Mette Hardy had imagined her future husband leaning against the mantel, pipe in hand, talking to her about serious matters - books and music, philosophy perhaps. She had imagined herself sitting on a sofa in the parlour darning his socks, listening intently while he expounded on his ideas, and trying hard to learn everything she could. When he had finished speaking he would give her a chance to express her own thoughts, and not smile at what she said, but give her ideas serious consideration. Or at least act as if he did.
Instead, she had Frank, up to his knees in mud, trying to wrestle a tree stump from the ground, his face red with exertion, grunting like a wild pig, and cursing like the soldier he had once been, while she watched him, laughing.
How strange it was that she preferred the husband she had so much more than the one she had imagined. If only he was a little more…well, civilized. She wished he would read a book occasionally, or take her in to Palmerston to see a lecture or a concert at Forrester’s Hall.
“Could you give me a hand here, Mette? I can’t move the bloody thing.”
“What can I do?”
“See that plank?”
“This one?”
He nodded. “When I lift the stump, shove the plank underneath it and stand on it. Use that rock for leverage. I’ll keep pushing. Between us we can move it.”
The stump rose gradually from the ground and flipped on its side. Frank fell to his knees beside it.
“Thank God for that. I thought I’d never get it out. Thanks for your…look at you. Your skirt’s all muddy.”
Mette sat down beside him. “I don’t care. I like mud. I can grow things in mud.”
He pulled her towards him, leaving a muddy handprint on her sleeve. “It suits you.”
“You know, when Pieter built his house in the clearing he burned the tree stumps.”
“I don’t like all the smoke or the ash that ends up in the paddock. Some ash is good, but too much clogs up the grass. Not good for the horses either.”
She looked around. “But we don’t have any horses.”
“We will,” he said. “As soon as this paddock’s cleared. And when I get some cash in. I’m a bit short right now.” He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving a trail of mud along the top. “I may have to look for work.”
“I could go back to the book shop.”
“Wouldn’t you rather work in your garden? I hate the idea of sending you out to work, especially when you make so little. I’d have to take you in to Palmerston and wait around…all for a few shillings a week…”
She sighed. She loved her garden, but she’d loved working at the book shop as well. So near to all those books. She wished Frank understood how important reading was to her. For Frank to find work that paid a decent amount, he’d have to leave the farm, and she’d be by herself a mile from the nearest neighbour and fifteen miles from Feilding, the nearest town. “Is there any work you could get nearby?”
“Shearing, I suppose, but it’s mostly over, except for the dipping…and harvesting’s done as well.”
“Would those jobs pay well?”
He wiped his hands on the grass and shook his head. “Not really. There are so many men tramping around the countryside, willing to work for low wages. I suppose the sawmills…I could speak to Richter…”
Mette put her head on his shoulder. “That’s not your kind of work. Scandies work at the sawmills”
“Work is work,” said Frank. “I’m not too proud to do an honest day’s labour in a sawmill.”
“Well, let’s forget about it for now.” Mette lifted the basket she’d carried from the soddy. “I brought you lunch. I made bread, and Maren sent me over some of her cheese and butter. And I picked runner beans from my garden this morning.”
He stood and held out his hand to her. “Lunch it is. But I have something to show you - up in the high paddock. Let’s have a picnic up there.”
He took the basket and she followed him up the track to the high paddock, a mostly grassy area concealed in a dip above the small sod house they were living in temporarily while Frank built a permanent home. The high paddock had a ridge on the near side, facing the house, and Frank had already marked it as a place to hide if they were ever attacked. Not that he expected to be attacked, but, as she’d discovered, he always thought strategically, like the soldier he’d once been.
They reached the high paddock and he pointed to the ridge, where a seat had been hollowed out and lined with logs. She sat beside him and looked at the view of the river winding its way through the landscape in the distance; further away, she could see smoke rising from Feilding chimneys.
“So pretty…”
“We can come up here in the evenings and watch the sunset,” said Frank. “Bring a glass of beer - ginger beer for you…”
“That sounds nice.” She opened the basket and handed him some bread and cheese. A slight breeze came off the river and she could feel the moisture in the air. She could hardly believe how happy she was.
He stopped eating and cocked his head to one side. “What was that? I heard a whistle.”
“It was a bird, I think…”
Frank hopped up on the seat, conveniently located so that the back was at chest height, giving him a good place to rest a rifle if it ever came to that. “It’s Karira. He has someone with him.” He whistled and waved towards the house.
“Maybe he has a job for you. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
Constable Karira, late of the Maori Constabulary, had formed a partnership with Frank offering investigations, but the business, which had never really been successful, had died off since Frank had bought himself a farm. Karira kept busy helping the people from his village who had been dispossessed after the chief sold the land to the government.
They hurried down the track to the farmyard. Constable Karira was accompanied by another man, mid-thirties, smartly dressed in a dark suit and straw hat. The men dismounted to greet Frank and Mette.
“Frank, this is Mr. Tomlinson. He manages Beaven’s store in Sandon. He has a request.”
Frank raised his eyebrows questioningly at Mr. Tomlinson.
“As Constable Karira says, I manage a store in Sandon,” said Tomlinson. “One of my regular customers is an Irish woman named Mrs. Kane - Mrs. Mary Kane. She has three young children and she buys milk from me almost every day, in exchange for eggs. I realized recently that I hadn’t seen her for several days and stopped by her home to see if there was a problem. People get sick, and…”
“She was sick?” Frank sounded impatient; Mette squeezed his elbow gently. Mr. Tomlinson had a story to tell, and it seemed best to let him tell it his own way.
“Not sick, exactly,” said Tomlinson, “Weak from lack of food. She and her three children were sleeping on the floor of the house. She’d sold all her furniture and any spare clothing she had, and they had very little food. Just the last of her seed potatoes—she’d eaten most of them.”
“Oh dear,” said Mette. “Eating her seed potatoes? The poor woman.” You could survive on seed potatoes, but then you’d have nothing to plant for the next year.
“Is there a Mr. Kane?” asked Frank.
Tomlinson nodded. “He left in May last year to find work. He wrote to her several times. The last letter arrived a few weeks before the end of the year. He said he was on his way home and would be in Sandon by Christmas.”
Mette gazed at Frank, imagining herself in the same situation. “He’s been away from home for almost a year. How can she…?”
“And no contact for four months,” said Frank. “What’s she done about finding him?”
“She sent a letter to one of the papers in Hawke’s Bay, asking them to run an advertisement, but she had no way of knowing if it ran,” said Tomlinson. “After I discovered her situation I placed some ads as well, asking people to write to me at the store, but had no response.”
“And the police?” asked Frank.
“They searched for him but found nothing. What I was hoping, Sergeant Hardy, was that you could follow in his footsteps and see what you could learn…if anything.”
Mette could see that Frank was interested, but she wanted to make sure he would be paid. “How would Mrs. Kane be able to pay for Frank’s services? Isn’t she destitute?”
“I took up a subscription for her,” said Tomlinson. I’ve raised almost a hundred pounds…people have been very generous.”
“Doesn’t she need that money?”
“She does, but unfortunately she’s refusing to take more than the smallest part of it. She says she prefers to take care of her family herself. I found her work cleaning hotel rooms in the morning, which is all she knows how to do. She leaves the children with a neighbour, but makes barely enough to feed the four of them…”
“The poor woman,” said Mette again. Her heart was breaking over the situation in which Mrs. Kane found herself.
“How long do you want me to search for him?” asked Frank. “He’s probably lost in the bush somewhere. No use looking forever. If I can’t find him in a week or so I’m not going to find him.”
“We - my fellow subscribers and I - thought we’d hire you for ten days and we’re willing to pay you fifty pounds, whether you find him or not. And another ten for your expenses. I have a mare I’d like to give you as well - I don’t have time to breed her and wanted to send her to a good home. Would that suit you?”
“What do you think, Mette? I hate to leave you by yourself for that long…could you stay with your sister?”
“She could stay in town,” said Karira, who had been watching the discussion silently. “And I could come out here every few days and keep an eye on the farm.”
“Now wait a minute,” said Mr. Tomlinson. “I have a better idea.” He turned to Mette, his hands clasped in front of his face. “Mrs. Hardy, you seem to be a strong, sympathetic woman, if you don’t mind me saying. Why don’t you spend the ten days with my wife and I. I’ve been urging my wife to get to know Mrs. Kane, to see if she can persuade her to accept more help. But she’s very timid and is reluctant to talk to Mrs. Kane. Perhaps you could do that?”
“Of course I could,” said Mette before Frank could disagree. “Mrs. Kane sounds like someone I’d like to meet.” She’d been taken by the idea that Mrs. Kane wanted to make a living for herself and her children, and was reluctant to accept charity.
Frank nodded. She could see he wasn’t entirely happy with the suggestion, but it was a good way to make money in a short time.
“I can start right away,” he said. “Where should I begin?”
“We know he passed through Woodville on his way to find work. That might be…”
“Woodville?” said Mette, worried suddenly. “I was in Woodville last year. Someone had recently been murdered—beaten to death in the bush.”
“I wasn’t going to mention it in front of you, Mrs. Hardy. But yes, there was a murder.” Tomlinson wrung his hands for a minute, glancing between Frank and Mette. “And Mr. Kane passed through town at about the right time. There’s been talk…”
“Right,” said Frank. “That’s where I’ll begin. Woodville. And don’t worry about me, Mette. I’m sure a murderer isn’t still hanging about. I’ll be quite safe.”