14.

 

 

  Frank Aitchison was also feeling that some form of resolve may be just around the corner regarding these bizarre deaths and - as was often the case with him - he loved playing the avenger, against those who had mocked him or derided his unorthodox suspicions.

  The only thing that gave him as much pleasure in life, was trapping a victim, leg before wicket, on a Saturday afternoon in summer, or hearing what is colloquially known in cricket circles as ‘a feather’ and watching it safely pocketed into the hands of the wicket keeper.

  “A speculative report that I have just received from the lab,” he began, in conversing with the just returned Thaddeus Coffee, “indicates that the killer is whisky…and it is dynamite. It took a couple of minutes to do away with the rats and I can only presume that it is Valentines moonshine brew. If I could find the bastard, he’d be up on a multiple manslaughter charge. I’d also throw in animal cruelty if I could get away with it.”

  “Might be time to pay that quiet visit to the Princess?” Coffee suggested. “It must lead to Valentine. Someone knows something about this liquor and some of those privy to that information are now dead. We’re running out of options.”

  Aitchison was taken back slightly by this turn of authority in Coffee’s manner, but the latter had yet to impart on his boss, his insight into the feelings of Pa members.

  “Point taken,” the top cop acknowledged. “I know that Charles Suisted is involved and at present, he’s among the living. He’ll believe himself to be squeaky clean by now. It’s just a hunch Thad, but I still have this uncanny feeling that Valentine is still in town. I was right about the whisky when most thought me mad and I’m prepared to back my gut again.” 

  “I seem to be of the opinion Frank,” Coffee continued with this new found gravitas of his, “that if he has been around and is aware of the mayhem he has caused, well, surely he’ll be gone by now.”

  “Possibly,” Aitchison acknowledged, having already considered this an an option. “But it does look as though it was Bill Diamond who distributed all the whisky, to what can only be described as a regular clientele.”

  “With the exception of the Marae,” Coffee said, semi-correcting his boss. 

  “Oh?” Frank was inquisitive, impressed and taken aback, all at the same time. Was young Coffee withholding information?

  “Yes,” replied the young constable, swift to back up his statement. He was going to enjoy this moment immensely, and milk it for all it was worth.

  “A character, known to them as ‘Hone’, is responsible, in their opinion. He is a scruffy individual. He sometimes shelters on the Pa, but is largely of no fixed abode.”

  “I know him to frequent the opium dens,” he continued, “and upon occasion, I’ve seen him lurking around outside the Princess Hotel. Usually talking to old Charlie the busker.” 

  Frank instantly knew who Thad was talking about. He’d seen that individual a few times himself. All of a sudden, he had the revelation that this prick he was trying to find and prosecute was some sort of spot changing leopard. And a particularly clever one at that. 

  He, they, Valentine…they were one and the same. All those years he’d spent rolling his arm over for the Collegians club, solely concentrating on line and length, he suddenly felt that he was bowling on a green and lively wicket.

  “No fixed abode,” he pondered. “Took something onto the Pa and two elders ended up dead, with similar bizarre symptoms to those who died in town, which we now know to be from a poisonous whisky.” 

  “Yes,” Coffee confirmed. “That is also the opinion of Rangihatuaka.” 

  “A friend of ‘Piccolo’s’,” Frank chipped in, not really listening to his partner. “Hangs around the Princess. And you say his name was ‘Hone’?” 

  “Right again Frank. He is known to, or by, Maori as Hone.” 

  “And why do you suppose that is?” Frank was matter-of-fact. 

  “Well. They have to call him something I suppose.” 

  “Thaddeus, are you aware that ‘Hone’ is Maori…for John?”

  The junior policeman had no idea, but instantly cottoned onto the theory. He was finding the concept a little hard to believe though. 

  “I think that you’d better get our artist up to the Pa and get an up to date image of this man, Hone,” Frank suggested, or perhaps commissioned. “Then get some new posters made, rip down the old ones and put up the latest.” 

  “Just for my own mind,” Coffee enquired. “Am I to assume that you believe Hone to be John Valentine Frank?” 

  “I do,” Frank confessed, thinking to himself that if he could put the ball in that corridor of uncertainty, it would certainly swing. And with regularity, Valentine would eventually knick one.

  “You know Thad,” he continued, “that bastard has always been one step ahead of us. He obviously changed his appearance and has been dwelling in brothels, right under our bloody noses. Well, I’ve got the sod this time. We’re going to flush him out and I’m going to have him hung.” 

  “Right well, I’ll get onto the new posters straight away,” said Coffee. “You don’t suppose he’ll cut his hair and remove his beard do you? I probably would.” 

  “Yes, I believe he will,” Frank replied. “So these old posters from 1880 may be the more accurate. Who knows?” 

  “Organise raids on Haining Street and Madam Bainbridge’s’ residence,” he ordered. “I want that snake in the grass caught. I’m going to the Municipal baths on the Quay to soak and think. So meet me back here no later than 6 o’clock.” 

  Shortly before 5pm, Maurice Kebbel was standing out the back of the Colonial Time Service Observatory, on the edge of the Bolton Street Cemetery. He never tired of the view from this spot,  purveying the breathtaking view across the still-water harbour of Wellington. 

  Beside him, on hands and knees, was Murphy, the local rat catcher, trying to locate the hidden trap door in the grass.

  “Here it is,” he yelled out, relieved to have finally found what he was searching for. But the emotion was very short-lived. 

  “You’re not going to like this one bit,” he said, looking around the shattered mess on the basement floor. “All the flagons are cracked or completely smashed. There’s nothing left, contents wise like, in any of ‘em at all.” 

  “My God!” Kebbel exclaimed. “It must have been the earthquakes the other evening.”

  “And the contents must have run into the stream beneath the basement, then downhill and into the adjacent feeder stream, that joins Pipitea, about 50 feet away. The death brew must have further contaminated that small pool that the Wallace family drew water from.”

  “There are a few more dead rats in here if you want ‘em,” hollered Murphy from the bowels of the cellar. 

  “I think we have enough rodents,” Kebbel replied. “But that theory may also explain the demise of the sextons cow. Who knows? It may have been more toxic to animals and children, although a cow is quite a large beast. Well. Not much more we can do here unless the police discover these remains.”

  “Here! How many flagons were stored in here Doctor?” Murphy asked, sounding puzzled. 

  “Initially, twelve,” came the reply. “That is, twelve that I know of. It’s quite hard to be accurate.”

  “Well,” Murphy retorted. “While I’m not big on numbers and countin’ and all that, I believe what my eyes see and there ain’t no way that there is ‘nuff glass in here to have been from a dozen goons. More like four I’d reckon.” 

  “Can’t be?” Kebbel muttered, a cat having been set amongst his pigeons. “Someone has been dipping their fingers in the pie without our knowledge.” 

  “Someone has indeed,” the trapper stated. “Let me see now...one, two...three...and...four. There are four corks here…so I can only assume that there were only four flagons.”

  Kebbel was most certainly confused by this staggering revelation.

  “Doesn’t make any sense at all,” he said. “It’s got to be Valentine, he must be in town after all. Jesus. I better find him before that meddling Frank Aitchison does.”

  “If it were me Doctor,” Murphy offered as his version of a ‘pearl of wisdom’, “I’d be starting with Madam Sarah Bainbridge. Or maybe, her friend, Constance Frost.”

  “Yes. Miss Frost,” Maurice quipped. “Who is not quite as pure as the driven snow.” He hoped that the ratter my find his metaphoric innuendo to be witty and deliciously tongue in cheek. 

  At around the same time as Dr. Kebbel and Murphy made their speculative, but not wholly inaccurate discovery, Constable Thaddeus Coffee arrived at 307 Willis Street, intent on obtaining information as to the whereabouts of John Valentine…or Hone…or even another of his aliases, Yue Han.

  From her first floor window, as Valentine was still trying on different coats, ties and hats, Sarah Bainbridge saw whom she thought to be Constable Coffee, approaching from the Brooklyn Hill end of Willis Street. 

  He was with another officer, whom she did not recognise, but as they came closer, she was able to confirm her suspicions regarding the identity of the one that she was familiar with. It was definitely Thaddeus Horatio Coffee.

  “Coffee,” she shrieked, at some volume.

  “Why thank you darling,” replied Valentine. Just the sort of annoying retort that infuriated the bejesus out of Sarah. 

  “Under the bed you fucking idiot,” she clamoured out, moving toward him to physically do it herself if she had to.

  Sarah hung her head out of the door and yelled for someone to come and assist, as she often did. The first responder was her good friend, Constance Frost.

  “Thank God, Connie,” Sarah caterwauled. “Please, get this dullard out of sight and make sure there is nothing belonging to him…or could be tied to him left laying around the room. Like this razor for example…the police will be here in less than a minute…and for as long as I can hold them at the front entrance.”

  Sarah scurried off to meet the law. She felt certain that they’d have a search warrant, but would seek to buy as much time as she had pennies in her pocket.

  “Not a word now Jack,” Constance whispered to Valentine. “Lay still and whatever you do, do not move. This is one of those serious moments I’ve heard Sarah speak of. If the police find you, they’ll hang you.”

  If there was one person on the planet that John Valentine did take very seriously, it was Constance Anne Frost, born in Wellington on January 3rd, 1855. The pair had enjoyed a steamy, fiery relationship, which began in their late teens. 

  In fact, Constance was still at St. Mary’s College in Thorndon when they began their acquaintance, much to the chagrin of her father, Sir Thomas Frost, a Supreme Court Judge in Wellington.

  She had been hopelessly attracted to the rapscallion and was known to favour a bit of dash and verve. Like her great friend, Miss Bainbridge, Constance was sharp and very astute. 

  She was also deadly attractive, with dark, almost black hair and piercing hazel eyes. Constance was fully versed in etiquette and blessed with mannerisms befitting her fathers former place in London society.

  Her relationship with Valentine was technically over, it had been for a few years. But that was always open to interpretation and - at times - was most certainly ‘on’ again, but usually for only very brief durations. 

  Valentine still adored her, she was the only woman he’d ever loved and she, in turn, harboured some deep affection for him. But Constance also knew that unless he became tameable, his rogue ways would not allow her to think of him as anything long term.

  “When the police have left,” Connie whispered to the sycophant under the bed, “you’re going to tell me everything you know about all of this. Every little detail. None of your normal lies. Everything. Got it?”

  He didn't respond, as he’d been asked not to talk and was in a bit of a conundrum regarding the polarity and lack of consistency in her demands.

   At the front door of her establishment, Sarah was met by Thad Coffee, in turn, introducing her to, Constable Richard Linfoot.

  “The police are interested in obtaining information as to the whereabouts of Mr. John Valentine,” Coffee announced, “or indeed, any of his many and varied pseudonyms. Have you seen him at all Miss Bainbridge? I am not in the mood for having to repeat myself.”

  “Good afternoon Mr. Coffee, Mr. Linfoot. No, I have not seen John Valentine…or said person incognito, disguised or camouflaged.”

  “You are absolutely certain of this?” the copper replied.

 “It would be foolish to deny that I know Mr. John Valentine, as I am aware that you know we have an association. But I have not seen him since the middle of winter.”

  “Well,” Coffee continued. “Valentine is wanted for the illegal distribution of contraband alcohol that is believed to have killed at least ten people. Harbouring a fugitive is punishable by terms of a jail sentence.” 

  “In order to be a fugitive,” Sarah retorted, “one must be ‘on the run’ as it were. I had heard that he was already in the arms of the law. Either way, I have not seen John Valentine since July.”

  “Now, you’ll rightly presume that I have the necessary paperwork to conduct a full and thorough search of these premises, if I believe it is necessary. He’ll be running out of friends fast, the ones he hasn’t killed off himself.” 

  Sarah stood her ground, slowly shaking her head, making Coffee feel a little uncomfortable. 

  “Well,” Coffee continued, we’ll be keeping watch, a very close eye on this establishment, as of this very moment. Constable Linfoot is to be placed right here at this front door, until further notice. No one may enter or leave without his permission.”

  “If John Valentine dares to show his face at my door,” Sarah stated with some intent, “you’ll be the first person I shall inform Constable Coffee, I will guarantee you that. I have more than a few questions for that scoundrel myself.”

  Only semi-convinced, Thaddeus Coffee turned to Dick Linfoot, as Sarah slowly closed the door. 

  “No one in, no one out,” he repeated. “And keep an eye out for anything suspicious or untoward, up and down the street.”

  For a relatively petite woman, Sarah stomped back down the hallway and straight into the room, to find Constance sitting on the bed.

  As difficult as it is to talk to someone who is hiding under furniture, Sarah announced, loudly; “Who has died then?”

  “Uh…not exactly sure,” Valentine began with a lie, sounding like he was about to offer some form of explanation, while hauling himself out from under the bed. “In fact, I’m going now to go and find out more. This newer image should buy me some time. Thanks for everything Sarah, see you sooner rather than later.” 

  “And how exactly are you leaving?” She required more elucidation. “I suppose you intend to just walk out of the front door?” 

  “Yes, I had planned to,” he replied.

  “You’re too smooth Valentine,” Sarah came back. “Not to mention a lying, thieving cheat. Besides, Constable Linfoot has just been placed at the door, with instructions that no one enters and no one leaves.”

  “Constable who?” John asked. 

  This did put John Valentine in a bit of a quandary. He’d had to beat a hasty retreat from this premise before today, across the rooftops of Willis Street at that. It had been a difficult assignment and he didn’t fancy having to do it again, especially in this new garb.

  Sarah was required elsewhere and as she left the room, she cursed her own misfortune at being stuck with John Valentine on her premise, at least for the time being.

  “I’ve never come across this Linfoot before,” he said to Constance. 

  “Which means, he’s never come across you,” she replied.

  Valentine gestured that he needed more prompting.

  “Which means he won’t be looking for a society man, not the John Valentine he’ll have been told about anyways. Which pretty much means you should be able to walk out the front door.”

  “You heard Sarah,” he replied, “no one in and no one allowed out.”

  “So you lie,” she said, as if it were plainly obvious. “Lie about who you are and why you have to leave…and pay him if there is still a problem. He’s a new copper.”

  Valentine was weighing up the pros and cons of this an an option.

  “I’ll tell Sarah you suggested - as we all seem to be implicated in this - that we secretly meet at the Princess Hotel at 10pm for a briefing. By which time, if all goes well, you and I will have already left town. Lets aim for the midnight train.”

  “And where shall we reconnect?”

  “Thorndon Railway Station,” Constance said, without hesitation. “We’ll independently make for the Railway Station and lie low until we are both their together.”

  John motioned to say something, maybe even something of gratitude, which would have been quite rare for him.

  “Not now John,” she quickly chimed. “When we are together. Now go. Go now, there’s no time like the present.”