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

by Alan M. Petrillo

  “Do you know this woman?” Earle put a forefinger to his temple and rolled his eyes.

  “I am Madame Chevellier, seer of the unknown and foreteller of destinies. You must not take my advice lightly or cast it aside, for I have assisted many people in their times of duress. You may think me mad and make empty gestures, but you will know true despair once the unthinkable happens to your tram company and your guests.”

  Earle was at the point of turning away to return upstairs when he stopped short and spun toward her.

  “Here, now. What do you know about my guests? And what is this. . . unthinkable?”

  The entry hall had become quite crowded during their animated conversation and some of the men looking on pressed closer. The room was as silent as a morgue at midnight.

  “You should look to the heavens for the answer, Mr. Earle. The unthinkable will be like a lightning bolt and will transform your company from success to shambles.”

  Earle’s eyes blazed, but she had his full attention.

  “And as to your guests, you should see that they are not put in harm’s way.”

  “What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I can only tell you what I see in my dreams.”

  “In your dreams? You expect me to believe the ranting of a madwoman who pushes into a private establishment and ridicules one of its members?”

  “I felt it my duty to warn you or impending events. I have done so and will now take my leave.”

  Madame Chevellier nodded to Earle and turned to leave, but he grabbed her forearm and restrained her.

  “You shall pay for your performance here today. You mark me.”

  She tugged her arm from his grasp and pulled away, her face set in a maniacal mask.”

  “Mark you? I have foretold of events to come in front of all these witnesses,” she said, sweeping her arm in a semi-circle. “When misfortune comes to pass, remember it was I who told you so.” Then she swept out of the hall.

  Inspector Bradnum trudged up the two flights of stairs to the second floor and emerged into the plushly-carpeted corridor. As he approached the door to room 201, it opened and a house porter emerged with a tray laden with silver dish covers.

  “Someone is hungry inside, eh?”

  The house porter nodded. Spot of dinner for the folks in there. Are you going in?” He held the door open for Bradnum.

  Inside the suite, Robert Wallace stood by a sideboard with a cup of coffee pressed to his lips. He wiped a drop from his lower lip and came over to Bradnum, offering his hand.

  “Inspector. It’s good to see you again. What brings you to the Grosvenor House?”

  Bradnum played with the brim of his hat as he considered his answer. “I believe that I should speak with the president now. Circumstances have developed that have caused us great concern. I should like to discuss the issue of increasing the protective cordon around the president.”

  Wallace excused himself and went into an adjoining room, returning a few minutes later.

  “Please come with me, Inspector.”

  They went through the doorway into an elaborate sitting room, fitted out with several sofas, two groupings of chairs, and a library table. Roosevelt stood and came from behind the library table, where he had been studying maps.

  “Inspector Bradnum,” he said, clasping Bradnum’s hand in a firm grip. “Thomas has told me of the exemplary work you and your men are doing to protect me and the king.”

  Roosevelt had a smile that seemed pinned from ear to ear, Bradnum thought. No wonder he is so popular with his countrymen.

  “Mr. President. It is a pleasure to meet you. And I must say that we are doing everything in our power to be sure that your visit with us is a safe one.”

  Bradnum paused, but could see no change on Roosevelt’s face.

  “I am concerned over recent developments that you and the king may be the focus of some sort of attack during your stay in Hull. I would like to be sure that such a thing does not happen.”

  Roosevelt leaned forward and clapped Bradnum on the back with a hearty slap.

  “I couldn’t agree more. What kind of plan do you have in mind? Please sit.” Roosevelt waved his hand toward the sofas and chairs.

  For the next ten minutes, Bradnum explained the depth of the protection that was in place around the president at the Grosvenor Hotel and the king at Elmfield House. He went into detail about the expanded coverage he planned when Roosevelt joined the king and Earle. When he finished, he leaned back into the sofa’s soft cushions.

  “You look as if you could use a drink, Inspector. Do you fancy a finger or two of Scotch — what do you call it over here — whiskey?”

  “Aye, Mr. President. But I cannot drink on duty.”

  “What if the head of a foreign government orders you to have a drink with him?”

  Bradnum hesitated only a moment. “Then I must respectfully say. . . yes, sir.”

  “Capital! Thomas, bring three glasses of Scotch. We shall drink to the success of this visit. And of course, to my shooting wager with the king.”

  Bradnum raised his glass to his lips, but the president was quicker, having already drained his glass.

  Bradnum leaned against the cool stone at the side of the hotel. He knew he should never have drunk the whiskey with Roosevelt, but what should he have done — refused and caused an incident? This way, no one would know but the three of them, and no one would be talking about it. Right now though, he had to get to Glew’s flat to find out what had been happening at the Tramway Depot.

  Glew lived in a two-room flat on the second floor of a house on Pryme Street that had seen better days. The building looked indistinguishable from the rest of its neighbors up and down the block — brick facades spanning two-room widths, three stories high, sitting side by side along the entire length of the street.

  Bradnum dragged himself up to the top floor and rapped on the doorframe. The door was yanked open almost immediately, and Glew stood there with a blank look on his face.

  “Well, let me come in, Glew.”

  Glew nodded and stood aside. The front room was stuffed with furniture that didn’t match. Oak and pine chairs of differing styles were arranged around a scarred pine table. Against one wall was an aged sofa with the stuffing coming out of one arm. Across from it was an ancient leather chair with its covering so cracked that it appeared to be striped.

  “What have you found out?” Bradnum asked, lounging against a dark-stained sideboard.

  Glew began slowly, stammering and stuttering at first, but as he warmed to his report, he spoke freely, without impediment. When he finished, Bradnum smiled.

  “You’ve done well, Glew. Very well. We shall have to mount a special effort against Mr. Purling. It seems as if he is up to nefarious schemes. I for one would like to know what they are.”

  “Inspector.”

  “Yes, Glew.”

  The constable bit his lip before replying. “Take care with that one. I don’t believe he’s all there, sir.”

  Bradnum looked at Glew for a long moment before heading for the door. He wished he had his Brandreth’s pills with him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Teddy Roosevelt puffed his chest out as he emerged from the rear of the touring car that had parked under the carriage portico at the east side of Elmfield House. A double phalanx of servants, most of the men in dark suits and waistcoats and the women in white blouses and long black skirts, applauded as he strode between them and mounted the three steps to the carriage entrance hall.

  Elmfield House was laid out in the form of a cross with arms much longer than the post. The main entrance hall formed part of the shorter, northern range of rooms, comprising a sitting room, drawing room and a central hall. South of the hall was the dining room and on either side, billiards and gun rooms. A serving pantry was adjacent to the dining room, and off the pantry were the kitchen, scullery, milk room and larders.

  The west and east wings of the house were occup
ied by a dozen bedrooms, several baths placed strategically on each wing, and an assortment of sitting rooms and garden rooms, each of which provided access to the balustraded patio that wrapped around the building at the back.

  As Roosevelt stepped inside, a tall, pinch-faced man in a dark suit stepped forward and offered his hand, introducing himself as J. R. Earle.

  “Mr. Earle, I consider it an honor that you’ve allowed me to be a guest at Elmfield House. I am positively looking forward to seeing all that you have to offer.”

  Earle harrumphed a laugh. “And we shall offer you a lot, sir.”

  Off to the side, the king cleared his throat.

  “But I am remiss in my introductions,” Earle continued smoothly, stepping aside and indicating the king. “May I present His Majesty King Edward VII.”

  Roosevelt and the king stepped forward simultaneously, clasping hands and locking gazes.

  “A monumental pleasure to make your acquaintance, your majesty.”

  “And yours, Mr. President. Your reputation precedes you… in many ways.” The king still held Roosevelt’s hand in a tight grip.

  A crafty smile crept across Roosevelt’s face. “Did my man, Wallace, mention to your staff that I prefer my Dom Perignon chilled quite cold?”

  The king smiled broadly in return and released his grasp on Roosevelt’s hand. “Apparently you colonials drink your champagne as cold as you do your beer.”

  “Touché, your majesty. But one can hardly deny the pleasure of a cold draught beer on a steamy summer day.”

  “I’ve not had such a pleasure as of yet.”

  “We shall remedy that situation by having you and the queen visit us in America. After all,” he said, eyes twinkling, “you’ll want to come over next year and win back the case of Dom Perignon.”

  The king erupted in a loud laugh. “I was told that you are blunt and cocky. We shall see about the outcome of the wager when we shoot tomorrow.”

  Roosevelt nodded, and allowed himself to be led down the line and introduced to the rest of the peers and other notables who had gathered at Elmfield House. At the end of the line, he glanced back and saw the king studying him.

  Roosevelt winked and clicked his tongue in his cheek twice. “Tomorrow, your majesty. Tomorrow.”

  Bradnum leaned back in the chair and ran his hands over his face, pulling the fleshy part of his cheeks down as if he were a sad-faced hound. He squeezed his eyes together and rubbed his fingertips deeply into the corners of the sockets, pressing against the bone. The previous day had been grueling and he had sought the solace that he often found in smoking opium. He had heeded the warning of the Chinese vendor and only smoked the contents of a single wrapper, but it had been enough to chase away the demons plaguing his head and stomach for the entire night. He had slept a dreamless sleep and found that when he arose with the dawn, a hammering headache was the price he had to pay.

  Now, as the headache retreated into a dull ache at the base of his skull, Bradnum grabbed the stack of interrogation reports and began to re-read them. When he finished, something picked at the back of his mind and he cocked his head as if listening to a bird sing in the distance. Crossing to a table strewn with books, reports, letters, telegrams, manacles, a truncheon and other police detritus, he rummaged in a pile of papers and extracted two sheets of paper clipped together.

  Bradnum read through the report he had written of the Elmfield House burglary earlier in the year. Then he reviewed the report on Tram Man’s assault on a tram rider. Lastly, he scanned the letter Tram Man had sent to the Graphic’s editor.

  He knew there had to be a connection between the elements, but he simply couldn’t puzzle out what it was. And then there was the issue of the threats against Roosevelt. The last thing Bradnum wanted was to be the man responsible for letting the American president be harmed. Bradnum dropped the Tram Man letter onto his desk. He would be better off chasing down leads in the Roosevelt case right now. The Tram Man incidents had him stumped.

  The king stood in front of the gun room window and sighted down the double barrels of a Holland and Holland 12 bore at an imaginary rising pheasant. “Boom,” he said aloud, pushing the word out of his mouth as if he were blowing a bubble. He lowered the gun and drew a deep breath before returning it to the rack set against the wall. Retrieving a Purdy double twelve from the rack, the king repeated the exercise twice more and then cradled the shotgun in his arms, staring out over the garden to the pasture beyond.

  A tapping at the door roused him from his reverie.

  “Come.”

  Roosevelt strode into the room, a wide smile creasing his face.

  “I thought I might find you here, your majesty. I’ve had my guns brought down and stored in here.” He moved to a gun rack at the far end of the room. Here they are. Perhaps you would care to give them a try.” Roosevelt held out a Parker double twelve at arm’s length.”

  The king crossed the room and took the Parker from Roosevelt. He held the Purdy in his left hand.”

  “You are welcome to try the heft of my Purdy.”

  Roosevelt stepped two paces away and shouldered the Purdy in a smooth motion, swinging its 28-inch-long barrels in a smooth arc. Then he brought the gun to his eye from a ready position and aimed as if shooting at a rising bird. Slowly, he lowered the muzzled.

  “Capital! What a superb handling firearm. The only question we can ask of our firearms is “are we able to shoot as well as they allow us to?’”

  The king lowered the Parker from his shoulder and cocked his head. “I would hazard a guess that question will be answered at the end of the day tomorrow when the keepers count the bag.”

  Roosevelt handed the Purdy back to the king and retrieved the Parker.

  “Yes, I suppose it will. Let’s be sure the keepers can count high.”

  Then he snapped the Parker to his shoulder and smoothly simulated a shot, making a popping sound with his mouth. He turned to the king and smiled. “I love the taste of champagne.

  Patrick Sweeney edged along the iron fence, sheltered from view from anyone inside the estate by the thick stand of boxwood bushes that formed a long border on the other side of the barrier. He turned the corner and found the street ahead of him deserted, now that the day’s shadows had lengthened. Quickly he pulled himself to the top of the six-foot-high fence and dropped to the ground on the other side. He considered himself fortunate that the fence tops were flat stubs instead of the usual pointed bars becoming popular. With a measured pace Sweeney moved along the perimeter of the estate, keeping the edifice of Elmfield House in view, but shielding himself from detection by using bushes, trees and in one instance, a gazebo, as cover. He was about to move from behind a grouping of ornamental shrubs when he heard them.

  “Anything, Mate?”

  “No and I don’t believe we shall see a thing all night.”

  “Well the inspector seems convinced that’s something is amiss or he wouldn’t have been so forceful about us performing our duties, as he put it.”

  “My duties should be home in bed with the woman tonight, instead of walking back and forth in J. R. Earle’s garden.”

  “But the king and the American president count on us to protect them.”

  The sound of a harsh laugh reached Sweeney’s ears.

  “They’ve nothing to fear. There’s nothing out there but rabbits eating the bloody flowers.”

  Sweeney eavesdropped on the two men until their voices began to fade and he took the opportunity to slowly peer around the bush. They had separated and walked in different directions, each carrying a foot-long wooden truncheon on a leather lanyard. They were dressed in civilian clothes, but Sweeney could spot a policeman from a block away. He stared hard at the policeman nearest him. There seemed to be a large lump in the man’s coat pocket. It was unlikely that he was carrying his supper hidden there. The lump had to be a revolver.

  Sweeney backed away into the shadows and made his way back to the fence the way he had come.

/>   “Bloody hell, he thought. “Now they’re bound to be everywhere. I’ll have to find a way around the buggers.”

  Richard Purling watched the tram turn onto Chanterlands Avenue where it ran through Hull Western Cemetery toward the outer limits of the track system. Once he was sure the tram was well on its way down the street, he emerged from behind the bushes and walked briskly to catch up with the passenger who had left the tram at the intersection. As he approached from behind, Purling could see that the man was elderly, shrouded in a long coat, and walked with the assistance of an ebony-handled cane.

  Purling timed his approach to come abreast of the man when he was deep in shadows between street lamps on the quiet road. The man turned at hearing his tread, but Purling pushed into him and pulled a black hood over the man’s head, tightening the ends around his throat. The old man’s feet slipped out from under him and as he fell he struck out with his cane, splitting the skin at Purling’s hairline.

  Blood dripped from Purling’s forehead and splattered on the old man’s overcoat as he thrashed on the ground, but Purling held a strong grip on the ends of the hood and pulled tighter. In less than a minute the old man stopped moving. Purling held his grip until he was certain the old man was dead and then removed the hood.

  From the inner pocket of his jacket he extracted a paper that he unfolded and slipped inside the front of the old man’s coat. Then he stood, and after checking the street in both directions, pulled himself over the chest-high cemetery wall and disappeared into the gloom.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The heavy pounding wrenched Bradnum from a deep sleep and he plodded to the door to put a stop to the noise.

  “What in the hell is it?” he growled, yanking the door open.

  A burly police constable filled the doorway. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Inspector, but there’s been a murder. I’ve been sent to fetch you.”

  Bradnum dragged a hand over his eyes and across his mouth.

  “Why at this time of night? Wouldn’t it keep ‘til morning?”