A Cold Wind Down the Grey

by Wendy M Wilson

  He’d noticed a rat hole not far from the grave. Could that be the reason the face was so damaged? Rats were everywhere on the coast, both in the towns and in the bush, and no amount of strychnine would reduce the numbers.

  And why had the murderers not taken George Dobson’s watch and chain, which must be worth a quid or two? All that was missing, as far as Charles Todhunter could tell him, were the few bank notes George usually carried in his pocket book. Hardly worth killing a man for—although Old Jamie, James Battle, one of the five murdered by Burgess and his gang up in Nelson, had carried just three pounds on his person.

  The Burgess gang, who were certainly implicated in the murder, had followed a similar path to his own—from England to the goldfields of Victoria, through the port of Lyttelton and down to the first rush at Gabriel’s Gully in Otago, where they had been jailed briefly for attempted murder after a shootout with the police. Escorted out of Otago by the force, they’d crossed the mountains to the West coast, accompanied by alerts from the Otago police.

  In Hokitika, Broham had kept an eye on them, even following them to the Opera House. And now after James had moved them along once again, they’d gone to another district and murdered five people. That was bad enough. But worse, he hadn’t realized what they’d already done in his district. He’d sent them on their way when he should have put them in gaol. Because of that, he had a personal stake in this crime. He could not punish the fiends who had done this to George Dobson – they would hang for the crimes they had committed in Nelson – but he would make sure that at least Jamie Wilson would pay.

  He sat at his desk, pulled out some foolscap and started to write his notes for the inquest, being careful not to omit any details.

  He was up early the next morning, ready for the inquest. Elizabeth had left a copy of the newspaper lying open on the kitchen table, and he carried it in to his study and read it as he ate his breakfast.

  We cannot conclude this notice without stating that the best thanks of the community are due to Mr. Inspector James, and the other members of the police force who were engaged in this search, for the hearty and determined manner in which they both entered into and prosecuted the search, and we must congratulate them upon its successful termination. Grey River Argus, Issue 76, 7 July 1866

  Kerr, the editor, was laying it on a bit thick, probably with the trial in mind—he’d want to keep a tight grip on James’ ear, to see if he could scoop the other papers whose reporters were circling like vultures. He shook his head as he folded the newspaper and put it in the drawer of his Davenport to read later. Kerr wasn’t fooling him with his false flattery.

  He pinned Shearman’s reward notice on the wall above his desk, and glanced up at it, wondering if he could claim it. The reward was generous: two hundred and fifty pounds—almost a year’s salary for James—along with her Majesty’s Free Pardon extended to anyone giving information that led searchers to the body, if they weren’t personally involved. The man Shallcrass had turned in Nelson, Joseph Sullivan, would be hoping to claim it, he was sure. Why else would he turn Queen’s evidence?

  George Dobson, the notice said, was “About 26 years of age 5ft. 7in. high; slight build; fair complexion; fair hair; small fair whiskers; small moustache thin face; dressed when leaving Greymouth for the Arnold Township in light colored coat and trousers, the latter worn inside his boots; dark colored vest; wore strapped on his shoulder a black glazed leather despatch bag.”

  The description certainly matched the clothing and the despatch bag he’d found on the body.

  He could hear Elizabeth clattering around in the kitchen, and for a moment thought of calling to her to show her Kerr’s comments, but decided against it. She was mopey these days, often tired and peevish. She had follow him loyally from Victoria to Timaru to Greymouth, but had come here grudgingly. Why could they not go to a larger city, somewhere like Christchurch or Dunedin? The diggers here alarmed her, and she found it difficult to be in such a remote place, even though she came from the wilds of Dartmoor herself. A whimper came from the upstairs, where the girl who did for them was putting young Harry down for a nap - he was a quiet, fussy child, lacking the spirit and energy one expected in a two-year-old – but the girl was gentle and the whimpering soon stopped.

  James had met Edward Dobson, George’s father, in early June when he’d come to search for his son. James had been up near Stillwater dragging the river when Mr. Dobson arrived and took over the search, enlisting his son’s mates from the survey department, desperate to find their friend, experienced Maori trackers familiar with the area and even men with sniffer dogs; he understood it was a corpse he sought.

  The newspapers agreed with Edward Dobson. “The impression,” the reporter from the Grey River Argus had written four weeks into the search “is becoming more strong that Mr. Dobson has been waylaid and murdered upon the cut track between the Arnold and Greymouth, about seven miles from Arnold township, somewhere between twelve and one o’clock on the 28th May, and that the body has been buried.” Dobson was last seen shortly after separating from Mr. Fox at the Arnold River. If he’d gone much further they would surely have had a report from one of the supply stores along the way. He would have at least stopped in for a pipe and a chinwag, everyone knew that.

  James had learned something about George Dobson during his search, most of it positive. There’d been complaints—there always were; a letter writer in the Argus had grumbled: “The road from Greymouth is in a disgraceful state, and should be made passable at once, as the traffic is very considerable. Why not have a gang of men at work in fine weather? What is Dobson about?” The Argus enjoyed a good complaint from a reader. He should complain about the Argus, for all the trouble they’d given him.

  As he placed the Argus in the drawer of his Davenport, James noticed he still had an old copy of the Lyttelton Times from his days as a sergeant in Timaru. He’d originally kept it because it contained an account of the Canterbury goldfields; there’d been some talk back then on the necessity of a gold escort, the job that had initially brought him to Hokitika and eventually to Greymouth. He’d been interested in a new posting after a run-in with his superiors in Timaru. He found the article on the second page: Canterbury Goldfields. Latest Intelligence. He browsed through the rest of the paper as he finished his tea, and realized that the same paper contained a long letter, accompanied by a report, from George Dobson himself. When he put it in his drawer, back in Timaru, he’d not even known of the existence of the Dobson family, let alone of George Dobson. He spread the paper out and looked at the article with interest. When he had time, he would read it. For now, he returned it to the drawer.

  He folded his notes, put them in his inside pocket and stood up, stretching. Time for the autopsy. Autopsies were unpleasant to watch, but he had strong nerves and found the dissection of a human body interesting, especially when the body belonged to someone with whom he was unacquainted, although the autopsy of a fine young man like George Dobson would be more difficult than most.

  He took his empty mug into the kitchen. Elizabeth was leaning over the sink, her face buried in her apron, holding her belly. His heart stopped briefly, then he realized she had a letter clutched in her hand. Louisa sat in the corner watching her mother nervously; she exchanged glances with James. She had one arm around Charlie, the large black Newfoundland James had brought with him from Victoria and trained to protect his family. Charlie had helped comfort Louisa in bad times, and she treated him like a brother. He went to his wife and put his arm awkwardly across her shoulder.

  “My dear, whatever is the matter?”

  She took a deep, ragged, breath, wiped her eyes with her apron and leaned her head against his chest. She looked older than her thirty-nine years, her hair starting to grey already, her face pale and lined. He could smell the carbolic soap on her skin and hair, mixed with the musky scent of lavender that clung to her clothes from the sachets she slipped amongst the folded garments in her drawer.

  “Co
nstable Boyle was here with some papers for you to sign,” she said. “And he said…”

  “Something important? Why did you not…”

  She sighed and pulled away from him, her eyes fixed on the kitchen floor. “Nothing you needed to see immediately. It was just an excuse to…he thought you might…Sergeant Hickson’s son…”

  “Has something happened to the child?” Sergeant Hickson, second in command at Hokitika, had recently welcomed a son to his family.

  “He had the thrush and went it through him,” said Louisa from her spot in the corner. “The funeral is tomorrow, the constable said.”

  He gave Elizabeth’s shoulder an awkward pat, knowing how upset she must be.

  “Take the Cobb’s Coach to Hokitika with Louisa,” he said. “The girl will take care of Harry for the night. Mary Anne will appreciate talking with someone who understands…”

  He saw his daughter sit up and stopped. A trip to Hokitika would lift her spirits. No need to talk about her mother’s problems right now. He was feeling generous. “Stay the night in a hotel, the Bull and Mouth on Revell Street, and do some shopping at Burke & McHugh’s. Buy yourself a new bonnet. Go to the Opera House and see The Corsican Brothers…I hear it’s very good…” He took a five-pound bank note from his pocket book and handed it to her.

  His wife sniffed, straightened her shoulders and nodded to him.

  “I shall buy a christening gown for our new little girl,” she said. “And some linens.” She was convinced that the child inside her was female, and was determined to name the girl Mary Elizabeth. “We’ll be needing those before too long.”

  He did not reply, but nodded agreeably and left for the Greymouth Hospital, where the autopsy was to be performed. Best not to argue with her. She could easily be right.

  4

  Greymouth, 1866: The Autopsy

  On the way along Arney Street he decided to call at the police reserve before the autopsy to see what other business he might have to deal with. His street was still muddy from the floods of the previous month and he walked with some difficulty, his boots drawn into the mire with each step. Every time heavy rain fell, the Grey River rose over the banks and flooded all the homes nearby, including his. The mayor had solicited funds from the provincial government to construct an embankment, and piling work was underway to build a barrier at the end of Boundary Street. He hoped it would help. He was tired of pushing water from the floor of his house every time it rained heavily. Even the pylons that raised his house above the ground were not entirely helpful.

  On Boundary Street, he smelled the familiar smell of hogs, and heard a chorus of grunts coming from behind a fence piled high with rubbish. John Heron’s place. Heron was the owner of Jack’s Nonpareil Pie House where James lunched frequently, but it didn’t excuse him from disobeying the law. He shook his head, hoping that Heron was watching from the window. His men had a running battle with Heron, who insisted on keeping pigs inside the town boundary. Mr. Warden Revell had served Heron with a notice saying the pigs were a public nuisance, because of the smell and the noise. Heron had responded with an angry letter to the Grey River Argussaying he had “waited upon the author of the said notice (Mr. Revell) and asked him where I was to remove my pigs to, and, in answer, was told outside the town boundary; and yet Mr. Revell can’t tell me where that is.” He had asked Mr. Revell why Greymouth was not like Victoria, where pigs in town were not interfered with. Mr. Revell had answered, “I don’t want to hear anything about Victoria,” with which sentiment James heartily agreed. He too was tired of hearing people comparing Greymouth to Victoria, unfavourably. Still, keeping pigs inside town boundaries was the least of his problems. There were too many real criminals for him to deal with.

  The police reserve consisted of log huts and calico tents, including sleeping quarters for unmarried troopers, a wash house, a cooking shack, and a horse paddock. His own house on Arney Street backed onto the paddock and he and Mr. Bain, his next door neighbour, were trying to prevent anyone building in the paddock. A station house where he and Sergeant Slattery had their offices, fronted Gresson Street. A new courthouse was under construction on the reserve, which would simplify all their lives. The present courthouse, the government hut beside Mr. Revell’s house, had been described by the Argus as a “disgraceful hovel.” Fortunately, the Dobson inquest was being held at the Union Hotel, one of the better hotels on Mawhera Quay.

  The constable standing outside one of the huts, the armory hut, rifle butt resting on the ground, arm straight out, snapped to attention as he passed. Hardly a week went by without some ruffian trying to break in and steal the guns, and he’d resorted to leaving a constable constantly on guard. It was a damp, bone-tiring task for the constable, with little action, interspersed with sudden flurries of activity when a suspicious character was spotted lurking nearby. No one volunteered for the work and he’d been forced to assign men to it. Some saw it as a punishment. He avoided the constable’s gaze as he passed by, knowing it would contain a plea for release.

  Sergeant Slattery met him on the steps of the station house, a frown on his broad, ruddy face.

  “Morning Inspector. Congratulations on your…”

  James silenced him with a wave of his hand. “Joint effort,” he said. “Now, what’s on for the next few days. The Dobson inquest, I know…”

  “And the Rees inquest. That will probably be Monday.”

  “Mr. Rees, from the Bank of New Zealand?” asked James, surprised. “He’s dead?”

  “Slashed his own throat last night, he did, died on the floor of his bedroom, covered with blood.” Slattery made a slashing gesture across his own throat. “Sergeant Walsh was called in early this morning…blood everywhere, he said. Mr. Rees had a bloody gash across his throat, and the knife was in the middle of the room covered in blood. There was a chamber pot full of blood beside him, apparently.”

  James put his hand to his own throat and rubbed it instinctively.

  “My God, why did he…”

  “Because of a woman,” said Slattery. “He was living with Ann Fraser, not married to her though. They fought all the time.”

  James nodded. “I’ve heard something to that effect.”

  “And of course, the Bank doesn’t look kindly on him for living with a woman who’s not his wife.”

  “What makes you think he did it to himself? Couldn’t Ann Fraser have done it?” asked James.

  “Doubtful,” said Slattery. “He’d told several people he might cut his own throat. Tried to drown himself in the Teremakau River on Friday, before two witnesses, who intervened. And he signed over the house to Mrs. Fraser just recently – he had the Deed of Assignment on his body, as well as a letter to his brother telling him what he was about to do. I have it here.” Slattery picked the letter from his desk and gave it to James. “He had overwhelming expenses from some gold speculations, and he felt his position had become so embarrassing that suicide would be the best choice.”

  “Cut and dried then,” said James. “Do you need me for the examination in court?”

  “We do,” said Slattery. “Murphy’s Hotel, first thing Monday morning.” In small towns like Greymouth it was common for the inspector of police to act as the examiner at an inquest, or even as prosecutor at a trial, and James had become proficient at both duties. He would need to move quickly between Murphy’s Hotel and the Union Hotel, if the Dobson inquest went into Monday, but Mr. Warden Revell was presiding in both cases so there shouldn’t be a problem. For today, he would attend the Dobson autopsy, and then find a glass of ale and a pie at one of the hotels before he went to the inquest. Or he could drop into Jack’s Nonpareil Pie House, and have a word with the proprietor, John Heron, about his pig problem.

  “Leave your report in my office,” he said. “I’ll be at the Dobson inquest today, and the funeral tomorrow. I expect the inquest will go on into Monday or Tuesday. But I’ll drop by to pick up the report later.”

  “Watch out for the diggings,” said
Sergeant Slattery. “There’s a rush on the creek on Boundary Street, across the road from Murphy’s Hotel, and they’ve staked claims all along the banks of the creek. A young lad fell into one of the pits yesterday and had to be pulled out by some diggers. The poor woman was hysterical. Thought she’d lost her boy.”

  He saw the men digging frantically as he went past Murphy’s Hotel on the way down Boundary Street to the hospital. Water was filling in the holes almost as fast as they dug them, and he knew it would be a matter of days before they abandoned their claims. There were two reasons prospectors tended to leave a claim: not enough water for the long toms, the sluices that trapped the gold, or water filling the pits. The town was inundated with miners and every possible site where gold might be found had a claim on it. Men were digging along the banks of the river, and the beach and terrace above it had more holes in it than surface. Anyone sighting a bit of black sand, indicating the possibility of gold, jumped on it with claim sticks in hand and sent for Mr. Revell to record the claim. Walking along the beach could be as dangerous as trying to bring a boat in across the sandbar. It was said that in the first six months of the year over 50,000 ounces of gold had been shipped out of the harbour, mostly to Melbourne. Just as well he wasn’t still in charge of the ill-conceived gold escort. He and his men had more work than they could handle as it was. Policing Greymouth and the districts nearby was difficult, with all that gold in so many hands, especially the hands of the gold buyers.