And what statement was a villain trying to make by stoning tram passengers, Bradnum mused. Was he so dissatisfied with the tram service that he resorted to violence in order to make his point? Perhaps he was some sort of maniac who could not control his emotions. Bradnum wiped his forehead with a heavy hand and looked up Grimston Street toward the station. He should be getting back. He took this brief constitutional to clear his mind and try to put a different face on this confusing case, but nothing seemed much clearer to him.
The tramway situation calmed down after the rock throwing incident, only to boil over again when two unattended trams were set afire. The trams, the newer Preston models, had stood apart from the ranks of the others in the rear yard of the Tramway Depot, awaiting movement into the work shed for servicing. Seemingly in the blink of an eye, for no one at the depot professed to witness any unusual activity, the pair of Prestons, standing side-by-side on adjacent tracks, were found fully ablaze from one end to the other. By the time the fire brigade arrived to extinguish the flames, the trams had burned down to their trucks.
Bradnum turned to head back to the station and in doing so bumped against a thin, bent-over old man, nearly knocking him down. Bradnum grabbed for the man’s arm and kept him from falling, though the old man’s knees buckled for a moment.
“Pardon me. I didn’t see you. Are you hurt?”
The small man peered up at Bradnum and squinted. “Is that you, Bert Bradnum? By Jove, it is.” The man’s face was split by a smile, showing a missing tooth in the top row.
“Chief Inspector Dewson. I hardly recognized you. I heard you had moved to the south of England to get more sun.”
Dewson’s smile turned devilish. “I try to be where people think I’m not. It was a technique I used when I was on the force and one that you would do well to use.” He poked a bony finger at Bradnum’s chest.
“Yes sir, a worthwhile suggestion. The old place hasn’t been the same since you pensioned off.”
“What in bloody hell are you doing standing around on street corners when you should be off solving crimes? The smile had not left Dewson’s face.
“One of those cases with an unusual set of circumstances has me flummoxed. I thought a change of scene might help me sort it out, but it has not.”
Dewson laid a finger alongside his mouth and struck a pose. “Well, lad, I find myself at loose ends at the moment. The public houses are open now. Stand me to a pint and tell me the tale. I may have an idea you can use.”
Why not, Bradnum thought. The chief inspector had one of the keenest minds in the East Riding when he was on the force.
“Any particular kind of ale you’d prefer?” he asked.
The chief inspector started walking down the street. “We might try more than one if your story is long enough. Try to make it long, eh?”
“Leaky, come in here for a moment. I should like a word.”
Albert Leake looked up from the paper he was studying and squinted at the dwarfish figure of his editor, Samuel Owst, standing in the doorway.
“What news on the king’s visit with Roosevelt at the end of the week?”
“Roosevelt is expected to arrive by ship at Liverpool tomorrow afternoon and will spend the night in the Metropole. We have a correspondent who will wire us details of his arrival at the dock and also at the hotel.”
Leake paused in case Owst wanted to ask a question, but none was forthcoming.
“The next day a special express will convey Roosevelt and his entourage on the Liverpool and Manchester line straight across the country to Hull. The king’s private secretary, Thomas Taylor, will lead the delegation to welcome the president at Paragon Station. The king and the president will meet later in the evening at a private supper at the Grosvenor Hotel.”
“What have you learned of the shooting party to be given by J. R. Earle?”
“King Edward and President Roosevelt will travel to Elmfield House and remain there as Earle’s guests for the following two days. There is talk of a large wager between the king and Roosevelt concerning the number pheasant each expects to bag.”
“Who is the better shot?”
“The king has been practically raised with a shotgun in his hands since he was a youngster, and he is no stranger to pheasant shooting. But Roosevelt has the reputation of being a keen sportsman and an excellent wing shot. I am told that many of our citizens are laying wagers of their own.”
“On whom?”
“The money is on the king, although Roosevelt appears to have some support. Perhaps it is due to the odds. The king is favored, two to one.”
“Home country favorite no doubt. From what I have read of Roosevelt, one should never underestimate him.” Owst stretched and linked his fingers being his head. “After the shooting?”
“The king is scheduled to perform a ceremonial dedication of the Hull Tramway Company’s tenth anniversary of electrification. That is scheduled for the Saturday of Roosevelt’s visit and both the king and the president will perform the ceremonial duties. The king especially asked that Roosevelt be included.”
“Jolly big of him, eh?”
Leake studied Owst’s face for a trace of humor, but knew that the editor had a reputation for possessing a lack of it.
“I expect that with the president in town, it was nearly impossible for the king to exclude him. In any event, it is a ceremonial event they must endure as royalty and politicians must do. The two of them have a private supper scheduled for that evening. Roosevelt leaves the next day for Africa.”
“Directly from Hull?”
“Yes, sir. A steamer, the Majestic, will be sitting alongside Riverside Quay to take the president south to his African safari. It’s said he’s headed to Kenya for lion and buffalo.”
“Well he certainly won’t find such creatures here in Hull. It’s as quiet and dreary as place as any in England. Nothing ever happens in Hull.”
“Two pints of Whitbread,” Bradnum said, and dug in his waistcoat pocket for coins with which to pay the landlord. The Queen’s Dock public house was a decrepit timber building on the north side of Dock Street, facing the huge area for which it was named. Warehouses and timber yards lined the quarter-mile-long docking area and mooring posts sprouted along its edge like mushrooms after a damp spring. Bradnum hefted the two pints and edged past knots of early-midday drinkers, arriving at a small table where Dewson lounged in a ladder-back chair.
“To your health, Chief Inspector.” Bradnum raised his glass and took a long draught.
Dewson wiped flecks of foam from his lips. “This tramway case you’re investigating; tell me about it.”
Bradnum took a long drink of ale before launching into his involvement in the case. Ten minutes later, he finished his story, but not before the inspector’s glass was empty.
“I could do with another.”
Bradnum fetched two more pints.
“The way I see it, lad, there are several directions for you to take. But the one with the best probability of giving you a payoff is to look inside.”
“Inside? I don’t understand.”
“Sure you do, lad. Inside. Someone inside the company is behind these incidents.”
“All of them? That hardly seems likely. And I’ve looked into the backgrounds of several employees that the managing director said were outspoken concerning the tramway company. I found nothing.”
“Then perhaps you didn’t look deeply enough to find something.”
Bradnum sat silently, trying to decide whether the old man was insulting him or was simply too frank for his own good. Then he remembered a cold night on the docks years ago, guarding a warehouse of valuables with one of the old hands from the station. The old boy had spoken of the chief inspector, who, he said, always spoke his mind and invariably was right in his assessment. That’s what had garnered him the best case-solving reputation in the entire East Riding.
“You are suggesting that I somehow missed some important detail in investigating these ind
ividuals?”
“Lad, I am suggesting that things is never what they appear to be. There always is something else happening that we’re not aware of. Your job is to figure out what that something is.” Dewson drained off half of his ale in a single pull. He smacked his lips when he finished. “Damn, I like a good ale.”
Bradnum couldn’t help smiling. “Let’s assume that you’re correct. That means I have to review all those interviews and begin digging deeper.”
“Aye. And I would look a little more closely at that burglary at Earle’s place. A bit coincidental, don’t you think?”
Bradnum had not thought it coincidental, but he was not about to admit it to the chief inspector. “In what way?”
“You have this series of unusual events targeting the tram company, its trams and passengers. Concurrently, a burglary is perpetrated at the home of the chief director of the tramway company. Valuables are stolen from Elmfield House, as well as some private papers that J. R. Earle will not discuss with anyone. Suspicious, you must agree.”
“You believe there is a link between J. R. Earle and a tramway employee who is disgruntled to the point of violence?”
Aye, lad. I’m not only suggesting; I am telling you that’s where you’ll find your villain.”
Teddy Roosevelt grabbed the ship's rail and leaned out from the upper deck of the S.S. Ohio, the turbine-powered steamship that had carried him across the Atlantic in near record time, owing to favorable winds and more favorable weather. He wavered at the rail as the ship bumped against the wharf fenders, pushed into place bow first by a snout-nosed tug.
Turning to his chief of staff, Roosevelt flashed a toothy grin. “And so the adventure begins.”
Wallace inclined his head to the side. “Please remember, Mr. President, that this not entirely a holiday trip. You have important ceremonial duties ahead of you.”
The grin was still on Roosevelt’s face. “Robert, you worry too much. Of course I shall attend to the ceremonial duties. God knows I’ve done it enough in my political lifetime. But what I’m looking forward to is bagging more pheasant than the king and taking possession of that case of champagne from him.” Roosevelt’s expression changed to serious. “It’s not that I want the champagne itself, though we’ll have a grand time with it. The issue is more primeval than that, Robert. It’s what I felt down in Mexico with the Rough Riders. It’s taking the measure of a man, and beating him.” Roosevelt grinned again, more widely this time. “Let’s get off this tub and have a bit of fun at the Metropole.”
Bradnum grimaced as he swallowed the thick liquid. He screwed up his face and shuddered as the mouthful of Dinneford’s Magnesia slid down his throat, defying him to describe its taste. Tilting the bottle a bit, he reread its label. The Universal Remedy for Acidity of the Stomach, Headache, Heartburn, Indigestion, Sour Eructations and Bilious Affections. He had no idea what those last two ailments were, but because the other four beset him regularly, he was certain he must be afflicted by those two also. He returned the bottle to its place in the bottom desk drawer as Constable James Glew tapped on the doorframe.
“You wanted to s-s-see me, Inspector?”
Bradnum grabbed his hat from atop a pile of papers and came around the side of his desk. “You’ve read the interview reports on the tramway cases?”
“Yes, s-s-sir. An interesting lot.”
Bradnum stopped in mid-stride. “In what way?”
“Well s-s-sir, what s-s-struck me most was the escalating level of violence against anyone associated with the tram s-s-system.”
“Stand at ease, Glew. You’ve nothing to fear from me.”
Bradnum could see the constable was nervous in his presence, probably because of the stuttering impediment that had earned him the nickname of Stuck-like Glue. The other constables in the station used it to haze him regularly, which only compounded his stuttering problem. From Bradnum’s perspective, Glew’s handicap grew worse when he was flustered, but he had a sharper mind for police work than most of those hectoring him.
“Now that you have a flavor of the case, you can accompany me and assist in re-interviewing some of those tramway employees who were on the manager’s questionable list.”
“Do you expect them to tell different stories, sir?”
Bradnum jammed his hat on his head. “What I expect is one of them will tell us different lies. We have to figure out which one is lying and what those lies are. Now let’s get along.”
The Pease Street Reading Rooms lay only four blocks away from the main entrance of Hull’s Paragon Station, surrounded by a fenced plot of spiky grass growing under elderly plane and elm trees. After arriving on the 2:32 express from London’s King’s Cross, Gallagher headed for the quiet facility run by St. Luke’s Church as a library and reference room for those unable or unwilling to use the Hull Museum’s Grand Library. William Gallagher stopped at the entrance and dropped to one knee to tie his boot, and at the same time glanced along the way he had come for a sign of someone following him. There was none.
Inside, he signed into the reading room’s roster with a false name and made his way along a dim corridor into the main reading room. Suffused with light from floor to ceiling windows on its south side, the reading room proved to be a stark contrast to the entrance and hallway leading to it. The rectangular room contained eight rectangular oak tables, each complimented by four solid-backed oak chairs. Two reading lamps were arranged down the center of each of the tables.
Gallagher chose an unoccupied table in the far corner of the room and sat with his back close to the angle formed by the two walls of books. Within minutes of his entry into the room, Patrick Sweeney appeared in main doorway, standing stock still, scanning the room with a slow-moving gaze. He looked over Gallagher and continue his scan, and only moved to Gallagher’s table after he had apparently satisfied himself about the secure state of the room.
“God bless all here,” he said, his gaze level with Gallagher’s. “And how does life find you, William?”
“What the good Lord doesn’t provide, we find for ourselves. Life is about making choices, isn’t it Patrick.”
Sweeney leaned back in the chair, lifting the two front legs from the ground and fixed Gallagher with a hard stare. “And have you made the proper choices in life, William.”
Gallagher hesitated. He always felt uncomfortable around Sweeney, as if some tragedy was about to happen around him. Being uncomfortable was tolerable, but the truth was he was afraid of Sweeney. Afraid of him, and of his reputation.”
“You should know I always have the best interests of the cause foremost in mind, Patrick. I would never betray the cause.”
“Interesting that you should use the word, ‘betray.’ Are you trying to tell me something without saying it?”
“Not at all,” Gallagher said, a bit too quickly. “The difficulty is that this Roosevelt predicament is a bit over the top, don’t you think?”
A slow smile played across Sweeney’s lips and he wiped it away with his hand. “One of the keys to our success with the British will be to involve the Americans by enlisting them on behalf of the cause. Many Irish in America already send dollars back to the old country to help us. What we intend is an event that will cause the average American to notice and take our side against the Brits.”
“I have no quarrel with enticing the Americans to help us. But the method that we’re using, threatening the American president…” Gallagher’s voice trailed off. “I’m not sure it is the right way.”
Sweeney leaned across the table and put a surprisingly muscular hand on Gallagher’s forearm and squeezed hard. “You should leave the strategy to me and McCafferty. Now tell me more about Elmfield House and how we’ll be able to get onto the grounds.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Gallagher talked about J. R. Earle and his manor home, Elmfield House, where the king and the president were scheduled to shoot pheasant. Gallagher had walked the perimeter of the grounds and knew the best access points for Swee
ney and his accomplices. He told Sweeney all the details, and drew a sketch of the property on a small piece of paper that he drew from his pocket. When he was finished, he sat back, a sheen of perspiration on his brow.
“Now that wasn’t so difficult, was it William?”
“Don’t mock me, Patrick. I am doing my best.”
“I know you are,” Sweeney said, patting Gallagher on the shoulder. “The sad part of this whole interview is that we may never need to act on this information.”
“What do you mean?”
“Only that we have two men in Liverpool right now, intending on dealing with the American president. They’re both good, trustworthy men. We may not need to implement the Elmfield House plan at all, if they succeed.”
Gallagher covered his mouth with his hand to hide his surprise.
“That’s it, then. William. You have done well. Let’s walk down to the Botanic Hotel Public House by the station and have a drink. My treat.”
Gallagher could only nod as he stood to accompany Sweeney out of the reading rooms.
Chapter Seven
Michael O’Brien and Peter Duffy stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the edge of the crowd jamming the pavement in front of the main entrance to the Metropole Hotel. There was an expectant hum in the air, as if a swarm of bees hovered over that part of the street. When a murmur went up from the crowd, Duffy, who stood a whisker over six feet tall, stood on his tiptoes and peered down the road.
“There’s a big saloon car slowing down in front of the hotel,” he said to O’Brien, who at five foot four inches tall would have needed a small ladder to see over the top of the crowd. “Now a footman has come around and opened the door. There’s some tout getting out. Wait now. Yes, yes. The next fellow is the president.”
As Theodore Roosevelt stepped from the rear of the touring car, a ragged cheer began at one end of the mass of people and made its way across the crowd like a wave breaking on a shoreline before melting into a singular loud chorus of voices. Many of the onlookers applauded Roosevelt as he strode down a narrow walkway that had formed down the middle of the crowd.
A Case of Dom Perignon: From the Victorian Carriage Mystery Series Page 5
