A Cold Wind Down the Grey

by Wendy M Wilson

  As the ceremony continued, James looked around at the graveyard. It was not the kind of place he’d like as his final resting place. The town had set aside this piece of land in the bush, but miners were working nearby and threatening to spill into the area. Already it was covered with the tracks of men and cattle, some even crossing the sandy grave sites. James imagined that Edward Dobson would be horrified, seeing the place where his son was to lie for eternity. No doubt the family had a crypt in Christchurch, but taking the body back there from the west coast would be difficult, if not impossible, and there wasn’t much purpose to it. The body would have turned to soup by the time it arrived.

  The ceremony was over, the tarpaulin removed from the grave and the coffin lowered slowly, while the mourners watched solemnly. The rain had stopped falling and a fine sea mist hung in the air. The townspeople flocked towards the beach and James went with them. He’d intended to have another talk with Shearman, but could see him in the distance, striding purposefully towards town with Commissioner Sale. So instead he found an outcrop of rocks thrusting up from the sand and sat down to have a pipe and let Charlie run free for a few minutes. The tobacco was only slightly damp and after wasting three matches and sucking vigorously at the pipe he managed to get it started. Charlie took off towards the sea and plunged in joyously. James watched, and steeled himself for the shower of water he would endure when the dog returned. A man on a horse was riding along in the surf parallel to the beach, and the horse reared a little when the dog approached. Riding in the surf was a way to avoid being robbed. Robbers in general could not swim as well as Charlie, who could easily pull a man off his horse and bring him to shore.

  As the last of the townspeople disappeared down the beach he heard a noise behind him. The four men, Dobson senior, von Haast, Rochfort, and Todhunter were coming from the grave site. Seemingly they had remained behind to share some final words or thoughts over the last resting place of George Dobson. Mr. Rochfort was holding forth on the loss they had suffered.

  “I don’t know how we will ever replace George,” he said. “He was a good fellow, as honest as the day, always did his duty, first rate at marking a track….”

  Edward Dobson nodded, looking at the ground as he walked, his face grim.

  “Cut off in his prime by such wretches…”

  “Has someone told Arthur?” he heard Todhunter say.

  Most of the answer disappeared in the wind, but he heard the words, “No…Golden Bay…another month,” from von Haast and a rumbled word from Edward Dobson: “Distraught.”

  He watched the four men walk briskly down the beach, a sense of power emanating from them. What would they do now? Would they leave him to do his work, or be on him at every move? He’d already interviewed Wilson in the presence of Edward Dobson and Charles Todhunter, and it had been difficult to stop them asking questions and uttering threats. Dobson senior had seemed barely able to stop himself from grabbing Wilson by the throat.

  In front of him a group of three men were working a dig, a barrel of sea water beside them, bringing up the dark sand and sluicing it through a sieve. A dark line of seaweed separated them from the high tide mark and the water. The scene would make an interesting Indian ink sketch. He went over to watch them, but they looked at him suspiciously.

  “Finding anything?” he asked.

  “Nowt,” replied one curtly. “Ready to give up. Nothing good here.”

  As he walked away, he saw the man digging frantically. A lot of effort for nowt. Diggers were notoriously protective of their claims and in constant fear that if they found the colour someone would be waiting to snatch away the winnings.

  He whistled for the dog and it came galloping up from the water, its tongue hanging out. The walk along the beach back to town was bracing, and he arrived ready for a meal. If Elizabeth decided to return from Hokitika today, they would be on the late coach. He would have a steak and kidney pie and a pint at one of the hotels and stay around for their arrival. It wasn’t possible to set your watch by the coach, but it usually arrived between five and six o’clock.

  7

  Greymouth, 1866: The Coach Returns

  The road alongside the wharf was full of diggers walking along Mawhera Quay past the area rented out by the Maori landowners, looking for a cheap place to stay while they replenished their supplies and had their weekly debauch. Some of them had congregated outside a particularly run down hotel, leaning against the railing of the verandah, pulling on pipes. They did not look like men who had been laboring hard in the fresh forest and streams, but were mostlypale and wasted, the effect of living in shade during the day, and a foggy miasma at night, caused by the immense mass of damp and decaying matter. They would have looked more at home in the hospital ward than on the streets of Greymouth.

  An old Maori woman with tattooed chin squatted nearby, pipe clenched between her teeth, on the lookout for marks willing to pay for a night’s lodging with gold. The Maori had proved adaptable to the change they’d had to make when their pa had been plowed under to extend the wharf upriver, although many of them had moved grudgingly to Hokitika. Those who remained in Greymouth had taken up the search for gold, at which they had proven to be adept. It was unfortunate they had lost their village, but that was progress.

  The thoroughfare alongside the Grey was narrow, and getting narrower by the day as the river ate away at the riverbank and came nearer to the shops clinging to the opposite side of the street. That the town was prosperous could be seen at a glance, and Elizabeth and Louisa could have found anything they wanted here, but he was happy he’d sent them to Hokitika, nevertheless. Better that they were away from the town for a day or two. The inquest would have stirred up the criminal classes and he wasn’t yet sure of the names of everyone connected to Burgess.

  The coach pulled in, Louisa sitting up beside the coachman, looking pink and happy. He was annoyed with Elizabeth, who had placed Louisa in such a risky position, but he said nothing as he helped her down.

  “I was riding up with the driver,” she told him. She threw her arms around Charlie and began talking to him softly. The dog started to wag his tail, enjoying the attention.

  “I saw,” he said, but already she was ignoring him, her attention entirely on the dog.

  Elizabeth climbed out of the door of the coach, trying not to step on the beach sand clinging to the step, looking apologetic. She had Harry, whom she had decided to take with her, clutched in one arm, and a parcel in the other. James took Harry from her and jiggled him, moving his head back and laughing as Harry grabbed at his mustache. His hand felt like ice.

  “Are you cold, Harry?” asked James. He looked at him more closely. Perhaps it had not been a good idea to take him to Hokitika. His lips were almost blue. He was about to say something, but Elizabeth spoke first.

  “I bought a christening gown for our new little girl,” she said.

  “Very good,” he said. His son would just have to tolerate looking like a girl when he was christened. He wouldn’t know any different, and perhaps it would make him more artistic when he was older. “Dr. Harper, who is here for the funeral, will be holding Divine service at the Greymouth Institute this evening. Would you like to attend?”

  “I just want to go home,” said Louisa, looking up from her post beside the dog. “I’m tired.”

  Elizabeth smiled apologetically. “We’re all tired, especially Harry. “I suppose I should go, but…”

  One of his constables walked by and touched his cap. James nodded back, thinking of the next few days, and how much he had to do. The Rees inquest. Then the continuation of the Dobson inquest on Tuesday.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Inspector James.”

  James turned. “Yes?”

  “The prisoner Wilson has requested that you come and see him. He’s in a state of agitation, has been ever since he heard about the confession in court yesterday. Says he hears terrible things…”

  “Could it wait until morning?”

  “Sergeant
Slattery is worried about the state of his mind. He thinks he might do himself some harm if you don’t come as soon as you can.”

  Inspector James glanced at Elizabeth and Louisa, waiting for him.

  “I’ll be there within the hour,” he said. “Just as soon as I accompany my wife and children home.”

  “I shall come home as soon as I can,” he said to Louisa. “And we’ll have some music.” He knew she loved to sing, and sometimes he would accompany her on the piano. His piano was still drying out from the floods, but he would manage to squeeze a sound out of it. Charlie loped alongside them, happy to be going home.

  “How was Mary Ann,” he asked his wife quietly, as Louisa skipped ahead of them down Arney Street.

  “Very sad,” replied Elizabeth. “I don’t know how she’ll cope. But she says she will have more children. Many more children.”

  “Well, good luck to her,” said Inspector James somberly, his arms tightening around Harry, who had his thumb stuck firmly in his mouth, his fair curls resting on his father’s shoulder, fast asleep.

  The home the force rented for him in Greymouth was a substantial two-storied house with a verandah. It had a tiled roof, rather than the commoner corrugated iron roof, a large window in the parlor that looked out over the verandah, and a brick fireplace with a tall chimney. He was pleased with it. Most of the houses in Greymouth were constructed of wood and calico, tinder boxes ready to burn in an instant. They were warmed by stoves with thin pipes that passed through the walls and ended just above the roofs, ready for a spark to jump out and set light to the walls. The waterfront, from where he had just come, was the scene of frequent drunkenness and at night men reeled down streets like his to collapse in a drunken stupor onto a cotton tick mattress with lit pipes still clenched between their teeth. He had set two large butts of water on either side of his front steps and insisted that they were always full; he could not help what his neighbours were doing, but he could take care of his own.

  Before he went back to the lockup he made sure that Elizabeth and the children were safe inside and tied Charlie loosely to a post on the verandah. The dog would protect the three of them to the death. And if that was not enough, he’d placed an old Enfield rifled musket on a bracket on the wall of the kitchen close to the front door and had taught Elizabeth how to use it. She was reluctant, of course, but could at least point it at a villain if necessary. Greymouth was a hard town, with all the gold flooding the area. But they had both spent time in other hard towns – gold towns mostly – especially in Victoria. She did not expect him to stay by her side and keep her safe, although perhaps she should.

  Wilson was pacing up and down inside his tiny cell, tearing at his hair. He lunged at the door of his cell when he saw James, a desperate look in his eyes.

  “Mr. Inspector James,” he said. “Thank God you’ve come. I can’t be in this cell any longer, I…”

  “We can hardly let you go free,” said James. “You’re facing a serious charge…”

  “Not free,” said Wilson. “Not free. Put someone in here with me. I hear things in the night. I hear such dreadful things.”

  “You’re our only prisoner,” said Sergeant Slattery, standing behind James. “There’s nothing for you to hear.”

  Wilson glanced at Slattery. “Not real things,” he said. “I hear things in my head. It’s driving me out of my mind. I’m afraid what I’m going to do to myself.”

  James turned away from the bars and said quietly to Slattery, “We could put Walsh in with him…”

  A look of distaste flicked across Slattery’s face. “He’d hurt the prisoner,” he said. “Or want to join his gang.”

  James smiled. “Now, now Sergeant Slattery. What about McIlroy, then?”

  “He’s left the force,” said Slattery.

  A piercing scream came from the cell. “He’s at it again,” said Slattery. “He’s been doing that for hours. I can go in and give him a whack with my stick if you like.”

  “As much as I’d like that, I don’t think I can allow it.” Especially not with Shearman in town. He’d used his stick on a prisoner back in Timaru and had almost been kicked off the force. But Shearman had come to his aid and hired him to lead the gold escort. No need to push his luck there. Shearman was a company man when it came down to it.

  James turned and peered in through the gloom in the cell. Wilson had thrown himself to the floor and was pounding the ground as he screamed.

  “Now then, Wilson,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ve done a terrible thing, or at least you’ve been an accessory to a terrible thing, and you’re going to have to pay for it. That’s the law.”

  Wilson’s lifted his head from the floor. “But you promised, Mr. Inspector James. You promised me that you would be lenient when I…”

  “I did not,” said James. “I promised you nothing. “We’re remanding you to Hokitika tomorrow after the inquest, and I can do nothing more for you. You’ll have plenty of company in the Logs in Hokitika. You can ask Inspector Broham for help.” Broham would be most sympathetic, no doubt about that. Wilson would be lucky if Broham didn’t make him live on bread and water until the trial.

  Sergeant Slattery thrust forward a copy of an engraving offering a reward for information on the murder of George Dobson. “You could leave this with him.”

  James took it and threaded it between the bars of the cell.

  “Read this, Wilson. I’ll see you at the inquest tomorrow, and if you have anything to say to me you can say it then. Goodnight.”

  He left Wilson sobbing on the dirt floor of the lockup and went home to his family.

  8

  Greymouth, 1866: The Inquest: Day Two

  The inquest resumed on Tuesday, and started with Dr. Strehz being called to the stand. He stood there, rigid, one thumb tucked into his vest, nervously answering the questions already answered satisfactorily by Dr. Foppoly. He was less used to the process than Foppoly. Eventually the examiner asked him what he considered to be the cause of death, and he answered more confidently that“he believed the cause of death to have been blows delivered on the top and sides of the head, and the pressure of a hand on the larynx of the deceased until suffocation ensued,” adding, “if the pressure on the throat was made by a hand, it must have been the left hand.”

  The examiner asked if anything else could have caused the marks, and the doctor agreed that a handkerchief with a knot in it could account for the wound on the back of the neck, but not for the thumb print near the jugular. There would have had to have been a knot in a handkerchief at that exact place, which seemed unlikely to him. Wilson watched intently from his position at the side of the court, leaning forward and seeming to want to ask a question.

  When Dr. Strehz was finished, William Anderson took the stand and testified that George Dobson had been at his store in Maori Gulley on a Sunday night near the end of May. He knew the victim well, had known him for several months, and knew that he was a surveyor. After breakfast the next day, he, George Dobson, and Mr. Fox had walked in to Arnold Township, arriving at about ten or eleven. He had talked to Mr. Dobson while Mr. Fox went into Duncan’s store, and Mr. Dobson said he was going to walk to the Grey and on into Greymouth.

  James leaned forward and took notice. Was this before or after he had warned Mr. Fox that the gang had planned to ambush and murder him? Perhaps the court did not realize the importance, but if it had happened after the warning, then there would still have been time to save George Dobson, if only he had managed to arrest the gang before they murdered the young man. Anderson continued, saying that he had suggested to Mr. Dobson that he join Mr. Fox and travel down by boat, but Dobson had refused, saying he wanted to examine the track he had built. A soft groan came from the townspeople in the court, and Mr. Todhunter, once more seated at the front of the court with Edward Dobson, gasped audibly. If only he had taken that boat with Mr. Fox.

  One of the jurors asked if he knew what day that had been, and Anderson answered that he wasn’t
sure, but that it was a Monday around the end of May or beginning of June.

  James stood and asked Anderson what George Dobson was wearing. The clothing had become a way of ensuring that it was George Dobson a witness had seen, especially the compass bag over his shoulder. The answer was inconclusive, but Anderson seemed to know Dobson.

  “The deceased was dressed in dark colored clothes and wore black leather leggings. I’m not sure if he carried a loose cape or cloak with him. That I don’t remember.”

  “And this pipe?” James asked, showing the pipe he had taken from George Dobson’s pocket. It was wooden, with a rim of brass and copper around the top.

  Anderson nodded.

  “I smoked with him the night he arrived, the Sunday night, and that was the pipe he used.”

  “How long would it take him to walk to Greymouth?”

  Anderson thought for a moment. “He was a good walker. He would have reached Greymouth by nightfall. Three or four hours to where the body was found, and perhaps an hour or two more to Greymouth. It’s seven or eight miles from Arnold Township to where you found the body.”

  “He appeared to be in good health?”