A Case of Dom Perignon: From the Victorian Carriage Mystery Series

by Alan M. Petrillo

  “The same as last time.”

  Bradnum dropped coins into the Chinese’s outstretched palm and the man turned to wordlessly disappear into a back room. He returned within a minute and handed Bradnum a handful of twisted papers, each about the length of a cigarette, but markedly narrower.

  “One a time. No cheat.”

  Bradnum couldn’t help but grin. “I remember. No cheating. Only take one at a time.”

  “Very powerful. Too much make ill.” The Chinese man bowed and then disappeared into the back again.

  Bradnum stuffed the opium into his pocket and turned for the door. At least he would be able to quell the pains in his stomach for a while, he thought.

  Chapter Five

  J.R.Earle leaned back in the upholstered chair at the head of the long dining table and stretched. The cook had just brought his breakfast — kippered herring, oatmeal, two soft-boiled eggs each in its own egg cup, dry toast, black currant jam and coffee. A copy of the Hull Graphic lay on the right of the table and Earle picked up the tabloid and scanned the headlines.

  Nothing of interest, he thought as his gaze wandered over the front page. Turning inside, a headline caught his eye.

  ELMFIELD HOUSE BURLGARY PERPETRATOR UNKNOWN;

  VALUABLES, IMPORTANT PAPERS STOLEN

  by Albert Leak

  Hull Graphic Reporter

  A large amount of cash, gold jewelry and important papers were stolen from Elmfield House, the estate of shipyard magnate J. R. Earle, during the night Tuesday last.

  Hull police report that £200 sterling was taken from Mr. Earle’s study, along with an American-made Waltham pocket watch, its gold chain and gold fob, as well as two gold rings embedded with precious stones. The Waltham pocket watch was reported to be especially sentimental to Mr. Earle, as it had belonged to his late father.

  Inspector Herbert Bradnum said that it appears only a single burglar was at work on that night, which he deduced from the scuff marks on the window sill through which the burglar made his entry, as well as the single set of footprints below the window. The inspector also made the observation that more than one burglar would certainly have attacked more than the single room, the study, that was ransacked.

  No suspects have been apprehended in the case as of this time.

  Mr. Earle also is well-known in Hull as the managing director of the Hull Tramway Company, which at present is undergoing some measure of labor strife with its tram drivers and mechanics. It is rumored that some type of action is possible on the part of the drivers and mechanics, especially if the Hull Tramway Company does not accede to the workers’ repeated requests to speak about reputed difficult working conditions.

  “What rubbish!”

  Earle hurled the paper half the length of the walnut table before it separated into individual sheets and floated down like large white birds, littering the polished oak flooring.

  “The bloody Graphic will pay dearly for that story,” he said to the empty room. “I’ll not be slandered in my own city's newspaper.”

  William Gallagher leaned back in the corner booth at the rear of the bar room in the Shepherd’s Rest, surveying the crowded room through squinting eyes. When the street door opened and he saw the pair of small men enter the room, he sat straighter and pulled in a deep breath. He watched as they threaded their way through the pub, parting the crowd as if Moses himself had stepped into the room to do it for them.

  The larger of the two men, but not by much, sat first and looked Gallagher directly in the eyes. “God bless all here,” he said loudly enough to be heard by the patrons in the adjacent booths.

  Gallagher raised his glass. “And to you also.”

  The man who had spoken, Patrick Sweeney, slid along the booth to make room for his partner, David McCafferty. Gallagher held his breath as the two stared him down for several uncomfortable moments before McCafferty spoke.

  “Here now, William. You’re sitting there with a cool pint of Guinness while the two of us are thirsty from our trip.” The smile on his face broadened and he raised his arm, attracting the attention of a freckle-faced barmaid. “Two more pints of Guinness and another for our good friend.” He indicated Gallagher, hunched on the other side of the table.

  When the barmaid left, McCafferty turned to Gallagher and the smile was gone from his face. “What have you learned for us, William?”

  Gallagher took a deep breath. “We have a man placed in London, Shamus Loughrey, who has connections with an appointments secretary to the king. The information Loughrey passed along is that the American president, Roosevelt, will visit the king for a shooting holiday and ceremonial duties in Hull during mid-September.” Gallagher tried to sit up straighter, but McCafferty’s piercing stare made him feel as if his back were made of jelly. Gallagher glanced at Sweeney and found the man’s face a stone mask.

  McCafferty angled his head to look at Sweeney, and then focused back on Gallagher. “The actual dates?”

  “We know that Roosevelt will arrive in Liverpool on the fourteenth of September. But that’s the only firm date that we have now. The appointments secretary told Loughrey that it would be natural for the president to spend the night in Liverpool before traveling to Hull to meet with the king. He expects Roosevelt to travel by train, probably in a special car. The arrangements are yet to be made, but Loughrey will be apprised when they are done.”

  “And that is all?”

  “There’s a bit more. Roosevelt is a keen hunter and shooter. He’s challenged the king to a pheasant shoot. They plan to shoot at J.R. Earle’s estate in Hull. At this point we are unsure if the shoot will take place before the ceremonial dinner that the king and Roosevelt will celebrate.”

  A thin smile played across McCafferty lips. He took a large draught of the Guinness and set the glass down hard. Flecks of foam dotted the corners of his mouth.

  “We shall have to arrange for a special reception for the American president. After all, he agrees with the king in standing in the way of Irish freedom. Perhaps we can persuade him and the rest of the Americans that we are serious in our cause.”

  Sweeney, who had yet to utter a word, leaned across the table and crumpled Gallagher’s jacket lapels in a rough-edged hand, pulling him tightly against the edge of the rough table.

  “This is important to us, Boyo. Be sure that you get the right information. Impress upon Mr. Loughrey how keen I am to learn the proper details.”

  Sweeney, slowly pushed Gallagher back from the table and smoothed out his lapels. Sweeney’s gaze on Gallagher never flickered.

  Gallagher nodded dumbly, his voice gone.

  Sweeney and McCafferty drained the contents of their glasses and left the pub, while Gallagher watched with his heart thudding in his chest.

  Inspector Bradnum sniffed deeply and pulled at his nose to stifle the beginnings of a sneeze. The room he sat in was cramped and cluttered, filled with an almost unimaginable assortment of broken furniture, piles of used lumber, boxes of useless metal fittings and crumpled papers. He shifted in the chair and its limbs squeaked in protest.

  “Now Mr. . .” Bradnum consulted his notebook, “Mr. Hind. Please tell me what happened on Daltry Street last night.”

  Hind blinked slowly, as if the light was too bright for him. A red-stained bandage was wound around the top of his head.

  “I likes to use the Public Baths off Hessle Road from time to time. I was walking along Daltry Street toward them, fixin’ to have a right proper soak, when some buggar jumped out of an alley and grabbed me.”

  “Did you see the person who grabbed you.”

  “Nay; he snatched me from behind and tried to choke me. I got in some strong kicks against his legs and he released me. That’s me Army training, ye see.” Hind nodded and waited, as if for some kind of approval.

  “Continue, please.”

  “I was about to give him a thrashin’ when he smacks me in the head with a short black stick. It was sort of soft, but heavy, if you know what I mean.”
>
  “I do. Our American friends call such a weapon a ‘cosh.’ What happened then?”

  “Well, I fell down and blood was flowin’ down me face. But I did get a look at the bugger afore I blacked out.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Aye. A man with a dark face.”

  Bradnum waited for Hind to continue, but the man sat there with a stupid look on his face.

  “That is your entire description of your assailant?”

  “I did have blood in me eyes.”

  “Ah, yes,” Bradnum said, closing his notebook. “And then you blacked out.”

  “That’s it exactly.”

  Bradnum stood to leave the stuffy room.

  “There is one other thing,” Hind said. “The man told me to ‘Stay off the trams if ye want to be healthy.’ That’s what he said. Exactly. What do ye think it means?”

  Bradnum pulled his hand over his mouth and clucked his lips. “Damned if I know, Mr. Hind. But I intend to find out.”

  Albert Leake edged along the side of the building, taking care to keep out of sight of the entrance to the tramway depot. He had watched the main entryway of the depot for an hour that evening and noted nothing out of the ordinary. The rear entry of the depot held little promise in Leake’s mind, but he felt he had to at least spend the time watching to be able to say that he had reviewed all the possibilities for his article. Leake poked his head around the corner again and peered at the rear entry as two workmen emerged through the large doors. He could see that there was some kind of animosity between the two of them from their deportment and the antagonistic way in which they carried themselves.

  Leake watched as the two men stopped outside in the yard and stood nearly toe to toe, arguing. He strained to hear what the men were saying but was too far away to discern anything but snatches of words.

  Suddenly, the smaller of the two stiffened his arms and shoved the other man, pushing him into a pile of metal parts on the side of the yard. The larger man got up rubbing his head and swung a fist at the smaller man, who ducked. Within moments, the two had grappled and fallen to the ground.

  Seconds later another pair of workmen emerged from the rear entryway and ran toward the fighting men, catching hold of them and pulling them apart.

  The only thing Leake heard clearly from his distant hiding place was the smaller man shouting, “I’ll kill you,” to the larger man.

  Roosevelt sighted along the twin barrels of the Parker 12-gauge shotgun at a volume of Plato’s “Republic” on the top shelf of a bookcase across the room. “Pow,” he mouthed, seeing an imaginary pheasant dropping from the sky. He cocked his head at the sound of tapping at the door and smiled as Wallace slipped into the room.

  “What a wonderful shotgun Parker makes,” he said, holding the gun at arm’s length. “Look at those lines, Robert. They’re classic. I think Parker’s guns rival the best that England has to offer. I’ll wager I’ll beat the king with my Parker against his Purdey.”

  “You’re well aware, Mr. President, that I would never bet against you. Nor would I hazard a wager with you.”

  Roosevelt burst out in a guffaw and clapped Wallace on the shoulder.

  “Always quick with the proper answer, Robert. And what news do you have for me?”

  “We’ve made arrangement for the shooting party to take place at Elmfield House outside of Hull. That’s the ancestral estate of J. R. Earle. He owns a large shipbuilding company in Hull and also is the director of the city’s tram company. He’s quite a keen sportsman, so I’m told.”

  “Capital! Is he a betting man?”

  “Does the sun rise in the east?” A thin smile creased Wallace’s face.

  “Don’t you see the irony in the situation, Robert. I have the opportunity to win a wager not only with the king of England, but also one of the peers of the realm.”

  Roosevelt raised the Parker again and swung it through the room, following another imaginary pheasant.

  “Mr. President, if I may continue.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You arrive in Liverpool on September 14 and spend the night at the Metropole Hotel. An entire floor has been allocated to you and those traveling with you. The next day you will travel by special train from Lime Street Station to Hull, where you will be met at Paragon Station by the mayor. After some formalities, we’ll get you to the Grosvenor Hotel, where we have another floor allocated to us.”

  Wallace looked down at his notes and continued. “The following morning, the sixteenth, you’ll motor to Elmfield House on the outskirts of Hull for two days of pheasant shooting. I expect we may be able to manage some hare shooting as well. Accommodations have been arranged for you and the staff at Elmfield House, with J.R. Earle as your host.”

  He pulled a deep breath and flipped a few pages in his notebook. “On the eighteenth you’ll attend the anniversary dedication of a tram station or some such thing with the king, and then attend a state dinner that evening. The next evening we will host a reception for the king and his court at the Grosvenor Hotel. We leave England via the Majestic from Hull docks on the twentieth for Africa.”

  “Robert, I am amazed that you are able to put together so much activity in so brief a span of time. I truly am amazed. And grateful.”

  “As always, sir, it is a pleasure.”

  “The only pleasure I’m looking forward to is winning that wager from the king,” Roosevelt said, laying the Parker on his desk. “That and taking some money from Earle too.”

  Patrick Sweeney spat into the dirt and then rubbed the spot with the toe of his boot, gouging a furrow a foot long. He spat again and looked down the road at the distant figure walking toward them.

  “He’s late again. Saints save us, we seem to be waiting for him all the time.”

  David McCafferty peered sideways at him. “What put the nettles in your bum today?”

  “It’s not only today. He expects because he does unpleasant work for us he’s entitled to special consideration. Remember the last time we negotiated with him. We nearly had a punch-up.”

  “Better you save your vitriol for the Brits. Remember what this is all about.”

  “Aye, I am well aware of what it’s about. Just you remember I told you he’s trouble for us. Sean goes off on his own and doesn’t follow the instructions he’s given. Nothing but trouble. And it will come back to haunt us, mark me.”

  “At least hear what he has to say.”

  Sweeney grunted and spat again. “That I’ll do.”

  He looked down the street and watched as the slim red-headed man approached them, and then passed them by without a word. Suddenly, the lanky man spun on the balls of his feet and turned to face the two Irishman, grinning broadly.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I nearly didn’t see the two of you lounging there in the shadows of the pub, what with your short statures and all.” He smiled even wider.

  Sweeney began to respond, but McCafferty held up a hand.

  “Patrick, I’ll deal with this.” To the red-head he said, “Respect, Sean. It’s often said you lack respect.”

  “Only because there is no one in the organization who commands my respect.” The smile was gone from Sean’s face and a hard line now defined his mouth, as if it were cut from stone. “Your message said you have a job for me. Is it in London?”

  Sweeney took the opportunity to respond. “We have some reservations about your effectiveness. That last bit of work you did for us turned out very messy.”

  “What did you expect,” Sean said, his voice rising and causing a passing couple to look at him in alarm. “You bleedin’ buggars aren’t leaders. You’re no better than dustmen.”

  Sweeney clenched his fists and pushed past McCafferty, who tried to cut him off. Sweeney squared his stance in front of Sean and looked him square in the eyes. The two stood face to face, unblinking for ten seconds, before Sweeney said in a low voice, “We won’t be needin’ your services, Boyo. Be on your way.”

  S
ean held Sweeney’s gaze for a few more seconds, and after casting a disgusted look at McCafferty, walked away down the street.

  “That altercation leaves us with a wee bit of a problem, Patrick.”

  “Nay, it does not.”

  “You have a solution?”

  “Aye. I’ll do the job myself.”

  McCafferty’s eyes widened. “I don’t think that’s the wisest course to take, Patrick. Think about how exposed you’ll be in doing this. You’ve not done this sort of thing in some time. We can find someone else to do it.”

  “Nay, we won’t. I’m as good today as I was ten years ago when I was snapping arms and shooting villains. I’ll take Sean’s place. The American president will never know what happened to him. We’ll bring the Irish in America onto our side against the bloody Brits.”

  McCafferty shuddered. “Let’s get a pint of Guinness. I think you should take some time to think this through.”

  “I’ve done with thinkin’. It’s now time for doin’.”

  Chapter Six

  Inspector Bradnum watched as the Number 7 tram trundled along the tracks on George Street where they passed Grimston Street, three blocks from the police station. The first report of an incident on the tramway had been filed three months previously and the problems had only grown more severe during that time. First there had been the incidents of derailed trams crashing into buildings and injuring passengers, due chiefly to a series of oak blocks, cut to fit the grooves between the tracks and paving stones, and obviously intended to do damage to life, limb and property.

  The ensuring weeks had seen escalating difficulties on the tram line. A passenger who exited a late-evening tram near the Turkish Baths was accosted with the admonition to stay off the trams. Bradnum had taken the man’s statement, but could not piece together enough information to bring a suspect to the bar. Then there had been the stoning incidents, where tram passengers in the central section of the city had been pelted with rocks as they departed a tram. No one had seen the stone thrower, yet the incident took place in broad daylight. Bradnum wondered about the audacity of the perpetrator, risking identification if he were seen or even possibly being caught in the act.