Recalled to Life Read online

  Wendy M. Wilson

  Recalled to Life

  Copyright © 2018 by Wendy M. Wilson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  First edition

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  Contents

  Other Books in Series

  Pronounced Dead

  The Town Makes Considerable Progress

  Grubs and Insects

  A Private Investigation

  Shaken

  A Body Surfaces

  No Signs of Life

  A Trip to Bunnythorpe

  Reunited

  V. Monrad, Esq. J.P.

  Hidden at the Pa

  The English Periodicals

  Treed

  The Desirable Corner Half-Acre

  Gathering in the Square

  Taking the Train

  The Rutland

  The Cook and the Lady

  An Overdose of Chloroform

  A Cricket Lesson

  Colonel Whitmore

  The Consciousness of Plumpness

  The Diminutive Beast

  Scandinavian Glee

  Epilogue: Old Identities

  An Excerpt from Not the Faintest Trace

  An Excerpt from Dead Shot

  Other Books in Series

  READ EXCERPTS FROM OTHER BOOKS IN THE SERIES AT THE END OF THIS BOOK

  Recalled to Life is part of a three book series. These are, in order:

  Not the Faintest Trace

  Recalled to Life

  Dead Shot

  Wendy M. Wilson has also written a standalone novel set in nineteenth century gold-mining town in New Zealand. A Cold Wind Down the Grey: Based on a True Crime Story is a fictional account of the actual efforts of the police inspector in charge of the Greymouth Police Camp to bring a murderer to justice.

  1

  Pronounced Dead

  Earache In any form may be quickly relieved (says a medical writer) by filling the organ with chloroform vapour from an uncorked bottle; vapour only, not the liquid; and mamma’s bag should always contain a small vial of it, as it is useful in many ways. Ten drops upon a lump of sugar is an excellent remedy for hiccough or ordinary nausea, and I have recalled to life more than one person pronounced dead from sunstroke, with half a teaspoonful, clear, poured down his throat. New Zealand Times, 8 April 1890

  “What’s he done then, this bloke they’re bringing ashore,” said the man in the shawl kilt. “Murdered someone?”

  “No clue. But we was told you was taking ‘im upriver. Must be somefink bad. They didn’t tell you?”

  “Nah. I just do as I’m told,” said the man in the kilt. “But they’re a bad lot up there. Don’t know why they keep them alive. Not good for anything and they can’t let them go.”

  “How’re you going to get him there?”

  The man in the kilt nodded to a cart back near the sandhills. “Put him in that and take him to the river. Then up the river by flat boat. I have some blokes waiting for me on the dock.”

  “What if he’s a fighter?”

  The man in the kilt didn’t answer. He’d been wondering about that himself. He had a nightstick and cuffs hanging on his belt, and a revolver in his coat pocket. He’d been instructed to kill the prisoner if he made a run for it. With a bit of luck that’s what he’d do. Save them all some trouble.

  “Hey up,” said his questioner. “Here they come.”

  A shape had appeared through the fog. A rowboat with three people on board. One of them was hanging over the side, vomiting, his arms lashed behind him.

  “Give us a hand here please,” said a sharp voice. Female.

  The two men hurried down to the water and helped pull the rowboat up on the gravel beach.

  “Which one is the prisoner?” asked the man in the kilt. “Him as is spewing?”

  “Of course,” said the woman. “What did you think? Can one of you get on board and help my man get him off?”

  “What’s the matter with him?” asked the man in the kilt. He was nervous. Lots of nasty diseases came ashore from boats. Typhoid, typhus, malaria…

  “We had to give him something,” said the woman. “To knock him out.”

  “And he’ll stay knocked out until…?”

  “He should be out until you get him to the gaol. He won’t give you any trouble.”

  That was a relief. “What did he do, then?”

  The woman ignored him. Her companion helped the two men manhandle the prisoner out of the rowboat and into the shallow water, with the man from the rowboat doing most of the work. The man in the kilt eyed the third person from the boat, and exchanged glances with his helper on the beach. A big brown feller, and what a bruiser. Must’ve got the prisoner off the Stormbird by himself. The woman wouldn’t have been much help. She was tall and strong-looking, but a woman. Handsome, he’d call her, but a bit long in the tooth. Would have been a looker, twenty years gone.

  The prisoner was a big man as well. It took the three of them to drag him across the sand and hoist him on his side in the cart. His wrists were bound with a length of rope, and he’d chafed at the bonds until his wrists bled. He awoke, briefly, and said something the man in the kilt couldn’t comprehend. “Are you sure he isn’t going to wake up before I get him there? It’s a fair way…”

  The woman lifted the prisoner’s head, stared at his face, then let his head fall hard on the boards of the cart. “If you think he’s going to wake up, knock him on the head with your night stick. He’s tough. You’ll want to make sure he doesn’t come around completely.”

  The man in the kilt watched as the pair walked off along the beach, heading for the Heads and the track into town. “Don’t think she liked him,” he said. “Sounded like she wanted me to hit him on the head even if he didn’t wake up.”

  His companion agreed. “Reckon he did something to her,” he said.

  The man in the kilt grabbed the prisoner by the head. “Let’s get you up the river,” he said. “And into one of our best cells. Say goodbye to the world. You won’t be seeing it for a while. Maybe never. You’re as good as dead.”

  The man mumbled something again. Something about someone he’d met? He’d met a something, somebody?

  *************

  He landed on a hard floor head first and lost consciousness, dropped there by human hands. A second to understand he was going down, brace himself, hands out, and then darkness.

  He awoke later, face down, his nose bloodied. How much later he didn’t know. His head throbbed and his mouth was so dry he couldn’t swallow; his swollen tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He’d had a rope around his wrists at some point, but his hands were free now, thank God. Lifting his face from the floor, he rolled on his back and saw nothing.

  The floor beneath him was hard and damp and lumpy. He couldn’t remember how he’d got here—wherever here was. His hand slid from his chest and hit a dirt floor. Not the stamped-down dirt of a cottage floor, but the stony dirt of a dry river bed. He tried stretching out his legs, but was stopped by a wall.

  Pulling himself up, he leaned cautiously on one elbow, dry retching through waves of nausea; a faint whiff of chloroform came off his beard. He tried to see through the impenetrable darkness. Was he in a tunnel? He raised one hand and stretched it sideways. Another wall. He was in a space about eight feet by eight feet, with dirt walls and a dirt floor. He tried to stand, but the nausea return
ed and he fell against the wall, gagging. Leaning there, he reached above his head. Perhaps he’d been buried alive in a tomb of some kind. No. He felt nothing.

  Standing with his arm stretched to its fullest extent, he felt wooden slats, spaced out across the top of the hole. The air filtering through the slats was fresh. The cover was a foot and a half above his head, maybe eight feet high to his six feet two inches. He jumped and held himself off the ground on one of the boards, but couldn’t budge it. Staring up through the slats he could see a faint trace of clouds against a night sky, obstructed by the shapes of huge trees moving like ghostly ships.

  He let go the slats and dropped to the floor. Where the hell am I, and how did I get here? That was the question he had to answer. But first, who was he? Had he lost his memory? Sergeant Frank Hardy. Die Hard…a soldier from Her Majesty’s 57th Regiment of Foot, who had fought in India, Crimea, New Zealand… now living in Palmerston on the Manawatu River, hoping to be married soon.

  That stopped him.

  Mette. Will she think I’ve left her? Taken off for another life somewhere? He lost his calm, pulled himself up and pressed his face between the slats, yelling. “Hey. Anyone there? What the hell is this place?”

  In response, a howl. Animal or human? He wasn’t sure.

  He could only hold himself there for a few minutes, but before his arms gave way, he glimpsed the top of a structure, a triangle of halberds, weapons lashed together. Used for floggings with the cat. Not a military prison then — the army had banned flogging a decade ago. Not good for recruitment. What kind of place was it then? A prison? The cat was still used for floggings in prisons. Or was he somewhere private and more sinister?

  2

  The Town Makes Considerable Progress

  After visiting the Scandinavian settlement, so interesting and full of instruction, I rode into Palmerston and arrived there as the shades of eve were falling. Since I was there 18 months before, this place had made considerable progress in the number of stores and buildings. The business part of the township is in the square, around which are the principal stores, and through the centre of which runs the Foxton railway. A very large area of land is devoted to the township, which presents a scattered appearance. The place has a bustling aspect, and has derived its present prosperity from the saw-mills in its neighbourhood and the railway to Foxton. Wanganui Herald, 15 June 1877

  Four days earlier

  George Snelson, the recently elected Mayor of Palmerston North, New Zealand, held Mette Jensen’s eyes in an intense, pale blue gaze, leaning forward to clarify his point. Without meaning to, she leaned away and clasped her own hands behind her back.

  “It’s vital that the townswomen collect funds for the Indian Famine Relief.” The mayor leaned forward more to emphasize the urgency. “I’m counting on you, Miss Jensen, to help my wife fundraise at the church. Perhaps a fete in the grounds of the school house? The women of Palmerston could provide biscuits and jam, perhaps some scones, and the children would enjoy a lolly scramble…”

  Behind her, Mette heard the door to Robinson’s Fine Papers and Books creak open. A large, warm hand enveloped both her hands.

  “Good morning Sergeant Hardy,” said Snelson, releasing Mette from his intense gaze. “I’m trying to persuade Miss Jensen to assist Louisa with a bazaar for the benefit of the poor Indian families who’ve been hit with famine these last few months. I’m collecting…”

  “I’m sure Miss Jensen would be delighted to help.” Mette felt her hands being squeezed, and she dug her thumb nail into the soft part between her attacker’s thumb and first finger.

  “Are you unwell, Miss Jensen,” said Snelson. “You’re rather flushed.”

  “Quite well, Mayor Snelson.” Mette smiled and made a futile attempt to free her hands. “I have a touch of spring fever now the trees are in bloom, and everyone’s planting vegetables and…ouch.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Snelson. “Palmerston North is a wonderful place in the spring – I’m sure you’d agree, Sergeant Hardy. Although it’s unfortunate that my wife and I must deal with this terrible fire we suffered. Three thousand pounds… well, never mind. Our little problems, mine and Louisa’s, are nothing compared to the poor wretches in India. I must be going, but I’ll be reminding you of the baked goods.”

  Mette noticed that he’d used the new name for the town, knowing he now represented an important and growing town in the North Island: no longer Palmerston, but Palmerston North, because of a town in the South Island also called Palmerston. But nobody in town added the North. They’d made up their minds that the name of the town was Palmerston.

  She nodded, freed her hands, and escorted the mayor to the door. Frank Hardy came up behind her and they stood in the doorway gazing at the Square, his arms around her waist. The winter mud had dried up and the Square was covered in grasses, except for a path through the middle where a man with a pony trap plied his trade between the Princess Hotel in Terrace End and the Royal Hotel on the Square, sixpence a ride.

  A raised boardwalk surrounded the Square on three sides and it was possible to walk all the way from Robinson’s Books and Fine Paper to Snelson’s General Store without getting your boots muddy. She’d planted seeds of spring flowers along her section of the boardwalk: Sweet William, foxglove, fuscia, pinks. They were starting to appear now, much to her gratification. She leaned back against Frank. “I like this so much.”

  “The way the town’s changing?” asked Frank.

  “Yes,” she said. “Palmerston is a delightful place to live. But I also enjoy being in love with someone who loves you as much as you love him.”

  He leaned down and kissed her on the top of her head. “More, I would say. Mette, when do you think we can be married? I’m sick of being a bachelor. I want us to be together. And to think about what comes next, where we’re going to live, there’s so much opportunity in this country, and…”

  “Mr. Robinson…”

  “I know.” He sounded impatient. “He wants you to stay until his nephew arrives from England in March. But don’t you want to be together?”

  Mette sighed. She did, of course. But she couldn’t just leave Mr. Robinson in the lurch. And the idea of changing her home bothered her as well. Frank seemed to think they could go anywhere, but she was at home here, in Palmerston, near her sister and her friends.

  Frank was quiet for a few minutes, holding her close while she leaned back against him. She felt him lean forward. “Your sister is coming.”

  Mette jumped. Her sister? That would mean Frank would leave. For some reason, he had never warmed to Maren, and was reluctant to stay around when she was there. “Maren is coming here? Why? She never leaves her house now she has three children to care for.”

  Frank pointed along the boardwalk. “Over there. She has all her children with her, and her husband as well.”

  Mette released herself from Frank’s arms and leaned forward. “And Pieter isn’t at work. Very strange. Something must have happened.”

  “I’ll leave you to talk to them,” said Frank. “I’ll come back later to make sure it isn’t bad news…”

  Mette’s hand went to her mouth. “Min mor?”

  “Would you like me to stay? I can if you like, to make sure…”

  She shook her head. “If a letter came from Schleswig to Maren about our mother, I would have received one as well. It must be something else. You go back to your office. I’ll run over if I need to tell you anything.”

  He pulled her further inside the shop and gave a quick kiss, before her brother-in-law Pieter Sorensen could see him do it, and left, the door flapping behind him. She watched as he strode across the Square, a tall, upright figure with a bounce in his step. He was happy, at least. That was something. She hoped it would last. Sometimes she felt she was so happy it must change.

  A minute or two later Maren and Pieter came in, each holding a small baby, with Hamlet trailing behind, his pudgy face disgruntled as it often was since he’d been displace
d by twin brothers. Maren and Pieter were smiling. Not her mother then. No one had died.

  “Maren, hvor dejligt at se dig,” she said. She pulled one of Mr. Robinson’s cane-backed kauri chairs forward and Maren sat down gratefully, still holding baby Paul. Pieter handed her the other baby and lifted Hamlet up, hugged him and pretended to drop him, sending Hamlet into squeals of laughter and warming Mette’s heart. She hadn’t liked Pieter much, at the beginning, but he was such a good father to his children, so playful, that she was beginning to be somewhat fond of him.

  “We have some wonderful news,” said Maren. “Well, bad news as well. Pieter’s Tante Gertrud has died, the one who lives…lived in Copenhagen.”

  “The one I’ve been writing letters to, for Pieter?” Mette had developed a business for herself since she’d moved into town, writing letters home at sixpence apiece for Scandies who, as she liked to say, could not express themselves well, although in fact could barely write more than their names. There were enough of them in the district to keep her busy.

  “Yes,” said Maren. “And now she has died and left Pieter all her money, well a large amount of her money.”

  “Some of her money,” Pieter interrupted. “All we know is, I’m one of her heirs. Perhaps it’s just a small amount. A few hundred krone.”

  “Wasn’t she quite rich?” asked Mette.

  “Her husband was a shipping merchant,” said Pieter. “He exported cheese and bacon to Canada and America, and brought back tobacco and beaver skins. One of his ships sank two years ago on the way to America and, unfortunately, he was on it. Tante Gertrud wanted me to go back to Denmark and help her manage the business…as you know.” Mette suppressed a smile. He had given her credit for once. She felt she knew as much about Tante Gertrud as Pieter, having written several letters from Pieter to her and read the answers back to Pieter. “And Maren and I decided we preferred to stay in New Zealand, where our children could have a better life, even though your mother still lives in Denmark.”