, so I imagine he also said something to Kelly – how far was it to the coal pits, did he think it was going to rain… Making conversation, as one does on the road…”
“If Kelly was standing here, outside the tent, as witnesses said,” said James, “Dobson would have been below him slightly and Kelly could have jumped down onto him. But it wasn’t their practice to jump people. And Dobson was taller and younger than Kelly. Kelly would stick him up.” He picked up a branch and pointed it at Walsh. “So, I’m sticking you up.”
Walsh raised his hands. “Then he’d call on Wilson,” he said.
“And Wilson would come out of the tent, bringing the two leather straps. Dobson was facing a rifle and would comply, probably thinking he was going to be tied up and left in the bush…the usual practice in stickups. Like Mr. Walmsley was, although Walmsley ran for it…”
Walsh put his arms behind his back. “Did they hit him on the head now, do you think, or did they take him into the bush first?”
“They took him into the bush first,” said James. “He laughed and asked them if they thought he was a banker at that point, so he was still on his mettle. He was probably nervous, but not afraid. Thinking his way through it, wondering what to do.”
“He was hit over the head several times,” said Walsh. “Do you think they did that after he spoke?”
“Perhaps he made a run for it, like Walmsley,” said James. “I’d like to think that he did. I can’t imagine that he would just stand there, or walk to his own death…”
“They said he was afraid, that he died of fear,” said Walsh. “Perhaps it was an impulse, the surge of energy a soldier has in battle, and they saw that as fear.”
James nodded. “I think you’re right. He tried to run and one of them hit him over the head with a rifle butt. He couldn’t move fast with all this undergrowth and the ferns. He fell, and they hit him again…several times.”
“Then Kelly strangled him,” said Walsh.
“Yes, it was definitely Kelly,” said James. “If you remember, he used his left hand when he tried to throttle Sullivan at the Provincial Hotel when we rushed them there. And Dr. Foppoly and Dr. Strehz both thought the strangler was left-handed.” He stared at the ground, imagining the scene. “And that was when Wilson realized what he had just taken part in. He probably hadn’t expected to murder anyone. He thought it was a robbery. But he had to go along with it after that. It took him two days to come and see me at my home.”
“That makes him an accessory still,” said Walsh. “Could you charge him as an accessory?”
“I could,” said James. “But only if he confesses to being an accessory. He still insists he had nothing to do with it. He either tells me the truth or he goes down for murder, with malice aforethought.”
24
Wanganui, 1888: The Executions
“Do you remember that time we heard the explosion and rode up the coast to see what is was?” asked Crozier suddenly. He had been walking ahead of James, and had slowed down to turn back. Perhaps he’d been trying to think of something to talk about, not realizing that James was in his own world, a world of the past.
“Of course,” said James. It had happened just two years ago. His memory hadn’t failed to that extent. “The eruption of Tarawera…we thought it was a ship in trouble…”
Three of them had ridden north up the coast looking for a ship. It wasn’t until they returned that they learned the mountain up near Rotorua had exploded. In Wanganui, two hundred miles away, people had heard the blast and later had felt the earthquakes. The noise had been heard as far south as Blenheim in the South Island and Auckland to the north. In Auckland, the flashing lights in the sky raised fears that it was an attack by Russian warships.
A cloud of ash had hung in the air for days across the country. He’d forgotten that Crozier had been with him that day. He should have remembered…Crozier was always the man you sent when a good horseman was needed. Funny how he hadn’t risen in the force. Perhaps he preferred a quiet life, and didn’t want to be a leader. Ambition was a strange master, as he had found to his own disillusionment.
“One hundred and fifty people dead,” said Crozier. “Maori villages buried. Day turned into night. It was like something out of Mr. Lytton’s description of The Last Days of Pompeii, or so I was told.” He moved the testimonial to his other hip and added, “I’ve always been afraid of being buried alive. One of my worst fears, especially with all the earthquakes in this country.”
They were almost to the railway bridge, away from the town and all its buildings, and he could see a steam train pulling several cars rumbling over the tracks looking like tumbrels on the way to the guillotine. His house on Sydney Place was in view, and he could see the the new house on Halswell Street, which was costing him over two hundred pounds, behind some trees a short distance further on. He could rent out the house on Sydney Place for ten shillings a week - he had the lease for three more years, and it was paid in full already. With a mortgage of five-percent a year on the new house, the ten shillings a week would help keep him afloat for two or three more years, unless one of the children decided to wed.
“Of course, I’m also afraid of being strangled. Or hung. My mother said I was born with the cord around my neck, and that’s why I’m afraid…”
“You’re more likely to be buried alive,” said James. “You haven’t committed any crimes that would get you hanged, have you?”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Crozier. “Have you seen anyone hung, Inspector James?”
“Just one, in seventy-one. Anthony Noble, in Hokitika, the first man to be hanged there. He murdered a young girl of eight or nine—violated her, then cut her throat with a tomahawk. Deserved to be hanged…”
“How dreadful,” said Crozier. “A young girl…”
“He was a coloured man,” said James. “From Baltimore in America. We’d had him in gaol in Hokitika for assaulting a woman, but he’d recently been released. The girl’s fat
her was unemployed at the time…he was in poor health…and the mother was making ends meet by taking in washing. They went into town to make some purchase, locking both doors—the back and the front—before they left, leaving the children—three girls—asleep. They returned home to find the doors unlocked and a trail of blood leading from the bedroom. I was sent for and searched the area with neighbours. We found her near a swampy area not far from the cottage. It was one of the ugliest things I’ve seen…”
“And they hung—hanged him,” said Crozier, who was a fast learner.
James nodded. “If I had to see anyone hanged, he was the man. Other than Dobson’s killers of course.” Now that he thought of it, Noble was also caught because he was left handed. He’d used a left-handed tomahawk, as slashes on the head proved. “Noble didn’t die easily. He struggled for several minutes. Didn’t say anything…no last words of apology or sorrow for what he had done…although he left a letter…”
“But you didn’t see Burgess and the others hanged,” said Crozier.
James shook his head.
“My uncle’s friend went to watch the hangings,” said Crozier. “He was up on Church Hill overlooking the prison yard before dawn, hours before the execution, but all he saw was the tops of their heads, the three of them, when they stood on the scaffold.”
“I heard about it later,” said James. “They all went to the scaffold in a different manner. Burgess was the most…the most dignified, I suppose you could say. He thanked all his gaolers and Mr. Shallcrass, shook their hands. Blessed them for their kindness. Claimed he been led to seek the mercy of God, and would go to his drop ‘as cheerfully as to a wedding.’ He imagined he would find eternal bliss. Why he should think that I don’t know. Eternal damnation, more like.”
“I would think so,” said Crozier. “And what about the others?”
“Well, first about Burgess,” said James. “He also swore at the end that the murders had all been committed by Sullivan, even Dobson’s murder. Kelly and Levy were innocent, he said. He admitted to having knowledge of the murders, although he wasn’t there for Mr. Dobson’s murder—which was true—but that the others weren’t there either. They were innocent, all of them, he said. Of course, that was in his so-called confession. What he really wanted was to see Sullivan blamed for the murders, because he’d turned on them. Even facing death, he had the presence of mind to plan a revenge. A cool customer until the end. But Kelly, he was incoherent with fear. They said his mind had gone. He hadn’t slept and had terrible diarrhea that morning. They gave them all brandy, of course, but that only goes so far… He’d written out something and insisted on reading it, delaying the hanging. He claimed he’d not murdered anyone since he was born, and blamed Sullivan, whom he called the demon of the West Coast and the Maungatapu Mountain Assassin. Levy was calmer, but still trying to litigate his crime. He complained that the government had denied him the money - twenty-five pounds—that would have allowed him to call witnesses who would prove his innocence. Said that the government spent a lot of money on the approver Sullivan, including a promise that he would be pardoned and sent somewhere else in the world, with his wife. Levy said he heard the superintendent promise him that.”
“And was he?” asked Crozier. “Sent somewhere else?”
“Was he…oh, you mean Sullivan? Yes, yes, not long after the hangings. They were taken to the scaffold, the murderers. Burgess kissed the rope and said it was a prelude to heaven. Levy was composed, but Kelly kept insisting he was being murdered, asserting that he was innocent, right up to the last minute. He managed to buy them an extra thirty minutes of life with his protestations.”
“They died sweetly, then,” said Crozier.
Inspector James had heard that comment before. It was a reference to something attributed to the wife of Jack Ketch, the executioner in James II’s reign, who had given his name to all future executioners. Although anyone could do the job, she said, her husband alone had the ability to help a culprit die sweetly. Executioners were still sometimes called Jack Ketch.
“Who did the job?” asked Crozier. “They wouldn’t have a regular hangman in a place like Nelson, would they?”
“A man named Michael Clarke,” said James. “He was awaiting trial for robbery at the next session, and they offered him his freedom if he would do it. He did it well, considering it was his first time. He took the next steamer to Sydney. I wondered afterwards what became of him. Not a pleasant task, hanging three men all at once. And Burgess recognized him under his hood…”
“What about last words?” asked Crozier. “Did any of them admit to murdering Mr. Dobson? Or did they all say it was Sullivan, like Burgess?”
“Kelly insisted that Sullivan and a man named Ned had poisoned Dobson with strychnine. But we knew that was a lie. I saw the autopsy myself, and the doctor, Dr. Foppoly, said there was no strychnine burn in the throat…but he’d been beaten around the head and strangled by someone with a predominant left hand.”
“Then who do you think murdered Mr. Dobson?” asked Crozier.
“It was Kelly, the left-handed one, with the assistance, or at least complicity, of a man named James Wilson.”
“Was he found guilty, this Wilson?
“He went to trial for feloniously killing and murdering, without malice aforethought,” said James.
He remembered it well, as if it had all happened yesterday. All that time it took to get Sullivan down to Hokitika for the trial of Wilson and the others. Months of work, and then finding out that a warrant hadn’t been received in Nelson. Because Burgess, Kelly and Levy had gone to the gallows with the help of Sullivan’s testimony, James was determined to get him down to Hokitika, and use his testimony to help convict Wilson, Carr, and the rest, but especially Wilson.
It was several weeks after the executions and a full six months after the murder before Sullivan arrived in Hokitika. In the interval, the whole country was treated to a deluge of salacious information about the murders. Casts of the hanged men were taken immediately after their deaths by Tatton and Knight, under the supervision of the well-known phrenologist, A. S. Hamilton, who studied the heads and pronounced on them in lectures and made a career for himself from the information—information James found totally spurious. Copies of the casts went on sale at Tatton’s Chemist shop, and were snapped up eagerly. Even the Sherriff of Nelson gave way to the degenerate desires of the public by auctioning off the “relics” of the gang, including a gun and some possum rugs. Plays and tableaux were performed and wax effigies went on display.
Sullivan, in particular, came in for approbation. The Nelson newspapers were full of angry letters about Sullivan’s self-satisfied demeanour when he walked through town as part of a chain gang, and papers further south picked up the stories. When Sullivan was eventually brought to Hokitika for the trial, the whole town was in an uproar and ready to lynch him, having tried him in their minds and found him guilty.
25
Greymouth, 1866-67: Sullivan Returns
Preparing for the Trial
In early November of 1866, months after finding the body, Inspector James had at last received word that the Supreme Court in Nelson had issued a writ of habeas corpus ordering the Nelson gaoler to send Sullivan to Hokitika to give evidence in the trial of James Wilson. Both he and Broham had communicated with the Nelson police several times, but the Nelson police had done nothing, had not even replied to the communications. By then, Carr and the other conspirators had been discharged by the magistrate, on the grounds they had been in gaol too long while awaiting Sullivan’s arrival, notwithstanding the constant remand requests from Inspector Broham. Carr, represented by Mr. Rees, asserted that he did not want his case discharged for that reason as he preferred to wait for the opportunity to prove his innocence, but the magistrate discharged him anyway. And still Sullivan did not come.
James was in the stable yard of the police camp preparing to ride to Nelson to see where things stood, when one of his constables found him. T
he constable had been running and was out of breath.
“Mr. Inspector James, sir…”
James finished tightening his horse’s girth and turned. “Yes?”
“We just had word from the signal station…the Airedale was spotted off the coast on its way to Hokitika, and Sullivan is aboard.”
“Does anyone else know about this?” asked James.
“I, um, don’t think so,” said the constable, his shifty eyes giving the lie to his statement. He’d probably been bellowing the information to everyone he passed as he ran to the camp.
“Ask Sergeant Slattery to send a telegraph to Inspector Broham,” said James. “Tell him to say Sullivan is on his way and should arrive tonight. I believe he has a plan to protect Sullivan from the crowds.”
“Yes sir,” said the constable.
“And tell Sergeant Slattery that I’m on the way to Hokitika with all haste to assist. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
As he arrived at the spot on South Beach below George Dobson’s burial site, the Airedale appeared at the horizon moving steadily south at 15 knots. The tide had just started to come in but the beach was open; the Teremakau would still be low when he got there in an hour. He settled his horse into a steady trot. He should reach Hokitika before the Airedale and have a chance to help stop any riots that would occur when the populace found out the despised Sullivan had arrived. Hokitika was a hot-blooded town, with all the Irish there. Last New Year’s Eve they had rioted at Bracken’s Hotel; Carr, who was still a police constable back then, had accidentally shot himself in the leg while attempting to make an arrest. There were even suspicions that some of the rioters were Fenians, although the word Fenians was a standard insult flung at anyone who was Irish.
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