9.

 

 

  Dr. Maurice Kebbel and Chief Inspector Frank Aitchison did eventually get a couple of hours kip that night, but confined to the hours of three till eight the following morning. Others, Charles Suisted for example, hardly slept a wink, such was his state of mind.

  But across central Wellington - and a few places besides - there had been over 30 mysterious deaths and the Police, the medical fraternity, they were all searching for answers. 

  Speculation was ripe, of course, with a lot of attention drawn toward the recent spate of earthquakes, which had cracked open some graves in the Bolton Street Cemetery. 

  An article had been written by Patrick Cassidy and published in the Evening Post about this. In the article, the writer had informed that he had concrete evidence which suggested that grave effluence had been leaking into the Pipitea Stream and contaminating the city’s drinking water.

  Authorities were naturally keen to get a grip on the hysteria that was developing and a special meeting was hurriedly arranged at Council Chambers, to deal with the matter as quickly as possible.

  A swarm of disgruntled citizens rolled into the chambers, most showing the drowsy signs of having had little sleep. Confusion was the order of the day, speculation was ripe and there was a plethora of random theories being put forward.

  Two Councillors, who were handing out pamphlets in the foyer as attendee’s entered, appeared concerned for the welfare and state of mind of some of these folk.

  Euan McCabe leaned across to his colleague and asked; “Do we have any news of a lighter variety to greet these weary souls? What of that football match played yesterday?”

  While continuing to hand out the Council note to passersby, Frederick Williscroft answered the question; “The Wellington side beat their Auckland counterparts by two lovely goals to just one conceded.”

  “Splendid!” McCabe replied. “And what of the new uniform?”

  “Ah, well! The multitude of black and yellow striped leggings had an exceedingly comical effect, looking, apparently, like many...amplified wasp bodies!”

  “Excellent!” McCabe did indeed seem joyous upon receiving this feedback. “That is how the Nelson side – that left two days ago – shall be greeted at the Basin Reserve on Wednesday.”

  A note was then placed in the hand of Mr. McCabe, which he opened immediately, leaving Mr. Williscroft to part with as many handouts as he had left on his person. 

  Noticing Maurice Kebbel arriving, the latter was quick to comment; “Ah, the good Dr. Kebbel. My, my, he does look a little on edge. And Julius Toxward, excellent, I have a message for him from Walter Buller.”

  “Good Lord!” McCabe exclaimed. “Major Charles Heaphy has died!”

  The talk-of-the-town meeting, to be chaired by Henry Meech, was set to commence. It took some time to quieten down the frenzied crowd, before the main event could proceed. Everyone seemingly had an opinion and wanted to share it with anyone else who’d listen.

  Eventually, the room was kept to a simmer and Cr. McCabe made a brief verbal of welcome, asking that people respect the right of others to speak without interruption or chastisement, as this was likely to be a very tetchy affair.

  Never one to back out of a chance to practice his public speaking was William Johnson of Ascot Terrace, and it was he who was ushered, by Cr. McCabe, toward the podium to begin. Johnson was many things; a writer, a philosopher, a scientist (with a pharmaceutical background), particularly skilled at the art of welding. 

  The recent introduction of carbon electrodes had changed the face of electric arc welding and it was known that Johnson was working on finding a more stable arc than carbon could provide. His idea was considered a little ‘far-fetched’ by many in the know, but he was experimenting with coated metal.

  He’d written many postulation’s, including Fermentation and Nitrogen: its Economy in Nature, (amongst other topical issues of the time). Educated and intelligent, his opinions were well sought after.

  William Johnson and Henry Meech were old adversaries and had rubbed shoulders several times in the past. The pair glared at each other, as Johnson prepared to speak. The inklings of many seemed confirmed, this was going to be a contentious debate and to prepare for fire and brimstone.

  Henry Meech, a devoted churchman, was one of the very earliest settlers in Wellington. English born, he learned and applied the trade of a shipwright in the Docks at Portsmouth. Accompanied by his wife, he was aboard the Oriental, which arrived in Wellington on the 1st of February, 1840. 

  On the 4th of June that same year, Meech was present at the hoisting of the British flag and the reading of the proclamation declaring the country a British colony. For over 40 years, he had worked his trade in Wellington Harbour and was the senior partner in the firm of Meech, Oxenham and Whitley, shipwrights. 

  As a tradesman he was well respected. As a settler, he was much beloved for his considerable kindliness and willingness, often at great inconvenience, to assist others, whatever their affairs.

  William Johnson cleared his throat.

  “If something is not shortly done with regard to the closing of the cemetery,” he began, “the citizens of Wellington, in the course of a year or two, will discover that no matter how perfect the drainage, or how excellent the water supply, they have in their midst a fruitful and eradicable cause of disease and death.”

  While most of the crowd erupted into support for the speaker, Mr. McCabe was quick to raise his arms and indicate that they tone it down. Jonas Woodward, the noted businessman and politician, leapt at the opportunity to support his trusted friend, Bill Johnson. 

  “This unfortunate family will be only the first of many,” he yelled out. “You mark my words, Sir. The health and safety of the citizens of Wellington, demand that no time should be lost over this matter.”

  Another shrill voice followed Woodward. It was none other than the Bishop of Wellington, the Most Reverend Octavius Hadfield. 

  “As to the absolute necessity of such a step,” he added, “modern sanitary science delivers her warnings with a voice as clear as the blast of a silver trumpet…”

  “Come now Gentlemen,” Meech interjected, “are we expected to believe all this psychotic nonsense? Some of you folk have a pretentious affectation concerning the regard for public health!”

  The house erupted with outrage at this comment and efforts were made to once again calm the crowd down. Messrs. Williscroft and McCabe were gesticulating as fancifully as two Italians, to all in sundry, to allow proceedings to continue.

  “I’m going to need a piping hot cup of tea when this has concluded,” Williscroft whispered to his associate. 

  “There is a danger of the cemetery becoming a plague spot,” William Johnson continued. “Six doctors have called it ‘a disgrace to a civilised community’. The drainage from every part of these places comes directly down the hill and into the city.” 

  “Then a sum spent in draining the city, would be much more beneficial than pandering to the prejudices of the ignorant,” retorted Meech, to which there was more indignation. “The Sexton who lives in the cemetery enjoys very good health.”

  That last comment really set off the house and Meech and Johnson could not be heard arguing for several seconds, such was the commotion. Again, the two Councillors frantically waved the crowd to silence, but the meeting itself had lost a bit of momentum and most certainly, no resolution was obvious. It was then that Maurice Kebbel spoke. 

  “I think perhaps Mr. Meech does not fully understand,” he cautiously began. “When bodies are buried the process of disintegration is not stayed. The elements are retained by the soil, at least to some extent. Should the soil happen to be porous, as is the case in and about Wellington, these dangerous ingredients filter through it.” 

  “They percolate through the earth and - carried by the water into the lower levels - produce dangerous drains and water springs which, however pure and limpid to the eye, contain the seeds of disease and death.”

  Now on the back foot, Henry Meech attempted a new tactic. 

  “The objections seem mainly to come from those who have property adjacent to the cemetery,” he proclaimed, “and these people, from pure sentiment, talk about things they cannot prove if they are called upon to do so. I know a man who, when working in the cemetery, used to drink out of the very stream that Mr. Johnson says is so hurtful.”

  A quick round of jeers and whistles rang around the chambers. Henry Meech waited for this to stop and timed his sarcastic end statement to perfection.

  “I expect that someone will suggest that the poor army lad killed by a shark in the harbour yesterday, is somehow related to corpse effluence from the cemetery?”

  There were heads shaking and mumbled disgust that Meech had the audacity to even make such a comment, tragic were the circumstances.

 “The appallingly heavy death-roll for the month of August just expired,” Dr. Kebbel again, “was the highest ever yet reached in Wellington: 62, of which 39 were children. Now, it is true it was a winter of unusual inclemency, compounded by a series of violent earthquakes. And one cannot say that all the mortality was due to the situation in the cemetery. But there can be no doubt that it’s presence must be a potent factor in the dissemination of contagious or zygotic diseases.

  Here, William Johnson leapt back in. 

  “The city’s sanitary condition demands instant attention,” he commanded. “Every death that has taken place in this town through neglect of sanitary laws, lies firmly at the door of the authorities. And it is clearly the duty of the municipal authorities to provide and manage cemeteries. And with one thousand new immigrants arriving each year, we must take action now...for the future!”

  Henry Meech was starting to lose his rag. 

  “I care not whether it be closed or not,” he bawled, “but I do not like to see such a fuss made about it, such a lot of rubbish written and talked, and so many inaccurate statements made.”

  This time the disgruntlement boiled over and the meeting had become a screaming contest and lost all purpose. 

  “That’ll be that then,” Councillor McCabe commented.

  “Time to put the kettle on,” replied his colleague, mopping his brow.

  Standing at the back of the building, Chief Inspector Aitchison had been watching and taking it all in. But as he had expected, it become mayhem.

  “Come on Constable Coffee,” he said. “This is going exactly nowhere!”

  With that, Frank turned on the spot and marched out of the chambers, Thaddeus Coffee, hard on his heels.

  “Where are we off to Sir?”

  “Off to the printer Thad,” came the reply. “I have to pick up some posters that I’ve arranged and need to distribute.