That would be the day he had come to see James.
“On the Saturday morning of May 26th, before I left for Hokitika I saw his boots, and did again late on the Tuesday following, the 29th, when I had returned. They were very light elastic-sided women’s boots. When I observed them when I arrived home on the Tuesday evening they were wet, and so were his socks.”
“Did you see any of the other members of the gang at your house?” asked James.
“I did. A man called on him on the Wednesday or Thursday following his arrival at our house when he was at tea. A tallish man with a large face…I don’t think I heard his name at the time, but I’ve seen the allegoric lithograph done by Mr. Mabille, and I believe it was Sullivan.”
“That’s most helpful,” said James. “And now, I need to speak with your mother…”
Fellows pulled out his watch. “She’ll be home within an hour, I should think. She’s doing the rounds paying the bills. Sometimes she gets talking, but…”
“I’ll go home and have some tea myself, and return in an hour,” said James. His house was less than a hundred yards away, and he needed something to eat. He’d met Mrs. Fellows before, and trusted her to give him an honest recital of events. A few weeks ago, she and her husband had taken in a boarder, one Samuel Symms, who claimed to be working for the Grey River Argus but was not. He’d told them he was waiting for his first pay which would come after two weeks. By the time they discovered he was lying, Symms had moved on. It wasn’t the first time he’d obtained free board and lodging with similar stories, and had once even procured a loan of money from a store owner to buy a pair of knickerbockers, using the same devious plan of claiming to be someone he was not. James had spent time with the Fellows sorting that one out.
He crossed the street and went into his house, imagining as he did Jamie Wilson walking up and down the street in the rain, deciding whether to come and see him. Elizabeth was upstairs asleep. He went to check on her and found she was lying on their bed with her back to Harry, who lay facing the other way with his back against his mother’s. He crept forward and pulled the blanket over them. Poor Elizabeth. Her pregnancy was tiring her out. He hoped this would be her last, and that she would have the daughter she longed for.
He returned an hour later, after finding a cold mutton sandwich made up for him in the pantry. Mrs. Fellows had returned and was sitting at her kitchen table with a receipt book and bills in front of her adding up a list of figures.
“The scoundrels,” she said to James. “They think because I’m a woman they can take advantage of me.”
She was a comfortable-looking woman around the same age as Elizabeth, but shorter and with less grey in her hair. He sat down at the table. “I spoke with your son and daughter earlier,” he said. “I expect your son told you…”
“Priscilla is quite upset,” she said, smiling. “She’s very keen to take the stand at the trial and tell everyone all about Wilson. Of course, she doesn’t understand how little she’ll be saying…”
“Is she being honest, do you think?” he asked.
“She thinks she’s being honest,” said Mrs. Fellows. “She wants it to be true. She imagines herself as the heroine of her own story, saving the handsome young curly-headed bellman from the wicked police. He looks young for his age, Mr. Wilson, and he’s small and fair…to her he probably doesn’t seem very much older than she is…”
He laughed. “Well, I’m sure your story will be accurate,” he said. “What can you tell me?”
“He came to the house sometime in May,” she said. “Late May. He stayed for more than a week. I remember he did not have a swag when he arrived, but later in his stay he did have a swag…I noticed it under his bed.”
“Was there a morning when he slept in?” asked James.
“On the Friday, I think. The Friday after Mr. Dobson must have been murdered. He was in the dining room and he said he was not particular about getting up early the next morning…said he’d been up early all week.”
“Did he go somewhere in the mornings—those mornings that he got up early?”
“He said he delivered the paper - the Grey River Argus - but I take that paper and he’s never the one who delivers it.”
“What about right after the murder - after May 28th. Did anything happen that caught your attention?”
She tapped her fingers on the receipts for a minute, thinking. “I remember him washing his trousers,” she said. “He put them on the line. That would be right after the murder I should think…I would say that in court if necessary. It would be important, wouldn’t it? People, especially men, don’t wash their trousers very often, do they?”
“That is important,” said James. “Thank you.”
“One other thing,” she added. “He also said, before the murder, when he first arrived…”
“Yes?”
“He was standing at the door of the bar, and he seemed confused. He said, ‘Mrs. Fellows, where’s the police camp?’”
“And you’re sure that was before the murder? Not after?” Wilson would know that the inspector in charge of the camp would live close to and most likely on the grounds of the camp; James’ house backed onto the camp. It seemed strange that Wilson would want to know about the camp before the murder. Was he thinking of squealing on the gang even then? Or just worrying generally about the police.
“Did you ever see any of the others here?” he asked. “Burgess or…”
“Edward says he remembers Sullivan coming to see Wilson,” she said. “But I can’t say I remember him.”
“Was anyone else staying here at the time? Someone who could help me with my enquiries?”
She opened her receipt book. “Let me see…there was a Mr. Kapau stayed here about the same time. A young half-caste from the North Island. He was down here looking for greenstone for his people up near Poverty Bay. We have excellent greenstone in this district, as I’m sure you know. The Maori use it for their carvings…beautiful work. I’d like to purchase some if I could.”
“And he’s returned to Poverty Bay, I suppose,” said James.
“Yes. And I don’t know exactly where he came from, so I can’t give you any more information than that. I suppose you could have the police up there…”
“They rather have their hands full,” said James “since the murder of the Reverend Volkner. And probably there isn’t much he can tell us, this Mr. Kapau…what about this assertion of Wilson’s that he was working at a shop?”
“He didn’t tell me that he was working for anyone,” said Mrs. Fellows. “Other than the lie that he delivered the Argus.”
“George Coburn,” said James, consulting his notes containing the statement Wilson had made to him after the inquest. “Wilson was up in the Grey until 11 o’clock on the 28th with Burgess and they had a drink at the iron shack with Kelly and Sullivan. He came back by himself carrying a heavy swag…the swag you saw perhaps, although he says he left it at George Coburn’s place on Mawhera Quay.” And the swag Wilson had later told him contained guns, although he didn’t want to tell Mrs. Fellows about that. “He says he went to the barbershop and changed his trousers—left his old ones there.” He stopped and looked up at Mrs. Fellows.
“The trousers he washed here,” she said.
“Yes. Very strange. It sounds as if he’s trying to change things by a day. He came home with the swag and trousers that had something on them—not blood, as Dobson had been strangled. Mud on his knees perhaps? From when they buried him? He came back here and had his tea, then went back to Cockburn’s shop and took care of it until 8 o’clock. At that point, he came back here.”
“I can’t confirm or dispute any of that,” she said. “I’m sorry to say.” She pushed aside her receipt book. “Would you like a piece of pie before you go? I have a dessert pie with apples, nice and tart.”
He left the Criterion and went along Gresson and Boundary Streets to Mawhera Quay to look for George Cockburn. Cockburn had a small grocery shop where
he sold fruit and eggs from Nelson, butter and cheese from New Plymouth, and oysters from wherever he could get them. James eyed a barrel of fresh Bluff oysters as he stood waiting for Coburn to finish serving a customer. He wished he hadn’t felt obliged to turn down the apple pie…
“Hello Mr. Inspector James,” said Coburn eventually. He had a long, deeply-lined face which wore a permanently solemn expression. He looked trustworthy, but that appearance wasn’t complemented by his actions. “Can I assist you with something? Perhaps a bag of oysters - just arrived this morning? Or a free sample?”
“Jamie Wilson,” said James. “Was he here on the evening of the Dobson murder?”
“What day was that then?” asked Coburn.
“The twenty-eighth of May,” said James.
Coburn made a show of thinking about it. “He did work for me from time to time,” he said eventually. “But I can’t say what days he might have worked for me in May. I can’t be sure.”
“Why does he work for you?” asked James. “Is it when you’re extra busy, or for some other reason?”
“No. Usually he comes when I need to be at the wharf to pick up something, like these oysters here. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some?”
“You can’t tie his presence here to a specific delivery date?” asked James, ignoring the bribe. “Do you not keep records of your deliveries?”
Coburn shook his head. “I remember him being here sometime late in May, if that’s helpful, but what usually happens, and I’m sure it did then, is he’s around and I ask him to stop here for an hour or two while I pop down to the docks. I’m there all the time, and different people take care of the shop, so…”
“If you’re called to be a witness for the defense at his trial,” said James carefully, “would you say that you can’t remember?”
“Of course,” said Coburn. “Because I can’t remember.” Besides which, thought James, he did not want to be caught up in a trial with a member of the infamous Burgess-Kelly gang. Which meant Wilson’s alibi rested entirely on the slim shoulders of young Priscilla Fellows.
He started to leave, then remembered something else.
“Did he leave a swag with you?”
Coburn avoided his eyes. “I think he did at some point. But he picked it up…and the possum rug that…someone gave him.”
With that, James had to be satisfied.
A few days later the Hokitika Evening Star, having received permission from Inspector Broham, published an interview with Wilson laying out his alibi. It was “reliable as far as the accused himself was to be believed,” the paper said. Wilson reiterated what he had said to James: he was up, on the Grey with Burgess, Kelly and Sullivan on the 28th, but he and Burgess parted with the other two at eleven to return to Greymouth; they met DeLacey and Burgess stopped to have a drink with him while Wilson carried on to Greymouth carrying the swag (he refrained from mentioning what was in the swag); he went to the barber shop and changed his trousers, leaving them there; he had tea at the Criterion; he went to George Coburn’s shop and worked until eight.
He concluded his alibi by saying he had slept at the Criterion the night of the 28th, which Mrs. Fellows would confirm, as he had complained about his breakfast the next morning and she had made a sharp retort. All well and good, except for the fact Mrs. Fellows had not been there the morning of the 28th. He did not mention that he had been served his tea by young Priscilla, which would disappoint her. He could hardly use Burgess and Kelly as his witnesses, because not only were they his confederates, but also by then they had been hanged up in Nelson, Burgess, Kelly, and Levy, all three.[vi]
As he left the police camp at the end of the day he once more encountered Mr. Bain, the surveyor, with his assistant, George Sayle.
“Afternoon, James,” said Bain. “George here has something he thinks you should know.” He looked towards his assistant. “Tell Mr. Inspector James what you saw.”
Sayle was a young, fresh-faced man not unlike his workmate George Dobson. He blushed pink, and took a couple of tries to speak. “It’s…it’s…it’s…”
James saw a flash of irritation in Bain’s eyes.
“It’s about that man you arrested,” Sayle said finally. “Wilson. I saw him.”
“When was that?”
“I saw him on the last day of the month. I know it was that day because I had my monthly report on my desk, and I was hurrying there to finish it.”
“Was he was doing something that caught your attention?”
Sayle nodded enthusiastically. “He was up near the tree, the tree that you marked where George’s body was found.”
“And this was after the murder? Or at least, the day we assume George was murdered?
“Ye…ye…yes,” said Sayle. “That’s what I said. Three days after the murder.”
“That’s not all,” said Bain. “Tell him what, or at least who, you saw with him.”
They waited patiently for several minutes. Sayle finally spit out his answer. “He was with Burgess and Kelly and Sullivan. And they looked very chummy.”
“That’s very useful thank you George,” said James, and saw a red tide wash up Sayle’s face from his neck.
“There’s something else,” said Sayle. “I’ve made a map, a map that you might find interesting.” He pulled a sheet of survey paper from his pocket and handed it to James. “Can you see what I’ve done?”
James could. Every point where witnesses had seen something, and the times they had seen it, was plotted, with distances gives in miles known to the survey department.
“This is very useful, George,” said James. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
He had the satisfaction of watching Sayle’s face turn an even brighter red.
“Mr. Inspector James,” said Sayle, the praise apparently curing his stutter. “I hope you can punish everyone who took part in George’s murder. He was the best chap you can imagine – all of us at the survey department miss him terribly.”
“I hope I can, George, I hope I can,” said James. He would have to find a way to include the map in the trial. It was the least he could do for poor Sayle and the many friends of George Dobson.
22
Hokitika, 1866: The Accessories
It was time to ride down to Hokitika and talk to Broham.
He rode around the lagoon, along the newly-metalled road, towards South Beach, passing the graveyard on the terrace side, towards Saltwater, where a small gold rush township had sprung up in the last few weeks. In the lagoon, the boatmen were ferrying diggers across the water at a great rate, probably making more than the men they ferried. He could see another stream of men flowing along the beach as well. A piece of land had been set out in Saltwater, and all that was needed was a mining surveyor to lay out some streets. One would arrive in due course.
At the Teremakau, which was flowing swiftly at high tide, he headed north looking for a better place to cross, not wanting to risk losing his horse. The tracks were still muddy from the rain and flooding in June, even washed away in parts. Just as he’d expected after reading Mr. Rochfort’s meteorological observations in the paper that morning; almost fourteen inches of rain in June, with rainfall on all but twelve days in the month. He was getting accustomed to the permanently soggy state of the West Coast, and even enjoyed the damp blustery weather. Lucky for him he didn’t suffer from rheumatism, often exacerbated by the variable climate of the West Coast, which tended to block the organs of perspiration.
After passing through the new rush at Camerons’s, he arrived at Greenstone, the oldest of the workings in the district. The town, which had been built on the dry bed of the Greenstone Creek, was home to about two hundred miners, mostly older residents who understood how to make a living from what they were doing. But the best days of the town had passed. Ramshackle wooden slat and calico huts lined the dry stony creek bed that stood in for a main street; James picked his way carefully between huge potholes and furrows, worried that his horse might lo
se its footing and throw him. What would happen if a heavy rainfall brought back the water to the creek and inundated the town? How would the townspeople ever escape, especially the youngest of them? Several unkempt, scabby children played listlessly in the dirt outside what seemed to be a store, staring at him with hollow eyes as he passed. A woman came out of one of the huts with a basket of washing on her hip, apparently intending to take it down to the stream, and called out to him.
“Are you the warden then?”
He reined in his horse. “No. Are you expecting Mr. Revell?”
“Bin ‘specting him for more’n six months,” she said. “But he never comes. Too many fights over claims, and they never get settled. We need the warden to come and sort everything out, tell us whose claim is whose.”
“Could not one of your men come up to Greymouth to Mr. Warden Revell’s office?” asked James. Mr. Revell was a busy man, what with being the warden of the gold fields who certified claims as well as the being the magistrate.
“Can’t take the time nor the trouble,” said the woman. “It’d cost too much for any of the men to take a day or two getting to Greymouth and back on the coach. There’s no track there. And they’d lose the work of those days…”
“I’ll let Mr. Revell know,” said James. Elizabeth had made the trip to Hokitika with the children without a second thought, but she was a stronger woman than this one. “But he’s a busy man. I can’t promise he’ll be down here for a while.”
He rode on towards the Teremakau Valley, to a place where the river broke into several streams between gravel, and picked his way across. Further on, as he approached the Arahura River he came across a group of men building a water race—the McBride’s Race. He’d read about it in the Argus. He watched for a few minutes as they laboured at their task. Westland was either flooded or in a drought, and without water for sluicing nobody made any money. No doubt the men who had put up the money for this endeavour would make plenty - one of the many ways money could be made from gold, and infinitely more acceptable than the way Burgess and his associates had chosen.
A Cold Wind Down the Grey Page 18
