8.
The night was pushing on and a unique but devastating situation was developing fast. Down at the Police barracks, Frank Aitchison was still pondering, mulling over a hunch that Charles Suisted knew something about John Valentine’s moonshine operation and that in turn, he was somehow linked to these sudden deaths.
His years of policing had left him with a gut feeling and he could swear that there was a connection. He literally wouldn’t rest and often worked solidly on cases for up to 36 hours trying to piece evidence together.
Thaddeus Coffee entered the room.
“I have seen Dr. Harding, Frank,” he began. “He’s certainly fully engaged in attending to the sick and dying…or dead!”
“Great, well done Thaddeus,” Aitchison replied. “The sick, the dying and the dead are certain to dominate proceedings this evening. Moorefield & Sons will be doing a months trade in an evening. On that note, I am soon to return to the Princess Hotel to get to the bottom of this, once and for all.”
Coffee was in on the conversation previously, where Dr. Kebbel had provided his medical opinion on the part that whisky was likely to have played in these deaths. He knew Frank Aitchison to be a stubborn man, often beyond compare. Incredulous, at times, to the point of absurdity.
“You heard the Doctor Frank,” he stated. “Don’t you think that you are over-reacting to this? Do you seriously believe that Valentine’s whisky is killing these people? Children are amongst the dead. Surely you don’t believe we have small children in our community with untamed alcohol problems?”
“There is a connection and I will prove it,” the Copper snapped back at his junior colleague. “At this juncture, I am unable to, but I am absolutely positive that Charles Suisted is involved somehow. I’m going back to the Princess, to have a very good and long look around. And I want you to stay here in case anyone else comes flying through that door, in need of immediate help.”
Coffee, obliged to do as his superior had asked, still wanted some form of clarification from him.
“No problem Frank, but could you at least enlighten me as to why you are so sure Charles, largely a very reputable publican, is under such suspicion?”
“You were able to answer that question for yourself Thaddeus,” Frank stated, leaving Constable Coffee looking a little stupefied. “Charles Suisted is a publican. Lets recount quickly should we? A recently, partially dismantled still was discovered. The whisky or produce from this enterprise, must still be in this city somewhere. Reputable yes, but also known as something of a vagabond in his youth and also known to support or harbour unlawful activities. Especially if a fast buck is involved.”
“You mean everyone knows that he and John Valentine are friends,” Coffee butted in, to indicate that he was now on the same wave length as his boss, “and the pair are usually in cahoots regarding something.”
Aitchison paused before replying. “Quite. Now Dr. Kebbel and some in the municipal authorities are convinced - and trying to convince others - that leaking grave effluence is causing illness in the city. A plague that is likely to cause an epidemic.”
“Makes perfect sense,” Coffee acknowledged. “Some of the older graves are known to be cracked and – especially following recent violent earthquakes – may well be leaking their content into the feeder streams and waterways.”
“Right again,” said Aitchison, sounding more like a tertiary lecturer than a policeman. “The exact feeder streams in and around a recently dismantled moonshine operation. Did you see the colour of old Paddy Jepson?”
“There is another factor,” he continued, “and therein, I believe, lies the key. The general hysteria that seems to be in vogue regarding leaking graves, has had a few folk making references to ghouls running amok and an eerie glow at night in the cemetery. I don’t believe in the supernatural Thaddeus. I am a policeman.”
Dagma Griffiths was a dear old soul, everyone said so. The 65 year old, who hailed from Nottingham, had been a fan of the stage since she was a little girl and after emigrating to Aotearoa in 1872 with husband, Horatio - had become a patron of the Theatre Royal upon it’s opening.
When no one else could be found, she had put in a great many volunteer hours, sweeping the isles and cleaning out dressing rooms following major performances. She didn't mind putting in the time and actually, she had collected a number of trinkets that visiting actors and actresses had left laying around (or given her), which she considered to be one of the true perks of her labour.
She’d also had the privilege of meeting many famous thespians, not many as inspiring and charming as Miss Emma Morgan-Fitzwilliams mind, she thought to herself.
It was almost 90 minutes since the performance had finished, when she noticed the flicker of a candle still burning, coming from under the dressing room door. Surely the British actress had left and gone back to the hotel by now?
Lightly, she tapped on the backstage door.
“Miss Fitzwilliams,” she spoke, voice lowered, but with an affirmative tone. There came no reply.
“Miss Fitzwilliams. Are you there Madam?”
No answer came from inside, nor noise of any description. Believing that it must have been a simple case of the candle not being blown out, a very dangerous thing to do in a wooden building, Dagma entered the room.
“Oh! Dear Lord,” she exclaimed, scarcely able to comprehend what she was witnessing.
Emma Morgan-Fitzwilliams and Bill Diamond were both still sitting in the chairs opposite each other, but with heads slumped down on the table. They were both stone dead. In the half light, Dagma thought both of them to be a most horrid colour.
She wasn’t one for alcohol in general terms. Occasionally, she’d have a sherry. But Dagma was shaking like a leaf and she could feel her heart racing. Upon spying an almost full tumbler of what she assumed was whisky, she drank it down in one swallow.
Maurice Kebbel decided that he’d better return to his home quickly and prepare for what he considered was going to be a very long night. His wife, Eudora, was very pleased to see him at last and tried gallantly to explain to him, the going’s-on of earlier in the evening.
“Your presence has been requested all over town Maurice,” she finally managed to splutter, while mainly lost for words.
“I’ve little time to explain, my dear,” her husband replied. “But people are ill and dying all over the city. I’m not sure that I can add a great deal more than that at the minute.”
He explained to Eudora that he was already running low on energy, but this was going to be a tumultuous twelve hours or so. He’d need to be able to count on her unbridled support, of the kind she’d always provided and he hoped that other assistance might arrive, in order to help spread the load.
As if pre-ordained, there was an almost instantaneous knock upon the front door and when answered by Eudora, there stood Mrs. Ellen Greenwood, from the Wellington Ladies Christian Association.
“Word has reached me,” she began instantly, “that we are in the grips of some form of chronic outbreak. I have come to offer Dr. Kebbel my services and those of the Christian Ladies.”
“Thank you Ellen,” came the voice of Maurice, rushing up the hallway to greet her. “I would be most obliged, as it is at just such a time – or such an occurrence – that I protested long and hard to stop the hospital from being moved to Newtown. I may need to set up your hall as a makeshift morgue, until the bodies can be transferred to the new premise.”
Seemingly prepared for any eventuality, Mrs. Greenwood, instantly swung into action.
“Certainly Doctor, I shall make the necessary arrangements. We have a good body of women available to assist in any way possible. Nursing, cooking. Please make this information available to the families of the patients and the dead.”
“I’m much obliged to you and your ladies Ellen,” the doctor declared, with a good degree of sincerity.
“The Wallace residence in Tinakori Road would be a grand place to start, as the poor parents have lost most of their children this very evening.”
“I am afraid that I must fight off sleep for another couple of hours and go back out to where I can be of some use. If you could remain here and assist anyone who comes knocking looking for me?”
“Of course Maurice,” Ellen Greenwood replied.
With that, Eudora and Ellen set about making a makeshift triage operation. Maurice walked over to his liquor cabinet and reached for his favourite pacifier, Valentine’s Whisky. He poured himself a generous glass and wearily, moved it towards his lips.
Again, there was a rap on the brass door knocker. Fearing the worst, Eudora raced to meet the person in need, while Ellen moved a couple of pillows onto the couch, preparing for a possible patient. Maurice put his glass down and he also moved expectantly into the hallway.
As Eudora swung the door open, to the surprise of everyone, in walked Murphy, the rat catcher.
“Sorry I’m late Doc,” he began, “but I’m here on accounts of bein’ summonsed like, to do some ra…(seeing ladies were present) rodent eradication.”
Ellen and Eudora headed straight for the kitchen, making noises one would normally associate with a creepy disgust at the mention of vermin, particularly rats.
“Oh, yes,” Dr. Kebbel confirmed. “I’ll let you go about your business Murphy, I have to go out with some degree of urgency. Keep them away from the ladies though, if you please.”
“No problem Guv,” replied the ratter, as he and his terrier headed through the house and straight for the outside laundry. Maurice followed.
“What I’m actually after Murphy,” Kebbel said, grabbing the ratter by an arm and ushering him into the outside room, “is six live rats, can you do that for me? I need to test something on them see, which may help me determine what the sod has been going on this evening.”
“No problem Guv,” Murphy replied. “I’ll have six live specimens for you by sparrows fart in the morning.”
“Most excellent,” the doctor replied, as he quickened his haste to be gone, and much relieved at the very least.
Noticing a bottle of whisky sitting by the coal bucket, Murphy snatched it up and took a rather large glug. With Dr. Kebbel gone - and with the ladies busy in the front room - he very quickly helped himself to a second, then a third.
“Were’d ya be then Lucifer?” Murphy called to his dog.
‘Piccolo’ Charlie was in the middle of O Where, O Where Has My Little Dog Gone, one of his favourite tunes, when all of a sudden, he felt quite poorly. He carried on as best he could, but a painful cramping in his gut told him that something was amiss.
Convulsions followed. He felt as though his innards were on fire and he began frothing at the mouth. At this point, the bow fell from his right hand and - still clutching the viola in his left - he collapsed in the street, his life ending soon thereafter in a series of contorted spasms.
It was long dark by now and not many were out on the street. Mostly all the activity had been going on inside the public house, until the Jepson incident. Charlie lay un-noticed for a good 10-15 minutes.
The scruffy man he had been seen with earlier that night, was first on the scene. He bent down and cased his friend for signs of life. There were none, but he was a strange, sort of iridescent colour. Unusual. The man whispered something to his fallen colleague, by way of a quick eulogy. Leaving a hat full of money at the busker’s feet, he picked up the viola and slipped away into the night.
A moment later, the police chief arrived at the front door of the hotel and was about to rap on it, when he noticed Charlie, laying on the ground. He knelt down beside the busker and began an instantaneous investigation, with his hypothetic assumptions.
A hatful of money. An unopened bottle of Valentine’s Whisky. But what’s this? Inside his coat pocket was an empty hip flask.
Aitchison put the decanter to his nose. Definitely whisky, but not from the corked bottle that lay a few feet away from the body.
And the old musician, who was always so tanned by the sun, was almost opaque, just as Paddy Jepson had been.
Frank Aitchison stood up and peered through the side window and into the pub. The patrons had all been asked to leave on account of the disturbance.
He was dog tired, but abandoned his original idea of going home to get some kip and walked around to the back of the building. He began levering open the window.