Dead Shot

by Wendy M Wilson

  She opened it to read the stirring words once more - the best of times, the worst of times - and an envelope dropped to the floor.

  As she bent to pick it up, she heard the parlour door open. She stood there with the book and the envelope in her hand and watched as Mrs. Patterson and two men she didn’t recognize left through the front door, followed by Bernard, the man who had been sitting in the hallway. He said something to Mrs. Patterson as she passed him. Mrs. Patterson turned and gave Mette a cold look. She was a tall, commanding woman, as slender as Mette, with a tightly cinched in waist that gave her a slightly hour glass shape. She was dressed in black, with red lambskin gloves and a black hat trimmed in red and gold. She looked as expensive and as well-furnished as her coach. After they had all gone, Bernard returned and spoke for several minutes to Ernest, nodding as if agreeing with him about something. Bernard kept staring at her over Ernest’s shoulder, making her feel uncomfortable and unable to move. He had a look of coiled anger, almost like a snake. She could imagine him lashing out at an enemy.

  Bernard left and Ernest turned and saw her watching. He was a lean, mild-looking man with a receding hairline and small glasses perched on his prominent nose. He removed the glasses and walked towards her, frowning. “What are you doing here?”

  Agnete had come from the kitchen, and stood wringing her hands nervously. “Mette wants to stay with us tonight,” she said. “Frank is away and she didn’t want to be alone…”

  Ernest gave her a sharp look. It did seem foolish, now that she thought of it. What had made her choose to come to their house, when it was probably clear to them that she didn’t like them? Why had she not just gone to her sister Maren’s place? She would have had to share a bed with the girls, but she could have managed that for a night or two.

  “What’s that you’re holding?”

  “It’s just a book,” she said. “I found it stuck behind some of your father’s books…”

  He took if from her hand. “Some of my books,” he said. “And I see you found a letter.” He took the letter from her, flipped it over, broke the seal, and pulled out two pages. “Ah, it’s an old letter I wrote to my father. Thank you for finding it for me. I treasure all the letters we wrote to each other, of course.”

  Mette nodded without speaking.

  It was not a letter that Ernest had written to his father. She didn’t know what was in the letter, but she had seen what was written on the envelope: her own name, in Mr. Robinson’s beautiful copperplate script. And not just her name, but her married name, so written two years ago, right before Mr. Robinson died. She wanted to snatch it back from Ernest, but didn’t have the nerve.

  9

  Inspector James

  Frank was determined not to think about Mette. He was tired, his inner thighs were chafed from riding in wet clothing, and he needed to find someone to take care of the farm while he searched for Boyle. And tomorrow he had a training session with the volunteers to give them their first instructions on shooting with the old Snyder Enfields, the best the town had been able to afford. It was the gun he’d used himself, back when he fought with the 57th and he knew everything about the weapon - he could knock an empty biscuit tin off a fence from 500 yards away four out of five times, and the fifth time he would usually hit the edge and spin the tin around. He’d been deployed as a skirmisher and a sharp-shooter during the war, and frequently spent hours hidden in the bush or up a tree, waiting for the enemy to appear. The only time he’d missed a shot had been that one dreadful time with his brother…

  He rode out to Pieter’s farm and asked Pieter to send one of his men to milk the cow and feed the horses. He knew Hemi would be working hard, but there was a lot for him to do. Pieter employed two young men from Schleswig to clear land for him and one of them would be glad of a change of work for a couple of days. And Pieter would not send him a bill asking for money for the favour. He would see it merely as a favour to be repaid at some unspecified date later.

  He caught Pieter in a paddock away from the house tending his herd of dairy cattle.

  “How’s Maren?” he asked. Maren was busy with four children of her own and two of Agnete’s she had more or less adopted. She found little time to spend with her sister. Maren and Mette had been close, and Frank was sorry to see them distanced from each other in that way, even to the extent of her choosing to go to Ernest and Agnete’s house after they’d argued. She would be much more at home with Maren. And he’d feel better about it.

  “She’s very well,” said Pieter. He was a tall, fair-haired Scandy who acted sometimes as if he was much older than his years. He was the same age as Mette. “Where’s Mette today? She hardly ever comes to visit - except Sunday lunch, of course.”

  “She’s on her way to stay with Agnete and Ernest,” said Frank. “Just for a day or two…while we look for Boyle.” He’d told Pieter the story of how he’d hired Boyle, and what he had discovered about him.

  “Good, good,” said Pieter. “She’ll be safe there. She could come here of course, but we’re a bit crowded. Three to a bed already…”

  By the time he returned to Palmerston it was late in the day. Karira was in The Square with a group of men on horseback - troopers from Wanganui, he thought - dressed in neat uniforms, not the shawl kilts of the past. The Armed Constabulary were now the main police force in New Zealand, and everyone except Mette had forgotten that they had once held Frank in a secret prison up the Wanganui River for no apparent reason. At least, not apparent initially, although they had discovered the reason finally. And the reason was now down in the South Island, managing his 30,000 acres of prime farm land with instructions never to come up to the North Island.

  The body of one of the troopers who had imprisoned Frank, Sergeant Wilson, had floated up on the beach near Foxton last year, more than a year after he’d been murdered. The inquest had concluded that he’d been killed by person or persons unknown, but Frank knew who had killed him: his old foe Anahera, the Maori rebel now living in the hinterland of the North Island under the protection of the Maori king. And he suspected that Wiki and other women from the Pa had thrown the body in the river to cover up the crime. He hadn’t told Mette of his suspicions, however. She was close to Wiki. In some ways he admired Wiki for her strength. She had a very specific way of viewing the world. But breaking the law to achieve his ends was not the way Frank worked.

  Karira greeted him from horseback. “Frank, this is Inspector James from the Wanganui Police, and his men, Constable Crozier and Trooper Henderson. Inspector James is down here on an investigation - the gang activity I mentioned to you.”

  Inspector James dismounted and came forward to shake Frank’s hand. He was a man of medium height and tough build, and his reputation had preceded him when he had arrived in Wanganui to lead the new police force in the district. Part of a group of Englishmen who had come from policing the gold fields of Victoria in Australia in the early days of the colony, he’d been in charge of the police camp in Greymouth when the notorious Burgess gang had terrorized the West Coast. The story was he’d expelled the gang from Greymouth, and they’d gone to Nelson and killed five men up on the Maungatapu Track. After the murders on the Maungatapu, Inspector James had discovered the body of a young surveyor, killed by the gang when they were in Greymouth. The papers had attacked him for missing the first murder and letting the gang escape, but he had withstood the criticism and moved ahead in his career.

  Inspector James shook Frank’s hand, doing his best to crush it. “I hear you saved the life of our local member of parliament a couple of years ago.”

  Frank started to disagree, to say he had saved his old captain and the member of parliament had just happened to be there, but was cut off by the inspector. “Well done.”

  The inspector gestured to his men, and they dismounted and stood either side of him, arms behind their backs. “We’ve been hearing rumours,” he said. “There’s a mob working horse racing to their advantage in my district and they may be tryi
ng to make inroads in Palmerston. No details, but I’ve heard it often enough that I thought I should come down and take a look. I’m somewhat of an expert in gang activity…”

  “It’s more than just the totalisator,” Karira said to Frank.

  Inspector James nodded. “That got my attention initially,” he said. “But an informant of mine tells me they’re involved in horse theft and rebranding, and running horses under different names…all kinds of skullduggery. And he says there’s a main man running the organization all down the coast, from New Plymouth to Foxton, although no details about who he is or where he’s located. On a farm somewhere I would imagine. Or hidden in an area of town where you wouldn’t expect to find him…the slums or an old hotel.”

  “Are they English?” asked Frank. “We’ve had an influx of immigrants from Home in the last year or two. Although I did hear about some Australians…”

  “From Australia, I believe, yes,” said James. “Although of English ancestry, of course. All the worst ruffians come from Australia. The natural result of Australia being a convict colony in the early days. Blood will out…”

  “What do you need us to do?” asked Karira.

  “I’m going check the whole town, and talk to people, starting with the streets around the Campbell Reserve. New chums town, I believe the locals call it. Sergeant Hardy, could you take a look at the race course? See if Boyle has been there? I know there are usually some low types who hang about any race course and it would be a natural place for him to go for help. And see what you can learn about the totalisator. Karira, I noticed a pair of young Maori on horseback as I rode in to town, out by the road to Bunnythorpe. Looked like they were up to no good. Could you ride out and have a word with them? See what they’re up to?”

  Karira looked annoyed. “Are they suspects just because they’re Maori?” he asked. “Aren’t Maori allowed to ride horses without the law thinking they stole them?”

  “Ah…of course not,” said Inspector James. “No…you can…”

  Karira pulled a piece of paper from his vest pocket. “Actually, I think I’ll be going to Foxton.” He handed the paper to Frank. “A telegraph arrived at the agency an hour ago. Mr. Milroy loaded Dead Shot on the Jane Douglas early this morning - with a groom. He’s on his way to Foxton and due to arrive late tomorrow at the earliest. I assumed you’d want me to go to Foxton and bring him back. I’ll get a couple of men from Motuiti Marae…”

  “I mentioned you to Mr. Milroy and he said he’d pay you,” said Frank. “But if you could get a couple of men from the Marae to come with you that would be even better. I’m worried about an attack…someone who’s got it in for either Milroy or Dead Shot. Be careful…”

  “Could I offer them a couple of quid on your behalf?”

  Frank nodded, imagining his bank account slowly emptying of its last few pounds.

  Inspector James made an attempt to redeem himself with Karira. “Talk to the constable in Foxton while you’re there. Ask him if he’s seen any illegal activity at the racetrack. And check out the racetrack yourself. Isn’t it race day today?”

  “Damn,” said Frank. “Race day. I have a share in a horse running today and I was going to place a bet on her. I haven’t had time…and now she’ll win for sure.”

  “Best not to bet at all,” said Karira. “Then you can be confident you won’t lose.”

  Sometimes Karira was too damn pure for his own good. But one thing Frank knew was that he could trust his partner more than anybody else in the world. He would always do the right thing.

  Frank felt as if he’d been fobbed off with the easiest job of the group, just when he wanted to be distracted by something difficult. He rode John Bull out to the race course, lingering briefly outside Ernest Robinson’s house, wondering if he should go in and make up with Mette. He could see the pony and the trap in the paddock behind the house. But it was too soon; he hadn’t fully accepted the fact that he was in the wrong although deep down he knew he was. For now they needed to find Boyle. Mette was safe where she was.

  Not much was going on at the race course. He tied John Bull to a hitching post and went into the stables under the stand. The place was empty other than a man sitting on a stool eating slices of an apple with a pocket knife, his elbows on his knees looking totally at home. He was a solid man dressed in workman’s clothes, his pants cinched in with a wide leather belt studded with metal rivets and held together with a heavy iron buckle. He looked like a reliable sort - the sort of man you’d hire as a stable hand. A hammer lay at his feet - he’d been doing some building by the look of it.

  “Anything going on here?” asked Frank. “I’m looking for a man named Boyle who worked for me briefly. He’s in trouble with the law.”

  “Just me guarding the horses,” said the stable hand. “I work here so I’m here most days. And there’s the young Maori boy back there in the stalls. Hohepa he says his name is.” He leaned forward and whispered to Frank. “He sleeps there, you know. Hasn’t got a place to stay.”

  Frank felt guilty. The last he’d heard, Hohepa was still living with his grandmother, but she was old and slow, not suitable to be in charge of an energetic young boy. Mette had been after him to make a home for Hohepa with his brother Hemi. He was a young lad, and small, but Frank could easily find chores for him. Better than letting him sleep in a stable. With Boyle gone there was space in the soddy, although he’d still like to find another man to help out. He’d have to give it some thought.

  “What do you know about the totalisator?” he asked.

  “Not much,” said the stable hand. He finished his apple and threw the core down beside the hammer. “I take care of horses. I can’t afford to throw my money away on betting on them. Some of the nags, you can tell if there’s a problem, or if they’re having an especially good day. But there’s no such thing as a dead shot.” He looked at Frank questioningly. “You know what I mean by a dead shot? A sure winner…”

  Frank nodded. He did know what a dead shot was. Mr. Milroy thought he had a sure thing when he named his horse. But Frank’s interpretation was different, and he didn’t feel at all like a sure winner. “I know the term,” he said. “I’m about to take charge of a horse with that name.”

  The groom raised his eyebrows. “You are? Well you can’t lose then. Best of British luck to you…”

  Frank walked down the long hallway between empty stables, opening each one. No sign of Hohepa or Boyle, but in the last one he found a kit pushed into the corner. It didn’t look like the kind of kit Hohepa would own. He picked it up and started to undo the strap holding it together. Just a blanket, a canteen and a packet of hard tack. Inside the blanket he found a small pocket book with a couple pound notes inside. Nothing that said the kit belonged to Paddy Boyle, but it could. He had no reason to take it, but he’d tell Inspector James that someone was bunking in the stables at the racecourse.

  A noise behind him alerted him to a threat, but too late. He turned to see who it was, and saw only a shadowy figure, a blur and then blackness as something hit him hard on the side of his head.

  10

  The Letter

  Agnete escorted Mette upstairs to a small bedroom at the back of the house - the maid’s room, Mette suspected, although Agnete was not fortunate enough to have a live-in maid. A small bed was pressed against the wall, with a dresser and a washbowl squeezed between the bed and the window. Beneath the dresser sat a plain white commode that was none too clean. Mette sat down on the bed. Not a spring mattress, but a thin tick mattress with lumps. She was already regretting her hasty decision to stay with Agnete and Ernest.

  “We have tea at 5 o’clock,” said Agnete. “I’ll come and fetch you…”

  Mette looked around the room with its little bed and no Frank and sighed. “I’ll need something to read,” she said.

  Agnete had picked up the newspaper that the man in the hallway had been reading and handed it to Mette. “You can read this.”

  Mette glanced at it. “It�
��s old,” she said. “From two years ago. It won’t…”

  Agnete shrugged. “You have a book in your hand. Read that.”

  “I’ve read it so many times,” said Mette. “But I suppose I can read it again. And I’ll look at the newspaper as well. Thank you.”

  “There’s an article about Ernest in the newspaper,” said Agnete. “That’s why he kept it. I think it mentions his father as well. You might enjoy reading about his father.”

  She turned to leave, then stopped. “Don’t forget that Mrs. Patterson is speaking at the pledge tent meeting tomorrow,” she said. “She’ll be very good. Ernest will want you to sign the pledge…if you’re going to stay here.”

  “Was that why she was here? To arrange the meeting?” asked Mette. She knew Ernest was a member of the Band of Hope, a group of Good Templars who spoke out in favour of temperance.

  “Oh no,” said Agnete. “This is another group - Ernest’s own group. They’re still Good Templars, but not the Band of Hope. He started his own group as he has a few different ideas from…but you will sign the pledge, won’t you? Ernest will be upset with me if you don’t.”

  Mette sighed. And Frank would be annoyed with her if she signed the pledge. He disliked the whole temperance movement. She didn’t like drinking herself, but she knew the racing world ran on beer and whisky and even if he wanted to Frank couldn’t associate himself with the temperance groups without losing the support of the racing world. She would have to sign the pledge for now, and retract it later after she and Frank made up, if that was possible. “Of course I will,” she said. She saw Agnete’s face relax. Obviously it was important to her.