20.
John Valentine made straight for Thorndon Railway Station. He was well aware that the police would be manning all major exits from the city and that the rail systems would be the first port of call.
He was hoping that they would target the Wellington-Masterton train, which departed from Lambton Station and ran through the Hutt Valley.
Valentine was planning to board a train in Thorndon, on the new private Wellington & Manawatu Railway Company line, destination Longburn, just outside of Palmerston North.
No doubt, officers of the law would be at every stop along every train track and getting off the loco may be equally as difficult as getting on should be. But he had a plan to circumnavigate this.
He was aware that about a minute or two out of Paekakariki, the train virtually stopped for a few seconds, as it went over a small bridge, right by the sea.
That’s where he and Connie would jump off and escape into the night. They’d then hire a boat from somewhere along the Kapiti coast line, cross Cook Strait and disappear into the Marlborough Sounds somewhere.
It was a great plan, but all dependent on just how long his luck could hold out. Until Constance jumped from the train with him, she wasn’t under suspicion, or so she thought.
Once in Thorndon, John Valentine promptly hid in the shadows, so that he could ascertain the situation in front of him. The fires were the talk of the town by now and on the platform, much pointing and pontificating was being done by passengers, awaiting the arrival of the midnight train.
Valentine noted that two policemen were on hand, presumably there to apprehend him if he showed up, although they did seem most unnerved by the pyro-pandemonium. It was enough to test the resilience of any government employee.
He also noted that two lampposts in the vicinity of the station had the ‘Wanted by NZ Police Constabulary; John Valentine’ poster attached.
He wasn’t unduly alarmed by this, as the image contained was hopelessly ‘out of date’ and if it were that depiction of him in the minds of the majority, he should be able to give the masses the slip.
He would bide his time until the train departed, hoping to catch up with Constance before it did. Where was she? He checked the big clock beside the station house. 10:45pm. One hour and ten minutes until boarding.
Captain Charles Grant returned to find his gutted ship in cinders. The embers burned, while there was still life in them. A large crowd had gathered on the docks beside, many had just run down the waterfront from the fire at the hotel.
Some sailors arrived who were due to board the Himalaya, but as with the scene at the Princess, all they could do was helplessly observe, as the vessel morphed into ashes.
“My God!” Grant exclaimed, scarcely able to believe that the ship he had commanded for almost 20 years had been cremated in less than 20 minutes.
“Come now Sir,” came the reassuring voice of the Harbour Master, Alfred Hewett, in attempting to console the old sea dog, “there is little we can do here but pray that no one was aboard.”
“Aboard?” Grant replied forlornly. “Coffee. What happened to the bumbling copper? And where is Aitchison? Someone said that Valentine was inside the Princess when the fire broke. How did my bloody ship mysteriously ignite afterward?”
He suspected that Valentine wasn’t inside the hotel when fire broke out and that he’d likely returned to the Himalaya, to continue his pyromaniacal rampage. This he figured was the most plausible predicament, so he assumed that the rogue landlubber was still at large.
“The bastard,” he snapped. “He’s either made for the rail yards or headed up into the hills above the Botanical Gardens. You better stay here Alf.”
“It’s just possible that he may also have been able to commission some form of ship to cross the Strait. Yes. He’ll figure that’s what Frank will be least expecting.”
While Grant had naturally assumed that John Valentine was responsible for the state of his ship, he couldn’t have been more wrong. When fire had broken out at the Princess, while most perished, one suspect was both small enough and quick witted enough, to escape out a side window in the bar.
Having been informed by Frank Aitchison that he was ‘well and truly implicated’, Murphy had climbed - with a little difficulty - through the window and decided on the spur of the moment, to go set fire to the HMS Himalaya and in doing so, destroying all the evidence aboard.
He wasn’t to know who was on the ship, but he fully suspected that someone would be, most likely Captain Grant. With some considerable prudence, he quietly crept up the gangway, knowing the interior layout of the barque well.
Once in the Captain’s quarters, he picked up Grants precious telescope (made by John A. Brasher himself), in case he were to come across anyone. It looked like it would make a decent impact if required to ward off an attacker.
Instantly, Murphy heard someone coming down the passageway and when the footsteps were close enough, he deliberately kicked a small stone down into the storage zone.
That someone raced to the edge to peer down and was about to yell some procedural police rhetoric like; “Hey…you…”, when Murphy fair clubbed him over the head with the telescope. It was Constable Coffee, who fell forward, semiconscious, into the dark cellar below.
Bugger! It was a copper. But nothing had changed, all the evidence must be destroyed and Murphy figured that whisky in the hold would be a decent enough fire starter. He heard a groan…and then another. Coffee was conscious, he had less time perhaps than he thought.
He found a neckerchief on the ground, purpose built to use as a wick and grabbed a promotional box of match’s he’d been given recently from his pocket.
Murphy lit the cloth and dropped it into the hole, Coffee still murmuring at the bottom. The first flagon exploded and Murphy was thrown back against the wall, taking a few seconds to regain his composure.
Coffee groaned again. A second flagon exploded…then another, then another. Within seconds, the rosy glow of flickering flames were weaving patterns in the hold and escaping their open-topped lair.
Murphy scarpered. As he exited the Himalaya, he could see The Princess, an orange ball in the darkness. But even from the distance away it was, he could still hear screaming and raucous pandemonium.
As Murphy had been climbing out the window of the burning hotel, Constance Frost had slipped away from the attentions of John Plimmer and made a beeline for Thorndon Railway Station.
Upon arrival - and trying not to draw any attention to herself - she scouted around the rail yards looking for her secret lover.
“John,” she carefully repeated, a soft voice in the shadows. “John, where are you?”
Eventually she received a reply. “Constance, I’m over here.”
“Keep your distance,” she said. “It’s important that we are not seen conversing. We must keep our wits about us. No mistakes.”
The intensity of the entire episode of events since Saturday evening came to a head in that exact moment for John Valentine. He longed to be entwined in her arms, but the pragmatic Constance reminded him that they were not home and dry yet.
“There’s a satchel in the bush to your left, by the shed,” she informed him. “Inside is a newspaper, a hat, scarf and new coat. I suggest you put them on immediately and take up a position on that seat over there. Keep your head down and pretend to be engrossed in the newspaper.”
“The boarding call will be made in 20 minutes,” she continued, “if I need to break down crying or make some distraction, you head to the furtherest carriage away from where I am. But get on the bloody train.”
James Mudford had raced as quickly as he could to Lambton Station, but unable to find a solitary policeman, headed straight for the rail yards in Thorndon. Here he blessed his personal fitness. The ability to stay in shape, thanks to his life at sea, had been advantageous.
Upon arrival, he briefed the two officers present on the situation at The Princess and informed them, that a certain Mr. John Plimmer had suggested that at least one copper was urgently required at the blazing public house. Surprisingly, Frank Aitchison was nowhere to be found.
Sitting on the seat adjacent to the tracks, pretending to be reading a newspaper, was John Valentine. He observed, with much interest, the frantic discussion taking place between the constables and James Mudford. Eventually, the young lad and one policeman took off toward the waterfront.
The other law enforcement officer, whom he did not recognise, walked toward the train and was obviously intent on vetting every passenger as they boarded.
An unidentified chap, sporting a derby bowler hat, was checking out the wanted poster, but also referencing a smaller piece of paper that he held in his hand. He looked at one, then the other, then all around the platform and surrounds.
At ten minutes to midnight, the call was made.
“The Wellington and Manawatu Railway Company,” an employee resoundingly announced, “advise all passengers travelling north as far as Longburn, to embark the stationary train located on platform number 2. The train will depart in ten minutes. First stop will be made at Wadestown”.
John Valentine waited a minute or two, collected his belongings and quietly, while trying to remain as innocuous as possible, joined a group of five or six passengers, slowly making their way toward the open doors of the train.
The group were approaching officer Magnus Manson, who was screening each person as they crossed into the platform area.
“Madam…Sir…Madam…may I ask you to raise your hat for me Sir…thanking you…” the officer was thorough, it was crunch time for the notorious moonshiner. He had a hope, as he had yet to cross paths with Manson.
A couple of passengers ahead of Jacky in the queue, was none other than Jonas Woodward, who found himself suddenly feeling quite unwell.
The policeman recognised Woodward, he had been a prominent figure in the settling of Wellington, as a councillor, politician and clergyman (amongst a plethora of positions held). He was the current Chairman of the Chamber of Commerce.
“Are you alright there, Mr. Woodward,?” the copper enquired.
“Indeed I am not,” he responded. “I have been dining at the home of Mr. Dicky Barrett, a most splendid Sunday roast of lamb. But I am quite overcome with a sudden sickness, which seems to be exacerbating.”
Woodward did not look well at all. He was a strange, sort of iridescent colour and a faint trace of crystallised foam appeared to be emitting from the corner of his lips. He bent forward with the pain in his stomach, the youngest of his four daughter’s quickly to the aid of her stricken father.
“We can’t have you keeling over on the platform, or under a train, can we Sir?” Magnus Manson stated. “Perhaps we should sit you down for a minute or two, I’ll ensure that it doesn’t leave without you.”
“I’m only going to Wadestown” Woodward replied, ”just the one stop! My legs are not what they used to be.”
“Well, please mind your step Sir,” the policeman retorted. “We don’t need any more drama this weekend, now do we?”
Figuring that this episode with Jonas Woodward was distraction enough, Valentine continued in an anodyne fashion and calmly held his nerve, waiting for just a little more of a distraction.
He would then slink up beside the two women directly in front of him and make out that they were all boarding the train together.
Ten deep behind him, Constance Frost was also aware of the commotion in front of her and was thankful that it was not she who had needed to start some form of brouhaha.
But poor old Jonas Woodward was in bad shape.
“I always pay for my fare once aboard the train,” he categorically stated, lurching forward once more.
“Mr Woodward, Sir,” Magnus Manson was concerned and pre-occupied.
It was just the quick diversion that Valentine was looking for. He dispersed with the benign act for a brief second and swooped on the opportunity like an eagle on a rabbit.
“On you go ladies, some room here please folks.”
As planned Jacky Valentine sidled up to the two charming ladies from Johnson’s Clearing (modern day Johnsonville), which was the newest station stop on the line. He’d been eaves dropping on their conversation and had even picked up their names, in case he had to use them and he very nearly did.
A wry smile spread across his face as he put his leading foot inside the locomotive. The job was by no means done, but boarding was the first step. He could then by some more time to finalise and activate a plan to escape Wellington and then disappear with Constance, to the South Island.
But he’d done it. After all he’d been through, he’d made the train.
As he went to step aboard, he felt a hand firmly grip his shoulder. He turned his head to see the man with the derby bowler hat, who had been so intently checking out the poster on the lamppost only moments before.
“Just a minute there Sir!”, the man said. “Firstly…you’ve dropped your hat!”