10.
Just prior to the Council Meeting, a doctor had been called to the Chinese village in Haining Street. Jo Kum Yung had been shot and killed, the circumstances of which were just being pieced together. The body of the village elder lay on a table, two bullets in his chest.
“I’m going to see Frank Aitchison,” the doctor exclaimed. “I am tired of these racist attacks on our people. They are totally unwarranted. He has been shot twice in the chest, one bullet has entered his heart.”
Apoo Hock Ting was with the medicine man and in somewhat of a state of shock.
“Jo Kum Yung and his white friend were happily smoking and enjoying a whisky last time I saw them,” he said, eyes fixed on the body of his friend and leader. “I do not understand.”
“His white friend may have been drinking whisky,” the doctor retorted. “Jo Kum Yung did not drink alcohol.”
Hock Ting was one of the few men who was in the know, as it were, that Kum Yung did in fact drink alcohol. But only a dram of a certain purveyor’s whisky every now and again, which he mixed with ancient Chinese herbs and Laudanum. Hock Ting remained quiet.
“This is true,” confirmed ‘Sunny’ Chong, who was on the scene when the tragic shooting unfolded. “His friend drank from a silver flask, Jo did not. After he left, a local man – who had been drinking whisky from those bottles on the table – he just went crazy and shot Jo. He shot Jo and made for the street, there were three of them. He looked possessed and insane to my eyes.”
The doctor looked totally startled. “Another Chinese man did this?”
“Yes,” replied Chong. “Unfortunately, all three are dead also. Another was shot, presumably by the same perpetrator, but the three bodies were all found in the swamp down the hill.”
The doctor was perplexed by this. His people had enough to deal with, without one of them turning on his own folk.
“This makes me more determined to help clean up this gaudy village,” he announced. “Opium and our bad habits is one thing, but white man’s alcohol is the brew of 恶魔!”
As was usual, the Princess Hotel was a hive of activity, with Charles Suisted still confident that he was going to be raided and - in a state of flux and paranoia - furiously trying to tie up any loose ends.
The Whiffler had returned, chiefly to tell Suisted that he had safely negotiated the secret stashing of the whisky, but also (being largely regarded as a chap ‘in the know’), to look into a few rumours that he’d heard himself.
Even so, when he enquired as to whether or not Charles had been told how the deaths had occurred, he found the publican in an anxious mood.
“I don’t know how they died,” Suisted stated, gravely indignant. “Bloody hell! Two deaths in me pub in one night is more than enough thank you. Moorefield & Sons are doing a roaring trade! I trust you’ve got me whisky safely away somewhere.”
“That we have, Guv,” Whiffler replied. “Been deaths all across town there has. Don’t care for most of ‘em, but ‘Piccolo’, he was me mate. I expect that you won’t want those flagons brought down the hill now either?”
“Certainly not!” Suisted’s reply was quick-tempered. “I’ve made a tidy sum out of selling Valentine’s Whisky, but I’m not going to take the rap for all his illegal meddling now. If the Police don’t actually find any whisky, I’ll be in the clear, no matter what they try to allege.”
The Whiffler was also on edge and quick to bite back at Charles. He was actually an acquaintance of this John Valentine, no-one really called him a friend, but in the eyes of the Whiffler, he was a good beggar…do anything for anyone.
There was an air of truth to Whiffler’s confidence in Valentine. The moonshiner would do anything for the underdog, the underprivileged or the downtrodden. He despised the law and the law makers, the sanctimonious and the holier-than-thou. Those who deemed themselves to be morally superior.
One could have called him a modern day Robin Hood, for want of a better comparison and if he had a band of merry men in Wellington at the time, the Whiffler was certainly one of them.
“And I don’t like this neither!” he snapped, pointing to a lamppost outside the pub, where a wanted poster, with Valentine’s head on it, as issued by the Police, was on display.
“Another of me mates in a spot of bother,” Whiffler continued. “Why are the Police so hell bent on arresting Johnny? It’s not as if his whisky is responsible for these deaths is it? They’ve known for ages that he moonshine’s, why do they want him now?
“And that Aitchison is such a persistent and relentless bastard,” Chas. Suisted chipped in. “And that’s why I know he won’t be able to resist raiding here immediately after the council meeting finishes this morning. The whisky is off the premise, nowhere to be found (pointing to the poster) just like Mr. John Lorcan Valentine.”
The Whiffler chuckled to himself. He hadn’t seen his mate for a while, but he was good entertainment, always fun to have around. Always one step ahead of the law.
“In the days before he became a right bastard,” Suisted recalled, “he used to play the piano in The Princess, mainly funded by yours truly, while at the same time on the take for Madam Bainbridge and her ladies. Come to think of it, he used to also play the flute and a little of the that new thing…the…the guitar.”
“And the viola,” Whiffler pointed out quite poignantly.
The pair had paused for a moment and were semi-lost in nostalgia, when quite by surprise, Tommy Roundtree came around the side of the building, holding a half empty flagon of whisky. “What’s with this here flagon boss?” enquired Tommy. “I found it in the Cellar. Half full it is, whisky it certainly is also.”
“Tommy’s right Charles,” the Whiffler interrupted, “‘cept I’d say that it’s half empty.”
“Good God!” Suisted hollered, almost jumping out of his skin. “That’s the flagon Bill had last night. He was filling hip flasks from it for his faithful clientele. Get rid of it man! Tip it down the bloody drain this instant.”
With that, Charles turned his back on his employees and headed back indoors.
He was going to make another round of the establishment, just in case Aitchison turned up with a search warrant. He wanted to be sure that there was absolutely no trace of Valentine’s Whisky…or evidence of the man himself having been anywhere near his establishment.
Acting upon the advice of the publican, Tommy Roundtree made toward the nearest drain, with the intention of tipping the usquebaugh down it.
“Hold on a minute there Tommy…” Whiffler stammered, in desperation to get his words out. “What are you about matey?”
“You heard the Guv Whiff,” came the reply, “tipping this here whisky down the drain like he said.”
“Hang on a minute fella, hold your horses.…that’s good whisky!”
A little confused and processing this new directive, on the hop, Tommy surrendered the vessel to Whiffler, who walked it a few paces to where his hansom was pulled up.
“I heard Johnny say that this was going to be one of his greatest batches,” Whiffler put forward. “Let’s not be too hasty shall we. You go about your business now, there’s a good lad.”
The Whiffler grabbed a blanket from the back seat of his cab and placed it over the jug of moonshine, his eyes shifting around the immediate vicinity, to ensure that he wasn’t being watched. When he was certain that he wasn’t, he exposed the neck of the bottle and took an almighty gulp.
It was good. Midday fire to fuel the belly and awaken the demons. Quickly checking that the coast was still clear, he took another oversized dram.
At the barracks in Mt. Cook, the process of elimination was going through the mind of the police chief.
He’d captained the Collegians cricket team for a season or two and knew the importance of keeping the opposition guessing as to what was coming next. If the chance presented itself, Frank would always enforce the follow on and go for the jugular.
Although he knew it would allow Charles Suisted time to make sure his public house was clean, he thought that he’d let the proprietor sweat a bit, safe in the knowledge that exactly when, was to his advantage.
It was a sunny afternoon and Frank - not wishing to be indoors at all - thought he might take a walk up the hill and pay a visit to David Robertson. He’d heard about Molly the cow and it was a great opportunity to follow up on that and source some local insight from the sexton. He’d dug a few graves in his time and lived within the confines of the cemetery.
Aitchison was also keen to find out more information about the observatory. While it was uphill from where the moonshine distillery had been located, therefore probably not a likely store house, he was operating on an instinct, as only the police can do. There was something about it that vexed Frank immensely.
He enjoyed the brief stroll and arrived to find the sexton at home.
“Good morning David. I understand that you’ve had a bit of bad luck here overnight.”
“Indeed we have,” Robertson replied. “I’ve lost my cow to some mystery illness. In fact, Mary is in bed, not at all well and I’m not feeling all that great myself, in honesty.”
“Half of the Lambton Ward has come down with it, with several fatalities,” Aitchison informed him. “Local Doctors are laying the blame on poisonous water. Dr. Kebbel believes that the earthquake a few nights ago must have cracked open more graves and exacerbated the problem. Water, that has become contaminated with grave leakage from this very cemetery, has made its way into our main water supply.”
David said nothing, but contemplation was written across his face.
“All this talk of grave effluence has caused widespread panic,” Frank continued. “Some people are ill and will recover quickly. Some have died in a most peculiar manner and amongst the latter, there have been reports of ghouls running amok around the cemetery.”
“Well if there have been, I haven’t seen them,” David spoke, “and I live in the cemetery.”
“Exactly!” Frank replied, in a matter-of-fact way. “You’re the one person who must know this cemetery inside and out?”
“I guess so,” the sexton replied, “although I rarely venture across the stream, as it’s not really cemetery land over there and I have enough to care take this side as it is.”
“So naturally then, you’d be surprised if I told you that across on that top bank, behind that thick foliage, was a moonshine operation. We discovered a disused still, recently dismantled.”
“I am surprised,” Robertson stated. “Several weeks ago – at night – I did hear noise from up in that vicinity. But I can, because I can hear those on their way to the observatory.”
“Ah yes, the observatory,” Frank said, glad that David had brought the subject up. “If I was making whisky up on that plateau, where would I store it – away from the police like – do you suppose?”
“Surely you are not thinking the observatory?” Robertson enquired of Frank. “It’s some distance from points A to B and those flagons would be awful heavy. They’d have to be carried one at a time up the hill. And the members of the Astronomy Club are generally well regarded folk in the community.”
“And who are the members of the Astronomy Club, David?
Robertson thought for a minute, he even removed his hat.
“I know that Dr. Kebbel is the President. Octavius Hadfield, as I understand it and Charlie Suisted have an interest. A few other’s I have seen heading up there…don’t know all their names.”
“If you could try and remember, I’d appreciate it,” Aitchison asked, ”it is very important.”
“Well, let me see,” the sexton began. “Some of ‘em have nicknames so to speak. That chap called the ‘Whiffler’ for one. A couple of other hansom cabbies. That weird chap who plays a viola. Charlie someone. Oh, Bill Diamond of course.”
“Interesting line-up!,” the policeman commented. “Diamond and ‘Piccolo’ Charlie both died last evening.”
“My God!” David looked and sounded shocked.
“Charlie died where he busks, outside the Princess Hotel,” Frank continued.
“He had an empty hip-flask on him. Diamond and a visiting English actress died in her dress room, back stage at the Theatre Royal. Between them lay an unlabelled glass bottle – empty – and two glasses. The cleaner was also found dead in the room.”
“Surely you are not implying that whisky killed them?”
“You don’t really want to know what I think David,” Aitchison concluded, “because the picture I’m getting, I can hardly believe myself.”