Dead Shot

by Wendy M Wilson

  “Thank you, Mette,” said Agnete. “Ernest will be so pleased. Now, I’ll leave you to your reading.”

  Mette could read anything if she had to. What she could not do was sit and stare at the wall. After Agnete left she sat on the hard bed and opened the paper. She found the story about Ernest on page two; how he had arrived in Wellington from Melbourne in May 1878 and how his father died a few weeks later of an unfortunate fall. The paper noted that he’d arrived on the SS Zealandia after spending three years in Gippsland digging for gold. That was odd. She remembered very clearly Mr. Robinson telling her that his son was coming from England. She’d been working in the book shop and had stayed there to await Ernest’s arrival. The papers had been wrong before, however, and probably were this time as well. But it did seem strange.

  The error in the paper made her think of the letter that Ernest had taken from her. Why did he lie about a letter from his father that was clearly addressed to her? What difference would it make if she read the letter? It was too much to think about. Had Ernest lied to his father? Was he lying to everybody? She wished she had hidden the letter from Ernest as soon as she’d seen her own name on the outside.

  She dropped the paper on the bed and picked up the book instead, to distract herself. She was absorbed once more when Agnete came to fetch her for tea, and stuffed it in her pocket to read later.

  Tea was stewed tripe and onions with boiled peas, which Mette ate enthusiastically. She hardly ever served tripe, which Frank, who had grown up as the son of a servant on a large estate, associated with food of the working classes, and she had missed it. The meal was followed with a boiled custard.

  “I’m pleased to see you enjoy your tea,“ said Ernest. “I like to see a woman eat well, although it doesn’t seem to fatten you up.”

  “I love tripe,” said Mette.

  “All this is brainial food,” said Ernest. “Good for the brain. I believe it has been proved scientifically…”

  “Perhaps I should be serving it to Frank,” said Mette, expecting Ernest to laugh. Instead, he looked at her disapprovingly.

  “You mustn’t speak of your husband in that way,” he said. He folded up his napkin and placed it on the table. “Agnete dear, I have to go out briefly after tea.”

  They finished their meal in silence, all three staring at their plates. When they finished, Ernest left and Agnete began clearing the table. “Would you like to find another book, Mette?” she asked. “I know you love reading, and we have so many books…”

  “Yes, please, Agnete,” said Mette.

  They returned to the library and Agnete left her alone while she went to the kitchen to wash the dishes. Ernest had not told them where he was going. Apparently he didn’t think it was worth telling his wife his plans, and she didn’t ask, although Mette saw her peering out the window beside the door as he left.

  The library served as a study for Ernest as well as a place for him to store books he would never read. A large oak desk covered in papers faced the shelves. Mette wanted to see the full collection, so she sat on the edge of the desk and let her eyes range over the books, wishing she had half such a collection.

  At one end, a grouping of books was not aligned properly, and she stepped over to push them back in and neaten them up. Something was holding them there. She pulled a book out to see what it was, and discovered a small leather-covered flask in the shape of a book tucked in behind. She removed the cap and sniffed. Gin, she thought. Or brandy. She couldn’t really tell the difference. Frank mostly drank beer. This must be Agnete’s secret cache. She pushed it back behind the books. If that’s what Agnete needed to make her life with Ernest bearable, well who was she to interfere.

  She found a book she’d been wanting to read - The Warden by Mr. Trollope - and sat down on the settee beside the desk to read. She was several chapters in and enthralled by the story when fading light made reading impossible. She looked for a match to light the desk lamp. She found nothing on the desk top, and so pulled open the drawer.

  And saw the letter Ernest had taken from her.

  She did not pick it up instantly. Ernest had said it was his letter, and perhaps it was. She hadn’t seen inside the envelope. Perhaps it did contain a letter from Ernest. And the letter had a large red seal on, stamped with Mr. Robinson’s familiar brand. Ernest had broken the seal, but had pressed it together again. She looked at her own name, written by Mr. Robinson not long before he died, and knew she had to look inside. She eased the envelope open and slid the letter out. Ernest would know what she’d done, but she didn’t care.

  The letter inside, like the envelope, was addressed to her. She opened it. A long letter; two pages.

  My Dear Mette, it said. If you are reading this I am no longer of this world. You have met my son Ernest, and I am sorry to say…

  “What are you doing, Mette.”

  She looked up. Ernest was standing in the doorway.

  “I…I…I’m reading this letter from your father. It’s addressed to me…”

  He snatched it from her hands. “No it isn’t. It says your name on the envelope but my letter to him is inside.”

  “But I read…”

  He tore up the letter and stuck the pieces in his vest pocket. “You read it?”

  She nodded. She’d only had time to read the first few lines, but it was a letter to her and she should be allowed to read it.

  He stared at her angrily. “How dare you read my private letter to my father…”

  She stepped towards him with her hands out. “Ernest, I was so fond of your father, and I…”

  He was shorter than Mette, and not particularly strong, but he took her by surprise. Drawing his hand across his chest, he whipped it at her and struck her across the face, his hand missing her nose and landing squarely on her cheek below her eye.

  Shocked, she stumbled back and fell against the desk, holding her face. “What…?”

  “Let that be a lesson to you. Don’t interfere with my business.” He left and slammed the door after him.

  “Ernest?” She heard a click. She ran to the door and tried to open it. He’d locked the door. It was getting darker and she could barely see, but she found her way to the settee to wait. Her mind was in a turmoil. Ernest was not the man she thought he was. Frank would kill him if he knew that he’d hit her. And although she’d read only the first few lines of the letter, she had seen the second page. She’d seen a similar document when Pieter and Agnete had inherited money from their aunt. It was a will. And even though she had not read it, she’d told Ernest she had. If Mr. Robinson had left his money to anyone but Ernest, that person was in trouble. And knowing Mr. Robinson as well as she did, it was quite possible he had left something to her - his books for example. And his books were one of Ernest’s valuable assets.

  11

  The Race Track

  He was seated at the edge of the Tangahoe River, his Enfield musket rifle aimed at the disembodied head of his brother. He hands shook and sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes, making it almost impossible to focus on the target. For some reason, his father was standing beside his brother, clasping his decapitated head by the hair and yelling at Frank not to shoot. He realized with horror that if he missed his brother’s head he would hit his father. It would take all his skill as a dead shot…

  “Come on, Sergeant Hardy. Take the shot or you’ll be dead yourself before the day is out,” said a harsh voice. It sounded like Captain Porter. Would he say such a thing? Why?

  He felt a hand on his arm and sat up; the nightmare dissipated, but his heart was pounding. His head hurt to move, and when he touched it, his hand came away bloody.

  “Don’t move, Sergeant Hardy,” said Inspector James. “You’ve had a blow to the head. Sit still for a few minutes.”

  “Who hit me?” asked Frank. Surely the stable hand he’d seen sitting outside the stable hadn’t followed him in and bashed him on the head. Why would he do that? He was just a stable hand.

  “G
oing by what Hohepa here tells me it sounds like Paddy Boyle.”

  “Hohepa?” Frank rubbed his eyes. He still imagined there was sweat running down into them, but it felt more like blood.

  A young Maori boy peered around from behind Inspector James. “I went and got help, Sergeant Frank,” he said. “I ran as fast as I could. I’m a really fast runner…”

  “Thank God for Hohepa,” said Inspector James. “He got here not long after you were hit. The stable hand found you and he sent Hohepa off to get help. He told Hohepa he saw Boyle coming out looking suspicious and chased him to new chums town but lost him. Karira and my men have gone after Boyle…we think he’s gone to ground there.”

  Frank sat up, causing a wave of pain to hit the front of his head. He dropped his head into his hands until the pain subsided. Something Hohepa had said had twigged an idea, but his mind wasn’t yet clear enough to know what it was. “Thanks for saving me, Hohepa,” he said. He looked at the boy and remembered what Mette had said about giving him a place to live. “I don’t know how you’ve been living, but you can come out to the farm and share the soddy with Hemi from now on. We’ll get you doing some chores and feed you.”

  Hohepa had squatted down beside Frank on the floor of the stable, sitting on his heels, his arms wrapped around his knees. He grinned broadly at Frank’s offer. “I’ve been working for He Kino,” he said. “Running…”

  “Running errands?” said Inspector James. “That should keep you out of…”

  “Not errands,” said Frank. His brain was working again. “I think I know what he’s been doing. You’ve been running to the totalisator at the end of the races, haven’t you Hohepa?”

  Hohepa nodded. “I’m a fast runner,” he said. “The man gives me some tickets and says ‘number three’ or another number, and I run to the totalisator and push them into the slot that says three when no one is looking. Then I go to the book shop and get the money from the shelf…from inside a red book…”

  “And no one would be paying attention to a young boy running around,” said Inspector James to Frank. “I have a boy not much older than this one myself. That’s what they do at that age. They run around.”

  “How much do they pay you to run?” asked Frank.

  “I got five shillings last time,” said Hohepa proudly. He pulled a coin from his pocket. “See? I still have a shilling left.” He bit it to prove it was real, and put it back in his pocket.

  “The book shop,” Frank said to James. “Owned by Ernest Robinson. I’d never have suspected Robinson of being involved in something like that.” Ernest was the kind of man who was against everything enjoyed by the common man, including drinking. “I did see Hohepa coming out of the book shop the other day. But Ernest…?”

  “The man at the book shop doesn’t talk to me,” said Hohepa. “He’s not the big boss. The big boss is He Kino…I heard someone say that the other day. Another boy from the pa who runs for the totalisator. He said if He Kino caught him he’d kill him. But I don’t know what He Kino looks like.”

  “Ingenious,” commented Inspector James. “Using boys as runners. Well that clears up the issue of how they manage the totalisator fraud, but not who’s in charge. I believe it’s part of a bigger scheme - the first move of a gang taking over the town. We’ll have to put some pressure on Robinson and see if he can tell us anything about this He Kino. Do you know Robinson?”

  “All too well, unfortunately,” said Frank. He grabbed hold of the edge of the stall and pulled himself to his feet, setting off another wave of pain. “He’s my brother-in-law.”

  “Ah,” said Inspector James. “Well then, you can talk to him before I do. An informal chat, but give him a hint of the trouble he’s in. Perhaps he’ll tell you what he knows, and we can find out who He Kino is. I assume he’s the man I heard about from my informant - the man running the whole coast.” He took some coins out of his pocket and handed them to Hohepa. “Don’t talk to anyone about this, and stay away from the race course. Can you do that for me?”

  Hohepa nodded and took the coins, two half crowns each as big as his palm. He couldn’t stop grinning.

  “Go and see Hop Li at the coffee tavern,” said Frank. “Tell him I sent you, and ask him to feed you. Stay there until I come and get you.”

  Hohepa took off at a run, watched by Inspector James and Frank.

  “He really is a fast runner,” commented the inspector. “I wish I had half his speed. I’d be running in the foot races next week.” The foot races were part of race day, which included horses as well as humans and sometimes a rifle-shooting contest; Frank had entered once and the guinea had been useful, but he wanted to give others a chance. The next race day included a review when his men would parade in front of a military leader: Colonel John MacIntosh Roberts - Deerfoot Roberts - who’d found fame as one of Von Tempsky’s Forest Rangers during the war when he’d pursued the rebels on foot. Another speedy runner.

  They walked together to their horses. Frank’s head was starting to feel normal again, although the cut was going to hurt for a while. Three men with a dray had pulled in beside the horses and were unpacking something. Inspector James asked them what they were doing.

  “Got a tent ‘ere,” said one. “For the pledge signing ceremony tomorrow.”

  “You’re having one of those, are you?” said inspector James. “Well, good luck. And keep it honest.”

  They watched as the men dragged the pile of canvas out to the centre of the race track and began hoisting it up with ropes. It was a large tent with room enough to accommodate a hundred or more people. Frank wondered who was going to deliver the speech that encouraged people to sign up. The right man could get half the audience on board, if he spoke persuasively. Thank God Mette wasn’t susceptible to that kind of speaker. Pieter and Maren had signed the pledge a year ago, and it was painful having dinner with them on Sunday without a glass of ale to wash down the roast beef or mutton. Mette really was the best woman he could have married. He was beginning to regret the argument he’d started.

  “Will you be signing the pledge?” asked Inspector James as they mounted their horses. He smiled as he said it, obviously not a templar himself.

  “Not me,” said Frank. “But it seems to have taken the town by storm, this temperance mania. We have Rechabites, Good Templars, a Total Abstinence Society and Brotherhoods galore. Makes me want to have a good stiff drink, just thinking about it…”

  “I’d hate not to have my nightly shot of whisky,” agreed the inspector. “Look, why don’t you join me later at the Clarendon? Talk to your brother-in-law and we can discuss whatever he tells you…over a nip of course. My shout. And tomorrow we’ll do a coordinated search of new chum’s town. I hear you’ve been training volunteers. I’d like to use them in the search, just to throw a scare into the populace.” He took a watch from his vest pocket and flipped it open. “Shall we say seven o’clock? That will give me time for a meal. The Clarendon does a nice fish dinner…”

  Frank agreed, and set towards Ernest’s place. He’d have to face Mette in the presence of Ernest and Agnete. It wasn’t what he’d planned, but he had no choice. And he needed her now more than ever, with the nightmares returning. Did she still need him? That’s what was gnawing at his guts.

  12

  Escape

  The library door was locked tight. Mette rattled the handle and called as loudly as she could for Ernest and Agnete. After a while, Agnete said softly through the door, “Mette?”

  “Agnete, unlock the door, please. Ernest locked me in.”

  There was a long silence, and then Agnete said softly, “I can’t do that Mette. I’m sorry.”

  “But you can’t leave me in here forever,” said Mette in her most reasonable voice. She was breathing heavily and trying not to panic, so it was hard to keep her voice reasonable.

  “Ernest would be angry if I let you out,” said Agnete. “I don’t like him when he gets angry. His father…”

  Mette waited for Agne
te to say more, but she didn’t. “What about his father?” she said eventually. Had Ernest done something to his father? Mr. Robinson had fallen off a ladder at the book shop and banged his head against a table. She’d been devastated when she learned that he had died. But everyone said he was old - over sixty - and should have known better than to go up the ladder. No one had been suspicious about the fall.

  “Nothing,” said Agnete. “I didn’t say anything about his father…”

  She was grappling with the idea that Ernest had helped his father along when she heard someone knocking at the front door. There was a murmur of voices. She put her ear against the door of the library and strained to hear. Was it a friend or an enemy? She couldn’t tell. But fear gripped her. If she yelled and the person at the door didn’t hear but Ernest did, she would be in even more trouble. And Ernest would be able to give the person a convincing explanation about why someone was yelling. He could blame the maid that he didn’t have, say he had hired someone who was prone to hysteria. Maids often were that way and the person knocking at the door would believe Ernest. She didn’t want to get hit again.

  She thought she could hear Ernest talking to another man. After a few minutes the front door closed and there was silence, as if they’d gone outside to talk. Perhaps they were sitting on the verandah having a nice talk, Ernest massaging his knuckles, with the other person not suspicious about why.

  After twenty minutes the door opened again, and Ernest said something to Agnete. It sounded as if Agnete had been inside the whole time, and Mette wished she’d used the time to say something to her. Ernest must hit her as well…poor Agnete. They’d had no idea… she’d heard that some men were like that. How awful to be married to one. Frank would never do such a thing. Never. She heard Ernest and Agnete go upstairs. They were going to leave her here for the night.