6.
Hoping that her mother had calmed down somewhat from her tantrum the previous hour, Hannah Loxley, carefully and quietly, opened her mothers bedroom door to check on her, with a view to ensure that the old woman was nicely tucked up and cosy for the night.
But even standing in the doorway, Hannah could tell that things were not quite right. Usually her mother would be either heavy breathing or - more often than not - snoring like the trooper she was, usually fuelled by a dram or three of alcohol.
Agnes Buxton appeared to be flat out on her back, also unusual as she usually fidgeted all night, rolling over at various points, but almost never still and quiet. Hannah crept into the room and made her way to the head of the bed.
William had just made a pot of tea and had sat himself down in the lounge with a cuppa, a couple of Hannah’s freshly made pikelets (with jam and cream) and his new acquisition, a copy of Charles Dickens Martin Chuzzlewit (in book form), as it had previously only been published, during the ’40’s, as a monthly serial.
He had just opened the book to page 196, where the mark was, when he heard a shriek, followed by a terribly anguished cry out. He recognised the dulcet tones as being those of his wife. He hurriedly placed the book on the small table adjacent and inadvertently knocked the pikelets onto the floor.
“William! William, come quickly,” Hannah implored, while William was in a quandary over whether to respond to his wife first, or clean up the cream and jam on the newly laid rug, which wasn’t going to be popular. “I think Mother is dead! Oh, mother…mother wake up.”
William cantered down the hallway and into Agnes’s room, to find his wife on the verge of hysteria. “Whatever is the matter my dear?”
“It’s mother. I think she is dead!”
William made a number of quick, yet fervent checks, listening for a heartbeat, checking her wrist for a pulse. There were no apparent signs of life.
“I’m afraid you are correct Hannah,” William spoke slowly. “Your mother has expired. Oh, poor Agnes. I’ll fetch the Doctor, although the hour is somewhat late. I must say, she is a most strange colour, is she not?”
It was true. As the heart stops beating, the blood begins to settle, by gravity, to the lowest portions of the body, causing the skin to become discoloured. But Agnes Buxton had almost a glow about her, certainly not the normal discolouring which occurs as part of that natural process.
None of the residents of Thorndon or the Lambton Ward were yet aware, that in the cemetery in Bolton Street, a not dissimilar coloured iridescent glow was emanating from the Pipitea Stream. What was also rather unusual for Wellington - given the time of year - was the lack of wind. There was none at all.
And for those who know Wellington, that is indeed a rare thing.
If there was one person caught completely off guard by events which were unfolding, it was the local health practitioner in Thorndon, Dr. Maurice Kebbel.
Maurice was the youngest of seven children born to John Kebbel and Harriet (nee Carter) of Wapping-Stepney, in the London borough of Tower Hamlets. John first worked for the local constabulary, before taking a position at the Metropolitan Board of Works as an engineer.
When his father died, in 1836, sixteen year old Maurice was literally about to enter Apothecaries Hall in Black Friars Lane, to study as a pharmacist. By 1840, he had become interested in the goings on of the New Zealand Company, having read and heard first hand, stories of a lack of medical professionals in the colonies.
As the youngest child, Maurice benefitted from the fact that he had six elder siblings and - by the time of his arrival - as with most parents, rules had become somewhat lax. Young Maurice took after his mother.
He was intelligent and articulate, destined for greater things in life and as he entered adulthood, it was obvious that he had - as his father often said - ambition beyond that of the average man on the street.
He eventually boarded the Fifeshire, the first company ship to arrive in the port of Nelson on February 1st, 1842. He quickly established a small general practice for himself in the new township, but discovered that most of these pioneers, who had embarked on their life-changing journey, looked at him as being too young to have gleaned a solid medical background. They appeared to put their faith in the other professionals, who were his senior.
He persevered, at least to some degree, but young Maurice had many and varied interests in life. And while he freely admitted that, at times, he missed the more cosmopolitan aspects of London society, he was also adoring the challenges of helping to colonise a British outpost, in the south seas.
As the years passed, he came to be considered a most efficient doctor and was much sought after, owing to the success he had in diagnosing and treating ailments and illnesses which appeared beyond the scope of others in his profession.
He went to considerable lengths to hide or disguise his other personal, non-virtuous interests and at times got himself embroiled in tawdry affairs, which he would have been better off to have avoided.
All the same, he was considered a very fine doctor, despite peculiarities that were better unspoken of. Unless one was prone to gossip and then his alternate activities became cause for much speculation and cheap talk.
When word reached him earlier in the evening that Paddy Jepson had taken ill at the Princess Hotel, his suspicions were aroused that certain goings on may not be entirely kosher. But he had little idea of the complete chaos that was about to break over the city of Wellington.
In fact, while he was attending to old Paddy, his wife, Eudora, was the one who would begin to feel the pinch, with local residents - one after another - turning up on her doorstep in panic and turmoil, as the strange goings-on of the fateful night were beginning to play out.
The first of these was John Wallace the greengrocer, hurriedly despatched by his wife after their youngest three children had all, mysteriously, fallen ill.
“I am afraid that I cannot say for sure where he is Mr. Wallace,” Eudora Kebbel replied in honesty to Wallace’s request for help from her husband. “He was called down to the bar of the Princess Hotel a little over an hour ago and has not returned. En route he was planning another house call in Mulgrave Street, an elderly gentleman I believe.”
“Madam,” John began, “I understand that he is a busy man, can I leave a message to request an audience with him at my home at his earliest convenience. My children are all gravely ill. All of them. I was not aware that there was illness of some sort in circulation.”
“Indeed, I do not know of one,” Eudora replied, a little astonished at Mr. Wallace’s claim. “Yet there is something strange going on, that is for certain. You could try knocking on the door of number 81 Tinakori Road, Mr. Wallace. There you will find Mrs. Katherine Dodds, a retired nurse who may be able to assist you and family more immediately.”
John Wallace thanked Eudora for her time and advice, reiterating that she inform her husband of the family plight as soon as he had returned to his home.
She was in the throes of shutting her front door and watching him scurry away down the garden path and out the front gate, when William Loxley arrived, panting heavily after a very brisk canter.
“Excuse me Mrs. Kebbel,” he began, attempting to grab her attention, before the door was shut. “I must see your husband with some urgency, you see…”
“My apologies Sir,” she interrupted, “Dr. Kebbel is not at home and oh, dear…here I go again!”
Dr. Kebbel himself, was about to leave the Princess Hotel, just as Frank Aitchison and Thaddeus Coffee were arriving. Outside the main entrance,‘Piccolo’ Charlie, complete with viola, was engaged in conversation with a scruffy, long haired gentleman, known to local Maori as ‘Hone’.
“Ah, Dr. Kebbel,” began the chief of police. “If my information is correct, Paddy Jepson has passed out again. Shall I have him put in a cell for the night?”
“I’m afraid that this time it’s the morgue for poor old Paddy, Frank,” the doctor replied.
“Magnus was correct then,” Aitchison seemed surprised. “I presume that the old bugger’s heart finally succumbed to all that undue alcoholic duress?”
“It’s probable,” said Maurice Kebbel, still lost in his own thoughts. “There is something a little ‘odd’, I can’t quite put my finger on yet though. For one, cardiac arrest victims don’t usually foam at the mouth. And – although quite dead – his skin has turned a very strange colour. Almost opaque. I know the candlelight is poor in here, but can you see he is almost…glowing!”
The proprietor, doctor and policemen inside the hotel - and the two vagabonds outside, who were watching and listening through an open window - were all focused on the body of Paddy Jepson, lying on the floor of the public bar. For a brief moment, the room was silent.
“If I didn’t know you as well as I do Maurice,” the policeman went on, “I’d say that your medical judgement was failing you!”
“If I wasn’t seeing what I’m seeing, I wouldn’t believe it either,” the doctor hastily added, indignant at the claims of the senior policeman, with whom he had crossed swords with on more than one occasion. “His lips certainly smell like whisky…would that be correct Charles?”
“Indeed,” replied the infamous publican, chuffed to have finally been asked for his opinion on something relevant. “He drank nothing but whisky all evening.”
Continuing to make no attempt to mask anything with subtlety whatsoever, which he was quite renowned for, Frank Aitchison turned to Charles Suisted and asked, as facetiously as was possible; “Valentine’s Whisky by chance?”
The publican suddenly seemed lost for words and Aitchison, with his constantly suspicious police brain, naturally assumed that Suisted was trying to mask the truth.
While he was pondering that thought, Dr. Kebbel quickly threw a spanner in his thought process, offering a medical viewpoint to further distract the long arm of the law from attempting to unveil some truths about the matter at hand.
“I’ve seen the odd individual cringe after a dram,” interrupted the doctor, “but I’ve never actually come across a whisky that killed anyone outright before. So, I think we can eliminate that possibility, as Valentine’s Whisky has been drunk in these parts – legally or illegally – for some considerable time now.”
“You can eliminate whatever you wish my friend,” the policeman retorted, with an air of anger about his partial outburst. “As far as I’m concerned, if the name ‘Valentine’ is mooted, then absolutely nothing can be discounted or ignored.”
“Come now Frank,” retorted the good Dr. Kebbel, the friction between the two conversationalists plain for all in attendance to see. “We must deal with facts and until I’ve done a full autopsy on Mr. Jepson here, hearsay can be a dangerous strategy for policing…as you well know!”
Aitchison raised a finger at this point and was about to let the doctor have it, when Tom Minifie, a local painter by trade, rushed into the bar, slightly out of breath. A longtime friend of the Wallace family, Tom had run to the Princess (from another local watering hole, Barrett’s Hotel), after he had been informed that there was ‘trouble at Mill’ at the Wallace residence.
Someone in the bar had suggested that Dr. Kebbel may in fact be down at the Princess, as they’d heard that some medical event had taken place. On his journey between the two hotels, he’d run smack into William Loxley, who was still out and about himself, trying to locate the doctor.
“Ah…Dr. Kebbel,” Minifie began, collecting his breath. “You are in high demand Sir. I have run over from Barrett’s…it appears that the younger members of the Wallace family are gravely ill. Agnes Buxton as I understand has passed away. And…”
“Paddy Jepson here is dead,” intercepted the medical practitioner. “William Finnimore, the schoolmaster, is suffering from a mysterious illness.”
“Frank, it is my suggestion that you make all haste to Perrett’s corner and notify Dr. Robert Harding to make his surgery and pharmacy available to myself and other medical practitioners throughout the Lambton ward.”
Turning to Tom, the doctor added; “And what is your name young fellow?”
“Tom Minifie, Sir.”
“Well Mr. Minifie,” the doctor went on, “I’m afraid I must ask you to run back to Barrett’s and notify William Johnson – whom I’m sure will still be there at this hour – that he must organise, most urgently, a meeting at Council Chambers, 11am sharp tomorrow morning. I understand that it is Sunday tomorrow, but this business is of the utmost importance to the health and wellbeing of Wellingtonians.”
Turning back to the police chief, he added, “I think you’ll find, Frank, that this epidemic is related to leaking grave effluence infecting the waterways of Wellington city, as I have suspected they would for some time.”
Aitchison was quick to despatch his deputy; “Thaddeus, do as the good doctor asks and make contact immediately with Dr. Harding. There are a few questions I have for Mr. Suisted that need immediate clarification.”
“Good Lord man!” The outburst came from Kebbel, who had clearly listened to enough clap-trap from the city’s senior policeman. “There is an epidemic going on here! Your time would be better employed elsewhere. Surely it must take precedence over your obvious obsession with contraband whisky?”
“I’m afraid that I must ask you to keep your meddling to your own profession Maurice,” Frank snapped back.
“As far as I am aware, I am the head of the constabulary in Wellington.”
“In fact, your arrogance annoys me so. I’ve half a mind to close down this establishment directly, pending further investigation.”
“And probably, rightly so Frank,” the doctor continued, the two men now firmly at loggerheads, with seemingly different agendas. “But for now I implore you. This city is in need of its police chief in such a desperate time as we are about to encounter.”
“I suggest that you pay a visit to the Loxley residence,” he added, “while I attend directly to the needs of the Wallace family.”
Turning to the proprietor, Kebbel added; “Lay a blanket or tablecloth over Paddy until I can give the all clear for his body to be removed.”
Lowering his voice, as he could see that Frank Aitchison was involved in briefing and organising his resources, Kebbel lent closer to the ear of Charles Suisted; “And for God’s sake Charles, get all of John’s bloody whisky off this premise this very evening!”
Maurice Kebbel had a brief exchange of words with two representatives of ‘Moorefield and Sons’, funeral directors of Thorndon, as he left the pub, en route to the Wallace family home, above their grocery store on Tinakori Road.