A Cold Wind Down the Grey

by Wendy M Wilson

  “Yes,” agreed James. “But we seem to have several more missing men, and we’ve had a confession from a member of the gang who murdered Mr. Dobson. He says they murdered a storekeeper. I’m interested in knowing if…”

  “Mr. Tapperell, he were a storekeeper.”

  “He was one of the men I wanted to know more about,” said James. “Can you give me any information? You were acquainted with Mr. Tapperell?”

  “He were right here on this boat,” said the ferryman, pointing to the seat in the rear, as if he expected James to be able to see the man still seated there. James waited. “Took him down to the Brunner, I did. Let him off there. And he says,” the ferryman paused for dramatic effect, stabbing his finger at the seat where the presence of Tapperell still sat, “He says, Joe…that’s my name, Joe. He says, Joe, I’ll be back later today.” He shook his head. “But he weren’t. He ain’t been seen since.”

  “And a search has been made…?”

  “Mr. Montgomery, the owner of the store where he worked, and his friend Mr. Leith, they searched the river on both sides, thinking he decided to walk back and got lost. But nothing. Neither hide nor hair of him.”

  “Did he say where he were…was going?” asked James. “Whom he intended to visit?”

  The ferryman shrugged. “Didn’t ask, and he didn’t say…”

  “When was this?” asked James. He seemed to remember it had been several months ago.

  “Afore Christmas,” said the ferryman. “Mid December, as I recall. If he were in the river he’d be down the Grey and out to sea by now I ‘spect, after all that rain we’ve had.”

  So he’d disappeared several months before Burgess and his crew had arrived on the West Coast. James would have to say something to quash all those stories back in Greymouth about Mr. Tapperell being a possible early victim of Burgess and Kelly. He would get Slattery to place an announcement in the Argus when he got back to the station.

  “How was he dressed?” asked James, remembering the headless body he’d just seen.

  “His Sunday best,” said the ferryman. “Intending to meet someone, all dressed up that way. Not a woman though.”

  “What makes you say that?” asked James, interested.

  “He were already three sheets to the wind,” said the ferryman. “Four sheets even. He could hardly stand straight. Last time I saw ‘im he were tottering off towards the public house down by the lake.”

  James sighed and mentally crossed Mr. Tapperell off his list of victims. Yet another victim lost in the bush or the rivers of the district while in a state of inebriation. “Not the victim of a crime then,” he said.

  The ferryman stared at the river for a few minutes. “Not a victim, no…” he said.

  “You know something more about him?” asked James.

  “He were from Australia,” said the ferryman. “Sent there, if you know what I mean…”

  “Transported?” asked James, surprised.

  The ferryman nodded. “He didn’t say that to me, but some things he said, about Australia and the like…he were, well, he were transported, I could tell. Said he arrived in Van Diemen’s Land in ’53, for one thing. So that would mean he were a crook.”

  “Trying to remake his life in New Zealand,” said James. “He wasn’t up to anything nefarious here, was he, working at a store…”

  The ferryman nodded his agreement. “Came here to get away from two women,” he said. “Had a son back in Tasmania by another woman. S’why lots of us are here…”

  He left the ferryman and continued his walk. Not all men were lucky enough to have a woman like Elizabeth who would stick by his side whatever happened. Not that he would ever be unfaithful to her…

  The waters of Lake Brunner came into view, with the ranges in the distance. Another, larger, camp abutted the water, with more stores and shanties and tracks radiating into the bush. The same thing, all over the district. He walked down into the shanty town slowly, thinking. The headless body was not the victim of a crime, and Mr. Tapperell had most likely died entirely by his own actions. He was sure to discover other such stories in the town he was approaching. What he really wanted to know - needed to know - was more about what had happened to George Dobson. He would take the road to Maori Gully and talk to Mr. Anderson, the man who had seen him there. Then he would walk towards the coast in the direction from which Dobson had come, and find out everything he could about the young man’s journey.

  19

  Maori Gully, 1866: George Dobson’s Last Walk

  At Maori Gully he headed for the Shamrock Hotel, gathering place for local merchants and businessmen. One of them would give him further insight into George Dobson’s walk and help him establish exact times and dates.

  He’d been thinking of establishing a small police force in the area. He’d start with that, and lead slowly into his questions about Dobson to avoid encouraging the frauds who liked telling stories; he’d find himself an honest talker. Several of the residents of Maori Gully, including Mr. Fox, had asked for a station, saying two constables could keep the peace and also act as a gold escort between the township and Greymouth now that so much gold was coming down from the district.

  There’d been robberies, of course. Only to be expected. But most robbers took their ill-gotten gains and ran, sometimes not bothering to tie up their victims, or even take their horses. Burgess and his gang were the first group he knew of who left no witnesses, killing them in such a brutal manner. George Dobson must have assumed he was about to suffer the usual type of robbery; he would lose the little money he carried with him, but he would live to talk about it with his mates at the survey department.

  He found a group of men huddled around a table in the bar of the Shamrock talking animatedly. One of the men greeted him and made room for him at the table.

  “What brings you to the district, Inspector James?”

  “Various things,” he replied, raising his finger to summon the publican. “Checking on your policing needs, and following up on some missing persons…”

  A tall, dark-haired man leaned forward in his chair. “You thinking of setting up a police station up here? We need a gold escort…”

  “Costigan’s right,” said another. “We have to worry about being robbed every time we take our gold down to Greymouth, and Mr. Fox won’t take it all. But we need a medical man here as well. Perhaps you have some influence with that? All those winds we had last month.” He looked around the group. “Right men? A doctor? Think about those two blokes who died then. They would have lived for certain if we just had a doctor here…” He turned back to James. “A tree fell on their tent in the wind and crushed them. One broke his leg and died of gangrene before we would get him to the hospital in Greymouth. Just faded away into sleep, but talking up ‘til then.” He stopped and took a swig of his beer, to wet his whistle so he could continue his tale. “The other man was bending over his bed and the tree fell on his back. Course he only lived a few hours and didn’t speak…he was insensible…but at least his suffering could have been relieved. And others lived by sheer luck with all the trees coming down. One tree landed on a stump and turned sideways, else four…”

  “They should pay attention to what they’re told, and cut the trees down around their dwellings,” said Costigan. “We need police, and we need a surveyor to tell us where the gold…”

  “A post office,” said another man standing at the bar, putting his mug down firmly to emphasize his point. “What we need is a post office and a road for the mail and goods. Ten or twelve days it takes to get a letter from Greymouth. We had a meeting last month and nothing came of it. Take that message back to Greymouth, Mr. Inspector James. Two thousand pounds for a road eight miles long, good enough for pack horses, and we could…”

  James’ beer arrived and he took a long sip. There was no way he would be able to steer the conversation around this table. It was like a careening coach with no coachman. He may as well just get straight to the point.

&nbs
p; “I heard young Mr. Dobson passed through here on the way to…”

  “That he did,” said Costigan, an Irishman by the sound of him. “Stayed the night and went off with Mr. Fox the next morning. Mr. Fox is a neighbour of mine…”

  “And you saw him…spoke to him?” asked James.

  “I had a pipe with him,” said Costigan. “Lovely young fellow, he was. Very friendly, no side to him at all. Said he was worried about the condition of the road from the Arnold to Greymouth and wanted to look for himself. Would have been easy for him to turn around and go back to Hokitika, but he was a conscientious chap. The survey department sent him up here to look at putting in a more direct road to Greymouth, through No Town and down to the Saltwater, not to check on his own track…terrible how it all turned out for him…”

  “Terrible,” agreed James. He had found his honest talker - or at least a talker.

  “I met the Kelly gang, you understand,” said Costigan. “At Jimmy Pots’ shanty at Omotomutu.”

  “And Burgess?” asked James. He considered Burgess the leader, not Tom Kelly, who clearly provided the brute strength – the emphasis being on brute.

  “Him too,” said Costigan. “I knew Levy personally, as well. Knew him in Queenstown. He kept a small shop there. They invited me for a cup of tea…”

  “You didn’t accept, I hope,” said James, thinking of the strychnine.

  “No, I was on my way somewhere,” said Costigan. “In a hurry. But I met Kelly and Burgess once or twice on the Maori Gully road. They asked me how the diggings were going.”

  A seemingly innocent question, of course. “And you told them?”

  Costigan nodded. “As I said, Mr. Fox was my neighbour, and he was the main gold buyer from the district, so I always knew how much gold was going down to Greymouth.”

  “Did they ask you when Mr. Fox was likely to be going down to Greymouth?”

  Costigan’s face expressed shock as he took in the implications of what James had just asked. “I didn’t, I never…”

  The door to the Shamrock opened and Mr. Fox blew in, his coat flying, as if the mention of his name had invoked his presence.

  “Gude day to you, Inspector James,” he said. “What brings you here?”

  “Just passing through,” said James. He had already spoken to Mr. Fox extensively about what had happened the day he parted from George Dobson. “I was thinking about setting up a police station here…”

  “Gude idea, gude idea,” said Fox. “And while you’re on it, could you nae speak to someone about the water race? We’ve formed a company…The Brunner Lake Grand Trunk Water Race…if we could just see that built we’d be able to take much more gold from the district and not have to rely on this rain we’ve had recently for the sluicing…”

  He left the Shamrock and went in search of William Anderson’s store. Maori Gully was not a small, contained township, but spread out through a large valley with diggings and tents dotted throughout and raised terraces on either side. A wooden flume ran down from one of the terraces with long toms thrusting out at irregular intervals; the long toms were used to flush the wash dirt over the riffles and separate gold from rocks and sand. He could see shacks, calico tents set up as permanent living quarters, in amongst the trees and too close to them, many with smoke rising from tin chimneys. A cluster of stores and rooming houses sat in a single row adjacent to the Shamrock, connected by logs laid on the mud but already sinking into it.

  Anderson was in his store, huddled beside a hot stove, working on his accounts. He was a tall lean Swede with light eyes and a ruddy complexion. He put down his pencil and stood up to greet James.

  “Good evening Mr. Inspector James. You look for a place to sleep tonight?”

  James had his swag on his back, so the question made sense. He’d been going to spend the night at the Shamrock, but he could just as well stay here, where it was quiet. At the Shamrock, he’d share a room with several other men, here he’d be alone. “I am looking for a place to stay,” he said. “And a good breakfast in the morning, which I know you supply.”

  Anderson nodded. “Ya, sixpence for sleep and breakfast - better than the Shamrock. Make yourself a spot on de floor. Would you like a slice of bread and butter before…?”

  James tossed his swag on the floor and spread out his bedroll. “I’d be most grateful, if you’d be so kind. Also, I wanted to ask you something…Mr. Dobson stopped here on the way up to the Arnold,” he said. “Or so you said in your evidence at the inquest.”

  “Ya, he did,” said Anderson. “And I walk up to Arnold Township the next morning with him and Mr. Fox. About three and a half miles. We arrive at half past ten. Mr. Fox goes into Duncan’s store, and Mr. Dobson and me, we go into Murphy’s. While we are there, I tell him to take de boat with Mr. Fox - I worry about bushrangers, but he says, no I want to check my track. He’s very…how would you say…”

  “Conscientious?” said James.

  “Yes. Conscientious. A good word. He’s like his father in this way.”

  Anderson cut a slab of bread off a loaf with a serrated knife, opened a jar and added a generous helping of butter to the bread. James ate it hungrily. He had some hard tack with him in his swag, but it was as digestible as a lump of coal unless dipped in coffee. The bread and butter was much more agreeable.

  “Did Dobson appear to be in good health?” he asked, after he’d finished his feast.

  “He did,” said Anderson. “Very good health, not exhausted at all. But he said he was tired after walking from the New River. That’s why he wanted to stay the night at my store.”

  “Was anyone else staying here that night?” Anderson had been somewhat unsure of the dates at the inquest, so another witness was always helpful. The dates would be important at Wilson’s trial.

  “Mr. Gardener,” said Anderson. “Mr. Edward Gardener.”

  James jotted the name in his notebook.

  “We had a pipe together,” said Anderson. “Outside the store, the three of us.”

  “Was Mr. Costigan here as well?” asked James.

  Anderson looked surprised. “Costigan? No, I think he was not…now wait a minte. I remember he walked past us, as we had our pipe. Mr. Dobson was smoking the pipe you showed me at the inquest…”

  The next morning, after a breakfast of bread and butter and herrings, and a large mug of good strong tea, Inspector James set off towards the place where George Dobson had been before he arrived in Maori Gully: one of the Card Brothers’ two stores on the New River, between Saltwater and the Teremakau, known as the Tower Store. The brothers had another store several miles inland known as the Upper Store and were well known in the district. They’d cut the pack road from the Teremakau to the New River themselves, but were constantly pushing for more roads and a more direct route for their goods, which cost as much as fifty pounds per ton for carriage; goods had to be brought up the river and then carried by pack horse on the Card Brothers’ track. Robert Card had met Dobson at Saltwater and walked with him up to the Tower Store in New River on the Friday before the murder. Mr. Card was also missing an employee: William Cook, who was believed to have drowned in a waterhole.

  He found Card outside his store unloading a string of pack horses. Men with backboards lined up as Card removed goods from the horses and loaded them onto the men’s backs to be carried into his store. Card was looking pleased with himself. The goods had come up the Teremakau on horse-drawn barges and had arrived intact. Men with long poles could push the barges in the deeper water, but in places where the river was too deep for the horses they would be taken on board until they were needed again. However, in deep water after a freshet the risk of overturning increased and many loads of goods had been lost when the water was high and fast and the horses forced to stand unsteadily on the barge.

  “Ah, Inspector James,” said Card. “Out for a stroll, are you?”

  James smiled and shook Card’s hand. “I’m making enquiries into men who have gone missing in the area, maki
ng sure they were not victims of Richard Burgess and his crew. Sullivan has claimed that the gang killed several men in the district. I believe you’re missing a store man…”

  “Mr. Cook,” said Card. “Yes, I did report him missing. He was a packer at my Liverpool Gully store. He was heading here with another packer and got left behind in the dark. We went out the next morning and found his hat beside a waterhole. We searched the waterhole in canoes, but didn’t find him immediately. But we found him a few days ago.”

  “And had he drowned?” asked James.

  “He had,” said Card. “He was in the waterhole. His body floated up…”

  “I’ll send up a constable to investigate the circumstances,” said James. “I also wanted to talk to you about Dobson. I’m retracing his journey, but backwards.”

  “Well then, you’re in the right place. We walked together from Saltwater to here on Friday 25th, three days before he was so cruelly murdered.”

  “A long walk?” said James.

  Card shrugged. “Eleven, twelve miles. Not exceptionally long. He stopped the night at my store and went on to Maori Gully - I expect you’ve just come from there if you’re following his tracks in reverse. Will you walk to Saltwater today yourself? You’re welcome to stay the night.”

  It was not much past noon, and James was sure he could make Saltwater by evening. “Thank you for the offer,” he said. “But I think I’d best continue.” He looked back the way he had just come. “The last time you saw Mr. Dobson he was walking that way? Towards Maori Gully?”

  “Yes.” Card shook his head, looking sorrowful. “I walked a little way along the track with him, talking. Then he went off walking briskly with his case slung over his shoulder - a compass case it looked like - and I never saw him again. Hard to believe…”

  “And he said he was sent up to look out a horse track?”