3.

 

 

  “In honesty,” began Senior Sergeant Frank Aitchison, “I’’d say that there has been no distilling going on here for several weeks.”

  Aitchison and his faithful deputy, Thaddeus Coffee, had finally located the remnants of a dismantled still they knew to have been in operation until recently. For several months, it’s exact whereabouts had been the source of much frustration to Wellington Police. 

  New information had proven successful and had lead them to the grounds of the Bolton Street Cemetery, across the stream in fact from where the Wallace family had been picnicking.

  “Several weeks!” Coffee replied. “An affidavit was issued to Mr. John Valentine several months ago. Do you mean to say that this distillery is pertinent to a moonshine operation, post that warrant?”

  The top cop took his time to answer. He was aggrieved that he’d been notified about the find and then called out on a Saturday afternoon. 

  Normally, he’d have not been too bothered, but this afternoon happened to be the pre-season meeting of the Collegians Cricket Club, whom he’d rolled his arm over for, for many a season.

  Frank Aitchison was a cricket tragic. 

  Cricket and policing were the only two things in life he was truly passionate about. In fact, he took the idiosyncrasies of his favourite sport and applied them to his law enforcement work, often to very good effect. While attempting to solve cases that came before him, he only ever thought in cricket metaphors.

  “Well, firstly,” he began, in his annoying, methodical and forthright manner, “we can’t be sure that it was Valentine’s operation.”

  “Oh, someone else is brewing whisky are they? C’mon Frank!”

  “And secondly,” Aitchison continued, not best pleased at being interrupted, “yes, it appears so. This still bares all the hallmarks of an operation wound up in one hell of a hurry and indeed, does look very similar to the set up dismantled by the Police in June. Trouble is, Mr. Valentine has not been seen in or around Wellington since early July.”

  “July 6th to be exact,” Coffee added. “The last official sighting of the infamous John Valentine, was at the Princess Hotel and in the company of the equally notorious, Madam Sarah Bainbridge. Next morning, he was gone! Failed to appear in the magistrate’s office and has not been seen or heard of since.”

  Aitchison bent down and picked up a small, torn piece of paper from the base of the disused still. It was only a scrap and had been exposed to natural elements, which had caused the ink to bleed, but it contained enough hand writing for the exacting Policeman to know that it may be forensically useful. He hoped so in any case.

  “Hasn’t been seen since, doesn’t necessarily mean that he is not here,” Frank pondered, talking more to himself than his side kick. “He has his share of aiders and abetters, of that I am certain.”

  Thaddeus Coffee had worked with Aitchison for two years and while well versed in his senior officers procedures, often had difficulty in understanding his thought processes. He was constantly amazed at the way Frank was able to think outside the square in times such as this, seamlessly piecing together puzzles with less obvious snippets of so-called evidence.

  Trying to decipher what his boss was on about and assuming he was referring to Valentine’s female companion, Coffee tentatively offered; “If Madam Bainbridge does know anything, she’s keeping her lips tightly sealed.”

  Aitchison said nothing, wishing his companion would refrain from making such insidious comments. The resulting awkward silence was interrupted quickly by Coffee, who had noticed the Wallace family retreating down the hill from their afternoon walk.

  “Oh, the family are moving away now. Shall I send for a constable or two to clear this lot up then?”

  “Not yet Thad,” Frank was in a world of his own. “I think I’ll make a thorough investigation of this whole area before your bumble footed officers arrive! There are a few things here that I find a little unusual.”

  “For example?” Coffee enquired.

  “Well, for one thing,” he replied, still largely talking to himself,  “anything distilled here would have had to have been carried out by hand and full bottles are heavy. Trying to get a horse and cart up here would have been arduous, to say the least, if even possible. This was a big operation. Where’s the whisky?”

  At the same time as the Wallace family began their descent back down the hill, things were hotting up at the Princess Hotel in Molesworth Street. It looked like the afternoon was going to be busier than normal. 

  Having noted the extra hype that this particular Saturday had brought with it, ‘Piccolo’ Charlie, a well known local performer, had positioned himself just outside the door, in the hope of catching an extra penny or two.

  The knowledge of who had coined him ‘Piccolo’ was long forgotten and nobody - not even himself it would appear - had a clue as to his surname, or whether Charles was his given christian name, for that matter. 

  But the street busker, who probably would have just listed ‘Thorndon’ as his abode, wandered the district with his musical instrument and small dog, performing for folk at random.

  Parliament grounds was a popular spot for performers and preachers alike and his favourite past-time was to both annoy and entertain the politicians, as they left their ‘fancy pants’ new Neo-Renaissance buildings on Lambton Quay. Most found him irksome and there was policy about to be implemented that would see him moved along to the other end of town. 

  A young and ambitious politician named Richard Seddon, in his first term as the member for Hokitika and a liberal thinker ahead of his years, was quite the opposite. He believed Charlie to be a colourful addition to the dreary political day. Seddon had been both amused and impressed at the busker’s fine rendition of his favourite tune, The Wearing of the Green, when it had been requested. 

  The extra money he made this afternoon would go directly back to the pub, a fact not lost on the equally cunning proprietor, Mr. Charles Suisted. 

  The Landlord would use the busker to help attract patrons, then simply top up the metal hip flask, which ‘Piccolo’ always carried, with the liquid equivalent of his earnings.

  Another regular patron to the establishment and another fine servant of the arts, William James Diamond - Bill to his friends - had just entered the bar and was clearly in an affable mood. Across the other side of the room sat Tom ‘Muddy’ Waters and his long time friend, ‘Hellfire Jack’ Walters. 

  Although the three gentlemen spent a considerable amount of their time only a few feet apart, they had a universal and very real disdain for each other. 

  Waters and Walters perceived Diamond to be no more than a bombastic charlatan and they despised him.

  Bill Diamond (real name, Frank Dale) arrived in New Zealand from Cheshire in 1872. His cousin, Ernest, had come to the country seven years prior and Bill had grown tired of reading his letters from abroad, which seemed only to offer an abundance of opportunity and high adventure. 

  In his mid-thirties, Frank made the bold decision to join his relative in the city of Wellington and illegally boarded the Halcione, which departed the docks of London in April.

  Upon arrival in Aotearoa, he was immediately imprisoned as a stowaway, then, following his trial, put to work as a labourer on state projects. His sharp wit and intelligence ensured that he was quickly out of this vicarious position, blessed as he was with the ability to sing well and - as an expressive conversationalist - with fine entrepreneurial skills.

  In part, to distance himself from his inauspicious entry to his new homeland and partly - the portion he chose to promote - because he felt that Frank Dale was not a great name for an entertainer, he changed his name to Bill Diamond.

  He had never married, drank a considerable amount of alcohol (particularly whisky) and whatever pennies he had beyond the need to drink, feed and clothe himself, threw them at the theatre principally, but at art in general. 

  His life had most certainly been one of taking liberty with financial security in the hope of catching a bigger fish and had he been any less positive than he was in this regard, he would most likely not have been as successful at it.

  The other two were a lot less circumspect. John Walters father, Wallace, had emigrated to New Zealand early in the piece, on the Sir William Bentinck, which arrived in Wellington from Gravesend in May of 1841. 

  Aboard were tailors and shoemakers, carpenters and bricklayers. But most who had sailed on her were agricultural labourers or farm hands from Suffolk. 

  Although a resident of the same county, Wallace was from Felixstowe and operated a dental practice in the nearby township of Ipswich. 

  He was considerably proud of his trade and business acumen, which had brought him into contact with the painter Thomas Gainsborough and writer and social critic, Charles Dickens.

  He had worked on the teeth of both while they had independently lived and applied their trade in Ipswich, Dickens during a time when he wrote his first novel, The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club.

  Wally Walter’s decision to emigrate was made after reading of the general medical professional shortage in the colonies and in the hope that he may meet a bride whilst there, an occurrence that had eluded him thus far. 

  He did eventually marry a dressmaker named Mary Anne Piper and having set up business in Wellington, made residence in Grant Road, Thorndon, fathering just the one son in 1850, simply named John.

  It was his dream that one day his young son would take over the family business, but from an early age the indications were largely that this was never going to happen. John had little interest in entering the medical or any other profession, enjoying far more the simpler side of life. 

  As a teenager, he loved nothing more than being on horseback and riding a trail through the northern hills of Wellington. He would more often than not be found in Honeyman’s Gully, shooting rabbits or stoats.

  The closest John came to joining the profession was in 1873, when he accompanied his father to a dental convention in Dallas, Texas (via a trip home to England). 

  But once again, illusions that his son would see sense in job security were shattered when he gained the friendship of a young American dentist, named John Halliday.

  Walters junior was introduced briefly to a world of hard drinking, gambling and women and found it all quite palatable. One afternoon whilst out range shooting with Halliday, he shot a near perfect target score and was instantly named ‘Hellfire’ by his new friend, who further boasted that Texans had nothing on Walters for accuracy, just possibly an edge at speed of draw. 

  John Walters liked his new environs and wanted to stay. But reluctantly, he returned to New Zealand with his father, although it was an act that possibly saved him from a life of true excess. 

  ‘Hellfire Jack’ Walters often thought of his friend, last heard of a few years back, when he married a former prostitute and dance hall girl from Hungary, called ‘Big Nose’ Kate.

  Ironically however, in little more than a month from that very Saturday afternoon, John Halliday, would be involved in what would become the most famous shootout in the entire history of the American Wild West, in the town of Tombstone, in Arizona.

  Back home, John Walters had discovered that his true skill was handicraft and combined with his passion for horse riding, discovered a talent for saddlery. He went into business with his neighbour, Thomas Waters; ‘Waters & Walters’, saddle makers.

  ‘Muddy’s’ story is a lot less grandeur than that of ‘Hellfire’. Saved from delinquency in pre-orphanage times by pioneering Wesleyan’s, he knew very little of his arrival or upbringing, detail wise, nor could he remember the vast majority of it. 

  He had been told that he arrived in Lyttleton aboard the Charlotte Jane in 1850, one of the first four ships to carry immigrants from England to the new colony of Canterbury. Allegedly, he was born at sea, but knew no details pertaining to his parents whatsoever, nor whether his mother was even married or otherwise. 

  As with the rest of the jigsaw puzzle of his life, surgeon lists were lost and passenger details did not match for the Charlotte Jane, so accurate information was impossible to obtain in any case.

  The passengers aboard these four ships were known as ‘the pilgrims’ and the Charlotte Jane itself, was known to be carrying all equipment necessary to, instantly upon disembarkation, start production on the region’s first newspaper. 

  Harriet Simpson, along with husband Joseph, had also been a passenger on the full-rigged sail ship. It was with Harriet that Tom was to spend his formative years. He remembered an older girl too, probably their daughter, he believed may have been called Elizabeth. 

  He had absolutely no recollection of Joseph, a blacksmith, who left for Bendigo Creek, Victoria in 1852, to join the Australian gold rush and was never to return. 

  Thomas seemingly remained with Harriet until 1856, when she was appointed as the sole nurse at Lyttleton Hospital. Somehow, he ended up in Wellington.

  The uprooting was wholly traumatic for a boy of six and from this point, he had but scant memories of the next five years, remembering only ‘fear and quakers’ and an overriding feeling of loveless solitude. 

  He grew up in some form of methodist set up in Taranaki Street, but from aged ten, would wander the city streets, generally hanging around vagabonds and scoundrels, or in the Chinese village in Haining Street.

  At some point he ended up in the Mount View Lunatic Asylum, but of course he had little recollection of this time either, but soon thereafter ended up re-locating to Thorndon, being given a job as a grave digger in the cemetery in Bolton Street. 

  He went to the Princess Hotel one afternoon for a brew, having dug two graves earlier in the day and met a young gentleman there around his own age, named John Walters.

  That was fully five years ago now and while the pair together, or as individuals, were not at all threatening or unfriendly, not a local drinker in the vicinity of that particular public house would have had the audacity to sit at the bar table at which Tom and John sat on most days. 

  In fact, while their saddlery firm was based in Hawkestone Street, they mostly ran their business on a commission basis from within the confines of the Princess Hotel and more often than not, around that very table.

  Having made certain to have been seen throwing his money around, once served, Bill Diamond turned from the bar to face the entire patronage and in a loud voice announced; “Gentlemen of the Lambton Ward, I offer you a toast. A finer drop than Valentine’s Whisky can only be found in the distilleries throughout Scotland and Ireland…even then, in only a few!”

  With that, he raised high his shot glass, nodded his head and drank it down, as is tradition. 

  The disconcerting sound of mild reciprocation was heard around the room, from the few who bothered to participate. They raised their glasses and grunted, to at least endorse the sentiment. 

  “And here’s me thinking it’d be a nice, quiet afternoon!” Tom moaned. “But no, right on cue…”

  “What a fucking jack-arse,” replied ‘Hellfire’.

  Diamond turned back to the bar to have his glass refilled.

  “He has no appetite for a quality single malt at all,” noted Tom, “if he persists in drinking that horse piss that Valentine has the audacity to call whisky.”

  “My own thought’s regarding the beverage is that it is more of a mongrel amongst whisky’s,” ‘Hellfire’ replied. “But our friend here seems to see something akin to mother’s milk in it.”

  “He’s got to be on a healthy commission,” Tom added, not even attempting to mask his cynicism at all. “In cahoots with Valentine and probably Charles Suisted. And if the pub owner is in on it, then Lord knows who else is.”

  The pair looked across the table top at Diamond, who was still colourfully expounding the virtues of Valentine’s whisky, to anyone who would listen. The showman’s eyes shifted instantly, as the pub’s front door opened and a most distinguished looking woman entered the establishment. 

  He quickly seized the opportunity to make himself known to her. Bill Diamond (nor Frank Dale before him) was never shy in coming forward and having just walked into a public bar, the most misogynistic of environs, clearly, neither was she.

  “May I be permitted to buy you a dram madam?” Diamond enquired with fervent zest.

  “You have read my mind Sir!” came the reply, adding, with genuine sincerity; “Indeed you may. Thank you.”

  “It is not often that we see ladies in here, especially - if I may say so - such a…a most elegant woman.”

  “And yet you call the place the Princess?”

  Her quick and laconic wit was most certainly something which Diamond had not counted on and it took him aback somewhat. Recovering from the jab, with a condescending chortle, he enquired further of her; “May I ask what brings you in here on such a wonderful spring afternoon?”

  “I find myself some considerable distance from home and family and in need of a quick shot of courage before setting about my night’s work,” came the answer, without breath between syllables.

  Trying to process her sentence, delivered with such deft rhythm, had left Diamond momentarily stunned, but instantly the penny dropped.

  “Oh, forgive my blessed ignorance dear lady,” Diamond blurted out, hardly able to contain himself. “Are you not Miss Emma Morgan-Fitzwilliams? I am most honoured to have made your acquaintance madam. Allow me to introduce myself. Bill Diamond at your service, a most devoted fan of music and stage.”

  Instinctually, but with wisdom of experience, the barman had poured two more drams of whisky and right on cue. Diamond picked up the glasses, offering one to Emma, instantly beginning another toast; 

  “Your very, very fine health Miss Morgan-Fitzwilliams. I do hope that you enjoy our local brew.”

  With that, Emma placed the glass under her nose momentarily and then took the minutest of sips from the vessel. On account of being so fine at her craft, she went into role with ease and portrayed a woman of class, deep in thought’s processes. 

  “A little rough around the edges Mr. Diamond,” came her carefully measured reply, pausing before delivering her verdict, “as I had half anticipated. But a fine drop all the same.” 

  If any of these patrons truly believed that some hastily made brew from a colonial outpost could be anywhere near the standard of a fine single malt from Scotland, they seriously needed some level of psychiatry. 

  In fact, Emma was a personal friend of William Grant, the manufacturer of Glenfiddich and the first distiller to market a true single malt. In the early 1860’s, Grant had spent time as an apprentice shoemaker, working for Emma’s father in Cardiff, where she had grown up. 

  Although he returned to Moray in Scotland, with a view to manufacturing whisky, he and Emma had regularly kept in contact. He would often arrive in London when she was involved with a performance, she would often send him complimentary tickets.

  “To what extent do you champion the cause of this local brew, Mr. Diamond?” With that, she threw the remaining shot down in one swallow.

  “Well, actually Madam,” Diamond began, realising that he was pages of an open book to her, “I am on a modest commission paid me by the maker himself, Mr. John Valentine. Demand for his product was high over the winter months though, the city is almost dry.”

  “Good gracious!” Emma exclaimed, almost as if stung by a bee. “I shall be looking for a tonic post performance.”

  “Then have no fear my good lady. I happen to presently possess his, well, let’s say, for want of a better term, his private bin,” replied Diamond, always able to amuse himself with his own ‘in-jokes’ and at times aghast that others did not share his quick-witted humour.

  “Indeed, from his new batch,” he went on, “bottled but a week ago. Would it be permissible to meet you back stage after the performance. The staging of which I have been looking forward to for quite some time, I might add.”

  “I believe that would be a most suitable arrangement Mr. Diamond,” a much less anxious Emma conveyed. 

  “I shall arrange a pass for you,” she continued. “You may collect if from the ticketing area. Thank you for the dram Sir, just what was required. I must leave now and prepare my face and wardrobe.”

  “Splendid!” Bill Diamond was extremely pleased with himself and fully exemplified a common expression regarding a male peafowl and his puffing of the plumage. 

  “I shall escort you across the street if I may. I also have an errand to attend to. There’s a little old lady I know who will be keenly awaiting my knock on her window. If I may, I must have the quickest of words with the publican.”