He arrived home from the police camp the following day to find Elizabeth sitting on the verandah, a copy of the newspaper on her lap, rocking furiously back and forward, Harry asleep on her lap and a drowsy Charlie flopped at her side. He was glad to see she was looking spirited again, even if the spirit evinced was anger.
“Something has upset you.” He sat on the step below her and massaged his aching calves, which the shower at the barbershop the night before had done little to improve.
She moved Harry against her shoulder and opened the paper to the letters page.
“You remember that horrible leader the Argus had about you last week before you left?”
He did, and had tried to put it from his mind.
“Someone has written a letter…listen to this. ‘Had there been a vagrancy act, Mr. James could have…wait a minute…you must be aware that Mr. James is not like the Argus of old, possessed of a hundred eyes…what does he mean by Argus? Is he talking about the newspaper?’”
“It’s a reference to a Greek myth,” said James. “Argus was a giant with a hundred eyes. I find two are enough, myself. How has this story made you angry?”
She turned to an earlier page “The letter was very kind, but listen to what the fools at the Argus had to say in response—in another leader.” She spoke in a different voice, putting on a Scottish accent, pretending she was the editor of the Argus, Mr. James Kerr. “We are perhaps better able than ‘Scrutator’– that’s the nom de plume of the letter writer—to form an opinion of the zeal and industry of the police department stationed in this district, and we gladly subscribe to the opinion that Mr. Inspector James has, since his arrival here, been indefatigable in his exertion to prevent and detect crime—exertions entailing a vast amount of hard work and anxiety. Nor would we for a moment exclude the subordinate members of the force…”
“I’m happy to hear that this rag is complimenting my subordinates…”
Elizabeth raised her finger, “No, but William, listen to this. They say, ‘When we, as we think correctly, expressed the opinion that the police authorities were not free from blame respecting the non-arrest of Burgess, Kelly, and Co., we include the whole department, which is responsible for the preservation of society from such scoundrels as the men who are now charged with such terrible crimes…’”
“I do feel that to be the case, somewhat,” said James. “Although I wouldn’t admit it in court. And anyway, Scrutator is the bane of Mr. Kerr…I almost feel pity for the man. He has to respond somehow.”
“Here’s what else they say. ‘We do not for one moment doubt that Inspector James acted according to the best of his knowledge and ability to stay the career of these men when they were here; but the question is - was that sufficient for the intended purpose?’” She raised her eyes from the paper briefly to look at him angrily. “And here’s the bit that troubles me. ‘We say not, and we believe we are expressing the general opinion of the public in saying so. In fact, the further the inquiry is pushed the stronger are the reasons for thinking that much more might have been done than was done.’ The gall of this newspaper…”
“I’d like to know what they think I should have done,” he said. “You know that I’ve hardly been home for the past few weeks…”
She smiled, folded the newspaper, and threw it at him. “And I’ve missed you, you great dobick,” she said. “Now go and put this newspaper in the privy, where we can put it to better use than reading.”
After tea - mutton stew again - he took Charlie out for a walk, heading down to Mawhera Quay, thinking he might find the Wallaby docked there. Businesses had closed for the day, and the drunkards had not yet settled in for their evening of carousing, but men were wandering up and down seeking tonics against the tediousness of their lives.
He could see several ships, both screw and paddle steamers, grounded in the river, waiting for the tide to refloat them. A notice posted outside the shipping office reported that the Wallaby was late coming from Nelson, delayed by bad weather. The seas from Nelson and down the West Coast were treacherous and even after making it safely down the coast, boats often had to wait out in the roads for the tides to float them in. The Lioness had grounded on the bar in January, run up on the beach while attempting to free herself and been dragged in by tug. And the schooner Northern Light had gone aground in June while being towed across the bar and sat stranded at the mouth of the lagoon for days while the paddle ship Woodpecker brought its cargo up to the wharf.
A steamer bobbed out in the roads, probably the Wallaby. In the meantime, Jack’s Nonpareil Pie House and his “always ready” coffees called to him like a Siren. He preferred tea, but coffee was better for energizing his brain. John Heron would be waiting for the Wallaby to deliver the fresh eggs he advertised, and would alert James when the boat arrived.
Passing Tait Brothers’ Photographic shop he noticed a photograph on display; a panorama of Greymouth taken from the South Spit showing the town, the river, and the wharf. It made a pretty picture. He would purchase one for Elizabeth for her birthday. The photographs they could take these days were astounding, almost as true to life as paintings. He thought he might just be able to see the roof of his own house in the photograph.
A smaller photograph to one side showed two children seated beside each other on a settee. He leaned forward to take a better look, then recoiled in revulsion. One of the children, a boy of perhaps nine or ten, was obviously dead, his eyes flat, his head flopped slightly to one side. His left hand had been placed limply on the shoulder of his sister, who sat beside him looking stunned - but alive. Memento mori: he’d heard of those, portraits taken after children had died to capture an image of the child for eternity. Mostly the children were arranged in a seated position on the floor, their lifeless heads resting on their mothers’ laps. He walked away quickly towards the government shipping office, trying not to imagine how the photograph had been accomplished. He could tolerate the sight of deceased adults, but bodies of children disturbed him.
At the shipping office, a tall, thin serious-faced man sitting at a desk on one side of the room asked if he could help. A sign on the front of his desk, had his name painted onto a piece of polished wood: H. Smith, Clerk of Shipping.
“I have a question about last month’s sailing of the Wallaby,” said James.
“Early June, it went,” said the clerk. He consulted a large register sitting on a podium to one side of his desk. “Here we are, leaving June 3rd and arriving in Nelson on June 6th. Then on up to Wanganui and Taranaki. Carried a large load of coal, from the Buller, up to the North Island. Then back in Nelson July 12th and returning here soon. I received a telegram when it left, but no sign of it yet. Are you awaiting something?”
James shook his head. “No. I’m an inspector with the police.” He took out his warrant card and showed the clerk.
“Ah,” said the clerk. “You’ll be looking for information about Burgess and his crew no doubt. They went off on the S.S. Wallaby on that trip. Pity they weren’t stopped before they…”
“Yes, yes. A great pity. Is there something you can tell me about them? How much they paid for the trip…”
“You should talk to the Greek boatman. I heard they got some money off him. He’s that mad now because he’s not going to get it back, especially if they hang. A few quid it was, too.”
“Where would I find this Greek boatman? And does he have a name?”
“He’s the Greek boatman,” said the clerk, looking mystified at the question. “You’ll probably find him at the skittle alley. The one at the Alabama Hotel, down on Richmond Quay. Spends a lot of time there, he does.”
“What about the Wallaby? Is that her sitting out on the roads?” He could wait for her at Jack’s and go to the Alabama Hotel later, when things were more likely to be heating up there.
“Could be,” said Smith helpfully. “The Wallaby is due soon. If it’s her, she’ll come across at high tide, in an hour or two.”
Dr. Foppoly was sitting in Jack’s having a thick black coffee and reading the Grey River Argus. Inspector James fetched himself a strong coffee heavily diluted with warm milk and doused with sugar and pulled up a chair at the doctor’s table.
“I see you’re reading our magnificent local rag.”
Dr. Foppoly smiled. “The editor is not fond of you apparently.”
“It would seem not.”
“Don’t let yourself become upset about what they write,” said Dr. Foppoly. “Anyone close to the investigation, as I am for example, knows you’ve done all you possibly could.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve become somewhat tired of the local politics,” said the doctor. “Especially regarding the hospital. The board is reluctant to take my advice, and I can’t make the improvements I would like. They refuse to believe in the need for cleanliness during surgery, for example. I’m thinking of leaving Greymouth soon—in fact I’ve decided to leave. I’ll be returning to Italy.”
“You’ll be missed,” said James, carefully sipping his coffee and thinking about Elizabeth’s accouchement. “Who’ll be taking over your women’s surgery? Specifically, with childbirth?”
“Dr. Strehz is an outstanding doctor,” said Dr. Foppoly. “Why do you…”
“My wife,” said James. Perhaps they should just find a woman with experience, as Elizabeth wished. Elizabeth didn’t want to go to the lying-in hospital anyway.
“Although I’ve never met him, Dr. Jackson has an excellent reputation as well,” said Dr. Foppoly. He took one last sip of coffee, scooped out the dregs with his finger and licked it, then set the cup on the table. “He’s coming to us from the Dunstan District Hospital and is a Licentiate of Midwifery in Edinburgh and the Rotunda Lying-in Hospital in Dublin…”
Dr. Foppoly returned to reading his paper, and Inspector James sat thinking about his case against Wilson. What was Wilson’s level of importance within the gang? Generally, the press talked about the Burgess gang as consisting of four men: Burgess, Kelly, Levy and Sullivan. But there seemed to be several hangers on—DeLacey for example, who kept stables in Greymouth and across the river in Cobden and frequently escorted the gold buyers for whom he supplied horses; and the unknown connection or connections within the police. Of course, that could very well turn out to be Carr, the constable from Hokitika who had been arrested for stealing guns and trousers, although that sounded more like a theft of convenience. Trousers? Why trousers? He would have to talk to Broham in Hokitika about the robbery, when he got a chance to ride down there.
Dusk had fallen when the S.S. Wallaby finally crossed the bar; he left Jack’s to return to Mawhera Quay. The steamer was pulling alongside of the wharf as he arrived, and sailors were leaping from the gunwale and to secure the mooring. As soon as the gangplank was dropped he boarded the vessel and went to find the captain. Captain Palmer was at the bridge, watching his crew perform their duties. He greeted Inspector James with a brief nod.
“You need to speak with me?”
“I’d like to know anything you can tell me about Burgess and his gang. I heard they went up to Nelson on your…”
“If I had known they were on their way to commit murder and mayhem in Nelson, I would never have let them…”
“Of course not,” said Inspector James. “As would not I, in hindsight, have let them leave the district. But now with everything we know it’s important that we try these scoundrels and…”
“Hang them,” interrupted Captain Palmer. “Hang all of them.”
“After we find them guilty of course.”
“Of course.”
“What can you tell me about them…the trip?” asked Inspector James.
“Sullivan came on board with a letter from Burgess—I believe it was Burgess although he hadn’t signed the letter with that name—asking if they could travel free if they supplied their own food,” said Captain Palmer. “I said they could not, but I would charge them a lower fare if they brought their own food. They had enough to pay for their fares.”
“How much would that be?” asked Inspector James. George Dobson had carried six pounds in his pocket book, and he had found three of those pounds on Wilson.
“A pound each, so four pounds,” said Captain Palmer. “They weren’t using their own names, of course. I remember one—the man who came with the letter—as being Williams, but I assume he was Sullivan. Taller than the others, with a large face. All the names to be used on the tickets were in the letter.”
“And they boarded at the Grey?”
Captain Palmer nodded. “They wanted to come aboard on the North Spit, on the other side of the river, but I refused to give them permission, so they boarded from the quay. And reboarded up at the Buller, where we stopped for a day to load coal. They needed new tickets from there.”
“Did the four pounds take them all the way to Nelson?”
“Just as far as the Buller. They needed more for the rest of the trip. I’m not sure where they found it, but I didn’t charge them the full amount—or even half—there were fewer passengers from the Buller and any money I could get was helpful to the shipping company. I believe they paid two or three pounds from the Buller to Nelson.”
“And they arrived in Nelson on…?
“June 6th.” Less than a week before the Maungatapu murders.
“Did you see them during the trip?”
“Mostly Levy,” said Palmer. “He spent the whole time playing cards in the saloon. “Sullivan hung around the saloon as well, although not as much as Levy. Levy won some money I think.”
The crowds along Mawhera Quay were getting rowdy as he walked down to the skittle alley at the Alabama Hotel. A few wretched women were selling themselves to any men still able to stand straight, ready to do their business in the alleyways between the hotels. Greymouth was in desperate need of a Temperance Hall, like the one in Nelson. Once women got organized on the issue of temperance, the nights of drunkenness would be doomed. Although perhaps drunkenness would end on the same day women got the vote, both completely unlikely events in his view. Women would vote the same way as their husbands and the effect would be that married men would have two votes. Better that women concentrated on things like temperance and the poor.
The skittle alley was at the back of the Alabama Hotel, and he went down a narrow passageway to get to it, running the gauntlet of several drunken men leaning against the walls on either side, one with a woman crouched before him earning her shilling.
“What’s going on inspector,” said one, a skinny Irishman with a greasy bowler worn on one side of his head. “Not paying you enough then? Come for a bit of a gamble?”
James glanced at him and said nothing. One of his informants trying to look nasty. Might be useful to have a chat with him later. He found a boy at the door collecting fees, gave him a shilling for entry and another to hold Charlie.
“Where can I find the Greek boatman?”
The boy indicated a dark-haired, olive-skinned man who was just at that moment about to toss a wooden ball at the pins. “Two shillings if I knock down the copper,” he called out, not realizing James was standing behind him. “You like to see a copper knocked down, don’t you?”
Watchers melted into the darkness. The copper was the pin in front, and the Greek probably had no idea that an actual copper was standing behind him. The ball spun from his hand and rolled down the lane, hitting the front pin with a crack. The Greek leapt back, his arms raised, then realized he was alone with James.
“Where they all go?” he asked indignantly. “Gone with all my two bobs.”
James handed him two shillings. “You knocked down the wrong copper, as far as they were concerned,” he said dryly. “Here. Leave off a minute and talk with me.”
“You a police?” asked the Greek. “You wanna talk about those boats that got their ropes cut? Six of them? I lost my boat…and the police don’t…”
James displayed his warrant card. “That was unfortunate and we’re looking into it. But for now I’d like to know how you came to lend money to Levy.”
“Levy? Phil Levy the Jew?”
“I believe you know who I mean,” said James. “Levy, Phillip Levy, one of the men involved in the murders up in Nelson. An associate of Burgess and Kelly.”
“He was? I did not know that. Not Phil Levy I think. The Jews they don’t kill…”
“He’s been arrested in Nelson for five murders up there,” said Inspector James. “And I think he was also involved in the murder of Mr. Dobson. Him and the others. Anyone who helped him will need to answer for it. Now…”
The Greek avoided Inspector James eyes for several minutes, scratching his chin thoughtfully, then came to a decision. “I lend him three pounds,” he said. “He pay me back before, so I think he gonna pay me back this time.”
James did a quick calculation. Not enough for the tickets on the steamer, although they had the three pounds from George Dobson as well. “Anyone else lend him money?”
The Greek boat man shook his head. “He won some on the skittles. A few bob. I see him at the shooting gallery, another time. At Hilliard’s. He make some there, maybe. He play cards too…pretty good at cards…”
“Did he tell you why he needed…”
“Course not,” said the Greek indignantly. “I don’t give him money to kill…”
“I mean, did he tell you he meant to go to Nelson with Burgess and Kelly?”
The Greek shrugged. “I do not know these Burgess and Kelly.”
“How about James Wilson, or James Murray he is sometimes…”
“He’s been here,” said the Greek. “Curly hair? Sells papers sometimes? Not with Levy though. He’s…kako…I think, a bad guy, but I don’t know him much. He wanted to be in on things, to be a big man…”
The Greek was done giving information; he went back to his skittles. James returned to where the boy was holding Charlie, noticing that he looked nervous.
“Something the matter?”
The boy moved his eyes towards the door to the passageway, then back at James, shaking his head. “No sir.”
James took hold of Charlie’s leash and unhooked it.
“Stay.”
The dog dropped obediently to the floor, his tongue lolling, panting, waiting for another command.
James drew his night stick from his belt, palmed it, and edged out the door. Fewer shapes lined the alley, and a sense of menace pervaded the area. He kept close to the wall and moved towards the street. Three shapes materialized, and surrounded him, pressing against him, two either side, a third in front. They wore floppy hats pulled low; glittering eyes showed above mufflers around the lower parts of their faces.
“I’ll ask you to step back,” he said calmly to the attacker facing him. “Unless you want to spend a week doing hard labour on the roads…”
One of the men at his shoulder shoved him. “Go on then,” he said. “Arrest us. We’ll come quiet, course we will.”
The leader of the group, the most insolent, bent and picked up something from the ground. James turned and stared at him, saying nothing. The man’s muffler had slipped, and his leering mouth revealed several missing teeth.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?”
“I want to make sure I recognize you, the next time I see you,” he said, tapping his night stick against his leg. “Hazel eyes, a scar above the left eye and through the eyebrow. Right eyelid drooping. Can’t see with that eye I’d say. As you may have heard, physiognomy is a specialty of mine. Now, I’ll ask you to put down that rock.”
The man started to reply, then grunted and doubled over as James’ night stick connected with his gut. The man to his front melted away down the alley, but the other went for the night stick, grabbing James by the wrist. As he wrestled for control, he could smell cheap spirits, mingled with the smell of strong cheese and rotten teeth. The man on the ground was recovering from the gut stab, and attempting to stand. James stepped on his forearm to hold him in place. Time to bring in the reserves.
“Charlie, attack.”
A ball of black and white fur erupted from the door of the skittle alley and onto the back of the assailant, who clutched at James’ sleeve in a useless attempt to prevent himself from falling; he hit the ground with Charlie on top of him, growling, teeth bared.
The man on the ground had pulled his arm free from James’ foot and risen to his feet. He used his recovered stability to run away down the alley and off into the crowds out on Richmond Quay. James watched him go. He would catch up with him later. He had one of them, thanks to Charlie. He’d find this one in his files by his description and that file would contain his usual place of residence and the names of his known associates.
“Get him off me,” said a muffled voice. Charlie had stopped growling and was shaking the attacker’s head back and forth, scraping his face against the dirt and stones. James leaned down, pulled the muffler away from the man’s face and took a good look at him. An ugly fellow, and fearful.
“Charlie, stand down,” he said. The dog backed away and sat on his haunches, watching James attentively. The man scrambled to his feet and stood there swaying, eying the dog, afraid to move.
“All right then,” said James. “It’s off to the lockup for you. See what a week or two of hard labour will do for you. Attacking a police officer. I could ask for longer, but we’ll leave it at that for now. Reduced by one week if you give me the names of your two partners in crime. Think about it tonight while you enjoy your meal of bread and water.” He’d have a better meal than that, probably potatoes and gravy, but he didn’t want to make imprisonment sound too easy. A ruffian like this would be terrified of hard labour after years of loafing. Slattery would put him on one of the road crews, probably, breaking the rocks for road metal.
He took his attacker out onto Richmond Quay and found one of his constables walking up and down, tapping his loaded stick against his hand, oblivious to what had just happened. The constable secured the man’s wrists behind his back with a pair of cuffs, and Inspector James watched as the constable marched his attacker off in the direction of the police camp, his loaded stick threaded through the attacker’s elbows to hold the man secure. He stroked the dog’s neck in appreciation. “Good boy, Charlie.”
It was dark when he arrived home, and he felt chilled to the bone. He unlocked the door and gave Charlie a bowl of creamy milk, to reward him, as well as a nice piece of mutton bone left over from tea. He felt his way to the bedroom in the dark, not bothering to light a taper. Elizabeth stirred briefly, then went back to sleep, lying on her side. He pressed his body against her back and put his arms around her to warm himself, letting his hand rest on her belly. As he started to fall asleep he felt a sudden small flutter, and smiled. A boy then, with a kick like that. Elizabeth would be disappointed. But feeling the kick reminded him of the photograph he had seen in the window of the two children, one living, one dead, and he remembered in spite of himself the two small coffins they had left behind at the graveyard in Timaru. He found it hard to sleep with that memory, but eventually fell asleep in a sombre mood. In the other room, Charlie started to snore loudly, replete with the feast of milk.