A Cold Wind Down the Grey

by Wendy M Wilson

  He crossed the Teremakau on the ferry punt, his horse swimming behind, and arrived at Hokitika an hour later. He headed straight towards the transit shed on the river, where the boat would normally dock. The area was alive with uniformed constables who had formed a chain, arms linked against a throng of angry men—as many as two hundred, it appeared.

  “Is Sullivan arriving here?” he asked a constable he recognized from his previous visit.

  “He’s coming in at the spit,” said the constable, as he struggled to maintain a foothold against the jostling, angry mob. “Sullivan is. They sent out two detectives in the harbour master’s boat to bring him in. We’re just here to confuse them, make them think he’s coming here.”

  A tall, thin-faced man with a cloth cap and long mustaches overheard, and yelled, “He’s coming in at the spit. He’s coming in at the spit…”

  “Let’s get him,” yelled another. “Let’s get the bastard…”

  The crowd surged back and half of them ran towards Spence Brothers right-of-way to get to the beach. The other half, not understanding what was going on, kept the pressure on the line of constables, yelling obscenities at them. One of them spat at the constable near James, who grabbed him by the collar and pinioned him against his saddle. “Arrest him,” he said to the constable.

  He followed the crowd on horseback to the beach, thinking he could place himself between them and the detectives holding Sullivan, but the crowd and the muddiness of the right-of-way held him back. The surge of bodies took him towards Revell Street and the police camp, in time to see Sullivan, a detective on each side, being pushed through a human passageway of three sergeants and the harbour master into the police camp.

  The crowd groaned loudly, and began to hiss and wave their arms above their heads. Several yelled curses at Sullivan, pounding on the backs of the men forming the barrier. The door to the station opened suddenly, and Inspector Broham marched out, his back straight, his eyes an icy blue, and his red hair gleaming in the sunlight; the crowd silenced for a moment and fell back, awed, then slowly began to roar again; but in the brief period of calm the two detectives managed to bundle Sullivan into the station.

  James took his horse around to the stable entrance, showed his warrant card to the constable on duty, and was directed to the station house. He found Broham pacing up and down angrily. Sullivan had already been taken out to the Logs.

  “How did they know he was coming in today, and at the spit?” he demanded of James, without greeting him.

  “He was seen off Greymouth,” said James. “I telegraphed you…someone else could have done the same thing. The paper, perhaps?”

  “You should keep better control of your town,” said Broham.

  “That was not the only way anyone could have found out,” said James mildly. “Someone on the harbour master’s boat could have…” It was probably best not to mention that a constable had revealed to James that Sullivan was coming in at the spit, down at the transit shed. He doubted the constable would be broadcasting that piece of information. Inspector Broham would have his stripes.

  “Well, we have him now,” said Broham. He waved a folded newspaper at James. “And today I received this…this self-serving lie from the police in Victoria. A letter published in the Inglewood Advertiser that Sullivan wrote from the Nelson gaol. It’s to a resident of Wedderburn in the Victoria goldfields. He claims to have first met Burgess and Kelly in Hokitika, and mentions some of the previous crimes they have committed. I doubt he ever lived in Wedderburn in his life. He’s…”

  “Actually, sir, I happen to know he did,” said James. “I met him there in the late fifties. He and his wife kept a half-way house between Wedderburn and Inglewood. It’s definitely the same man.”

  “You could have mentioned that to me before,” said Broham, frowning at James. “But he’s lying about meeting them here in Hokitika, at least. He met them in Otago—he was convicted with them, but sent back to Australia.”

  James took several seconds to reply, but his honesty finally overcame him. “No, as it turns out, that was another Sullivan,” he said. “Not our Sullivan. Our Sullivan started using his first name, Joseph, when he arrived in New Zealand, for some reason, and that confused the Otago force. He was known in Wedderburn as Thomas Sullivan…”

  “Inspector James, you need to keep me better informed,” said Broham.

  “I assumed you would…”

  “Never assume,” said Broham sharply. “Now, as it seems he may be telling the truth about that at least, there are some other details in the letter that we could consider.”

  James waited.

  “This may not be relevant, but Kelly has a brother—under the name of Noon, his real name—in gaol in the Mount Eden Stockade. Sullivan claims the brothers are the last surviving members of the gang of Captain Melville, the notorious bushranger. He says they were tried in Melbourne in 1854 for a murder at the Ovens goldfield, two years earlier. They were acquitted, apparently, because of the passage of time. They could no longer be recognized…”

  “After just two years?” asked James. “I recognized Sullivan after a passage of over ten years. People don’t change that much.”

  Broham nodded. “I agree. And then of course he mentions Otago, which we knew about already…at least I was under the impression that I did…and the Nelson police found the revolver he said he hid, still fully loaded, and some strychnine…”

  “How does he say he met Burgess and Kelly?”

  “At a billiard saloon in Hokitika. Sullivan says he found them to be decent men, although they spent money freely,” said Broham. “But someone robbed Sullivan and he reported it us. We apprehended the thief but couldn’t find Sullivan to confirm the identification, so we had to let him go. Apparently the robber was an acquaintance of Burgess’s, and Burgess had prevailed upon Sullivan to hide with them to avoid giving evidence. They gave Sullivan five pounds to cover the cost of the robbery. After that, he says, he was their slave. He’d lied to the police and the gang held it over him. Ironic, really, considering what happened in Nelson.”

  “I believe he’s weak, rather than immoral,” said James. “But I also believe that what he says is true, for the most part. What does he need to lie about, other than his own part in the affair? And he mostly admits to that—enough to get him hanged at least.”

  “Let’s hope he’s convincing enough for the jury to convict Carr and Wilson,” said Broham. “Although I may have to try conspiracy to rob for Carr.”

  “For Mr. Fox?” asked James.

  “Indeed,” said Broham. “Although Sullivan mentions Carr in relation to the robbery and their plans specifically in his letter. Not by name, however. He refers to ‘a policeman connected to them.’”

  “And, of course, it was Sullivan who was the witness when Burgess was arrested for having the pistol cases of the stolen guns under his bedclothes,” said James.

  “He mentions that in his letter,” said Broham. “He felt that he was even more under their power after he did that.”

  “He stumbled into the lesser crimes, and before he knew it he was implicated in the murders.” Said James. “He claims he acted as lookout for all the murders, including George Dobson’s.”

  “I’m beginning to feel that although he’s a despicable person, perhaps we should trust him for the facts, at least,” said Broham. “Thank-you, Inspector James, for clarifying some details for me.”

  James felt he had been dismissed, so he left.

  Outside, the crowds remained, and a carnival atmosphere had taken hold. The tall thin man with the long mustache approached him and said with a sneer, “In trouble, are you? You and that loud-mouthed constable at the transit shed…” James thought he heard a faint German accent. Not a Fenian, at least. The Germans were one thing, but he remembered the Irish from the Eureka stockade…and now with the Fenians spreading around the world…

  He brushed past the German and walked down Revell Street, looking for a place to spend the nigh
t. Revell Street, like Mawhera Quay and other streets in Greymouth, was crowded with hotels both small and large. He walked by Bracken’s Hotel, where Constable Carr had shot himself in the leg during the New Year’s Eve riots, and decided against that, finally settling on the Kortegast brothers Exchange Hotel. A board outside noted:

  Kortegast Bros. have great pleasure in announcing to their friends and patrons that they have made such alterations as to enable their hotel to be considered one of the most comfortable in New Zealand. Several new bedrooms have been added; and as none but the choicest liquors are kept, the supremacy this hotel has always maintained will still be maintained. Excellent accommodation for Boarders. First-rate Billiard room, with Thurston’s table. Stabling is now added.

  That sounded exactly what he wanted. He would have a decent meal, perhaps a game of billiards if there were any players in residence, a good night’s sleep, and return to Greymouth at his leisure the next day. He might even ride inland, stop at Kumara and Greenstone again to see how the inhabitants of those towns were managing—and if Mr. Warden Revell had been for the promised visit.

  He was met inside by a young woman with the pale, freckled skin and round face of an Irishwoman. She was wearing an apron covered in flour and looked as if she had just come from the kitchen.

  “Is Mr. Kortegast about?” he asked.

  “He’s down at the wharf…buying some fish. He’ll be back soon. I’m Mrs. Kortegast.”

  “Ah,” he said, feeling guilty. He had assumed she was the cook, or perhaps the maid. “I’m looking for a room for the night.”

  “We have a room,” she said. “Let me show you.”

  He followed her up the stairs and along the hallway to a pleasant-looking room at the rear of the building.

  “This is a nice quiet room,” she said. “Will it suit?”

  “It will suit very well,” said James. Certainly far better than sleeping on the floor of a store. “And perhaps a fish dinner, if your husband returns with a catch?”

  “We do a beautiful smoked fish pie,” she said, winning her way to his heart instantly. “I have a wee piece in the kitchen if you’d be liking it now. The crust is nice and fresh…”

  He sat at the kitchen table and enjoyed the pie, possibly one of the best he had ever tasted. What a pity that Elizabeth…well, one couldn’t expect her to excel at everything. And there was always Jack’s Nonpareil when he fancied a tasty piece of pie.

  “Now what would you be doing in Hokitika,” Mrs. Kortegast asked as he polished off his meal with a large nobbler of Irish whiskey and a slice of good cheddar from New Plymouth.

  “I’m the police inspector in charge of the Greymouth camp,” he said. “I came down to talk to Inspector Broham about…a matter of importance.”

  “That Mr. Sullivan, no doubt,” she said. “The whole town is talking about him. And Mrs. Sullivan, his wife. They say she’s in Hokitika, although I’ve never seen her…I heard she came in on the Gothenburg a few weeks ago and said she was looking for her husband who had last written to her from Okarita.”

  “More than one Sullivan in town,” said James. “Especially in an Irish town like this…”

  “I expect so,” she said. She picked up his plate and took it over to the sink. “Now talking of Sullivan, who escaped the hangman with his lies…”

  James wiped his lips with a napkin and waited.

  “They have their heads in town…”

  “Their heads? Whose…”

  “Oh, of the rest of the gang,” she said. “The casts of their heads I mean. Mr. Hamilton, the phrenologist, opened a museum down the street a ways. I went to a lecture he gave about the gang. He understood them very well.”

  “What did he say?” asked James. He could probably give as good an accounting of the three men without resorting to running his hands over their skulls, but he thought it prudent not to say so.

  “He had casts displayed on the stage,” she said, patting imaginary heads with her hands. “He turned them around and pointed to all the different organs. He said he thought Burgess was the most remarkable example of a criminal he had ever seen, and stood alone in ‘completeness of polished and successful ruffianism.’ Levy and Kelly were both small in the organ of conscientiousness, but Kelly had the advantage intellectually over Levy. I was surprised to hear that. I thought Levy was supposed to be the planner.”

  “I thought so,” said James. “Although I never met Levy so I can’t be sure.”

  “But you met the other two?”

  He nodded, but said nothing.

  “I don’t suppose you can talk about it. Look at this.” She picked up a folded-back copy of the West Coast Times from the table, and pointed to an advertisement on page three. He took it from her and read:

  Practical Phrenology. A. S. Hamilton twenty-eight years Practical Phrenologist, in England, Scotland, and Ireland, has arrived, and may be consulted at his Phrenological Museum, Revell street. Casts and Skulls of the heads of Burgess, Kelly, and Levy, and many other murderers and bushrangers may be seen at the Museum. Charges: Verbal delineation of character, five shillings; written analysis, with directions for the improvement, correction, and profitable application of the intellectual powers, one pound.

  “Remarkable,” he said, keeping his voice neutral. “You’re interested in seeing the heads?”

  She pulled a face. “Not at all. They were unpleasant characters by the sound of it. But I’d like to have Mr. Hamilton…have him delineate my character…”

  “You feel you need to know more about your character?”

  She nodded, pleased that he seemed to understand. “My husband thinks I’m foolish, but I’ve always believed the shape of a person’s head must prove something. I believe my forehead,” she tapped herself above the eyebrows, “shows that I’m benevolent.”

  “I could have told you that,” he said, and saw her face fall. She turned away and began washing his plate in the sink.

  He sat there for a minute, and was about to say something placatory when the door flew open and a man strode in.

  “William,” said Mrs. Kortegast. “Here is Inspector James from Greymouth come to…”

  William Kortegast glared at James. “What are you doing here then?” he asked. It was the tall thin man from the transit shed and the station – the German with the long mustache. James nodded to him and rose from his chair. Time to make a strategic withdrawal and see if anyone was in the billiard room.

  26

  Hokitika, 1867: The Trial: Day One

  The Crown Prosecutor began his case on January 28th, 1867, eight months to the day from the murder of George Dobson and more than three months after Burgess, Kelly and Levy had hanged for the Nelson murders. He rose in front of the court wearing his black robes and scruffy grey wig, his thumbs hooked into his buff-coloured waistcoat, looking like a man who could not possibly lose any case, no matter how complicated. But he was opposed by two consummate defenders: Mr. Rees, brother of the late suicide Mr. Rees of the Bank of New Zealand, and Mr. Button. Mr. Rees was a competent defender, but James was worried about Mr. Button: an accomplished musician who conducted the Church of England choir, Button also gave lectures on electricity, performing astounding experiments, and at both proceedings he routinely held crowds in the palms of his large expressive hands. The two defenders had eschewed the stuffy robes and wigs, and were dressed in smart charcoal suits with dark vests, looking for all the world like wealthy businessmen.

  The West Coast had changed in the last eight months. A tramway now ran from Greymouth to Saltwater and would soon carry on to Hokitika. The boatmen on the lagoon, who watched as their lucrative livelihoods disappeared, had other ideas; earlier in the week someone had placed rock on the track, almost causing it to overturn. It was not the first such dastardly act of sabotage the boatmen had—allegedly—performed. Earlier in the month a wedge had been pulled from a sleeper and placed on the track, but had been found immediately.

  James had gone down to the boat la
unch at the end of Arney Street and had a friendly word with the boatmen. He saw them now, watching him with narrowed eyes beneath the brims of their floppy hats as he rode past on his way to the trial in Hokitika. His job had also changed since the death of George Dobson, becoming more difficult; bushrangers were again at work in the area, three men having bailed up a man named Nicholls. They had stolen poor Nicholl’s gold, belted him to a tree, gagged him with a stick, and left him fifty yards off the track, too terrified to call for help because they’d threatened to shoot him if he did. Burgess had laid a pall over the crime of bushranging: before he’d arrived on the scene everyone understood a robbery to be a robbery, and not a robbery/murder, but now victims had to assume they might die. To complicate things for James, the Governor was due in Greymouth and they would all have to parade before him in full dress uniform. He hoped he’d find the time to meet with His Excellency, keep an eye on the boatmen on the lagoon, stay alert for bushrangers, and still attend the trial every day.

  Some minor associates of Burgess had been tried and convicted in the past few weeks, including one for perjury for his false testimony on the robbery at the police camp, who had been sentenced to penal servitude for a term of four years; James hoped that the general feeling of antipathy towards the minor gang members would extend to James Wilson. It very much depended on who had been assigned the task of magistrate for this Supreme Court sitting.

  William DeLacey, the stable man who had ridden past Inspector James when he escorted Mr. Fox up the track, had been convicted of conspiracy to “stick up and rob Mr. Edward Burton Fox,” and sentenced to two years. All was going well. Now, if only Mr. Justice Gresson was not on the bench. Three supreme court judges were assigned to the South Island: Gresson, Arney, and Johnston. Gresson, who lived in Christchurch not far from Edward and Maryanne Dobson, George’s parents, would go out of his way to parade his impartiality and fairness. James had given evidence in front of Gresson several times in Timaru, and had seen how his dedication to fairness caused problems for the police. He was, like Mr. Button, a committed member of the Anglican church, and had been for most of his fifty-seven years. And an Irishman, as well. He’d been in New Zealand from the early days, arriving at Lyttelton on the Nelson, and walking over the bridle path to Christchurch. James remembered reading that the Gresson family, in the manner of King John losing his clothes in the Wash, lost all their baggage on the Sumner bar as it followed them to Christchurch. People repeated the story when they wanted to mock him.