13.
John Valentine rolled himself a cigarette.
“So, as you can see, my dear Sarah,” he said, hoping again to procure her assistance, “I either change my appearance - so as to not look like this poster - and then disappear quickly from town, or I could be at risk of a long jail term. Or even worse, death by greenstone toki.”
While Sarah was developing some serious distaste for this individual in front of her, as the intellectual art lover she was, the challenge of helping him change his appearance to fool the long arm of the law, was rather enticing. At least on that level. She couldn’t really care if they caught him and hung him, or not.
“Alright then John,” she had taken the bait. “I love the chameleon in you, if nothing else. I’ll help you this one last time…and then I want you out of my life. You are what I’d call ‘high risk by association’. If you hadn’t noticed, I run a business here…and a good one. Not some neo-hideaway for swindling snakes.”
“Hang on a minute there Sarah…”
“No, you hang on a minute Valentine,” Sarah was steamy. “The police will be expecting you to change your appearance and - knowing that cagey prick, Frank Aitchison, who by the way, has one hell of a vendetta against you - will be presuming that you’ll shave of your beard and cut your hair, I’ll wager.”
“So, what is your suggestion?”
“Well, you’re one of life's eternal gamblers,” she replied. “How about short hair, clean shaven, but for a well manicured moustache? And the fine attire of a sophisticated gentleman. Top hat, vest. You might just be able to pull it off? Alright. Let’s do it!”
“I guess you’re right Sarah,” Valentine considered. “After all, it’s only about having a better hand than you’re opponent.”
Having received the message around 2:30pm, Murphy returned to Dr. Kebbel’s house soon thereafter with six live rats. He approached the house with caution, not wanting to cause a ruckus with the women folk.
He was happy to find the doctor quietly smoking a briar pipe and examining the spring growth in his magnificent front garden. The rhododendron was in full bloom and small buds were appearing on a couple of fruit trees.
“Right Murphy,” Kebbel began. “I want these rats to drink the contents of this flagon. How would that be best achieved?”
“You want the rats to drink this whisky? Pardon me Doc, but what are we doing here?”
“Well,” the doctor went on, squirming, “without putting to finer point on it, I believe that this whisky may have directly killed a few people last night and I want to test it on the rats and see what happens.”
“Well, for the advancement of medical science,” the ratter replied, “I’d recommend a dropper would be the best, I’ll hand feed ‘em me-self if you have the instrument.”
“I shall fetch one immediately,” said Maurice. “I want you to administer four rats with some part the contents of this flagon and the other two from this bottle. Understood? Anything else you require?”
“I wouldn’t mind a cuppa tea?” Murphy replied, nodding that he had understood. “I’m extremely parched this afternoon, on account of, well, you know Doctor, you’re a man of the world.”
Maurice Kebbel didn’t reply. He was not altogether certain what that meant.
Thaddeus Coffee enjoyed the brisk, but short walk from the police barracks to the Pa. Having never encountered a tangi before, he felt deeply moved for these people and could instantly identify with their wailed sorrow.
The two bodies were laying in state amid the tangi and with such deep and personal grievance taking place, he dared not interrupt proceedings. But he did want the Pa dwellers and all Wellington Maori to know, that the police were there to help and would do anything they could to assist.
Suddenly, he found himself standing right beside Rangihatuaka, the opportunity had presented itself. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he quietly offered the sentiments of both himself personally and that of his police colleagues to the stand-in tribe leader.
“I fear for Te Atiawa,” Rangihatuaka began slowly. “These earthquakes have raised the land and destroyed many of our tidal fishing grounds, a vital food source for Maori. This will also mean that the flax will not grow and with that, we will lose our main economic trading base with Pakeha.”
“Many of our people have migrated back to the Taranaki to settle land disputes already. There is pressure from Pakeha to sell the land of the marae to them. Now, we lose these two to a demon brew.”
Coffee wasn’t surprised to hear this last bit, as he was accustomed to Frank Aitchison somehow being always on the money with his crude hypothesis. He figured that if Maori held a similar opinion, there must be something more to it.
“You are certain it was the grog that killed them? Have you any evidence?”
“No,” Rangihatuaka replied, with some disdain. “Hone the pouhawaiki is too clever for that. He would have removed everything when he fled the Pa. I know it was him who brought the demon drink here though and for this he must pay. Some Maori befriended him, but I could see all along that he was the rat.”
“Can you describe this Hone for me?” Coffee catechised. “Perhaps we can help you find him?”
“It should not be difficult. He is a Pakeha who looks vaguely Maori. Long scruffy hair, and a greying beard. Te Moana knows more of his habits and movements throughout the city. Shall I have him brought to you?”
“Good idea,” the copper agreed with the plan. “It can’t hurt to gain some more information. By description though, he seems a trifle familiar. I am sure that I have seen such a person outside the Princess Hotel upon occasion. And I have noted that same character’s presence in Haining Street also…near the opium dens.”
“Yes,” Rangihatuaka confirmed. “I have heard of his addiction to Chinatown. Dirt, opium smoke and vegetables!”
“Is that so?” Coffee responded, with all the matter-of-fact dryness of a more experienced representative of the law than he was. “I think the Sergeant is going to find this most interesting!”
It was nearing 4pm, at 307 Willis Street. John Valentine had freshly shaven, leaving a well trimmed, yet quite pronounced moustache. As he checked out his new appearance in the bathroom mirror, Sarah Bainbridge, behind him, was finishing trimming the back of his hair.
“You’re right about the posh clothes Sarah,” Valentine surmised. “My old garb is too lived in for this new chap I’m looking at.”
“I’ll have a girl fetch some other options for you,” Sarah replied. “The eclectic wardrobe in the spare room is full of suits, dresses and accessories. Most of it left behind by those in a hurry to get home to their wives!”
She stepped back and looked consummately non-plussed.
“Just out of a matter of interest,” she enquired, “is there ever a time when you take life seriously John?”
“You said it yourself Sarah,” he answered. “Life is a gamble. That’s why I enjoy this new card game called poker…it’s all about bluffing your way to winning!”
“Strange that you should mention that,” she replied. “I was informed a few days back, as I intend to introduce the game here, that a ‘straight’ has been added to the hand rankings, which is five sequential cards of any suit.”
“Whatever next,” Valentine mumbled.
“There,” announced Sarah. “I’ve done what I can for you John. It is a game of poker for you now, lets hope the cards fall in your favour!”
All six rats lay dead on the table in Dr. Kebbel’s makeshift laboratory in the washroom. It was clearly evident that the rodents had suffered a most violent and miserable death.
“I tell you what Doc,” Murphy began, again forgetting the cardinal sin. “If I’d known it was this easy to kill the vermin, I’d have given up dogs and trapping years ago. How do I get some of this stuff? I’d just poison their water supply. Bit grizzly at the end though, I was almost feelin’ sorry for ‘em.”
“Well at least we now know one thing for sure Murphy,” replied Kebbel, “this whisky is absolutely lethal. These rats had only the few drops each that you gave them, yet each one was stone dead in minutes.”
“The two that drank from the considerably less toxic bottle,” he continued, “took five minutes longer to die. Both seemed to have an effect similar to, shall we say, drinking acid. It must burn out your insides almost instantaneously, which would cause massive internal haemorrhaging.”
Murphy looked confused. “But how can mere whisky do that? It looks like whisky, smells like whisky. I’m not all that keen on the taste test part though.”
For the first time in almost 24 hours, Dr. Maurice Kebbel raised a smile, wry as it may have been. “No need Murph, the rats have done that for you.”
“Look at ‘em though Doctor. They are sort of…glowing!”
“Glowing, with the same iridescent qualities that were reported around the cemetery at Bolton Street last evening. Which, presupposing the effects are similar to the dead that I have already examined, should turn opaque and crystallise.”
“And what exactly does that mean, exactly?” the ratter enquired.
“Well, if I was to hazard a guess,” Kebbel continued, “and at times a medical diagnosis can only be guesswork – but I’d suggest that the ether in the alcohol has somehow reacted with the water from which the whisky was made.”
“And how is that possible? The water would have to be contaminated somehow.”
“Well done Murphy! The water used for this batch of whisky was drawn from the Pipitea Stream, currently under suspicion following recent earthquakes for containing traces of grave effluence.”
Not for the second time, Murphy looked completely bewildered. “You mean body rot?”
“I do indeed mean body rot Murphy,” replied the doctor, with a growing air of confidence, that pieces of the puzzle were finally being stitched together. “I’m just not sure the exact chemistry the two could make. I must consult other practitioners. Keep these rats on ice until I need them and please, not a word of this to anyone. Not a word!”
“My lips are sealed,” Murphy said, casting a glance at Kebbel with a look of ‘would I lie to you?’
“But what about the bottle of water, the slower version?” he added.
“This is just water drawn from a source close to the head of the Pipitea Stream,” Kebbel announced.
“It somehow contains the same trace elements, I would imagine. I am puzzled by this and am starting to have a nervous feeling about it. What are you about Murphy? Have you time to accompany me to the observatory?”