Come to Grief

by Wendy M Wilson

  “This is more like it,” Frank said. “A decent hotel with private apartments and a billiard room, right across from the train station. A good dining room as well. No need to leave the premises for any reason. I’ll have to send a telegram to Colonel Roberts and tell him what happened. At least he can let the Melbourne Constabulary know that Hinton might be returning there, and that Sampson tried to tell me he knew where the gold was. But that can wait until Inspector Buckley gets here. I’ll talk it over with him.”

  She noticed that the hotel had a sign in the entrance saying there was a bathing room with hot and cold baths, which would be nice, especially if bathing was included in the room price. And private apartments. She hoped three pounds and ten shillings was going to be enough to pay for this luxury. She and Frank would have to go down to the baths one at a time, however. She refused to leave Sarah Jane alone ever again until she was grown up. Looking back, she was shocked with herself for leaving her alone in Dunedin when she went to collect the manuscript.

  The owner of the hotel, Captain Scott, came out to meet them, directing Frank to the stables next to the hotel. He acted as if he had been expecting them, and she wondered if Inspector Buckley had contacted him. The inspector had mentioned this hotel as one they should stay at, because it was run by an ex-military man. Military men watched each other’s backs, in her experience.

  “I’ll be in the stables next door for a while,” Frank said to her. “I need to brush the horse down and made sure she’s fed and watered. She’s a fine horse and she’s going to suit me very well.” He patted the horse on her long, powerful neck and turned back to Mette. “Don’t open the door to anyone, whatever you do. No one but me. I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

  “If you would follow me, Mrs. Hardy,” said Captain Scott. “I’ll show you to your apartment.”

  The apartment had a bedroom with a bed and a cot, and a sitting room with a large wardrobe with a mirror on the door. It had been ages since she’d seen herself in a mirror, especially a full-sized mirror. When Captain Scott left she would have a good look at herself from all angles. She wanted to look older and more sophisticated, more of a woman of the world, so people wouldn’t think she was Frank’s daughter.

  “Is there anything I can send up for you, Mrs. Hardy?” Captain Scott asked. “We have some fresh oysters, caught this morning. Perhaps a plate of those with some lemon and a few water biscuits?”

  She was tempted. “That does sound delicious,” she said. “But perhaps I’ll wait until my husband is finished with his horse.” And I’ll ask him if we can even afford a plate of Bluff Oysters, she thought but didn’t say. “Could someone bring me a bathing tub with warm water for the babies?”

  “Certainly,” he said. “I’ll have the girl bring it up for you. And some soap as well. Perhaps you and your husband would like to take a bath in the bathing rooms later? We have hot and cold baths, and a salt water bath as well. Very private if you want to bathe together.”

  She agreed that perhaps they might, but knew she was never going to leave Sarah Jane by herself ever again. In fact, Frank could have a bath if he wished and she would do what she could with the babies’ bath water.

  She had bathed and fed the girls and tucked them into bed, and was soaking her feet in the still warm water, when she heard a knock on the door.

  She dried her feet and went to the door, remembering what Frank had said, afraid to open it but too curious not to find out who it was. The knock came again, soft and insistent. “Can I help you?” she asked, worried. What if it was Mr. Smith, come to find her again? She couldn’t face another ordeal like that.

  “Telegram for Sergeant Frank Hardy,” said a youthful voice on the other side of the door. “Captain Scott said I could come up.”

  She opened the door part way, leaving the chain on, and peered through the crack. A young man in a telegraph cap was standing outside holding an envelope in his hand.

  “Sergeant Hardy is in the stables next door to the hotel,” she said, then wished she hadn’t alerted him to the fact that she was alone. She should have said her husband was asleep in the sitting room.

  “If you’re his wife, I can give it to you.”

  The desire to know what was in the telegram overwhelmed her. She had never been able to wait for news or for any kind of surprise. She reached through the gap in the door and took the telegram and then pulled her hand back quickly. He waited, smiling.

  It took her a minute to understand why he wasn’t moving, but when she did she reached into her pocket and found a penny, probably her last one, and handed it to him.

  “Thanks, missus,” he said. He touched his cap and walked quickly down the hallway to the stairs. Apparently a penny was sufficient. Frank would have given him at least thruppence, but the young man didn’t know that.

  She tore open the envelope, worried now. She had never received a telegram herself, but knew they contained bad news as much as they contained good news. What if someone had died?

  She saw to her relief that the telegram was from Colonel Roberts, the officer who had sent Frank south to follow the gold robbers:

  Apologies for sending you into a disaster. Stop. Rooms reserved and paid for at Scott’s Club Hotel, Bluff. Stop. Constabulary will cover return trip by rail or sea and all expenses for you and family. Stop. Kind Regards. Colonel James Roberts. Wellington Constabulary.

  No wonder Captain Scott seemed to have been expecting them. The bill had already been paid. Would that include food? She read the telegram again. It did say “All expenses.” She was sure Frank would assume the expenses included a plate of Bluff oysters and a pint or two of beer. If she ignored the arrest and the sinking ship, this would end up being a very nice holiday, even if they didn’t make any money. She decided she would try to be like Frank for a while and look on the bright side of things.

  Sarah Jane started whimpering again, and she went over to the cot to check her. She had made a nest for the girls using bags and blankets so they wouldn’t roll out of bed, but Helen was taking up most of the room, and had kicked the blankets off both of them. In spite of her ever-so-slight dislike of Helen, she had to admit she was an active child, advanced for her age if she was as young as she looked, and with lots of gumption. No wonder Frank was drawn to her. She sat on the edge of the cot and eased the two apart, trying not to wake them.

  They rolled back together immediately, Helen with her arm slung casually over Sarah Jane’s face. Sarah Jane’s eyes fluttered, which happened when she was about to wake up.

  Perhaps for the night, Captain Scott would bring up another bed. But for now it would be best if she moved Sarah Jane to the middle of the larger bed, where was she likely to stay in one place, and give Helen free rein of the cot.

  Pushing the Gladstone bag to one side, she lifted Sarah Jane from the bed. She was about to put her on the large bed when the bag fell to the floor with a loud thump. She finished settling Sarah Jane and picked up the bag, wondering again why it weighed so much. It was empty, and it was the same as the bag she had been carrying, which was heavy, but not nearly as heavy as this one.

  She sat on the floor beside the bag and opened it, feeling around inside to see if there was something in it that she hadn’t noticed — a rock or a slab of granite, perhaps. She could feel nothing, but she noticed her hand did not seem to go as deep as it did with her own bag. She picked up the bag with her hand sill inside, and measured it with her eye. No, there was something on the bottom. In fact, it almost seemed as if it had a false bottom.

  She dragged the bag nearer to the window where the light was better and opened it as wide as it would go. Then she ran her fingers across the bottom, looking to see if she could find a place to pry it away from the outer part of the bag. Nothing. It was glued in solidly, but she felt a bump at one end. By moving it around more she found a little notch with something she recognized: a tiny keyhole! She had been right: a false bottom.

  She searched the room for something she could use
to break open the bag. Nothing there, so she checked the girls to make sure they were secure, and went to into the sitting room. It was a small room with a single sofa in front of a fireplace and a table with a lamp. On the hearth, a set of fire irons hung from a cast iron frame. She picked up the poker, but it was too blunt. The slice bar next to it looked better, with its flat end. She took that and returned to the bedroom.

  She could not move the bottom of the bag from its false bottom, but managed to pry it open a tiny bit. When she held the bag up to the window, something gleamed through the opening. It looked like gold. She sat back, thrilled. Had she accidentally taken the bag of a gold thief? Would that mean they would be able to claim the reward? She couldn’t wait until Frank returned from the stable. He would be able to pry it open. Perhaps, finally, all their money problems were over. They could claim the reward.

  She stood at the window, quivering with excitement, waiting for Frank, and saw him entering the shipping office. After ten minutes he came out again and hurried towards the wharf. What was he up to? Had he seen someone? Perhaps Mr. Smith had found them. That thought dampened her excitement, and she went to the door to make sure it was locked. She checked the weight of the wardrobe to see if she could drag it across in front of the door, but was unable to move it. Instead, she set the heavy Gladstone bag against the door. It wouldn’t help much, but if anyone tried to open the door she would lean against it and scream her head off.

  17

  The Red-Haired American

  Frank had pried several small stones out of Nightingale’s hooves and was grooming her with a bristle brush while she ate her oats, when he saw someone he thought he recognized come out of the shipping office across the street and head towards the wharf. He put down the brush and and stood in the shadows, checking to see if he’d been right.

  Robert Hinton, his red hair bright in the pale sunlight, had come out of the shipping office across the road and was walking quickly towards the wharf, his Gladstone bag in one hand and a duffle bag over his shoulder. He had the sprightly walk of someone who thought he had got away with something.

  Frank had promised Mette he’d be with her as soon as he was done with Nightingale. But the opportunity facing him was much too tempting to ignore; if he caught the last of the robbers carrying gold ingots, he could claim the reward and they’d be set for life.

  He considered running up to tell Mette first, but if for some reason they knew nothing at the shipping office it would be too late to catch Hinton. No, for once he was going to have to break his word. He’d start at the shipping office in hopes of getting a quick answer and then search the wharf. The post office was beside the train station, and he could send a telegram to Colonel Roberts later, after he’d checked to make sure Mette was safe.

  He pulled Nightingale into a stall, took off her feed bag, and hurried across the road. If the authorities in Melbourne heard Hinton was on his way there, and that he might be carrying stolen gold, they would search him when he disembarked. No need to leave Mette by herself for long. He’d be back in a minute.

  But the shipping office was crowded with people queuing for tickets, with only one harried clerk manning the desk.

  A fashionably-dressed young man at the back of the queue took his pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket and shook his head at Frank. “Don’t bother waiting,” he said. “I’ve been here for almost an hour. He’s painfully slow. He’s served just three people since I arrived. I’d leave if I thought I could come back later and find the place empty, but I suspect it’ll be the same tomorrow. The Tararua sinking has created a backlog of passengers wanting to get to Port Phillip and Melbourne.”

  “Did you happen to notice a man with red hair?” asked Frank. “I saw him leave here a few minutes ago.”

  “The American?” said the man. He returned his watch to his waistcoat pocket and adjusted the chain so it hung correctly. “He was in front of me in the queue for a few minutes, then he left. He said he didn’t want to wait around, and that he’d buy his ticket on board from the purser. That’s all very well if you’re travelling steerage, but I want a decent berth. I like to travel in comfort. I’m staying right here until the clerk can attend to me personally.”

  “Did the American happen to say which ship he was taking?”

  The young man shook his head. “He didn’t. But I saw three steamers at anchor in the harbour as I came from my hotel. I’m buying a ticket on one of them — the Hawea which docks in the morning. I’ll still be in the queue when it sails, at this rate.”

  “Is the Hawea going to Melbourne?”

  “Not immediately. It’s heading back to Lyttelton first. But one of the other two steamers out there will be going to Melbourne, I imagine. Check the Southland Times. They always have the shipping arrivals and departures on the front page.”

  Frank thanked him and left, hoping it wasn’t too late to catch Hinton. He crossed the train tracks and went down to the wharf, sure Hinton was planning to catch a steamer going to Melbourne, and soon.

  The street at the entrance to the wharf was lined with shipping agents, a custom shed, a shed housing the tide gauge, and a watersiders’ canteen. He scanned the interior of the canteen in case Hinton was inside, and then walked quickly onto the wharf. If Hinton was here he had him cornered.

  The wharf ran out into the harbour for a hundred feet and then split into two parts. To the right, a short extension curved around a basin where fishing boats bobbed at anchor. A fishing boat was unloading a fresh catch of tuna and snapper, while an oyster dredge piled high with Bluff oysters waited to dock. Neither boat had enough space for a passenger, even if there was somewhere they could take Hinton, who would be looking for a ship headed out into international waters, probably on its way to Australia, and leaving soon.

  The left arm of the wharf was longer — a good half mile — and crowded with men going about their business: clerks gathered outside a customs shed holding shipping manifests, wharfies laboured to load several ships docked along the wharf, and porters pushed trolleys loaded with boxes towards the customs shed. None of the ships were passenger ships, which would anchor out in the harbour until it was time to collect passengers.

  Tenders were occasionally to transport passengers out to a ship, or to bring them in, but most of the time, boarding was by gangplank from the wharf, as it had been with the Tararua in Wellington.

  He walked along the wharf, checking the names of the ships and memorizing them. About half way along, two ships were being loaded with bales for transportation to England. Hinton could have found himself a berth on a wool ship. He could even have found a job on one. But he’d been queuing for a passenger ticket and had said he’d buy it onboard the ship from the purser. No, he was on his way out to a passenger steamer.

  He searched the harbour for tenders. There were two, one coming in from the direction of the heads, and one leaving. The departing tender was a hundred yards out, with two crewmen rowing in unison and a passenger seated at the stern. He was almost positive that the passenger was Hinton. He squinted at the tender, watching to see where it went, and hoping he’d find someone to tell him the name.

  As he watched, the tender was swallowed up by a swarm of small boats, many of them manned by Maori. Something unusual was going on out there. As a whaling port in the early nineteen hundreds, Bluff had seen many marriages between Maori woman and European whalers and their descendants still filled the town.

  He walked up and down the wharf, wondering if he should send a telegram to Colonel Roberts anyway, and tell him a ship might be heading for Melbourne with Hinton, and that he might have the gold with him. But that was foolish. Too many might’s, as it stood. Someone here must know more. If he knew where each of the steamers was headed, he could send a telegram to Colonel Roberts confident that one of the ships leaving for Australia today would be carrying Hinton and his gold. He already knew the Hawea was headed to Lyttelton.

  The second tender he had glimpsed separated itself from the mas
s of small boats, and headed towards the landing; one lone man sat in the prow, his hand trailing in the water, while two crewmen pulled on the oars behind him. Frank waited for the men to tie the boat up and called down to them, “What ship have you come from?”

  The man in the prow hopped onto the landing and mounted the ladder looking up at Frank. “The Rotomahana. We arrived from Melbourne an hour ago.”

  “When’s the ship leaving?”

  “Tomorrow, first tide. On its way north.”

  “Did someone just come out to the ship in a tender?”

  The man shook his head. “I didn’t see anyone. This is the only tender belonging to the Rotomahana.” He stepped off the ladder, and tripped, but righted himself quickly. He was a tall, dark-haired man, about Frank’s height, but younger and thinner, with the flushed face of a drinker and the long, thin nose of an aristocrat. “They’re boarding tomorrow, as soon as the sun’s up.” As he passed Frank, he gave off a strong smell of whisky. He walked away, staggering slightly, and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a metal flask. He took a long swig, turned, and grinned at Frank. “My word, there are a lot of boats in the harbour today. Is that a normal state of affairs?”

  Frank ignored him. One of the ships in the harbour had raised its anchor and was belching steam from its stacks, signalling its departure.

  “Do you know the name of that ship?” he asked a wharfie leaning on the ladder to the landing puffing on a pipe. “The one that’s leaving?“