Dead Shot

by Wendy M Wilson

  Too late, she began pounding on the door and yelling. Whoever it was that had knocked at the door would be on his horse and away by now.

  What if it had been Frank, come to see her? Why hadn’t she thought of that?

  She went to the window and tried to look out. It was dark outside, and all she could see was blackness. She knew her pony was in the paddock behind the house, and the trap sitting just inside the gate. If she could get to the pony and attach her to the trap she could get away from these awful people. But it would be difficult in the dark without Frank or Hemi to put the harness on Miss Lucy. Beyond the paddock, the bush stretched into the distance, but if she could get the pony hitched to the trap and around to the front of the house she could take the road in to Palmerston, or go further out of town towards the race course.

  The window was a heavy sash window with a lock that had been painted shut. She found a letter opener on the desk and spent some time scraping away the paint. Eventually she was able to unlock the window. It was heavy and hard to raise, and she was afraid it would fall on her as she was climbing through. The papers were full of stories of children having harmless fun climbing in and out windows who were beheaded when the sash gave way. She hoped Ernest hadn’t nailed the window shut to stop anyone being hurt or beheaded by the falling window.

  He hadn’t, and she was able to lift the lower window an inch or two without any difficulty. But she was worried it would fall and decided she should prop it up.

  She searched the shelves for books that she felt were dispensible and came across Mr. Robinson’s William Morris collection: The Wood Beyond the World, The Well at the World’s End and some books of PreRaphaelite poetry. She disliked William Morris and she and Mr. Robinson had argued about the merits of his prose, which she considered overblown and purple. She knew Mr. Robinson would not approve, but they were large books and would work well to prop up the window. She didn’t think Mr. Robinson would mind if he knew she was saving her own life. She took the full collection and lifted the window, gradually increasing the opening until she could slide through.

  The next problem was that she had no idea how far it was to the ground or what was below the window. She would have to slither out feet first and let herself drop. The library was on the ground floor, but the section the house had been built on sloped down towards the bush, and the house was further from the ground at the back. The fall could be ten feet or more.

  She considered using more books to open the window wider to allow herself to climb through in a more upright posture, but then heard a sound from upstairs. Either Agnete or Ernest climbed out of bed to use the chamber pot. Ernest, probably, as she heard a tinkling sound. The bed creaked as he climbed back in to bed. There was a murmur of voices, and then the bed began to creak rhythmically. Red faced, she forced herself feet first through the window and let herself slide into space. Better to plunge into the abyss than listen to Ernest and Agnete doing their business above her.

  She landed on a boxthorn hedge that had been planted too close to the back of the house. Her good marino wool serge dress was caught up in several places, and she had lost a button from the front, but she was mostly unscathed, other than a long shallow scratch on her arm. She managed to untangle herself and jump to the ground without further injury, glad now that Ernest and Agnete were occupied.

  The moon had risen beyond the bush and was casting shadows across the paddock. She attempted a whistle, mimicking the way Frank whistled for his horses, but nothing moved. The boxthorn hedge ran all around the outside of the paddock, with a single gate beside the house. If Miss Lucy was in the paddock she should be able to see her.

  Nothing moved.

  She began to edge her way around the paddock, staying close to the hedge and trying not to scratch herself again. The paddock was full of hummocks, none really big enough to hide a pony. But she clung to the hope that Miss Lucy was lying behind one of them until she had completed the circuit and arrived at the gate beside the house. By then she knew Lucy was not in the paddock and neither was the trap. The only explanation was that Ernest had moved the pony and trap elsewhere. That was why he had gone out after tea. Why had he done that? What did he intend to do with her?

  She felt her way along the side of the house until she could see the road. She knew Palmerston was a few miles away in one direction, and she was close to the race course in the other direction. Would anyone be at the racecourse at this time of night? Boyle was on the loose somewhere as well, and he could very well be at the race course. That would be a natural place for him to go. The last thing she wanted to do was to run into him.

  She stood, indecisive, for several minutes, looking down the road to Palmerston. It was a long way to walk in the dark, and if Ernest came after her she would have nowhere to hide. Eventually another possibility came to her. The clearing. The place where she had once lived with Maren and Pieter, before she met Frank. Maren and Pieter had moved to Bunnythorpe, which was out of the question. It was miles away, and she couldn’t walk there in the dark. But if she went towards Palmerston until she reached the Stoney Creek Road, and walked down that, she would arrive at the clearing in about an hour.

  Keeping an eye on the house, shrouded in darkness in the moonlight, she set off down the road towards the clearing. Although Maren and Pieter had moved away, the clearing was still full of Scandinavian families she could trust, and who would be sure to help her. Or at least she hoped they would be. She would find Hans Christian Nissen and his wife Johanna. They would take her in. She would be safe.

  13

  New Chums Town

  Ernest opened the door at Frank’s knock. He looked annoyed at the interruption. Frank had not decided what he should say about Hemi’s confession, so started by asking after Mette.

  “Mette?” Ernest said. He turned to Agnete, who was hovering behind him looking anxious. “Have we seen Mette recently?”

  Agnete started to shake her head, then changed to a nod. “Oh yes. She stopped here this morning for a few minutes. I forgot to mention…”

  “Did she say where she was going?” asked Frank.

  “To her sister’s house, perhaps?” Ernest prompted.

  “Ah, yes, of course,” said Agnete. “I believe she did say that she was on her way to her sister’s house. She didn’t stop long. I was on the verandah and she went by in her trap. I went out to talk to her for a minute. She seemed very cheerful…”

  She had decided she couldn’t abide staying with Agnete and Ernest after all, Frank thought. That was relief to him, really, as it made it easier to talk to Ernest. “Could I speak with you outside for a minute? Alone.”

  They sat on two chairs on the verandah. As he sat down, Ernest checked his watch, sighed, and looked at Frank with raised eyebrows. He seemed to be expecting a visitor, although he may just be wanting to go to bed. He was not the most subtle of men and it was often easy to see what he was thinking.

  Frank got to the point right away. “Ernest, I’ve been talking to a young…to someone…who says you paid him to stuff the totalisator machine at the track.”

  “Me?” said Ernest. He looked shocked. “I never go to the track. He must have me confused with someone else. I don’t even know what a totalisator is…and who is this person?”

  Frank decided not to tell him that Hohepa had merely said he collected his money from the book shop. But he wanted to be sure Ernest understood that he might be in trouble if he was actually doing anything for the Australians. Perhaps he wasn’t even aware that they were using his shop for a money drop. “He says he comes to your shop to pick up his payment.”

  “Ah,” said Ernest. “That might explain it. People do leave things at my shop to be picked up by other people. Perhaps…”

  “Perhaps,” said Frank. “But Ernest, if you’re involved in anything, even in a small way, you need to be careful. Inspector James from Wanganui is looking into a gang who’re working the race tracks, and acting as a drop off for them could get you arrested and
sent to prison. We - the family - would hate to see that.”

  Ernest stood up. “Thank you for warning me, Frank. But I assure you, I’m not involved with any gang.”

  “Before you go inside,” said Frank. “One more thing. There’s a man named He Kino who seems to be the leader of this organization. Have you heard of anyone by that name?”

  Ernest searched his memory, his eyes darting back and forth. “No,” he said eventually. “I don’t think I’ve heard that name before. It sounds like a Maori name. Are you sure it isn’t another rebel come down from the King Country?”

  “Not working the race tracks,” said Frank. “Not a rebel…I can’t imagine it would be…”

  “I don’t see why not,” said Ernest. “They have Maori races at the track, don’t they?”

  Frank nodded. It had always seemed strange to him that there were separate races for Maori-owned horses with Maori riders. “It isn’t the kind of thing they do, the Maori,” he said. “It’s a distinctly British crime.”

  Frank left, unconvinced. Ernest probably knew a lot more than he was letting on, but he was not in a position to accuse him of anything. He would pass his suspicions on to Inspector James and let him investigate. His warning might even pull back Ernest from the edge of some trouble. He hoped so. Although he was not fond of either Ernest or Agnete, he would hate to see any relative of Mette in trouble with the law. The shame would be humiliating for them.

  He found Inspector James in the bar of the Clarendon looking like a man who had just eaten a satisfying meal.

  “A delicious fish dinner,” said James. “Trout. Did you know the acclimatization society has been stocking the ponds and streams here with salmon trout? They bring them from the South Island. I believe it costs about ten pounds per fish considering so many of them die. The boot boy goes out and catches them up the Manawatu River.”

  Frank had not heard of this project. He had grown up with avid fly fishermen on a huge tract of land belonging to the man who employed his father as a coachman, and had learned to fly fish as a boy. But he wasn’t especially interested in fishing. He was more of a cricket man. And when it came to what he ate, he preferred a good red meat like beef or pork, preferably encased in pastry. Fish was not something that appealed to him. He could taste the river in fish.

  “What would you like to drink?”

  Frank elected to have a pint of McEwan’s Pale Ale and they settled at a table near the window overlooking The Square. A lone gas lamp flickered on the verandah and cast light into the darkness of the centre of town. No humans were in evidence, but a pair of dogs were slinking around the edge of the light like moths.

  “Hohepa is with Hop Li,” said the inspector. “And he’ll stay there until you can take him to the farm. Hop Li says he can help in the kitchen. I hope he’ll be safe there…he was talking about taking Hohepa out to collect mushrooms when I left. A bit risky but he wants to keep the boy occupied.”

  “Hop Li is tougher than he looks,” said Frank. “He’s saved my life more than once. He’s a virtuoso with a push dagger. No one is going to get the better of him.”

  “Good, good,“ said James. “So, what did you learn from your brother-in-law?”

  “Not much,” said Frank. “He denied having anything to do with the totalisator and claimed Hohepa was confused. But he did admit people use his shop as a drop, which might be the case with the totalisator boys. And he’d never heard of anyone named He Kino.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Not totally,” said Frank. “His face is easy to read and I saw nothing when I mentioned the name He Kino. His face was blank. But his shop is probably being used as a money drop and he probably knows it. I warned him that he could find himself in trouble, but I’m not sure he understood how much.”

  “He wouldn’t be in terrible trouble,” said James. “He’s a local merchant with a clean record - I assume - and if he bore witness against others he’d get off with a slap on the wrist. I’ll have a word with him, now that he’s heard from you. A one two punch - or slap - should do the trick. He’ll talk.”

  “What about tomorrow? Will you be searching new chums town?”

  Inspector James took a sip of his Glenlivit single malt and smacked his lips appreciatively. “Aah, good stuff. So, do you think you could bring along the volunteers?”

  “I could,” said Frank. “Should I tell them who they’re supposed to be looking for, or do you want them as a reinforcement? They don’t look especially intimidating.”

  “Are they mostly British?” asked James. “Any Irish or Australians?”

  “A mix,” said Frank. “English, Scottish and Irish. No Australians that I know of.”

  “In that case, tell them we’re looking for the Maori prisoners - a couple of them escaped from the train taking them from Parihaka to Wellington.”

  “You think they’ll believe me?” asked Frank. “Why would Maori prisoners be hiding in new chums town?”

  “Last place we’d be expected to look,” said James. “Tell them that. If you say it firmly enough they’ll believe you.”

  “True,” said Frank. “But these Maori prisoners…are you actually looking for them?”

  Inspector James shook his head. “Not really. The government knows they’re in the wrong on that one. They’ve got almost a hundred of them in gaol in Wellington already - enough to make their point. If a few got away, they’ll either return to Parihaka or go back to their homes. They’re not dangerous. I don’t have the time or the men to waste to look for them…”

  “You sound very pragmatic,” said Frank. “Not worried about Ernest Robinson, not worried about the Maori prisoners…”

  “I prefer to save my energy for the real villains,” said James. “Like this He Kino, the leader of the Australian gang, if your young friend Hohepa is to be believed.”

  * * *

  The rain was coming down hard now, but Frank did not notice. The volunteers watched anxiously from the edge of the ditch as Inspector James climbed down to join him. Frank had his hands clenched on the side of his trap, terrified of learning what was on the ground on the other side of the trap. If the body was Mette, how could he bear it?

  “A body?” asked the Inspector. It was all in a day’s work for him. “Anyone we know?”

  “This is my trap,” said Frank. “And my horse…”

  Inspector James put his hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Don’t jump to conclusions. Let me look…” He slogged through the mud to the other side and knelt beside what must be the body. “It’s a man…” he said. “Late thirties, early forties…”

  The blood rushed to Frank’s head and he almost blacked out with relief. Not Mette. “I thought…”

  He clambered around the trap, his boots sinking in the mud of the landslide he had caused climbing down the side of the ditch. A body lay face down in the mud. He’d been shot in the back of the head at close range, his head almost obliterated.

  “Get a doctor,“ said Inspector James to his constables. Then to Frank, “Anyone you can recommend locally who’s good with evidence?”

  “Rockstrow…no, he’s moved to Foxton. Try Mr. Warburton, Piers Warburton. He’s the coroner now…but not a doctor…”

  “Better bring a doctor as well,” said Inspector James. “We’ll need to pronounce…not that there’s any doubt he’s dead.”

  “Could I take a look at his face?” asked Frank. “If there’s anything left of it. He seems familar. I know most people in Palmerston. Maybe I could…”

  “Won’t be much evidence anyway,” said James. He lifted the red mass that had been the head and turned it carefully. The upper part of the face was still intact, at least the forehead. A white scar ran across it at an angle.

  “It’s Boyle,” said Frank. “Paddy Boyle. The man we were looking for…”

  Inspector James replaced the head, took out a handkerchief and wiped his hands. “Well now, that’s a problem. We have a full-fledged murder on our hands and our chief s
uspect is the body. Any idea who might have killed him?”

  Frank shook his head.

  “Where were you last evening just as it was starting to get dark?”

  “I was with you until six or seven,” said Frank. “Then I went to the Royal. Had a meal, talked to Hop Li for a bit, then slept in the communal room with a travelling salesman and a priest. I would have had to climb over both of them to get out of the room.”

  “Very good,” said Inspector James. “You didn’t do it. That’s one less suspect. And probably the travelling salesman and the priest are off the hook as well. But I’d better talk to Ernest Robinson. He seems to have a connection of some kind to this affair…and I’d like to talk to that stable hand, the one who chased Boyle, see if he can give us more of an idea where exactly Boyle was heading, other than to new chums town. You didn’t get his name, I suppose?”

  14

  The Witch in the Clearing

  The track to the clearing was dark and forbidding, with a few shafts of moonlight giving the smallest assistance to Mette as she walked. She fell several times when she failed to see a tree root, and was hit in the face by branches that appeared from nowhere. She felt as if she was living in a fairytale by the Brothers Grimm or Hans Christian Anderson. Any minute now one of the trees would turn into a prince or a giant toad. To make matters worse, the cut on her arm had started to throb.

  On a normal day she could have walked from Ernest and Agnete’s house in an hour, but in the dark the walk took much longer. When she finally arrived in the clearing the moon had gone behind the clouds and the clearing was in total darkness. She had lived here for two years, and she had known where every house, every animal, and every family was to be found. But that did not help her now. And it was too late to wake anyone up. She made her way to the Nissen’s house, but like the other houses it was dark.