15.
Without the knowledge that Dr. Maurice Kebbel had already tested the contents of a couple of dubious bottles of whisky and water on a few rats, Frank Aitchison had arranged for the police pathologist, William Dakers, to do the same for him.
At 5:15pm, Dakers arrived at the antediluvian barracks with his analysis and report, to share with Senior Sergeant Frank Aitchison. The police chief had drawn some fairly heady conclusions as to what he thought was responsible for the deaths.
As a big wicket taker for his Collegians club, he was hoping that the highly thought of Dakers, acting as the umpire, would affirm his leg before wicket appeals and assumptions.
William Frederick Samuel Dakers had arrived in Wellington aboard the Charleston in 1868. A quiet and reserved gentleman from Herne Bay in Kent, he had filed, upon arrival in New Zealand, to patent a ‘cure’ for alcoholism.
He had also spent time as a part-time veterinary surgeon and was interested in trying to find an anecdote to thwart the deadly effects of prussic acid. If there was anyone in Wellington who could provide any vague version of what exactly was happening here, scientifically speaking, it was William Dakers.
“I can scarcely believe what I am saying myself,” he began, “but it is my opinion that this whisky, which appears to have been made in a very gimcrack sort of fashion, was bottled from already contaminated water.”
“Now, if it is whisky from the still that you believe it to be from,” Dakers continued, “there is a high possibility that the water used was contaminated with grave effluence, as has been mooted and well documented all around the city.”
Frank was deep in thought. Very deep.
“The still had been in operation for some time,” he eventually remarked, “certainly since this Municipal debate began. But there had been no deaths until last evening?”
“Then I can only presuppose that the remnants of the hip flask I examined, was from a new batch and a highly toxic one at that,” the pathologist stated.
“I’d say that the water used was approximately two weeks old. I assume that the violent jolt on September 1st cracked open more graves, causing active or advanced decay from decomposing bodies to leak into the same stream.”
“And Valentine probably bottled his deadly batch a day or two later,” Aitchison mused.
It was all starting to make real sense and Frank, while never knowing exactly how he does it, had arrived at some form of conclusion that was close to being on the money. But as for the science behind it, he still had questions and - fortunately - Dakers was the expert.
“How exactly does this, this rotting body fluid become so toxic when mixed with alcohol?
“Of that, I cannot be sure as yet Frank,” replied Bill, as though getting toward the end of a puzzle and hoping there aren’t any pieces missing.
“There are a lot of chemicals involved with both processes and exactly which ones caused the deadly combination, we may never be sure. Valentine would have used fusel oils as opposed to ethanol, far more toxic, the amyl is, in fact, a solvent.”
“And without an adequate secondary filtration system,” Frank chimed in, knowing a thing or two about the making of alcohol, “it would be full of distillates. And having to age the whisky so quickly, it would probably contain high levels of tannins…”
“Well done Frank,” the forensic scientist was impressed. “All highly sulphuric. High levels of sulphur are also found in rotting flesh, which - like whisky - is a similar process of fermentation and decomposition…in some regard.”
“Luckily - and I’m being presumptuous here - he didn’t use Laudanum, which would have caused a fierce, instant and far more horrifying death.
“Cripes!” Aitchison was astounded.
“Laudanum would age both barley and hops more quickly,” Dakers explained further, “as in, if you were trying to speed up the malting process.”
“All roads are starting to lead to Rome,” Frank surmised.
“Indeed, most do,” Bill confirmed. “Somewhere in the mix, two or more compounds are reacting with each other and they are causing a most disagreeable result. Not to mention your friend Mr. Valentine and his blatant disregard for the Distillation Act of 1868!”
“My major concern is the balance of the whisky,” Frank stated with genuine concern. “Lord knows how much there is? It just has to be somewhere and obviously, it must be dealt with before anyone else dies as a result of consuming any of it.”
William Dakers fully agreed with this assessment.
“On that note Frank,” he said, “it has been brought to my attention by a source that shall remain nameless, that Dr. Maurice Kebbel may well be involved in these untoward goings on. Tread carefully, he is a very shrewd operator.”
“While he appears to be relatively saintly Bill,” the police chief uttered, “I have been on to Dr. Kebbel for some time. Anyone who has an association with Valentine is suspect, until I can clear up this mess, once and for all.”
“Well, whatever you do Frank,” Dakers offered as prudent advice, “don’t drink any whisky for a few days!”
Sarah Bainbridge was totally correct in not trusting John Valentine.
“The truth is usually always lies, Sarah,” he’d repeatedly said to her, “and lies can often be the truth.”
To Sarah, that just about summed him up perfectly. Constance Frost had relayed the bogus message to her regarding the 10pm meeting at the Princess Hotel, but Sarah already smelled a rat.
She was not suspicious of her friend, Miss Frost. Connie would have been stitched up by Valentine too, as everybody always had been. She’d told Sarah that the moment her back was turned he’d high-tailed it out of the joint and was nowhere to be found.
But how did he get past Constable Linfoot, at the front door?
Where was he now? And most importantly, would he even show at the Princess Hotel at 10pm?
The law was coming for him. Frank Aitchison was barely able to find anymore fuel to throw on the fire. The net was already stretched far and wide. Frank thought of Valentine as being eight or nine wickets down and he was determined that the tail was not going to wag.
It would be fair to say that Miss Bainbridge was seething too. Furious with herself mainly, for being suckered in to helping him out of yet another feculent scrape.
The truth was, of course, she also loved him deeply. When he wasn't preoccupied with lying, or being a cheating arse, he was kind and generous and compassionate and caring.
He had wound her up so much though, that she had to start cleaning and rearranging furniture and she was glad when she heard a gentle rap and Constance entered the room.
“Dr. Kebbel is here to see you Sarah,” her friend announced.
“Why, Dr. Kebbel!” Madam Bainbridge greeted her guest with the charm she was famed for, although caught unawares by his sudden appearance. “What an unexpected surprise. I have not seen you here for a month or more.”
“My dear Sarah!” Kebbel returned the salutation with a smile, but looked a little sheepish. “You look absolutely wonderful as always.”
“You old flatterer,” she replied, mildly tittering. “I’ve had enough lies to deal with today. But generally, I am loathe to complain too much about life.”
“A renowned therapy for a long and happy one,” the doctor replied.
“Well, I do try Maurice,” she concluded, considering small talk to be over and about to enquire as to the nature of his call.
“I’ll come straight out with it Sarah,” Kebbel said, with a same mind to hasten the conversation. “Where is he?”
Whether is was the time to be coy or not, Sarah could only think to turn the question around on its deliverer, but assuming that he could only mean John Valentine.
“By he you mean?”
“Come now Sarah,” his mood had suddenly changed, “you know who I mean. I know that he is around town and I must talk with him urgently, before the law collar him.”
“Aitchison has made it his personal crusade to haul in the infamous John Valentine,” said Maurice, now driving home his point. “And if I can’t find him first, he’ll probably end up dead.”
Sarah had to stop and think a bit, before giving her fairly measured reply. As she’d mentioned to him, when he’d first arrived, she’d had enough of the lies and all the unnecessary drama. The hurt.
“OK, Maurice,” she’d give it to him straight. “He was here. And as it happens, he has advised that we all meet him at the Princess Hotel at 10pm, for what exact reason, I do not know. The phrase ‘we’re all implicated’ was mooted and of that, there is no doubt.”
“‘All implicated’,” the doctor bellowed, erupting into laughter.
“As usual,” Sarah offered, looking to defend herself, “it can be difficult to decipher fact from fiction, especially if it has come from his lips. And my information concerning the meeting, only comes via his lips.”
“I have heard only scant mutterings regarding this whole sordid affair however,” she admitted, to the most regular medical practitioner in the city to frequent her bona fide gentlemen’s institution.
“Well then my dear,” Kebbel announced, “you’d best put the kettle on and I shall attempt to recant all the facts, as they stand.”
Sarah was correct in assuming that she had better odds of obtaining anything that was vaguely truthful from Maurice Kebbel, than she would have from John Valentine. It seemed a good idea.
“Be a love and make us a pot of tea Connie,” Sarah asked of her most trusted confidante.
“Certainly I shall,” Constance replied.
She left the room and found a young employee within seconds, asking her to brew a pot of tea and deliver it. Connie put her ear to the door and listened intently to Kebbel’s recall of the tragic events. She was curious as to whether the doctor and Sarah’s stories, were similar to Jacky Valentine’s.