Inspector Buckley nodded. “He was looking for someone who looked like you, and he thought he’d found her.” He leaned forward and massaged his calves. “I’d like to investigate the kidnapping further, especially Smith’s part in it, but I have my work cut out for me here. We’re charged with retrieving the mail bags and anything valuable — money, watches and such — that may have washed up from the wreck. I have men standing guard along the beach to prevent looting, not just of valuables, but also of small items that might be sold as relics in the future. I don’t understand it myself, but people do it for the money. And we’re still looking for bodies, of course.”
“It’s a terrible thing,” she said. “All those poor people drowning like that. I feel so sad about it.”
He patted her arm, then gestured to Detective Tuohy. “You and your husband need to go to Bluff and lock yourselves in a hotel. I’ll send Detective Tuohy with you. You can take a cart into Fortrose and get the coach from there. Detective Tuohy will make sure you’re alone in the coach. And of course your husband will ride beside the coach.”
He turned to Frank. “Are you carrying a weapon, Sergeant?”
Frank shook his head.
“In that case, we’ll get you one. Tuohy?”
The Detective hurried off to where a guard was watching the pack horses, and returned with a holstered gun and an ammunition pouch threaded onto a belt.
“An Adams Mark III revolver,” said the inspector. “The same one the North-West Mounted Police have been using. You’ll like it.” He handed the gun to Frank. “Rather fancy joining them, myself, actually, up in the wilds of northern Canada, with a gold rush going on and all kinds of villains running around. I reckon they’re like the Armed Constabulary were before the Police Act came into effect last year. More interesting than the work I’m doing now.” He handed the gun and the ammunition pouch to Frank. “Ever used one of these?”
Frank took the gun from its holster and checked it out, spinning the barrel a couple of times. Spotless, of course, and well-oiled. “No. I have a Colt and an Enfield. I left them at home for this trip.” He slid the cartouche box onto the belt and strapped the belt around his waist. “Should we be expecting an attack, do you think?”
“Best be safe,” said the inspector. “Something is going on. We seem to have two separate crimes underway. I’m not counting out the gold robbery. Your man Hinton is still out there. You never know who might be coming after you. Get a room in a hotel — Scott’s Club Hotel on the Bluff Parade is excellent. I’ll be down as soon as I’m able to leave here.”
14
The Coach to Bluff
The clerk at the post office in Fortrose grimaced as he dragged Mette’s bag from the storeroom. “What are you carrying in this bag, Mrs. Hardy? A load of bricks?”
Mette, who had Sarah Jane strapped to her back again, took the Gladstone bag from him. “It’s a manuscript,” she said apologetically. “A very large manuscript that I’m going to have to translate when I get it home.”
Frank moved Helen to his left side and took the bag from Mette. “Must be quite a manuscript,” he said. “I wonder if Professor Mann knew how much it would weigh.”
Mette sighed. “I think it’s a thousand pages long. I read some of it, and it’s really dull. I’m going to have an awful time earning my money.”
“Talking of money, how much do you have left?”
She handed him the last of her bank notes, but kept a few coins. “Three pounds. Will that be enough to get us home? I have ten shillings in coins as well.”
He shoved the money in his pocket. “Probably not. I’ll have to find a way to get more. This should get us to Dunedin, and we’ll worry about it then. I’ll work on the docks if I have to.”
She admired his ability to put off worrying. But he could go for days sleeping outside and not eating, whereas she needed a bed of some kind and at least two meals a day. The girls were an added problem, especially Helen, who was living on condensed milk and pap, which they would need to buy if they couldn’t find a relative to care for her. Sarah Jane was no problem at all. Mette provided for all her needs.
Detective Tuohy was waiting outside with a Royal Mail coach and a uniformed coachman.
“This is Mr. O’Reilly,” he said, indicating the coach driver, a sturdy man in his fifties who looked like he’d been born with a whip in his hand. “He’s taking us directly to Bluff. He usually goes through Wyndham, but he’s very kindly agreed to save us three hours.”
“How much do we owe you?” asked Frank, putting his hand in his pocket. Not the pocket where he’d put Mette’s three pounds, she noticed.
The detective waved him away. “The Invercargill Police are paying for it.”
Frank grinned at Mette with one eyebrow raised.
Detective Tuohy put their bags on roof of the coach. “We have a long trip ahead of us, so make yourself comfortable,” he said to Mette. “There’s a basket of food for you, with some extra tins of condensed milk for the little one.” He climbed up to the front seat and sat next to the coachman. She was to have the coach all to herself, her and the girls and a basket of food. How delightful!
The coach was very much like the one Frank had been driving when she first met him, and it brought back fond memories, as well as some rather frightening ones. She hoped the driver was as good as Frank, although they weren’t going through the Manawatu Gorge this time, but across land that was quite flat, with occasional clumps of windblown trees, from what she remembered of her last trip in this direction.
Rain began as they left town, and a cold wind rattled the coach, creeping through the cracks in the doors. The road was un-metalled and rutted, and soon turned into a quagmire, slowing the coach to a crawl; Mette began to wonder if they would get to Bluff before nightfall. Frank had been following the coach on Nightingale; when it slowed down, he caught up and tapped on the window. She lowered it and leaned out, ignoring the rain, happy to see him again.
“I’m going on ahead to check the road. With this rain, we don’t want any slips to catch us by surprise.”
She was sure he must be thinking about the slip in the Seventy Mile Bush that had almost killed him, and the tree thrown across the road in the Gorge followed by the attack that Frank had just barely managed to stop. But he must not be enjoying the slow ride, now that he had a new horse. She suspected he was telling her he was looking for slips just so he could have a good gallop. She waved him away. “Off you go. We’ll be alright.”
To distract herself while he was gone, she opened the basket to see what Detective Tuohy had found for them. The basket was packed full. She moved everything around and discovered several tins of condensed milk for Helen, jars of potted meats, a tin of raspberry jam, some Canterbury cheese, bread, and a whole tin of biscuits. This trip was going to be nicer than she had imagined, in spite of the rain. She took out a digestive biscuit and broke off a crumb for Helen. She had intended to feed her some crumbs, like she did with Sarah Jane, but Helen grabbed the whole biscuit and crammed it into her mouth. When she realized that she couldn’t swallow it all, her face fell and she tried to cry, her open mouth revealing the half-chewed biscuit.
Mette held her on her lap and removed as much of the biscuit as she could. Helen fought back vigorously, rearing back and clamping her mouth shut over Mette’s probing finger.
“Now Helen,” said Mette, releasing her hold on Helen’s jaw. “You can’t have all of it. You’ll choke.”
Helen’s bottom lip came out and she started to sniff, dribbling chunks of biscuit down her chin.
Sarah Jane had been lying on the seat by Mette, wrapped in her blanket, half asleep. Helen’s crying set her off as well. In a few minutes, they were both howling.
To make matters worse, the coach was swaying from side to side on the muddy road, reminding Mette of her trip by sea from Copenhagen. If it kept up she was going to vomit.
She unlatched the window of the coach and lowered it, looking out for Frank. The ra
in had stopped, but everything was wet, and the road was covered in puddles.
He was returning from his gallop and trotted up beside the coach. “Do you need something?”
Behind her, the cries had risen to a crescendo. He grinned down at her. “Can’t you manage? Inspector Buckley’s wife has eight like that.”
“Not all this size,” said Mette crossly. “I tried to stop Helen eating a whole biscuit because I was afraid she would choke, and that made her cry. Then Sarah Jane joined in. I don’t know what I can do to quieten them. Could we get out and walk around for a bit? It feels cramped up in here.”
“We’re coming to the hill where we got you away from the sergeant and the constable,” he said. “There’s a ferry at the bottom. We’ll be there in ten minutes. Can you wait until then?”
When she didn’t reply, he said, “Why don’t you hand Helen to me and I’ll take her for a ride. We’ll go down and look at the ferry.”
“Are you sure? Isn’t she too small to be taken on a horse?”
He leaned down and looked through the window. “Helen, do you want to come for a ride with Frank?”
She stopped screaming and gazed at him, tears still dribbling down her cheeks. “Fah?”
“Pass her through the window, Mette.”
Mette complied, holding Helen tightly, worrying she would drop her, but almost feeling that it would serve her right if she did. But Frank managed to scoop her up and sat her on the saddle in front of him, held close enough to become part of him.
“Hang on, Helen,” he said. He took off at a trot, and Mette heard Helen squeal with delight. She turned to Sarah Jane and sighed. “Daddy will take you riding one day.” Even a basket of food no longer cheered her up.
She picked up Sarah Jane and cuddled her. With Helen gone, Sarah Jane had quieted down and Mette thought they might both be able to sleep for a few minutes. Sarah Jane had her thumb in her mouth, and Mette removed it gently. She was determined not to have a child who sucked her thumb. She was drifting off when the coach lurched sideways suddenly, as if a wheel had come off. The coach righted itself and continued on, speeding up. She could see the trees flashing by on the side of the road, and spray kicking up from the puddles.
Something wasn’t right. She put Sarah Jane on the floor of the coach to keep her secure and lowered the window to look for Frank. No sign of him, but the coachman’s arm was hanging off the side, the reins still dangling from his fingers. He no longer had control of the coach. She heard Detective Tuohy yelling, but could not make out the words.
The coach continued to speed, and now they were at the hill. She moved Sarah Jane aside and lay beside her on the floor. Frank had once told her this was what she should do if she was ever in a runaway coach. The coach was swaying terribly, and her head kept knocking against the door.
They reached the trees where Frank had dropped onto the cart driven by the policemen. She half expected him to do it again, but of course he didn’t. He was a mile away with Helen, unaware of what was happening to them.
After the coach passed the trees there was a long, slow curve. As they entered the curve, the coach slowly toppled over and landed on its side. The horses kept going, dragging it along that way for several minutes before coming to a stop. Her head hit against the door several times, but she had Sarah Jane in a tight hold. Nothing was going to hurt her.
When they came to a complete stop, she didn’t move for several minutes. Then she opened Sarah Jane’s blanket and ran her hands over her baby. Sarah Jane stared at her, thumb once more in her mouth. This time Mette left it there. “We’re alright,” she whispered. “We just had a nasty accident, but daddy will come and get us out.”
As she spoke, she heard hoofbeats on the road. Someone jumped onto the side of the coach and opened the door above her head.
“Nice to see you again, Mrs. Hardy,” said Roderick Smith.
* * *
She climbed out carrying Sarah Jane, refusing Mr. Smith’s helping hand. Detective Tuohy was standing in front of the coach, nursing what looked like a broken right arm. The coachman lay at his feet, a pawing at a small red stain on the front of his shirt.
She stepped towards him. “Is he alright? Does he need help.”
Detective Tuohy grimaced with pain. “Careful, Mrs. Hardy. He has a gun.”
“Who…?”
She turned back to Mr. Smith. He had jumped down from the side of the coach and was holding a gun by his side. Mrs. Brunton’s horse was standing quietly beside the coach. A dainty bay, as she had said.
Mr. Smith gestured with his gun at Detective Tuohy. “You may as well help the coachman,” he said. “I don’t want another death on my conscience.”
Mette took another step in the direction of the fallen coachman, looking desperately to see if Frank was coming around the curve.
“Not you, Mrs. Hardy. You stay where you are. I’m going to relieve you of your burden, if you don’t mind.”
“My burden?” She was puzzled. Did he want her Gladstone bag and the manuscript? Had that been what this was about all along?
“The child,” he said. “Give me the child.”
That was so ridiculous she almost laughed. “Why do you want my daughter?” she asked. “What possible reason could you have for taking my daughter?”
“She’s not your daughter,” he said confidently. “I…um…spoke to McNab last night, and he told me you and your husband have the child. I was following you and I saw your husband gallop off — I’m sure he’ll be back in a minute. So I need you to give me the child before he returns.”
“But he has…” she started to say. But how could she tell him there were two babies, and that he should wait until Frank returned to see the proof. He would shoot Frank and take Helen — perhaps even take both the girls. She had to persuade him that Sarah Jane was her own daughter.
Detective Tuohy was trying to staunch the coachman’s bleeding with his left hand. The coachman raised his head and said, “Sergeant Hardy has the child you’re looking for. The baby with Mrs. Hardy is her own daughter. I saw them getting on to my coach.”
“He’s right,” said Tuohy. His hand was pressed firmly on the coachman’s chest, and he seemed to have stopped the flow of blood. “There are two babies. That one is the Hardy child.”
Smith shook his head, smiling. “I suppose you think I should wait until Hardy returns. What kind of fool do you think I am, Tuohy?”
“I’m not giving you my baby,” she said. “I’ll die before I let you take my baby.”
He aimed his gun at Detective Tuohy and said to Mette in a conversational tone, “No need for you to die, Mrs. Hardy. I dislike the idea of killing a woman, actually. But if you don’t hand me the baby immediately, I’ll kill the detective. I’m sure your husband will be here in a minute and we don’t have much time. What’s it going to be? Should I kill Tuohy and take the baby, or should I just take the baby?”
She could feel a scream rising from her chest, but distantly, as if it came from someone else. She was reading this in a book, or watching it in a play, and saying to the character that was herself, “Don’t do it, don’t do it.”
He backed over to her and put his arm around Sarah Jane. “Here you are young lady. Let’s get you back to your father.”
Mette was frozen with horror. “No, please. Don’t take her.”
He tore Sarah Jane from her, his gun still trained on Detective Tuohy. “Let her go,” said the detective in a flat voice. “Your husband will find him and kill him. He’ll get your baby back.”
Mr. Smith put his foot in the stirrup and jumped nimbly onto the horse, holding Sarah Jane tightly to him. Her mind, still hovering somewhere above her head, said, he can ride. Mrs. Brunton was wrong. But it’s such a small horse and Frank will be able to ride him down. But the part of her mind that still resided in her head said, and then what?
And then he was off, heading through the trees and towards the river.
Mette dropped to her knees and doubl
ed over, unable to breath, gasping for air. She thought she had never felt such pain in her whole life.
She was still like that when Frank returned five minutes later. He trotted around the curve holding Helen, saw the terrible tableau vivant, and broke into a canter for the last few hundred yards.
“What happened here? Is everyone alright?”
“He took the baby,” she said. “Mr. Smith took our Sarah Jane. He thought she was Helen.”
Frank bent down from the saddle and thrust Helen into Mette’s arms.
“Which way did he go?” he asked Tuohy.
“He took the bridle path towards the river,” said Tuohy. “He has about five minutes start, but he’s on a small horse. You’ll catch him if you go straight back down to the river.”
Frank pulled on Nightingale’s reins and turned her around. Mette thought she had never seen his face so dark and determined.
“It’ll be slow going for him on the bridle path,” said Tuohy. “He’ll be trying for the ferry, or the river mouth. But the river mouth is tidal and broad. He’ll sink into the sand if he tries to cross.”
Frank nodded his thanks to Tuohy, and spurred Nightingale back the way he had just come; he turned first, his face dark with rage, his voice harsh. “Don’t move from here until I get back. I’ll send help as soon as I find Smith and get my daughter back.”
And with that, he thundered away on his pale grey horse, both of them looking like death.
Mette had still not quite grasped what had happened. She plunked Helen down beside the detective and strode over to the coach. “I’ll get a napkin to help stop the bleeding.”
She climbed onto the side of the coach and opened the door upwards. If she lay flat, she could just reach the Gladstone bag, and she knew she had left a couple of extra napkins inside, wrapped around the manuscript. It seemed extra heavy, but she dragged it out and slid off the coach. Then she snapped open the bag and reached in.
Come to Grief Page 13
