Edward Fellows was called, and testified that he was the son of the proprietor of the Criterion Hotel and that it was their custom to serve tea at five or six o’clock in the winter season. “My sister attends to the bar and tea tables at times,” he said. “My father came to Hokitika on the 21st May. I left Greymouth for Hokitika, on a visit, on the 27th May.”
One more person-Coburn- testified before the person James was dreading, Priscilla Fellows, came to the stand. Coburn, while insisting he was not a friend of the prisoner, said he had known him in Nelson, had lent him money, and had employed him at times in his store.
“I know the prisoner at the bar,” he said. “I recollect the 27th May on a Sunday. I saw the prisoner at my house on that day. He had dinner with me. I saw him on the following day walking down the main street, alongside the river. I believe it was about half-past 2 or 3 o’clock, The prisoner has been in the habit of serving in my shop, but I cannot say whether he served on the night of Monday, 28th of May.”
“And you are quite sure that you saw the prisoner between half-past two and three o’clock on Monday the 28th of May.”
“I am positive that I saw him at that time on Monday, 28th of May,” said Coburn. “Quite positive.”
A juror raised his hand. “Was he carrying a swag with him when you saw him on the street?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Coburn. The prisoner was carrying a swag when I saw him on the street on May 28th.
Coburn left the stand, grinning in the direction of Wilson. Not friends indeed. He may have just saved Wilson’s neck. James would be paying more attention to the perjurer Mr. Coburn in future.
The door to the courtroom opened, and Priscilla Fellows entered. She was wearing a pale blue dress and had spent time perfecting her hair, which was braided tightly on the top of her head. She took the stand, clasped her hands on her lap, and lowered her eyes.
“Miss Fellows,” said Button. “Can you tell us who you are?”
“Priscilla Fellows,” she said in the softest of whispers. “My mother is Caroline Fellows, proprietor of the Criterion Hotel.” She raised her eyes briefly and glanced in the direction of Wilson, then blushed bright red.
“Miss Fellows,” said Button, “Are you acquainted with the prisoner?”
“He stayed at the hotel in May last year,” said Priscilla. “I served him his tea.”
“Do you remember one particular day, Monday, May 28th?”
She nodded. “I remember the Monday the 28th May that followed the Sunday that my brother went to Hokitika. The prisoner at the bar had his tea at our house on the Monday night I speak of. I am positive of it, because I served him, and I have never had any doubt on the subject.”
“And why are you so sure?” asked Button.
She raised her head and stared at the courtroom, and said firmly, “The cause of my recollecting it so clearly is because my mother was not at home at the time.”
“And you are sure of that?”
“I’m very sure,” she said.
And with that, the defence rested.
The defense and the prosecutor then each addressed the jury. Mr. Button began on behalf of Wilson, giving an able summary of what the witnesses had said. He talked for two hours. James took time to leave the courtroom and walk up and down Revell Street. It was all out of his hands now, and there was nothing he could do or say that would make a difference. When he returned, the prosecutor had just risen to his feet to reply to the defence.
“I would like the court to note that the prisoner was first to give information to the police,” he said. “He did so in order to protect himself, and as has been proved, in the hope of getting a guarantee of free pardon for the crimes he had committed.”
This was good, James thought. Exactly what needed to be emphasized.
“It is not difficult to imagine why he did not take advantage of the reward offered by the Government to anyone who confessed, inasmuch as he was well aware that the privileges of reward, and etcetera, offered in the bill, would not extend to the principal in the crime. There was no doubt that the prisoner had been one of the principal malefactors of the desperate gang to which he belonged, but had become frightened at his own deeds. As to Sullivan, he could have no possible interest in saying anything more than the truth against the prisoner, and in proof of which his evidence was in many parts corroborated by the prisoner.”
The prosecutor finished, and James looked around the court and at the jury. The jury’s faces were unreadable, but the people in the court had sneers of contempt on their faces. Not a good sign. Now Justice Gresson must direct the jury well.
Justice Gresson put on a pair of spectacles and read from his notes without looking at the jury, summing up the case for them.
“I would remind the jury,” he said, “that the case now before you is a most important one, involving, as it does, a question of life and death. I am aware that you have already given considerable attention to its hearing, even at considerable personal inconvenience. I concur with the learned counsel for the prisoner in warning you against the influence of prejudice. Deeds that are well known to the world, crimes, the very nature and magnitude of which are sufficient in themselves to excite the indignation of every right-thinking person, have been perpetrated by the gang of which the prisoner was an associate, and the peculiar atrocity of the particular murder of which the prisoner is charged is certainly alone sufficient to create a prejudice in the case.”
Not just for the prisoner, thought James. The jury must also feel the strongest of prejudices against Sullivan. He waited for Gresson to make that point, but he did not.
“I hope the jury will try hard to disabuse their minds of any such feeling, and judge the case simply by the evidence you have heard.” He stopped, and looked at the jury over the top of his glasses. “According to law, I am quite justified in expressing an opinion in my charge to you. I would ask you to look upon it merely as one opinion, and give the preference to your own conclusion, which will be the opinion of twelve men.”
What was his opinion, then? James was not clear at this point and was getting increasingly worried about what it might be.
“I look upon the evidence of Sullivan as one of the cardinal points in the evidence upon which you must form your verdict; I will, therefore, read to you the law relating to accomplices, and leave it to you to judge whether there was sufficient independent evidence, leaving Sullivan’s out of the case, to bring the crime so near home to the prisoner, that you can entertain no reasonable doubt as to his guilt.”
Damn. This was not heading in a good direction. If they were asked to disregard Sullivan’s evidence they would be left with a potpourri of conflicted versions.
“This is a case in which the independent evidence, as it was termed, is required to be stronger even than in ordinary cases of less magnitude. The principal evidence in this charge against the accused is given by probably as tainted a witness…”
James felt his jaw clenching, his heart pounding, and his face reddening. Gresson was feeding into the worst prejudices of the jury.
“…as ever entered a court of justice one who has been convicted of murder, and out of his own mouth perjury. I would therefore ask the jury to take the principal features of evidence for the Crown, apart from Sullivan, and see if it is sufficient to convict the prisoner beyond any reasonable doubt.
James listened as the magistrate read the principal features in the evidence, commenting on each one.
“I will leave it for the jury to consider your decision. If you take the circumstances detailed by other evidence, that of independent witnesses, as conclusive to the prisoner’s guilt, you will, no doubt, credit the evidence of Sullivan, but if you come to a negative conclusion you will throw it aside. In conclusion, I will leave the case in your capable hands, assured that you will give the whole of the evidence your careful consideration, and sincerely trusting you will arrive at a correct decision.”
With that, he raised his gavel and tappe
d it once forcefully on the table.
The jury left, and returned thirty minutes later with their verdict: Not Guilty.
James left court with his mind in turmoil, not looking where he was going, and almost knocked over the reporter from the Grey River Argus.
“Mr. Inspector James,” said the reporter. “I must convey my condolences…”
James brushed him aside. He had no time to bother with the reporter right now. He was just surprised that he wasn’t gloating about the defeat.
28
Greymouth, 1867: A Letter to the Editor
He arrived back at the police camp in Greymouth still feeling sick at heart. Not guilty. How could it be possible? How had the jury not seen that the circumstance of James Wilson’s visit to him within days of the murder of George Dobson as a sign of his guilt? And that the gang of reprobates who had stepped up to tell the lie that Wilson had been with them on the day of the murder were not to be trusted—not a single one of them. Coburn, DeLacey, even Priscilla Fellows.
James had ridden from Hokitika in a white fury, not waiting to talk to anyone, even Broham. He’d been stopped at the Teremakau for two days waiting for a fresh to subside, but the forced rest had still not cooled him down. No doubt Broham would already be shifting the credit subtly back in James’ direction. Shearman would hear a new version of the story, of how James had kept Broham in the dark, had not followed up on clues, had not found sufficiently convincing witnesses or evidence.
He went into the station expecting to find Sergeant Slattery, but he was not at his desk. Someone had left a copy of the Grey River Argus on James’ desk, and he sat and flicked through it, trying to calm his anger, waiting for Sergeant Slattery to return, turning the pages angrily and barely focusing on what was there.
It was hard to get away from news of the Dobson murder trial, however. News had been telegraphed to Greymouth after the trial, and a special edition rushed out. Not Guilty!
The editorial on page two discussed the unlikely possibility that Sullivan would now be tried for his role in the murder of George Dobson. “Some idea has prevailed during the last day or two,” it said, “that this particular unhanged murderer Sullivan would have another chance of getting his deserts through the information laid against him for the ‘doing-to-death’ of Mr. George Dobson: We are sorry to say that there is very little chance of the claims of justice being thus met.” This hatred of Sullivan was the very thing that had freed Wilson. That Sullivan had gone free – or free enough to avoid the noose – had enraged everybody, not least because he was a traitor who had turned on his partners in crime. “The man is already, velvet waistcoat and sky-blue necktie notwithstanding,” the writer continued, “sentenced to penal servitude for life; and the warrant by which he was sent back to give evidence at the recent trials contains a provision to the effect that he will be sent back whenever his services as a witness shall have been exhausted. So far as the purposes for which he was sent down are concerned, Mr. Sullivan’s presence in Hokitika may now be dispensed with…we shall breath more freely when the atmosphere is cleared of him.”
He flipped to another page and found an article reprinted from the West Coast News. He did not want to read it, but his eyes were drawn to it. How often had he been angry at what he read in the paper about his actions? But this time, the editor seemed to agree with him: “It is not for us to question the verdict of the jury, further than to express an opinion that had the jury been able to return an open verdict of ‘not proven’ this was eminently a case for such a verdict being recorded. But the law of English criminal procedure lays down the maxim that a man must be declared guilty or innocent, and that unless the proofs of his guilt are complete any doubts are to be interpreted to the favor of the accused.”
The writer went on to say that there was no doubt that Wilson had been up on the track on the day Dobson was murdered, and that although the chain of evidence was weak, Sullivan’s “intelligible and precise” history of the proceedings had generally been supported by other evidence. What had Sullivan to gain by lying about Wilson, the writer asked? Did that mean he was also lying when he implicated Levy, who had gone to his execution vehemently protesting his innocence? That was too difficult for any decent human being to believe, that they had sent an innocent man to his death. James read the argument and smiled grimly. Whatever the world thought about Sullivan, he knew that the police in Nelson had been convinced of his reliability in this at least. As for Levy, perhaps he had considered himself innocent, because his hands had not been around another’s throat. But he had been a willing participant in the robbery and certainly present at the murders in Nelson.
The writer went on to argue the very point that James thought was important: the fact that Wilson had “voluntarily placed himself in the clutches of the police almost immediately after the day on which the murder had been committed, and although offers of pardon and other inducements were held out to him he did not make any confession, but on the contrary reiterated his denial of any knowledge of the missing man.”
He was about to close the paper when he noticed a letter to the editor with the heading, The Dobson Murder. He debated with himself about reading yet another letter, probably from the opinionated Scrutator or someone of his ilk. But glancing at the bottom of the letter he saw with shock that the letter was signed James Wilson. He read it with growing annoyance:
Before this frightful tragedy, in which I was so unfortunate as to get mixed up I was always of opinion that if the police did fall across any evidence that could tend to establish my innocence they would only be too glad to bring it forward; instead of that they have acted quite the contrary. In two instances that have come to my certain knowledge, and can, if necessary, prove, they have endeavored to get witnesses out of the way, when Mr. James knew that they could swear, positively that I was in the Grey at the time that the villain Sullivan swears that I was with him engaged in the murder of Mr. Dobson.
How dare the paper publish such a self-serving letter from this criminal. He scanned the rest of the letter, his heart heavy. It went on to give what sounded like specific examples of Inspector James bribing witnesses or forcing them to leave town. Many would believe Wilson’s claim. Once more his career would be compromised through no fault of his own. Albert Kapau, wrote Wilson, had been willing to testify he saw Wilson at four in the afternoon, and had tea with him at five thirty, but Mr. James had gone to see him and told him his evidence would not be needed. And Priscilla Fellows had served him his tea when he was supposedly on the track with Sullivan murdering Mr. Dobson, but James had gone to the girl’s mother and tried to pay her off. It was libel of the worst kind. In fact, it was the crown prosecutor who had told Mrs. Fellows that her evidence would not be wanted for the prosecution, why he did not understand. The rules of service forbid him to send a letter to the paper, and he therefore had no way of refuting this nonsense.
He threw the paper on the table and rested his head in his hands. Sergeant Slattery came in and said softly, “Good evening Mr. Inspector James, I’m so sorry to hear about your unfortunate loss…”
James looked up at him. Sympathy for the loss of the Dobson case was almost worse than criticism. “Thank you,” he said. “Nothing to be done about it, I suppose. Sullivan was not a good enough witness for the jury…”
He saw the expression on Sergeant Slattery’s face change. “Ah, yes,” he said. “The Dobson case…a terrible miscarriage of justice…will you be returning home soon?”
James stood up. “Yes, I’d better be off home, I suppose. Elizabeth must be wondering where I am…I was stuck at the Teremakau for forty-eight hours.”
Sergeant Slattery nodded awkwardly. His face had turned a bright red, and James wondered what was the matter with him. Slattery was a portly man. Perhaps his heart was giving him a problem.
“Are you alright, Sergeant Slattery?”
Sergeant Slattery nodded and pretended to sort some papers on his desk.
“Quite…quite alri
ght thank you Mr. Inspector James.”
He left the station house wondering about his sergeant. At least it had taken his mind off the maddening letter from Wilson.
As he reached the corner of Arney Street he saw Mrs. Bain and another woman—Mrs. Heron, John Heron’s wife, he thought—leave the Bain house and enter his own. Mrs. Bain and Elizabeth frequently met to gossip over a cup of tea, but seeing two women visitors was unusual. He increased his pace. Could Elizabeth have gone into labour? It was still a few weeks until she was due, but it would not be the first time a baby had arrived early. James, their first little Australian boy, had been two months early—probably why he had died within weeks of his birth. He was starting to feel uneasy.
Louisa was standing on the verandah, her back pressed again the door jamb, the door open. She held a small blanket close against her lips, her normally rosy cheeks were a deathly white, and her eyes were wide and filled with horror. He ran up the steps and grabbed her by the shoulders. Charlie sprawled on the verandah beside her, his head on his paws, looking forlornly up at his master.
“Louisa? Louisa? Are you well? Has something happened?”
She took a long time to answer. It seemed almost impossible for her to speak, but finally she said in a whisper, “Am I going to die papa?” Then she began to sob.
29
Greymouth, 1867: A Cold Wind Down the Grey
He stood on the verandah, his feet frozen to the spot, unable to move or speak. Who had died? Perhaps the newborn child, come early? God forbid that it was Elizabeth. He wanted to demand of Louisa, “Who has died?” but she was too shaken to speak. It was not fair to ask her.
He heard a creak and looked up to see Dr. Morice standing before him, his hands clasped in front of him. Dr. Morice had arrived from Dunstan in Otago in November to take up the position of surgeon to the Grey River Hospital that became free when Dr. Foppoly returned to Italy. He was a man of about thirty, of a military bearing, and seemed to know what he was about. But he was not an accoucheur like Dr. Foppoly or Dr. Strehz, who had also left Greymouth. He was a surgeon and worked mostly at the hospital, mending broken bones, binding wounds, and taking care of the sick and insane.
A Cold Wind Down the Grey Page 24
