7.
The house audience rose as one. Their vociferous hand-clapping and the rattling jewellery from the wings, was testament to how much all in sundry had enjoyed Our Boy’s.
“Oh, bravo,” yelled Abraham Moxham. Cousins, Ellen Taylor and Sarah Bainbridge, were both in tears. Constance Frost was in awe. Bill Diamond left his seat and made, with his pass, for the back of the stage.
Miss Emma Morgan-Fitzwilliams acknowledged the ovation, curtsied appropriately and quietly slipped backstage, through the cross over and made directly for her dressing room.
She could still hear the applause as she entered her quiet haven, some distance down the long backstage corridor. She quietly closed the door. As always, the first thing she removed was her hat and hair pins.
If there was one thing that Emma was very fond of, it was the solitude of backstage following a performance. She insisted on her own dressing room in every venue in which she performed. As a professional, for some years now, she had enjoyed being left to herself for this short post-period, to ‘collect one’s thoughts in the solitude in which it was intended’, she’d often say.
The main reason for this lone act was actually to enjoy a tipple or three, while no-one else was around. It was important to avoid unnecessary judgements, which would surely only lead to unwanted scandal.
Usually Emma would keep a hip flask at the ready in her purse, but this evening, of course, she was relying on a new acquaintance and was rather hoping for a knock on the green room door. Sure enough, she did not have to wait long.
A voice from the other side followed the rap; “Madam, it is Bill Diamond.” She recognised the voice as that of the gentleman she had met at the Princess Hotel earlier in the evening.
“You may enter Mr. Diamond,” replied Emma, feeling the surge of excitement that an alcoholic gets, when the realisation is had that the night has been secured.
“May I compliment you on a most magnificent performance,” the exalted gentleman exclaimed, as he entered the dressing quarters, “the likes of which I have not seen before this day. Quite the complete and professional show.”
“Mr. Diamond, you are most kind,” offered Emma in sincerity, “and the applause was indeed stupendous. I have never encountered such a warm and heartfelt response.”
“On the topic of warming and heartfelt,” Diamond Bill continued, “I have for you a bottle of Valentine’s latest batch of locally brewed whisky.”
As a new colony, whisky makers or moonshiner’s had not the ability to store their wares for decades as they do in Scotland and Ireland, such was supply and demand. But John Valentine himself, like his father James before him, was a very shrewd operator and certainly had the ability to replicate most successfully, very quickly, an aged, single malt.
“Well it just so happens that I have here two glasses Mr. Diamond,” Emma declared, “if you would care to join me in toasting your good health and those who have toiled to make this quite magnificent colonial city called Wellington.”
“The Pioneer is a brave fellow with the courage of his own curiosity,” Bill declared, quoting himself. “And I would very much enjoy sharing a drink with your good person and so graciously accept your invitation.”
Emma produced the glasses, as Bill ripped the cork out of the bottle. Two drams were poured, healthy one’s in all, before anyone could say ‘McBeth’.
“We are indeed fortunate to be able to drink whisky at present,” Bill explained to his new actress friend. “Mr Valentine himself has had a few run-ins with the law.”
“Drought and water shortages in Wellington in recent times have almost curtailed the fine art of whisky making. Especially when set against a certain level of economic depression.”
“There seems to be little evidence of fiscal depravity Mr. Diamond,” Emma replied. “How can this be so?”
“Well madam,” he continued, “land and commodity prices have slumped in the past year, causing widespread unemployment, high debt levels and relative destitution among the working classes.”
“Just the time when one needs hard liquor,” he added, chortling at his own joke. “But come now, this night I can only rejoice in the marvel of the theatre and all things thespian or histrionic. Your very, very good health.”
“And yours Mr. Diamond,” came the swift reply. “Your very good health!”
And with that, the two new friends cooly swallowed back their dram, like a couple of Russians drinking vodka on a snowy, below zero Moscow evening. Bill Diamond motioned to his new friend, that he could refill her glass. She was quick to react in the affirmative.
“I’m very surprised that Mr. John Valentine did not attend tonights performance, to be honest with you,” Bill went on. “He is a very fine artist himself, a post-impressionist, when he gets the time to paint.”
“Really?” Emma replied, with genuine interest. “I should very much like to meet this Mr. Valentine.”
Just short of 9pm, Maurice Kebbel finally arrived at the Wallace residence and it took but a few seconds for him to realise that his worst fears were coming to fruition. It was absolute pandemonium inside the house. Marion was hysterical and John and the older children were constantly up and down the hallway and in and out of every room, with hot water and towels.
“Mr. and Mrs. Wallace, my sincerest condolences,” Kebbel began. “I am truly sorry that I could not have gotten here any sooner. It is a tragedy and as an epidemic, it is spreading fast. So fast it now appears that I am powerless to stop it.”
John Wallace was taken somewhat by surprise by this comment. Looking a little perplexed, he managed to stammer; “What do you mean Dr. Kebbel…by epidemic…exactly?”
“I am not entirely sure yet myself Sir,” Maurice replied. “There seems to have been a spate of unexplainable, sudden deaths this evening, all with distinct peculiarities.”
In his own mind, Maurice Kebbel was at least relieved by the fact that the deaths of three small children had ruled out the ludicrous local police theory of it being down to a rogue moonshine whisky.
“This may sound a tad strange,” Kebbel gingerly propositioned, “but your children, may they have partaken in a dram of whisky by any chance?”
Now John was more dumbfounded than anything and wondered if the world was the wrong side up.
“Most certainly not!! We do not imbibe the devils brew in this household Dr. Kebbel.”
“Of course Sir,” Kebbel quickly replied, determined to validate his query. “I thought perhaps with milk…as a sleeping tonic perhaps, may have been administered.”
“Not likely,” John snapped back at the doctor. “We have no alcohol on this premise.”
Maurice Kebbel had already moved on. The deaths of the Wallace children had confirmed for him, that moonshine whisky was not the cause of death in all fatalities that evening. It ruled out one possibility, but in its own way, created an even bigger problem for him.
What was it then? He’d keep his own notions to himself for now.
“Can you give me no rational explanation then,” John Wallace asked, desperate for something to make sense amongst this terrifying chaos. “What has taken the lives of my children? As you can see my wife is positively distraught. And this strange colour on their faces, it is quite unnatural.”
“I cannot at this stage Mr. Wallace, no. The night is early I fear and I cannot make any wild assessments, until I have had a chance to examine all the bodies as a collective.”
“All the bodies?” Wallace appeared to be quite mortified by this.
Dr. Kebbel’s own processing was being interrupted by questions, but questions that he knew had every right to be answered.
He decided to impart everything he believed to John Wallace and he, in turn, could only take in what he could.
“There is some unusual activity occurring this evening,” he began, “which has caused more than what one might term a ‘normal’ number of deaths in the city these past 24 hours. I do have some theories – based on some medical and geological findings - but I am not at liberty to discuss these at present, without further consultation. I am sorry Mr. Wallace.”
As Kebbel half expected, John Wallace appeared none the wiser.
“I would suggest that you attend a council meeting scheduled for tomorrow at 11am,” the doctor went on, “where I am certain more light will be shed on the subject and the public fully informed of the situation and its graveness.”
Dr. Kebbel explained to Wallace that he had no more information to pass on at this point in time, and as there were no longer patients to attend to in the house, he must buy his leave and head out into the night, to other parts of the city where he’d be needed.
At the Princess Hotel, Charles Suisted, thinking he had but one opportunity to outwit the law, had commissioned the help of two local vagabonds to remove the contraband whisky from his premise and ensure that it was well hidden.
“Right you two!” Charles announced. “I want all this whisky out me pub. You can store it wherever you like, preferably somewhere I do not know. There are two crates – all we have left - you can take one bottle each yourselves. I’ll notify you when I want them returned and shall reward you further for your silence.”
“Right you are Guv,” came an assuring reply, “consider them vanished!”
The response had come from an eccentric character, known as ‘The Whiffler’. A vagrant he may have been, but Charles Suited had known him for some time and knew him to be utterly dependable and totally loyal.
He had arrived in Aotearoa, from London, sometime in the mid 1870’s, as John Smith-Harris, a member of the British Chartered Society of Accountants. For the first decade, while he set up a practice In Lambton Quay and lived in the spare room upstairs, he was known to be a very fine exponent of his profession.
But over time, he became more and more eccentric and some of his actions were called into question by ordinary folk. It was the opinion of the local constabulary that he was quite mad and should be in an asylum.
If one were able to open his police file, one would find the words, scribbled in Frank Aitchison’s worst handwriting; "a personage whose absurd desire for notoriety frequently leads him into trouble”.
He got the name, ‘The Whiffler’, after being arrested for carrying a double-barrelled shotgun through the streets of downtown Wellington. When asked by a magistrate, why he'd done it, he replied; “I only wanted to shoot a whiffler".
When further questioned as to exactly what ‘a whiffler’ was, he replied: "I will know one when I see one."
Every time he appeared in court, he exasperated lawyers and judges with verbose explanations for his actions. Schoolchildren followed him through the streets, throwing stones at him and shouting. Their actions were cruel, but Smith-Harris did not get much sympathy from the police.
The Whiffler would often turn and chase his tormenters, sometimes wearing the costume of a Red Indian, carpet slippers on his feet and a string of sausages round his neck. It was a common phrase around the city that ‘the Indian sun had gotten to him’.
While residing in London during the early 1870’s, he’d become friendly with a young Scottish author, Robert Stevenson, who was explicitly active in London literary life. It was the writer’s belief that Smith-Harris suffered from some form of schizophrenia, or a split-personality disorder, at best.
Despite this, the two remained firm friends, even after Smith-Harris had emigrated to New Zealand and Stevenson was sent to recuperate on the French Riviera, following a period of ill health.
Smith-Harris spent years attempting to coax his friend into coming down and exploring the South Pacific, which eventually he did, taking in the Gilbert Islands and Tahiti, as well as New Zealand. But Robert Stevenson had noticed that Smith-Harris had become even more delusional and was close to being certified.
The Scotsman returned to London and within a couple of years, had published a book entitled ‘The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde’, which some believe was based around the fight between good and evil, which had afflicted John Smith-Harris, who often transitioned into ‘The Whiffler’.
At the last minute, Charles Suited decided that he’d better grab one of the bottles for himself.
“This night has shaken me up somewhat,” he said to Whiffler, or anyone else who was listening.
“Righto Tommy,” bellowed Whiffler, “lets load up your hansom and get you gone. I know just the spot for this special merchandise.”
Noticing that his mate, ‘Piccolo’ Charlie, was busking directly outside the pub, Whiffler grabbed another bottle and placed it in his viola case.
“Here ‘Piccolo’ mate,” he said, “get your mitts around one of these! It’ll warm the cockle’s of your heart and the ‘heartle’s of your cock.”
Having sighted the offering, ‘Piccolo’ Charlie, unable to verbally reply with a viola perched under his chin, began to jig. The speed of his fingers and his bow work seemed to accelerate also, such was his excitement.
At the bar, Charles Suited had poured himself a large dram. Muttering away, he had the glass to his lips, when he remembered that he had two bottles of the stuff stashed in his office. Deciding that it would be best to deal with that problem instantly, he put the glass back down on the bar and raced off, to the room located out the back of the kitchen.
Sitting in the corner of the public bar, in the same position they would always be found, lurked the towns greatest conspiracy theorists, ‘Hellfire Jack’ Walters and Tom ‘Muddy’ Waters. The pair had been following the action as best they could, attempting to unravel the plot, while adding a few wild machinations of their own to the story.
“I told you they were up to something illicit!” said Walters, whose personal detective work was dubious at the best of times.
“You are a very suspicious individual Jack,” replied Tom Waters, “with an overtly vivid imagination.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment Tom,” came the measured reply. “There is most certainly something afoot here…and I’m going to find out what it is!”
“Time gentlemen,” the publican called out, as he did most nights through necessity more than anything else. He’d developed quite the accent for his most famous catch call.