A Cold Wind Down the Grey

by Wendy M Wilson

  “You need to speak with me?”

  “I’d like to know anything you can tell me about Burgess and his gang. I heard they went up to Nelson on your…”

  “If I had known they were on their way to commit murder and mayhem in Nelson, I would never have let them…”

  “Of course not,” said Inspector James. “As would not I, in hindsight, have let them leave the district. But now with everything we know it’s important that we try these scoundrels and…”

  “Hang them,” interrupted Captain Palmer. “Hang all of them.”

  “After we find them guilty of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “What can you tell me about them…the trip?” asked Inspector James.

  “Sullivan came on board with a letter from Burgess—I believe it was Burgess although he hadn’t signed the letter with that name—asking if they could travel free if they supplied their own food,” said Captain Palmer. “I said they could not, but I would charge them a lower fare if they brought their own food. They had enough to pay for their fares.”

  “How much would that be?” asked Inspector James. George Dobson had carried six pounds in his pocket book, and he had found three of those pounds on Wilson.

  “A pound each, so four pounds,” said Captain Palmer. “They weren’t using their own names, of course. I remember one—the man who came with the letter—as being Williams, but I assume he was Sullivan. Taller than the others, with a large face. All the names to be used on the tickets were in the letter.”

  “And they boarded at the Grey?”

  Captain Palmer nodded. “They wanted to come aboard on the North Spit, on the other side of the river, but I refused to give them permission, so they boarded from the quay. And reboarded up at the Buller, where we stopped for a day to load coal. They needed new tickets from there.”

  “Did the four pounds take them all the way to Nelson?”

  “Just as far as the Buller. They needed more for the rest of the trip. I’m not sure where they found it, but I didn’t charge them the full amount—or even half—there were fewer passengers from the Buller and any money I could get was helpful to the shipping company. I believe they paid two or three pounds from the Buller to Nelson.”

  “And they arrived in Nelson on…?

  “June 6th.” Less than a week before the Maungatapu murders.

  “Did you see them during the trip?”

  “Mostly Levy,” said Palmer. “He spent the whole time playing cards in the saloon. “Sullivan hung around the saloon as well, although not as much as Levy. Levy won some money I think.”

  The crowds along Mawhera Quay were getting rowdy as he walked down to the skittle alley at the Alabama Hotel. A few wretched women were selling themselves to any men still able to stand straight, ready to do their business in the alleyways between the hotels. Greymouth was in desperate need of a Temperance Hall, like the one in Nelson. Once women got organized on the issue of temperance, the nights of drunkenness would be doomed. Although perhaps drunkenness would end on the same day women got the vote, both completely unlikely events in his view. Women would vote the same way as their husbands and the effect would be that married men would have two votes. Better that women concentrated on things like temperance and the poor.

  The skittle alley was at the back of the Alabama Hotel, and he went down a narrow passageway to get to it, running the gauntlet of several drunken men leaning against the walls on either side, one with a woman crouched before him earning her shilling.

  “What’s going on inspector,” said one, a skinny Irishman with a greasy bowler worn on one side of his head. “Not paying you enough then? Come for a bit of a gamble?”

  James glanced at him and said nothing. One of his informants trying to look nasty. Might be useful to have a chat with him later. He found a boy at the door collecting fees, gave him a shilling for entry and another to hold Charlie.

  “Where can I find the Greek boatman?”

  The boy indicated a dark-haired, olive-skinned man who was just at that moment about to toss a wooden ball at the pins. “Two shillings if I knock down the copper,” he called out, not realizing James was standing behind him. “You like to see a copper knocked down, don’t you?”

  Watchers melted into the darkness. The copper was the pin in front, and the Greek probably had no idea that an actual copper was standing behind him. The ball spun from his hand and rolled down the lane, hitting the front pin with a crack. The Greek leapt back, his arms raised, then realized he was alone with James.

  “Where they all go?” he asked indignantly. “Gone with all my two bobs.”

  James handed him two shillings. “You knocked down the wrong copper, as far as they were concerned,” he said dryly. “Here. Leave off a minute and talk with me.”

  “You a police?” asked the Greek. “You wanna talk about those boats that got their ropes cut? Six of them? I lost my boat…and the police don’t…”

  James displayed his warrant card. “That was unfortunate and we’re looking into it. But for now I’d like to know how you came to lend money to Levy.”

  “Levy? Phil Levy the Jew?”

  “I believe you know who I mean,” said James. “Levy, Phillip Levy, one of the men involved in the murders up in Nelson. An associate of Burgess and Kelly.”

  “He was? I did not know that. Not Phil Levy I think. The Jews they don’t kill…”

  “He’s been arrested in Nelson for five murders up there,” said Inspector James. “And I think he was also involved in the murder of Mr. Dobson. Him and the others. Anyone who helped him will need to answer for it. Now…”

  The Greek avoided Inspector James eyes for several minutes, scratching his chin thoughtfully, then came to a decision. “I lend him three pounds,” he said. “He pay me back before, so I think he gonna pay me back this time.”

  James did a quick calculation. Not enough for the tickets on the steamer, although they had the three pounds from George Dobson as well. “Anyone else lend him money?”

  The Greek boat man shook his head. “He won some on the skittles. A few bob. I see him at the shooting gallery, another time. At Hilliard’s. He make some there, maybe. He play cards too…pretty good at cards…”

  “Did he tell you why he needed…”

  “Course not,” said the Greek indignantly. “I don’t give him money to kill…”

  “I mean, did he tell you he meant to go to Nelson with Burgess and Kelly?”

  The Greek shrugged. “I do not know these Burgess and Kelly.”

  “How about James Wilson, or James Murray he is sometimes…”

  “He’s been here,” said the Greek. “Curly hair? Sells papers sometimes? Not with Levy though. He’s…kako…I think, a bad guy, but I don’t know him much. He wanted to be in on things, to be a big man…”

  The Greek was done giving information; he went back to his skittles. James returned to where the boy was holding Charlie, noticing that he looked nervous.

  “Something the matter?”

  The boy moved his eyes towards the door to the passageway, then back at James, shaking his head. “No sir.”

  James took hold of Charlie’s leash and unhooked it.

  “Stay.”

  The dog dropped obediently to the floor, his tongue lolling, panting, waiting for another command.

  James drew his night stick from his belt, palmed it, and edged out the door. Fewer shapes lined the alley, and a sense of menace pervaded the area. He kept close to the wall and moved towards the street. Three shapes materialized, and surrounded him, pressing against him, two either side, a third in front. They wore floppy hats pulled low; glittering eyes showed above mufflers around the lower parts of their faces.

  “I’ll ask you to step back,” he said calmly to the attacker facing him. “Unless you want to spend a week doing hard labour on the roads…”

  One of the men at his shoulder shoved him. “Go on then,” he said. “Arrest us. We’ll come quiet, course we will.�
�

  The leader of the group, the most insolent, bent and picked up something from the ground. James turned and stared at him, saying nothing. The man’s muffler had slipped, and his leering mouth revealed several missing teeth.

  “Whatcha lookin’ at?”

  “I want to make sure I recognize you, the next time I see you,” he said, tapping his night stick against his leg. “Hazel eyes, a scar above the left eye and through the eyebrow. Right eyelid drooping. Can’t see with that eye I’d say. As you may have heard, physiognomy is a specialty of mine. Now, I’ll ask you to put down that rock.”

  The man started to reply, then grunted and doubled over as James’ night stick connected with his gut. The man to his front melted away down the alley, but the other went for the night stick, grabbing James by the wrist. As he wrestled for control, he could smell cheap spirits, mingled with the smell of strong cheese and rotten teeth. The man on the ground was recovering from the gut stab, and attempting to stand. James stepped on his forearm to hold him in place. Time to bring in the reserves.

  “Charlie, attack.”

  A ball of black and white fur erupted from the door of the skittle alley and onto the back of the assailant, who clutched at James’ sleeve in a useless attempt to prevent himself from falling; he hit the ground with Charlie on top of him, growling, teeth bared.

  The man on the ground had pulled his arm free from James’ foot and risen to his feet. He used his recovered stability to run away down the alley and off into the crowds out on Richmond Quay. James watched him go. He would catch up with him later. He had one of them, thanks to Charlie. He’d find this one in his files by his description and that file would contain his usual place of residence and the names of his known associates.

  “Get him off me,” said a muffled voice. Charlie had stopped growling and was shaking the attacker’s head back and forth, scraping his face against the dirt and stones. James leaned down, pulled the muffler away from the man’s face and took a good look at him. An ugly fellow, and fearful.

  “Charlie, stand down,” he said. The dog backed away and sat on his haunches, watching James attentively. The man scrambled to his feet and stood there swaying, eying the dog, afraid to move.

  “All right then,” said James. “It’s off to the lockup for you. See what a week or two of hard labour will do for you. Attacking a police officer. I could ask for longer, but we’ll leave it at that for now. Reduced by one week if you give me the names of your two partners in crime. Think about it tonight while you enjoy your meal of bread and water.” He’d have a better meal than that, probably potatoes and gravy, but he didn’t want to make imprisonment sound too easy. A ruffian like this would be terrified of hard labour after years of loafing. Slattery would put him on one of the road crews, probably, breaking the rocks for road metal.

  He took his attacker out onto Richmond Quay and found one of his constables walking up and down, tapping his loaded stick against his hand, oblivious to what had just happened. The constable secured the man’s wrists behind his back with a pair of cuffs, and Inspector James watched as the constable marched his attacker off in the direction of the police camp, his loaded stick threaded through the attacker’s elbows to hold the man secure. He stroked the dog’s neck in appreciation. “Good boy, Charlie.”

  It was dark when he arrived home, and he felt chilled to the bone. He unlocked the door and gave Charlie a bowl of creamy milk, to reward him, as well as a nice piece of mutton bone left over from tea. He felt his way to the bedroom in the dark, not bothering to light a taper. Elizabeth stirred briefly, then went back to sleep, lying on her side. He pressed his body against her back and put his arms around her to warm himself, letting his hand rest on her belly. As he started to fall asleep he felt a sudden small flutter, and smiled. A boy then, with a kick like that. Elizabeth would be disappointed. But feeling the kick reminded him of the photograph he had seen in the window of the two children, one living, one dead, and he remembered in spite of himself the two small coffins they had left behind at the graveyard in Timaru. He found it hard to sleep with that memory, but eventually fell asleep in a sombre mood. In the other room, Charlie started to snore loudly, replete with the feast of milk.

  21

  Greymouth, 1866: The Criterion Hotel

  Priscilla Fellows was determined to stick to her story. She looked down at her hands, which were nervously wringing a piece of cloth, refusing to look up at James. Her mother kept the Criterion Hotel on the corner of Arney and Gresson Street, not far from the police camp and James’ own house. She was very young, probably not more than twelve, a plain child, but with a look of guilelessness about her that would sway any jury watching and listening to her. He had to make sure her account was accurate.

  “Now Miss Fellows,” he said. “May I call you Priscilla?”

  She thought about it for a minute, then nodded her head without raising it, her hands continuing with the business of wringing the cloth.

  “Thank you. Now, Priscilla, your testimony will be very important at the trial. You understand that?”

  She nodded again.

  “Can you tell me, then, when it was that you served James Murray, or James Wilson as I know him, his tea at this hotel?”

  She looked up finally and stared defiantly into his eyes. “It was a Monday, the day after my brother went to Hokitika.”

  “I went to Hokitika on the Sunday, Sunday the 27th,” said her brother, who was seated in the corner behind James. “My father was already there. He’d been there since the 21st. I was there for two days…”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t the second day after your brother went to Hokitika?” asked James. “The 29th, perhaps?”

  He saw a momentary doubt flicker in her eyes and disappear. “I’m sure it was the 28th,” she said. “I know it was, because my mother was away from home that day. That’s why I was serving tea.”

  He nodded, keeping a look of understanding and belief on his face. “And your brother was unwell at the time, was he not? He had a cold?”

  “Yes, he was. He slept with our mother…”

  “The mother who was away from home at the time.” He said gently.

  He saw a tear slide down her face. “I…don’t know. But I served Jamie…Mr. Wilson his tea on Monday night, I’m positive that I did.”

  “Now Priscilla,” said her brother, whose name was Edward. He had already told James that he had not been home on the night that Wilson claimed he had taken his tea at the hotel, or the following night. “Don’t say you’re sure unless you are absolutely positive.” He addressed James. “My mother was away one of those nights, but it could have been either night.”

  “Wilson says that you and your younger brother usually slept in the bunk over his head, but on the night in question, because your brother had a cold he slept with your mother.”

  “He had a cold when I left,” said Edward Fellows. “I know that’s true. And he tended to sleep with our mother when he was feeling poorly.”

  “Wilson also said he got up later than usual the next morning, and there was some concern over his breakfast…”

  “Mother had a cooked breakfast for him, and he said he didn’t want it, and she was annoyed. She asked him why he had said he wanted a cooked breakfast if he didn’t intend to eat it,” said Priscilla. “I know. I was there that morning as well.”

  “Now how did your mother…Mrs. Fellows manage to cook a breakfast when she was away from the house?” asked James. Wilson had spent considerable time creating an alibi for himself based on the mistaken idea that the murder had taken place on the 29th of May, harmonizing his story to that of a story in the Grey River Argus which had Dobson missing on the 29th. But once he realized that the 28th was the correct date he had attempted to wrench his account to an earlier day to fit the facts. It was understandable that Wilson would not know the exact date of the murder. He wasn’t executing a business deal that required a document; he was up on the Grey attempting to rob someone and enrich himse
lf, and had found himself an accessory to murder. That was why he had paced around in front of James’ house for two hours, then come to see him.

  Priscilla Fellows was looking sullen now. “I don’t know how she cooked breakfast if she was away,” she said. “I just know she was away when I served him his tea, and I did that on the day after my brother left for Hokitika. Can I go now?”

  As she left, her brother stood up and came over to James.

  “She’s a good girl,” he said. “She’s usually very honest. But she’s been swayed by a curly head this time I think.”

  “Wilson?” said James, surprised. “You think Wilson has attempted to pervert justice by…”

  “No, no,” said her brother quickly. “Nothing like that. But I think he appeals to her. He was nice to her…nice enough anyway, and she isn’t used to that. You’ll have noticed she’s a very plain girl, and small for her age…”

  “There’s no understanding the female heart,” said James. “Especially the young female heart.” He and Elizabeth had been in their late twenties when they were wed, and the arrangement had suited them both. He couldn’t remember feeling any rush of springtime yearnings, although he had admired Elizabeth from the first time he saw her at her brother’s place in Port Phillip, with her strong face and her upright posture.

  “Is there anything more you can tell me?” he asked. “When did Wilson arrive?”

  Fellows looked thoughtful. “A couple of days before I left for Hokitika, I believe,” he said. “The 25th or the 26th. He shared my room, as you’ve heard, with me on the top bunk. He rose very early—about half-past six, at break of day. On the Wednesday and Thursday succeeding his arrival he rose about half-past six o’clock …”

  “After the murder on the 28th?” asked James.

  “Yes, that must be correct,” said Fellows. “As I wasn’t here on the days of the murder. Now let me see. On the Friday morning, he did not rise very early.”