18.
At 9:57pm, Senior Sergeant Frank Aitchison arrived at the Princess Hotel, unnoticed as it so happened, and slipped quietly into the bar.
He was looking for any trace or news of John Valentine and was going to arrest, by association, anyone illegally selling or distributing his moonshine brew, or deliberately withholding information as to his whereabouts.
“Evening gentlemen…and Miss Bainbridge,” he loudly announced, deliberately interrupting the conversation of others and purposefully heralding his own arrival. “My, my, what a motley crew. Dr. Maurice Kebbel. As the most educated among you, I nominate you as group spokesman. What is going on here?”
“Going on?” Kebbel replied, barely able to contain his own cynicism. “We are not endorsers of restricting public house hours, as your precious licensing act promotes Frank, but we are not breaking the law by having a drink. In fact, we are indulging in what Samuel Parnell of Ghuznee Street has called ‘the recreational eight’, in which men do ‘what little things they want for themselves.’
“I’ll be the judge of that Maurice,” the copper countered. “I see before me a bunch of folk, as of now all under house arrest, by the way, all known to John Valentine the moonshiner, who co-incidentally, is due in this very bar at any minute.”
The collective look confused by the ‘house arrest’ statement and equally mystified that the police chief was aware of the secret meeting.
For that matter, so was John Valentine. After his kerfuffle with Tia Kawai, he’d been set back, time wise, from his own plans. As he found himself in the vicinity of The Princess, at around the witching hour of 10pm, he thought he may as well check out what was happening.
He had arrived unnoticed and upon seeing Frank Aitchison through the window as he approached the pub, decided that the better part of valour was discretion.
He stood in the shadows, under an eave outside the window and proceeded to listen in on the conversation. Owing to the variants in speed of the vexatious wind (a gale in other parts of the world), he could only make out the general gist of what was being said.
He’d take in what he could decipher and see what transpired.
“I’m certain that I can make aiding and abetting stick,” Aitchison continued, “with every person in this room. I am going out of sight behind the bar until Valentine shows up and anyone of you tries to leave, I will arrest you. Mr. Suisted, I want you to make sure that Valentine is right inside the bar before you block his exit, I don’t want him getting away.”
“And what makes you think that he will actually show?” Tom Roundtree blurted out. The collective turned to look at Tommy after this unexpected outburst, to which he just shrugged his shoulders.
“He’ll show,” the copper replied, “because he has nowhere else to run. I have people watching out for him all over town. All his friends in the world – if you can call yourselves that – are in this room. He’s worn out his welcome everywhere else.”
“You’d better have a good reason to have us all under arrest, individually,” Kebbel appealed, “or we’re all just going to walk out of here Frank.”
“OK Maurice, let’s have it your way, shall we? Aitchison continued. “Let’s start with you. Known to Valentine and known to have more than a passing interest in liquor distillation. President of the Wellington Astronomy Club, frequent patron of the Princess Hotel and friend of Mr. Charles Suisted.”
Barely pausing, he went on. “Mr. Charles Suisted. Proprietor of the Princess Hotel. An acquaintance of John Valentine. Has been in trouble with police on a number of occasions, for selling Valentine’s contraband whisky. Also an astronomy club patron. Need I go through the entire lot of you?
“‘Scuse me there Guv,” it was Murphy’s turn to speak. “What exactly has Johnny Valentine supposed to have done and why does...an association like...mean trouble for all of us?”
Here Frank did momentarily pause, as he was about to impart some police intel on those in attendance, facts that most did not know for certain. Only Maurice Kebbel had been privy to fragmented pieces of the same information.
“Police pathologists are confident that his last batch of whisky – totally illegally brewed mind – along with other extenuating factors, has been responsible for the deaths of several people in Wellington city during the course of yesterday afternoon and evening.”
“Well, we don’t brew the stuff!” Tommy blurted out again.
“We ain’t on like any sort of commission, or what’s you call it?” Murphy exclaimed.
“Are you not Murphy?” Aitchison enquired. “I was lead to believe that you took it upon yourself to oversee the bottling process, just as you had done for Persse’s Galway Whiskey in Ireland during the 60’s, before emigrating.”
Murphy looked completely dumbfounded. How did Frank Aitchison find that out? Here the copper turned to Tom Roundtree, who suddenly broke out in a cold sweat.
“And you, Mr. Roundtree,” he continued, knocking them over, one after another, like wickets tumbling in his favourite game of cricket. “Your hansom cab has been used – driven by your person – to deliver illegal alcohol around greater Wellington for several years now, reported to have begun when Jimmy Valentine started supplying the old Foresters Arms Hotel, nearly a decade ago.”
Tom had no idea that Aitchison would be able to stitch that together, as virtually nobody knew of his clandestine deliveries of Jim’s original Valentine’s Whisky. Tommy Roundtree had been on the take for the late father and son, for good reward, and wasn’t going to let a soul know what a great thing he was onto.
“What I want to know,” Aitchison carried on, “is how did you get all the whisky up the hill to the Observatory? And where is it all now?
The group all looked at each other, still trying to work out how Frank Aitchison knew so much. Outside the pub, John Valentine may have only picked up pieces of the conversation, but he’d heard enough.
On the bounce, he formulated a rough plan with regard to how he was going to proceed from this point on. He still had the best part of a couple of hours before the train departed and developments inside the pub needed to be dealt with.
By chance, Charles Suisted had given him a key to the back door and cellar. There were times when deliveries had to be made in covert fashion and it was better that Jacky had his own key.
He whipped around to the rear of the building, unlocked the door and slipped inside. Soft shoeing into the kitchen, he opened a window, then ignited the free-standing gas stove.
Lighting up an old newspaper to use like a torch, he set fire to the curtains, then tacitly left the building, the same way as he had entered. Valentine locked the door behind him.
In the public bar, Frank Aitchison continued his investigation. “Perhaps you’d like to inform these good folk, just where the balance of the brew is now Maurice?”
“I beg your pardon?” the doctor scoffed. “And how exactly am I supposed to know that Frank?”
“Because you were one of a party of three, responsible for removing eight flagons from the observatory and relocating them to their current position, aboard the HMS Himalaya.”
Dr. Kebbel was lost for words. He thought he’d successfully fooled everyone that he hadn’t been in contact with John Valentine, even Sarah Bainbridge. And Valentine was still at large somewhere in the city, as far as he was aware.
How could Aitchison possibly know that piece of intel?
He’d had even played dumb when Murphy had discovered the smashed flagons and that the balance of the whisky had already been lifted from the confines of the old observatory.
Of course, the copper was full of himself. In his mind, he already had a five wicket haul and there may be another one or two to come. Valentine was holding the batting team together though and the copper knew that once he was caught, it was game over.
Maurice Kebbel was beginning to put all the pieces together. He knew Aitchison was a wily, uncanny critter, but there was something else going on here.
All of a sudden, the picture became much clearer to him.
“We appear to have been stitched up here my friends,” he coolly stated. “I was – as the Sergeant suggested – one of three who removed the balance of whisky from the observatory. Wasn’t I Charles?”
As he posed his question, the doctor turned to directly address the publican, The penny dropped for most straight away and they were greatly angered when coming to the realisation.
“Suisted, you god damn rat!” Murphy shouted.
“He had me over a barrel Murph,” the proprietor quickly retorted, pointing to the police chief.
“First off,” Aitchison stated, “it’s Senior Sergeant, Doctor Kebbel. And I would advise you not to say another word Mr. Suisted.”
“We’re all out of pocket,” Charles stammered, ignoring the policeman's counsel. “Valentine and Kebbel have taken all the wedge and were planning to cut us out of the loop.”
The publican believed that to be the truth, although it wasn’t. But acting upon some misinformation and having drawn a poor conclusion himself, he’d decided to attempt to exonerate himself and had informed the chief of the local constabulary.
Aided by the gusty norwester, the kitchen was well ablaze. Valentine then smashed a side window, through which he lobbed a rum soaked, torched cloth, dropping it directly into the cellar.
Above the noise of wind and heated words, a few thought they’d heard what sounded like breaking glass.
“What was that?” Murphy posed.
“Damn gale has blown over a bottle in the yard most likely,” the proprietor speculated.
“I think that you’ll find there is an envelope for me behind the bar,” Dr. Kebbel declared, in eventually replying to Chas Suisted’s allegation. “Jacky was to leave it with you earlier this evening, for my collection and distribution. It contains a ledger and all of our takings in cash.”
This was exactly what Valentine had told the doctor he planned to do, once the whisky was out of the way and safely stashed aboard the Himalaya.
But that was the first that Charles Suisted had heard of any such notion. He’d been at the hotel all afternoon and there was certainly no sign of Valentine. He didn’t believe the doctor in any case.
“Come now Maurice,” he replied. “I wasn’t born yesterday!”
“More’s the pity,” Frank chipped in. “We could have started your personality from scratch, had you been.”
“Well if it’s not there,” the doctor stated, “then I have been treated with the same contempt as the rest of you.”
“I was warned that you were a shrewd customer Maurice,” Aitchison interpolated, “but I don’t believe that any of these good folk are going to buy that one.”
“Valentine probably has all the cash,” Suisted offered. “He’ll never show up here, you’re wasting your time Frank.”
Sarah Bainbridge had been quietly listening into the conversation. She was totally oblivious to the knowledge of secret deals having been done, although not surprised.
In fact, she’d expected half as much and had already stolen a sum of money from Valentine’s coat pocket that very afternoon, while he was dozing.
She’d placed a pile of tissue paper, of the exact size and shape, back in the pouch. She knew that he’d probably not physically check it was actually bank notes, providing he could feel it securely in place.
She’d then given it - nearly two and a half thousand pounds - to her dear friend, Constance Frost, to look after until Valentine was behind bars. The two friends were considering passages to Sydney, a town known for it’s erotic and exotic nightlife. More zest and a better climate.
She decided to weigh in on all the lying and get one of her own in. Also looking to put some distance between herself and the truth, as far as the law were concerned. It was a bad miscalculation.
“Jacky changed his mind about leaving it for you to distribute Maurice,” she illuminated. “He feared that you may try to lure him into a trap to liberate yourself from any part of this affair.”
“Me?” the doctor was aghast, taking the bait and pleading his innocence.
“It was Suisted who informed the law. What was your price Charles? Valentine in exchange for the retention of your license to operate?”
“Again, Mr. Suisted,” the policeman was very quick to shut down the publican, “say not a word, not unless you fear further incrimination.”
“Miss Bainbridge,” Aitchison continued. “Just hours ago, you claimed that you were not harbouring, had not seen, or heard from Mr. Valentine. Perhaps there is something else you wish to confess to? Some other untruths you wish to correct?”
“Perhaps not the truth you are looking for Senior Sergeant,” she came back, “ but if I know Valentine, he’ll have made sure that we are all in here at a certain time…let’s say, 10pm…giving him a good head start on the law. He’ll be clean away by now.”
Not that far away at all, Valentine had been back at the window for around a minute, long enough to hear talk of informants, betrayal, mistruths and other heretical forms of perfidiousness. He’d set fire to the building to cause a major distraction, while he did get as far away from the scene of the crime as possible.
He assumed that once everyone was aware there was a fire, they’d be able to scramble out of the burning building to safety. But suddenly, he’d had a change of heart. Charles Suisted and Maurice Kebbel had clearly turned against him. And what was this lie that Sarah was spinning all about? And his biggest threat, Frank Aitchison, was in there as well.
He felt genuine sorrow regarding Murphy and Tom Roundtree, but - at the end of the day - his back was unequivocally against the wall. It was literally ‘do or die’.
The kitchen and cellar were well ablaze. It had taken a few minutes, but bottles in the basement had started exploding.
“What’s that smell?” Tommy was inquisitive. “Smells like...something burning!”
“Definitely something burning,” Frank Aitchison confirmed.
“Quick Charles…water!” Kebbel hollered. “There’s smoke coming from under the door to the cellar.”
“Murphy. Mr. Roundtree,” came the calm but firm voice of the police chief, in a situation where panic was beginning to set in. “Assist Mr. Suisted immediately.”
Valentine emerged from the smoky surrounds and pulled closed the main door at the front of the hotel and locked it. He was seen by both Sarah and Frank Aitchison, who looked angered to a point of insanity. It was the first time he’d laid eyes on Valentine for months.
Naturally, Frank had always wondered what sort of dismissal he was ultimately destined for. Stumped Valentine, had not figured in any of his equations.
At the same time, Charles Suisted prised opened the cellar door, in the hope of finding an escape from the inferno. But the backdraft hit the main bar with merciless ferocity.
He was killed instantly by the exploding downward current. The whoosh of the fire, the sound of exploding glass and the screams of those inside were audibly omnipresent.
“Oh my God,” screamed Kebbel, “everyone out…”
“He’s locked the door the bastard,” yelled Sarah, as more glass was shattering and the flames latched onto anything flammable or combustable.
Tom Roundtree had been knocked unconscious by debris following the original blast. Frank Aitchison was down on his knees, struggling with the inhalation of vast amounts of smoke.
“Make for the window by the bar Sarah,” Kebbel yelled, also swallowed up by the smoke. “I’ll smash it with a chair.”
Not one hundred percent certain where the window was exactly, but using his ironically accurate knowledge of the layout, Maurice Kebbel made his way toward where he thought it was and threw a bar stool in that general direction.
For a nanosecond, he was in heaven. The relief that came over both himself and Sarah when they heard the sound of the window smashing was immense. But the norwester had been on the increase for the past half hour and as soon as the window shattered, rather than escape, the flames were fanned directly back into the bar.
Dr. Maurice Kebbel was instantly engulfed by the returning conflagration. He stumbled forward, in slow motion it appeared, and then collapsed on the floor in the bar.
Luckily, Sarah had not been in line with the breaking window and the flames rushed right past her. But the Princess Hotel was now raging, burning out of control.
“Sarah, Sarah where are you?” John Valentine suddenly yelled from outside the blazing pub, in a last ditch effort to save her life.
“John…John.”
“Sarah, make for the doors. Keep walking toward the doors.”
But Sarah was not in great shape herself, disorientated, coughing violently, about to pass out.
Valentine attempted to get as close to the burning pub as he could. But in the inferno, it was nigh on hopeless.
“Sarah…” he called out repeatedly. “Sarah!”
But Sarah Bainbridge, clinging to the inside of the main entrance, was fast losing the battle to retain her mortal impermanence. She fell silent.
Jacky Valentine charged the main doors of the Princess Hotel and with one almighty fly kick, smashed them open. As escaping flames shot over his head, he got down on his hands and knees and dragged the body of his friend and former lover out onto the street.
Noticing a couple of folk about 100 metres away, running toward the hotel, he darted into the shadows and out of sight. He had no time to check, whether or not Sarah was still alive.