“By all means, do so, Leaky,” Bradnum said, extending his arm to show Leake toward the door. “We are always most pleased to talk to the members of the press.” “The smile was still plastered on the detective’s face.
As he left the building, Leake wondered who had gotten the best of that exchange of information.
William Cole looked back along the tram’s side to be sure all the passengers had boarded, then eased the drive lever forward so the tram picked up speed. He piloted one of Hull Tramway Company’s newest acquisitions, a Preston Class double-deck tram. Inside her bright, glistening metal body, she could comfortably seat 20 people on each deck, and many more could be crammed into her aisles, rear stairway, and front and rear platforms. Cole breathed a silent thanks to the company bureaucrat who purchased the Preston, because the tram featured the latest closed-front design, which meant he wouldn’t be exposed to the elements. Earlier trams had been of similar design, but had open fronts where the driver sat, meaning that in inclement weather the operator often had a face full of snow, sleet, rain or wind, depending on the time of year. Cole made a mental note to be nicer to the men in the purchasing department the next time he was around them.
As the tram drifted into the long sweeping turn on Charlotte Street just north of the Queen’s Dock, Cole was startled to see another tram slewed across the tracks at a forty-five-degree angle at the top of the curve. He decreased power and applied the brakes, stopping his tram fifty feet from the accident. The other tram’s front wheels were completely off the tracks, having gouged twin trails over the cobblestones.
“Wot’s the difficulty? Why are we stopping here?” came a voice from the rear of his tram.
Cole set the brake and turned to the passengers. “Please stay aboard, ladies and gentlemen. There’s a blockage up ahead and I’m going to see if we can pass by.”
Cole stepped down from the platform and walked forward, leaving the babble of voices behind him, although he could see many of his passengers hanging out of open windows, trying to get a better look at the cause of the delay. As he approached the front of the disabled tram, Cole recognized the driver standing at the kerbstone.
“Willy, what the hell’s happened here?”
Willy Devlin looked at Cole and shook his head. “Damned if I know. One minute I were toolin’ round the curve nice as can be, and then, sudden-like, the tram jumps the tracks and decides to go off on her own. I were lucky that me speed were slow or someone might have got hurt.”
Cole looked at the front of Devlin’s tram, within a foot of touching the front window of Brooksbank and Company warehouse agents. Another few feet and the office manager might have had an exceptionally difficult day, Cole thought.
“Do you know what caused the derailment?” Cole asked.
“Nay, I haven’t looked yet.”
Cole walked around the rear of the tram, past the crowd that had gathered to watch how the ungainly tram would be coaxed back onto the tracks. As he came up the left side, he ducked down under the bodywork, then emerged with two blocks of wood.
“Willy, come look at this.”
“What is it?”
“Oak blocks, cut to fit the gap alongside the track. I saw more under the tram. They must have been placed on the curve where the outward stress would be the greatest on the tram. When your tram hit the blocks, the wheels rode up and over them, and continued on straight off the tracks.”
Cole held up the two blocks, turning them back and forth so Devlin could see the gouges made by the tram’s steel wheels.
“Who’d be evil enough to do such a thing?”
“A good question. One that we should put to the police.”
Within a minute, a long-faced constable appeared at the front of the stricken tram. “Who’s responsible for this? Where’s the driver?”
“That’d be me,” Willie said.
“You’ve got to shift that tram. It’s blocking the street.”
Cole could see Willie begin to fume and stepped in front of him.
“Constable, you might want to look at this,” he said, holding out the blocks of wood. “I found them on the track under the tram. It looks as if someone intentionally derailed the tram.”
The constable pushed his helmet back on his head and turned a piece of oak over in his hand. “The tram hit this and went off the track? Show me where it happened.”
Cole led the constable to the side of the tram as Willie began offloading the passengers.
“Over there.” Cole pointed to a dim area under the tram. “There are more blocks like these.”
The constable disappeared under the tram body, only to emerge a half-minute later with three more oak blocks in his hands.
“Someone went to a good deal of trouble to derail this tram,” Cole said.
The constable examined the wood more closely. “That they did. And the Chief Constable will want to know who and why.”
Herbert Bradnum stepped back from the facade of the Brooksbank office and bent at the waist to peer under the derailed tram. Far up on the cobblestones under the front of the vehicle he could see two more blocks of wood like the ones the constable had handed him.
“Constable, duck under there and retrieve those blocks,” he said, pointing into the shadows.
“Me, sir?”
Bradnum looked around. “You don’t see any other constables here, do you?”
The long-faced constable dropped onto his hands and knees, then his belly, and scrabbled forward under the tram. A half minute later he emerged, the front of his uniform dirty, but the two blocks in his hand.
Bradnum glanced at the wood pieces, then placed them in his jacket pocket.
“Mr. Devlin, a moment of your time.”
Devlin, who stood smoking a hand-rolled cigarette alongside the derailed tram, stepped forward.
“What can you tell me about the state of the tracks before the accident?” Bradnum asked.
“I already told the constable what I saw.”
“Be a good chap and tell me, then.”
Devlin gave him a fish-eyed look, and then scratched his head. “Twertn’t nothing out of the ordinary, sir. Around the curve I comes, heading along Charlotte Street nice as you please. The next moment, there’s a bloody great screech as the tram comes off the rails and skitters across the stones, heading straight for Brooksbank’s.” Devlin gestured toward the warehouse office.
“Did you see anyone near the tracks, perhaps to the side of the street opposite where you finished up?”
“Nay, I can’t say as I did. Me hands was full smashing on the brakes to try to stop the bloody tram. I wasn’t lookin’ much anywhere but at that building getting closer and closer to my face.”
Bradnum watched as Devlin wiped droplets of sweat from his brow. “Thank you, Mr. Devlin. That will be all for now. I suggest that you might want to sit down for a spell to calm yourself.
As Devlin wandered toward a pub in the next block, Bradnum slipped along the side of the disabled tram and moved toward Cole’s new tram, which still stood in the middle of the road. Cole, leaning against the front of the tram, nodded as the detective came up and identified himself. Bradnum listened intently as Cole gave an account of his conversation with Devlin.
“I don’t suppose you saw anyone suspicious in the area, did you?”
“Suspicious? In what way?”
“Someone who looked out of place, like he didn’t belong here.”
Cole pulled at his upper lip and shook his head. “No. No one like that.”
Bradnum sighed and turned back toward the stricken tram as a grizzled old man led a team of brawny horses toward him. Some things never change, Bradnum thought. The trams may be electrified, but the casualty service is still provided by animals.
Chapter Four
“Mr. President, there’s a wire of interest on the corner of your desk,” Wallace said as Roosevelt strode into the Oval Office. “It’s from the king.”
“Capital!” Roosevelt said, ru
bbing his hands together. “What does he say? He’s not backing out of the wager, is he?”
“No sir. I think you’ll be pleased with his response.”
Roosevelt picked up the flimsy and read.
MR PRESIDENT:
MY STAFF BEGINNING ARRANGEMENTS FOR YOUR VISIT * HAVE A DEDICATION CEREMONY IN HULL I WOULD LIKE YOU TO HELP WITH * WE CAN SHOOT AT ELMFIELD HOUSE, J R EARLE’S ESTATE FOR A DAY OR TWO BEFORE OUR PRESENCE REQUIRED IN HULL * THE WAGER IS STILL ON * WHAT SHALL WE SHOOT FOR? * A CASE OF DOM PERIGNON PERHAPS? *
EDWARD VII
Roosevelt paced the room behind his desk, his hand pulling at his jaw.
“Dom Perignon is what he wants to bet, eh? Robert, what the devil does a case of Dom Perignon cost? Never mind. Confirm the wager and wire the king that I like my champagne chilled to the bone.”
Roosevelt stopped pacing and shot Wallace a big grin. “Go on, Robert,” he said, waving his hand. “Get it done.”
Richard Purling pushed open the door of the Trident Public House and stood in the entrance, scanning the room. Seeing McBirnie standing at the far end of the mahogany bar, he strode around a throng of noisy workmen, jostling one man’s elbow in passing.
“You bloody bloke, watch what you’re doing.”
Purling stopped in mid-stride and turned toward the man, clenching his fists. Then, as the man’s drinking partners clustered around them, anticipating an altercation, he relaxed.
“My mistake,” Purling said. “No offense.”
The man nodded at him as the group of drinkers whooped and laughed.
“What was that about?” McBirnie asked.
“Nothing that can’t be settled at a later time.”
Purling ordered a pint and dropped a coin on the bar to pay for it. When the publican put the pint mug in front of him, Purling took a long draught before turning back to McBirnie.
“Are you still working on the motor in Preston 105?”
McBirnie shifted his position. “Aye. The electricals are all burnt out inside. Some of them was as crisp as black toast. I thought I found the source of the problem, but it turned out to be a false lead.”
Purling nodded, but said nothing.
“If you could find some time to look at it tomorrow, I’d be appreciative, Richard. Gooding has been after me all week about working faster. I swear that man will push me to the limit one day.”
A sly smile crept across Purling’s face. “Is that so? Gooding is on your arse too?”
“Aye, practically all the time. He’s always wanting everything repaired faster and faster. That’s no way to do the work.”
Purling sipped the Newcastle brown ale “You’re spot on there,” he said. “Just the other day Gooding chewed on my arse when I was working in the electric generating shed. The damn dolt knows nothing about working with the motors. He only parrots what Earle tells him and that’s nothing but claptrap.”
“What does Earle have to do with the work in the shop?”
“It’s not only the work in the shop. The man controls the entire tramway and all its workers. He’s the bloody managing director of the tram company, as if owning the big shipyard wasn’t enough to keep him busy.”
“So Gooding gets his marching orders from Earle? I’ll be damned. Small wonder that things aren’t working right at the depot. It’s Earle messing about in matters that he should keep his hands out of, eh?”
“Someone should teach those two a lesson.” Purling tilted his head and stared hard at McBirnie. “That’s what I think.”
McBirnie clucked his tongue. “Aye, I suppose you’re right.”
Purling raised his pint mug in a toast. “To comeuppance. May those that deserve it, get it.”
McBirnie nodded and then drank in response.
Inspector Bradnum walked through the doors of the main entrance of the Hull Tramway Depot, wincing at the harsh sound screeching metal that emanated from the workshops behind the offices. He planted his elbows on the high counter that screened a stout, gray-haired woman from the reception area.
“Inspector Herbert Bradnum to see Mr. John Gooding.” He fixed the woman with a bland smile.
“Mr. Gooding is working on an important project and cannot be disturbed,” the sour-faced woman responded.
The smile left Bradnum’s face. “I would suggest you get yourself out of that comfortable chair and tell Mr. Gooding that the Hull police are here to question him and if he is not comfortable doing it now, in this place, then I can certainly make it much more uncomfortable for him at the Police Station.”
The woman’s face froze and she quickly disappeared through a doorway behind her desk.
Bradnum leaned on the counter and belched noisily. Damn, he thought, I never should have taken the Dinneford’s Magnesia so soon after the Fruit Salt. Should have given it time to work.
Within a minute, a beefy red-faced man with thinning hair burst through the door.
“What’s all this about?” he began. “Who do you think you are?”
“As I told your secretary, I am Inspector Herbert Bradnum and I am here to talk with you about the sabotage you experienced on the tram line yesterday.”
Gooding visibly relaxed and turned toward the inner door. “Come along and we can talk in my office.”
Gooding’s office was a tightly-packed cubicle with shelving along two walls holding an assortment of books, manuals and bound reports. A desk was shoehorned into one corner of the room, opposite which stood a straight-backed chair and a small table piled high with papers.
“Have a seat, Inspector.” Gooding gestured around the room. “As you can see, I am busy, so I would hope you’ll not waste my time.”
Bradnum cleared his throat and forced a smile onto his face. “You are well aware of the facts of the case involving the derailment of your tram yesterday, are you not?”
Gooding nodded and Bradnum continued. “One of the avenues that we are pursuing in this case is one our American friends might call an ‘inside job.’ I would like to talk with you about any disgruntled employees you might have on your staff.”
Gooding leaped to his feet. “Disgruntled employees! The whole bloody place is shot through with the disgruntled, disaffected and indifferent. Most of the staff seems to have some axe to grind with the company.”
Bradnum leaned back in the chair and it creaked and groaned.
“Could you be a bit more specific in terms of names?”
“I have a half-dozen for starters. There’s Williams and Basel, Jessup and McBirnie, Stout and Purling. Does that help?”
“It is a start, Mr. Gooding. Are all these individuals employed in the same positions within the company?”
“They are drivers and mechanics, the lot of them. I can give you a list of their names and positions.”
“That would be most helpful, especially if you could include their addresses.”
Gooding went to the door of his office and bellowed for his secretary, who came rushing along the corridor.
“Give the inspector what he requires,” he said.
Samuel Hind stepped off the westbound tram and hurried along Daltry Street as fast as his arthritic legs would carry him. The Public Baths had recently continued to stay open through the early evening hours, allowing tradesmen like Hind the opportunity to avail themselves of the curative effects of a good soak. Hind had injured his back during the Boer War and had been unceremoniously discharged from service as unfit for duty. Back in Hull, he returned to the only trade he knew, paperhanging. But the continual stretching and ladder work took a toll on his already-injured back and Hind could only find relief in the Pubic Baths.
Hind slowed in front of a row of nondescript terrace houses where the lighting was much dimmer than that nearer the corner with Hessle Road. As he passed a narrow alleyway between two terraces, a muscular arm shot out from the gloom and encircled his neck, dragging him back against the building. Hind struggled against the man choking off his breath, and kicked back at his attacker's le
gs, causing a momentary release in the pressure on his neck. But in the next instant, something soft yet heavy crashed into Hind’s temple, and he crumpled to the ground in a heap.
He opened an eye and looked up through a haze of blood to see a heavily-built man with a whiskered face peering at him. Before Hind passed out, he heard the man say, “Stay off the trams if ye want to be healthy.”
Inspector Bradnum walked slowly past the club entrance in the Hedon Road, glancing over his shoulder at a pair of sailors overtaking him. His stomach gurgled, almost as a reminder of the reason that he had come to this place. The neighborhood wasn’t one of Hull’s better ones because of its location in the Drypool Ward near the Victoria Dock. The streets around the club were crowded with sawmills, timber yards, an iron foundry, old warehouses, a railway siding goods shed, rundown wooden houses and dilapidated shops. Stopping in front of a gated yard two doors away from the club, Bradnum let the sailors pass and then returned to the club entrance. It was not so much a club, Bradnum knew, although Hull city records classified it as such, as much as it was a haven for drinkers, opium smokers and whores.
The Oriental Club’s entryway was a red-painted door festooned with tattered gold and silver-colored garlands tacked to it. Bradnum pushed the heavy door open and a bell tinkled, sounding again as he shut it. The entry room was quiet, with only two old men sleeping on wooden planks stretched between two small barrels. They snored loudly, and one of them threatened to topple off the narrow plank to which he clung.
Bradnum pulled his pocket watch out and checked the time — near midnight — and moved through a beaded doorway into a dimly-lit, smoke-filled room, oppressive with the heavy scent of opium. He glanced at the still forms of men and women lounging in doll’s poses against two of the room’s walls, their eyes closed and heads lolling on their chests or shoulders.
As Bradnum studied the closest of the women, a slender Chinese man of indeterminate age slipped through an open doorway. He bowed when he saw Bradnum and said in halting English, “Ah. It you. You come for more?” The Chinese made a rubbing motion over his stomach.
A Case of Dom Perignon: From the Victorian Carriage Mystery Series Page 3
