12.

 

 

  There was a rap on the front door of number 307 Willis Street, in the heart of Wellington City. It would be fair to say that there were many knocks on that particular door, mostly all of them from gentlemen of the night.

  It was the residence of Sarah Bainbridge (‘Lady’ Sarah Bainbridge in some social circles), a noted madam, who ran what most considered to be a ‘house of ill repute’. 

  Generally speaking, that may have been so, but it was also a very popular domicile for its many frequenters.

  Businessmen, politicians, surgeons, bankers, the clientele was elite. It had a real ‘club’ atmosphere, and was as much about opulence and the drinking of whisky or brandy and smoking of cigars, as it was about the well paid and well attired bodacious women, who made a small fortune in perks and tips. 

  Many major decisions concerning city affairs - some national matters even - were settled at this address and the good Lady Sarah Bainbridge was generally ‘in the know’ when it came to public scandal, or truths about covert goings-on around town. 

  It was a well known fact that she had ‘information’ on almost every man in the municipality and there was a universal fear that she would not be afraid to use it as a weapon of bribery, if she ever felt hostility toward her, for any reason. 

  Like the law attempting to have her closed down, for example.

  Sarah had come to New Zealand in 1865, aged 10, with her parents, Harold and Charlotte, older brother Eric and younger sister Emily. The family were from Tilmanstone in Kent originally, but her father, as an agricultural worker, had been forced to take whatever work he could and in her formative years, the family moved on three or four occasions.

  Her Grandmother, Harriet Beckinsale, lived in Black Horse Lane, Tower Hamlets, on the outskirts of Dover. Sarah adored her ‘granny’.

  She often spent the weekend in her ‘guest house’, carrying trays of food from the kitchen to the lodgers rooms and other such chores. Other goings-on were not spoken of, such as Mary, the one armed prostitute, who operated out of a spare room.

  She missed her grandmother dearly when the family packed up and emigrated and for the first year she was in Aotearoa, Sarah wrote and posted a letter to her every week. Harold and Charlotte arrived in Nelson and settled there, Harry finding work on the docks and Charlotte as a school teacher.

  But Sarah outgrew the area very quickly and - after being cited for a couple of minor misdemeanours - decided to head for Wellington, where she worked her way up from masseuse to Madam in a relatively short time.

  A very savvy woman, with a good brain for business, she soon had, with the help of a young whisky maker from Dublin, a fully-fledged gentlemen’s club operating in the heart of Wellington city. When the establishment was endorsed by a certain Prime Minister, an incessant frequenter, it became too chic for the common man, but perfect for members of the halls of power.

  She didn’t see her family members all that often. Her mother died in 1878 and her father, retired, still lived in Nelson. Eric moved to Auckland and Emily married and lived in Christchurch. They all had their own lives and relationships had always been strained in any case. Sarah was not bothered, she was happy and successful.

  Usually, she would not open the front door, one of the other girls would normally see to that. But there was some commotion going on that was major and truth was, there was no one else around.

  Sarah couldn't make out the figure, standing in the afternoon shadow of the doorway. He slowly lifted his head, as she began her habitual greeting.

  “Yes, can I help…no, it can’t be…my God, it is you!”

  “Hi Sarah my love.” 

  For Sarah, this was one of those moments in life whereby one feels unbridled excitement and unsurpassable rage, simultaneously.

  “Are you going to let me in?”

  She spuriously ushered, then yanked the phantom door knocker inside, and with some vigour. For the last thing she needed right now was any passerby noticing John Valentine entering the premise.  

  “I haven’t heard from you in months,” she rasped. 

  Valentine looked guilty. He was empathetic toward her declaration and promptly relaxed his emotional guard. With perfect timing, she socked him - as hard as she could muster - square on the jaw. He reeled back.

  She’d gotten him out of a few scrapes in the past, on most occasions when he hadn’t deserved to be bailed out. He had a misguided concept that he was free to come and go as he pleased.

  They’d been lovers at one point and Sarah would have settled for him, even in the knowledge that he was no more than a scoundrel, even if a loveable one. But she felt that there was always something holding him back from making any sort of commitment to her.

  “Christ Sarah,” he carped, stunned and not to pleased at being struck. “Have we finished with all that now?”

  “I suppose we have,” she eventually replied, not shifting her venomous gaze from his. “Yesterday, a poster appears around Wellington with your face on it and bugger me, if you don’t show up in person the very next day!”

  “There is a saying that things happen in threes,” he responded, implying that the third event was yet to occur. “Now, what’s this about a poster?”

  He followed Sarah the few short paces into the reception foyer, where she produced a copy of Frank Aitchison’s bill, which was appearing on every street corner in the city. She handed it to Valentine.

  “By chance I tore a loose one from a lamppost.”

  He studied it intently. Just as keenly as she was scrutinising him. 

  “So, what have you done John?”

  “Well, I was about to ask you to cut my hair,” he said with a wry smile, choosing to ignore her question. “Now I am certainly going to ask you to cut my hair.”

  “Well?” Sarah demanded an answer. She shook her head and deliberately gestured to him, that she may as well be communicating with a child. “Don’t you think you owe me some sort of explanation?”

  “I’m in trouble at the Pa,” he replied, without lifting his head from the poster, which narcissistically amused him. “And that will mean the long arm of the law will be looking for me. The me that looks like this, that is. Which won’t be me when you’ve finished.”

  Sarah didn’t say anything. She was totally bemused by both his audacity and faith apparent that, once again, she’d blindly step in and help him out in a time of crisis. 

  His life was a revolving ball of chaos. As she stood there glaring at him, she had the sudden realisation, that she’d absolutely had it. She wasn’t going to help him this time. Fuck him!

  “Resourcefulness is what is required here,” Valentine volunteered. “What to do exactly?”

  “It’s something of a dilemma then, isn’t it?” Sarah sneered, with all the mordancy she was capable of.

  “Oh come on Sarah,” he whooped, attempting to appeal to her ego. “You’re the best hair dresser I’ve ever known!”

  At their residence, above the grocery store on Tinakori Road, the Wallace household was in a state of absolute pandemonium. Just as Ellen Greenwood arrived to assist, the third youngest, Walter, succumbed to the crippling epidemic that was now sweeping across the city. 

  His mother, Marion, having now witnessed the demise of her three youngest, was naturally in an uncontrollable state of despair. Shock had well and truly set in and the usually well organised and pragmatic mother watched on, as her world was turned on its head.

  “Sleep my angel,” she barely managed to verbally manifest through her trauma. “The Lord is your shepherd now and I am burdened by my own mortality.”

  Sensing the desperation in the broken state that Marion was in, daughter, Sarah, and Ellen Greenwood rushed to her side, just as she was set to collapse forward on top of her deceased son.

  “Mrs Wallace,” began Ellen, with a seemingly helpless empathy in the circumstance. ”I cannot begin to imagine the pain and heartache you must be feeling, but you must be strong for the remainder of your children.”

  But with very poor timing, Maurice Kebbel arrived in a hansom with the two representatives from ‘Moorefield & Sons’, funeral directors of Thorndon, there to collect the bodies of the first two children who had died.

  The doctor made straight for Marion, a list of unanswered questions uppermost in his mind.  

  “This is not a good time at all Doctor,” interjected Ellen. “Must Marion answer your questions, or can Sarah help you?”

  “Yes, perhaps,” Dr. Kebbel replied, startled, but recognising his error of judgment. “I do apologise Marion, I know the time is awkward, but I must find out with haste how these children died.”

  Sobbing uncontrollably, Marion turned the questioning around on the good Dr. Kebbel. “As a medical practitioner Sir, we had hoped you may be able to tell us!”

  “Hopefully I can Marion,” he said, going on the defensive. Turning to Sarah, he added; “On your walk yesterday afternoon, through the cemetery, did anything unusual happen? Did anyone pick or eat any berries? Any unusual, odorous smells?”

  “I think not Doctor,” Sarah replied, deep in thought. “Mother packed a hamper of food, which from memory we all enjoyed. I cannot think of any unusual circumstances.”

  “And you took your own beverage with you?”

  “Yes, mother took some bottles of water, it was a warm afternoon. She refilled a couple from the stream where we picnicked, as George was thirsty.”

  This seemed to interest the doctor. “Which stream was the water drawn from?”

  “It was the Pipitea Stream, just below the observatory,” Sarah answered. “Father, Walter and I walked ahead of Mother & George, who were behind with Alice & William.”

  For the first time since this dreadful episode had unfolded, Dr. Kebbel looked genuinely concerned and worried. The mention of the Pipitea Stream and the observatory had raised a bead of sweat on his furrowed brow.

  Turning back to Sarah he asked; “So, your father, who is still alive and in perfect health, as yourself, did not drink from these bottles?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, that would be correct,” Sarah responded, attempting to recall events, while disarray remained constant around her.

  “Were these bottles finished Sarah?” Maurice enquired. “There wouldn’t happen to be one with contents still in it by chance?” 

  “By chance there is Doctor. There is some left in the bottle beside Walter’s bed. He was given some to drink and some was placed on a flannel, to help cool his fever.”

  “Oh, heavens,” exclaimed Kebbel. “That may have worsened the situation, poor Walter. Sarah, I must take that bottle with me. Hopefully then I may be able to provide a few answers for you family.”

  At around the same time as Dr. Kebbel arrived at the Wallace residence on Tinakori Road, Frank Aitchison and Thaddeus Coffee re-connected at the Alexandra Police Barracks. Coffee walked into the antiquated facility moments after Aitchison, to find his senior grumbling about a lack of tea and biscuits.

  “Are you alright there Frank?” Constable Coffee enquired.

  “You know Thad,” came the carefully measured reply, “I feel that we of the Wellington constabulary have so outgrown this hopeless facility, that the sooner the Mount Cook Barracks are completed the better. Rats have been into the biscuits.”  

  By 1876, the colonial frontier was considered to have been fully tamed. New Zealand had abolished its provincial governments and the Armed Constabulary (a composite military/police force), were redeployed as the New Zealand Constabulary Force.

  New police stations were being built to serve the growing towns and Wellington (which had seen it’s population double in the past 50 years or so) had been promised three.

  Headquarters was to be a state of the art complex, in a relatively new area called Mount Cook. The fertile, hilly area was just south of the Te Aro Pa, and north of neighbouring Newtown. 

  While it’s Maori history dates back to roughly 1,000 CE, it was named (originally ‘Cook’s Mount’) by the New Zealand Company, after Captain James Cook. The hill was also the origin-point of the original survey marks through Wellington.

  With regard to this proposed new HQ, the soon to commence construction was to be overseen by the Prison Department and not the Public Works, like most other civic buildings were. 

  Local convicts from the Terrace Gaol, were to carry out the labour,  marched there and back through town each day. Red clay bricks, from the Mount Cook brickworks were used, hand forged by the prisoners.

  Mount Cook itself - and the adjacent Newtown area - had become, in recent times, one of the most densely populated communities in the country. Indeed, it had become quite trendy by the mid-Victorian era and was a favoured suburb of Wellington's elite. 

  Thaddeus Coffee did not reply to Frank Aitchison. He knew how terse his boss could become if he couldn’t have his cuppa. He just waited until the senior policeman was ready to speak.

  “The observatory – to my great surprise – failed to turn up anything of significance. But the whisky hunch I had – generally scoffed at – appears to have come up trumps.”

  “How’s that Frank?” 

  “Well,” the police chief recanted. “The dead; Paddy Jepson – had on him a hip flask, empty. ‘Piccolo’ Charlie the busker – an empty hip flask. Bill Diamond, visiting actress and theatre cleaner – empty bottles and glasses beside them. In all cases, their total devotion to consummation was a hindrance to policing. Nothing left to sample.”

  “Damn,” Coffee exclaimed.

  Frank continued; “Agnes Buxton. Recovered, half a hip flask of whisky – the old soak – currently at the laboratory, where I fully expect a result of some sort.” 

  “It is certainly hard to believe that they were all killed by whisky,” Thaddeus Coffee pondered further. “But I cannot deny that there is a pattern emerging here. Perhaps the metal of the hip flasks had become toxic in some fashion? No, that doesn’t explain the bottle that Diamond had does it?” 

  “No,” replied Frank, emphatically. “No, it does not. And I am still at a complete loss as to the Wallace children, the Sextons Cow – if related at all – and a few others. Plus, of course, all manner of folk were drinking whisky in the Princess last evening and apart from the odd hangover, no one else has died as a result.”

  “Indeed, it is some unique mystery,” said Coffee, his brain in overload. “Are you still going to turn over the Princess this afternoon?”

  To his surprise, the answer was ‘no’.

  “I intend to wait for the lab results and let old Charlie Suisted sweat a bit more,” replied the Chief. “He’s a shrewd operator and he’ll be well prepared for my arrival. I must turn my attention to the case of the Wallace children and complete that puzzle if I can. And I want you to go to the Pa and pay all due respect from the constabulary to iwi and then to the Chinese communities in Haining and Frederick Streets.”

  “Righto Frank,” the junior officer confirmed he’d heard the order, with a good deal of enthusiasm. This was easily the most exciting event that had happened on his watch, since signing on as a policeman.

  “And then late this afternoon, when he’s least expecting it, I intend to arrive in quiet at the notorious establishment, where I shall obtain from Mr. Suisted, all the information that I require.” 

  “And how’s that exactly?” enquired Coffee. 

  “That Thaddeus, will be policing via persuasion and mental brutality. A subtle blend of guilt, pressure and bribery!”