5.

 

 

  Above the general store in Tinakori Road, near pandemonium had set in. The two youngest Wallace children had suddenly and mysteriously taken ill, on the back of a wonderful family outing, on such a beautiful day.

  Marion, beside herself, had been through the picnic hamper to see if any of the food they had eaten was off, but she would have found this surprising as she was such a stickler for ensuring that food poisoning was never on the agenda. Still, there were always times when things were just beyond one’s control.

  Yet, here she was in the bedroom with Alice and William, both gravely ill and the most peculiar colour she had ever experienced with sickness of any kind. 

  They were most certainly pale as was not uncommon, but seemed somehow to be almost radiating a very slight yellowy hue and drifting in and out of consciousness. William was in fact, already close to death. John entered the room to check on progress.

  “Dear God John!” Marion vociferated. “What is happening? You must fetch the Doctor at once, I cannot contain their fevers any longer.”

  John could scarcely believe what he was hearing or seeing and as a result, was a little slow to react.

  “Do something man, don’t just stand there…our children’s lives are at risk.”

  As if snapped into action, John grabbed his jacket and headed down the hallway. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he called back, opening the front door. “It’s going to take me at least half of an hour to get him and get back here, I do hope he’s home.”

  “Well what are you waiting for then?” Marion screeched after him. “Get moving! Every minute is precious.”

  Sarah Wallace entered her siblings bedroom with fresh towels, clean water and unfortunately, not particularly good news for her already distressed parent.

  “Walter has been sick as well now mother,” she began, “and we’re running out of clean towels and buckets.”

  This new information was too much for Marion, not quite the final straw but most certainly enough to set her off sobbing uncontrollably. 

  Helplessness and fear of the unknown had taken a grip, in a situation where a parent feels most vulnerable and afraid. Registering this, Sarah put her arm around her mother and stepped in as a surrogate. 

  On stage at the Theatre Royal, the opening night performance of H. J. Byron’s Our Boy’s, was going rather splendidly. The house was full and the patronage in great spirits, as Emma Morgan-Fitzwilliams and the cast delivered up a first class presentation, a night for all to enjoy and remember.

  Emma was playing the role of one of the principal characters, Clarissa Champneys, elderly spinster and sister to the Baronet, Sir Geoffrey, and aunt of Talbot, an uninspired and weak youth. 

  The comedy, which had become the most successful in West End history, was the first production to achieve 500 consecutive performances at the Vaudeville Theatre on the Strand.

  Up in the Gods, relishing in the performance, were Abraham Moxham, Ellen Taylor and Sarah Bainbridge. Unfortunately, at such short notice, Sarah had been unable to locate Mr. John Valentine, so offered the spare ticket to her dear friend, Constance Frost.

  Toward the end of Act One, Clarissa had entered a handsomely furnished room at the house of Perkyn Middlewick, a retired butterman, and spoken briefly with her brother. She was now engaged with Talbot, as played by Thomas Thorne, one of the Vaudeville Theatre’s founding members.

  “Talbot, it is so delightful to have you back again. I shall now have such charming evenings with you at chess,” Clarissa began.

  “At what?” came Talbot’s capricious reply.

  “Chess,” reiterated Clarissa, “the King of games.”

  “Do you call it a game?” Talbot continued. “Ha! Ha! No thank-ee. Life is too short for chess.”

  “Well, well, we’ll say backgammon,” said Clarissa, in an attempt to find some common ground.

  “I don’t mind saying backgammon,” replied Talbot, in a most facetious manner. “But you don’t catch me playing backgammon.”

  Outside on the street frontage, Bill Diamond was in fine fettle as he arrived at the theatre. Boldly stepping up to the ticket office, he jovially greeted the young man behind the counter.

  “Good evening to you. Bill Diamond. I believe Miss Morgan-Fitzwilliams has left a pass for me in this ticket office.”

  “That is indeed correct Mr Diamond, Sir,” replied the ticket officer, pulling the special pass out, which included a ticket, also in the Gods and a pass to enter the back stage area at the show’s completion.

  “Act One is almost over,” the young ticket officer advised, “do enjoy the rest of the show, now won’t you.”

  With that, Diamond raced up the stairs to find the closest usher. He toyed with the idea of downing a quick dram from his hip flask, but decided to hold off until the show was over. 

  It was after all, only fair to share the ‘contemporary’ brew with his new thespian acquaintance and in reality, that was but a mere hour away. He took his seat, most pleased to be seen sitting amongst the finest seats in the house and surrounded by such noble dignitaries.

  A few rows closer to the front, but aware of movement behind him, Abraham Moxham seemed agitated by the minor disruption to proceedings.

  “It’s that imbecile, Diamond,” he whispered to Ellen, sitting beside him. “Fancy showing up at this late hour, what an insult. What a total pudding head.” 

  Back on centre-stage, Clarissa and Talbot were still engaged in their philosophical discussion regarding board games.

  “Well then,” Clarissa went on, “we must continue our usual cosy evenings. I do my wool-work whilst your papa reads us the debates. That’s our regular evening programme.”

  “They must have a rollicking time of it,” answered Talbot. 

  “The debates! A dozen columns of dullness filtered through my father. Not for Talbot.”

  “But now we have music. Miss Melrose plays charmingly. Do you like music?”

  “Yes!” At last something in the affirmative from the lad. “I don’t like pieces, you know, five and twenty minutes of fireworks. I like anything with a good chorus.”

  Back at the Alexandra Police Barracks in central Wellington, Frank Aitchison had been studying pieces of the dismantled still and pondering over a map of the hills in the Thorndon area. It was unusually quiet for a Saturday evening, even going by the historical nature of that day. If there was trouble about town, you could bet your bottom dollar it would be on a Saturday night.

  For this reason, Aitchison and Thaddeus Coffee had little to do but make sure that weapons were loaded for action (but locked), checking cell keys, as menial as the acts themselves may have appeared to be. Now he was ready to use his deputy as a sounding board for his developing theory.

  “You know, Thaddeus,” he began, “I still believe that the whisky brewed at said moonshine operation, cannot in fact be all that far from where we located the disused still.”

  Glad of some fatigue relief and happy to engage in some theoretical policing, Coffee, after due consideration, replied; “Even if your speculation concerning the removal job is correct Frank, they’ve had weeks - probably - to move the whisky elsewhere.”

  “Well maybe,” replied the dismissive head copper. “But I tell you what? Somebody knows something about this. Valentine has gone to ground. There have been no sightings of him for months. Someone is on contract to him and knows where the whisky is. And I’m going to find it…and him!”

  “We also know that there is a shortage of whisky in Wellington at present,” Coffee continued, “owing to a supply and demand issue. Could it have not been completely consumed by now?”

  “Now, I’ve thought about that Thad,” replied Aitchison, tapping his fingers on the desktop. “There is a shortage of whisky. Valentines permit - when he was a legal grog maker - expired over a year ago, yet, his whisky is still available…at the Princess Hotel.” 

  “How’s that possible?” He continued. The bottled and labelled Valentine’s Whisky should have run out months ago.”

  “But you don’t know how much stock was purchased by Charles Suisted on behalf of the Princess Hotel,” Coffee stated.

  “Correct,” agreed Frank. “But that is exactly where I am going to start my enquiries. Because sure as eggs, the brew from this disused still is going to surface somewhere, sometime soon. And my guess is that at least some of it will be destined for the Princess Hotel.”

  Aitchison then turned his attentions back to the map on the desk, which he had been previously studying with some intent; “If you look at this map, there are two places in the immediate vicinity of where the still was located. 1: The Sexton’s cottage.”

  Frank turned away from the table and toward the window, staring through it, out into no mans land. “Now, I know David Robertson well and I’d be absolutely astounded if he turned out to be a moonshiner, or on the take.”

  Here he turned back to Thaddeus Coffee; “2: The old observatory. I’ve been there several times and know it to be a small room, not adequate. That aside, it is uphill from where the still was located and frequented regularly by the likes of the Reverend Octavius Hadfield, amongst other, well…well, notable dignitaries.”

  “Do you suppose that Suisted is being supplied by someone else?” Coffee probed. “A third party who is perhaps working for Valentine? If Valentine has left town.”

  “You have hit that ball for six, Thaddeus my boy,” Frank seemed as excited as a college lecturer that his pupil had got the answer spot on. “I think I shall pay Mr. Suisted a visit tomorrow and see what light he has to shed on proceedings.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a rap on the door. Not waiting to be asked to enter, Constable Magnus Manson half stumbled into the room, with some information for the Chief Inspector.

  “Pardon the intrusion Sir, but Paddy Jepson has taken most seriously ill.”

  “Now Magnus,” Frank began, “you know that if I had a dime for every time I have heard that one, only to find Paddy passed out under a table after a drinking binge, I’d be able to resign my commission as an officer of the law and live out my days in the relative luxury of a secluded island in the Caribbean.”

  “I am – as you put it – well aware of that Sir,” replied the young copper, fresh from his fast-tracked training as a New Zealand Constabulary Force cadet. “This time I think the circumstances and his condition are actually genuine…albeit surprisingly.”

  “And they are…?” Frank enquired. He’d had vastly more experience dealing with the notorious Paddy Jepson. He simply couldn’t fathom how this occasion would be any different.

  “Old Paddy was indeed drinking…heavily,” replied Magnus, “and did in fact, as per normal, pass out under the table. Mr. Suisted called for Dr. Kebbel when he noticed that Paddy was foaming at the mouth and to this minute, my understanding is that Dr. Kebbel has been unable to revive him.”

  Aitchison was delighted with this piece of information. “Mr. Suisted! How utterly fortunate for me. Grab my hat and coat Thaddeus, tomorrow has come sooner than I anticipated.”