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

by Alan M. Petrillo

  “The duty sergeant said ye’d want to see this one, sir.”

  “And why is that?”

  “It’s council member Ascot, Inspector. And then there’s the note on the body.”

  “The note?”

  “Aye. From Tram Man himself.”

  Bradnum splashed water on his face from the washstand basin and dressed hurriedly. Within a half hour, he and the constable arrived at Bank West in front of Hull Western Cemetery. The constables had cordoned off the murder scene with hemp rope that ran from the cemetery wall to a horse-drawn wagon standing in the road, along the street to a two-seat police car and then back to the wall. The area was lit by more than a dozen large lanterns. A sergeant detached himself from a small knot of policeman and came over as Bradnum got out of his vehicle.

  “Apologies for dragging you out of a warm bed, Inspector, but I was sure you would want to see this for yourself.” He gestured to the body laying across the pavement.

  Bradnum approached the dead man.

  “Was this the manner in which the victim was found?” he asked.

  The sergeant stepped closer and made a face. “No sir. When the first constable arrived, he noticed a paper sticking out of the front of the man’s coat. The constable opened the coat and read the note, which is why we summoned you.”

  “Are we absolutely sure that it is Mr. Ascot of the council?”

  “Positively. I know the man and that is definitely him. Poor buggar.”

  Bradnum pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and picked up the note by a corner. He tilted it to catch the light and read aloud.

  FOR THE HULL POLICE:

  I WARNED PEEPLE THRU THE GRAPHIC TO STAY OFF THE TRAMS. THEY DID NOT LISSEN SO I KILLS THIS CONCIL MAN TO MAKE THEM KNOW WHAT HAPPENS. BECAUSE JR EARLE DOES NOT HELP HIS WORKERS I WILL DO MORE HARM IN COMING DAYS IHEER YOU CALL ME TRAM MAN NOW HA HA

  ZEUS

  “Christ, just what I wanted to see in the middle of the night,” Bradnum grouched. Turning to the sergeant, he said, “Have the constable who found the body report to me. I would like to question him. Has Doctor Rawson examined the body yet?”

  “Yes sir. He has come and gone.”

  “Splendid. Then have the corpse removed to the morgue for the postmortem. I expect that with those ligature marks around his neck we shall be told he was strangled to death.”

  “Anything else, Inspector?”

  Bradnum rubbed his stomach, which rumbled noisily.

  “Yes. One more thing. See if you can find some Eno’s Fruit Salts for me.” He stifled a belch. It was going to be a long night.

  The morning dawned cool and clear, with only wisps of high clouds scudding across the sky. Teddy Roosevelt stood at the open window with the drapes drawn aside, breathing deeply and exhaling noisily, all the while watching the sun appear over the treed horizon. He turned at the sound of rapping on his door.

  “Robert, what a delightful morning. Come over here and take in a lungful or two of this wonderful country air.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President, but I’ve already been outside to speak with the keepers.”

  Roosevelt cocked his head. “The keepers? And what have they to say?”

  Wallace smiled thinly. “Only that the king is a crack shot and that you shall have your work cut out for you if you’re to best him in this contest. The wager between the two of you is all that anyone on the estate is talking about.”

  Roosevelt’s teeth gleamed whitely as he smiled. “Bully for them! I hope they put their money on the right man.”

  “It appears that the wagering amongst the staff is running two to one in favor of the king.”

  The president threw back his head and laughed. “You had better snatch some of those wagers for yourself, Robert. I daresay you could make quite a killing, so to speak.”

  “I shall keep that in mind, sir. Will you be taking breakfast here or downstairs with the others?”

  Roosevelt stretched his arms overhead and turned back to the window. “Downstairs, Robert. No sense in denying the English a closer look at their colonial betters.”

  A half hour later, Roosevelt strolled into the dining room and all conversation ceased at the table as a dozen pair of eyes watched him enter.

  “Gentlemen, please. Don’t let me interrupt your discussions,” Roosevelt said, sitting in a chair at the midpoint of the table. “Your Majesty, I trust you are well.”

  The king, at the head of the table, nodded and smiled slowly. “You slept well, I take it? We certainly would not want anything spoiling your aim today.”

  Roosevelt sat back as he was served from a silver tray. “My aim is the same every day, your majesty. Dead on.”

  The king’s face remained a pleasant mask. “Yes, well, I suppose it will all come down to that later today.”

  As breakfast wore on, the conversation at the table moved from shooting to politics to international events. Lord Roseberry, a septuagenarian with twinkling blue eyes who sat across from Roosevelt, leaned forward.

  “Mr. President, perhaps you could tell us of your adventure on the rail line from Liverpool. It is said there was an explosion on the line.”

  Roosevelt squared his shoulders and looked directly at Lord Roseberry.

  “Nothing to worry about, my lord. There is plenty of unpleasantness in the world. Regrettably, some of it took place not far from here on a railroad siding. But I am reliably informed that no one was injured and only rolling stock was damaged. Rail cars can always be replaced, can’t they?”

  Roosevelt raised his coffee cup to the group. “Gentlemen. Enough talk of trivial matters. Here’s to good shooting.”

  The headline on the special early afternoon edition of the Hull Graphic screamed off the front page in two-inch-high black headlines.

  COUNCIL MEMBER ASCOT

  MURDERED

  MYSTERIOUS NOTE FOUND ON BODY

  The article, carrying the byline of Albert Leake, continued in a similar vein.

  Last night a dastardly murder was perpetrated upon one of Hull’s distinguished and longstanding council members, Edwin Ascot. Mr. Ascot was found on the north pavement of Bank West, adjacent to the Hull West Cemetery. Police sources tell the Graphic that it appears Mr. Ascot had been strangled.

  One of the more curious aspects of the case is the appearance of a note that was found tucked into Mr. Ascot’s overcoat, assumedly after his death. While we were not told of the contents of the note, a constable did confirm that the note was addressed to the police, made further threats against the citizens of Hull, and was signed by the Tram Man.

  Interested readers will remember that the villain who has come to be called ‘Tram Man’ has in the past communicated with the Graphic’s editors in the hope of stating his case to the public. Apparently Tram Man has grievances with the Hull Tramway Company in general and the managing director, Mr. J. R. Earle, in particular.

  The Tram Man has taken responsibility for causing several accidents along the tram lines and also of assaulting passengers after they use the trams.

  The police have had no luck in catching Tram Man thus far. Inspector Herbert Bradnum is in charge of the case and continues to say that the police are investigating all avenues that might lead them to the apprehension of their man. But to this point, it has all been for naught.

  The news account went on for many more paragraphs, rehashing the accidents along the tram lines that were ascribed to the Tram Man, as well as those assaults on the unfortunate citizens who had used the tram system and been assaulted after exiting the trams. The article concluded ominously.

  Many in the city are asking the obvious question of the police: When will Tram Man be caught so that citizens can again feel safe in the confines of their town? To this point, the police have no answer to that question.

  The sun had begun to slip well toward the horizon when the last drive of the day started. The beaters that the keepers had hired moved through the thick underbrush on the back acreage of the estate, making as
much noise as they could in order to flush any pheasants lurking under the cover. As a handful of beaters moved up out of a depression laced with thick cover toward an open field, a trio of pheasant ran and then exploded into the air in front of Roosevelt.

  The president raised his Parker smoothly to his shoulder and took the first bird down at head height. He continued swinging the double barrel gun from right to left and centered the second pheasant on the barrel’s gold bead.

  Blam! The report of the shotgun split the air and the second pheasant tumbled to the ground.

  Almost as soon as Roosevelt had pulled the trigger on the second bird, another shot rang out from his left. The king had pulled down on the third pheasant flushed and dropped it into the field as it had tried to gain enough height to escape.

  Roosevelt lowered his Parker and looked over at the king, who still was looking toward the bird he had shot, when two near simultaneous shots sounded and the ground in between the two of them was rent with lead shot.

  Roosevelt threw himself to the ground, sprawled out alongside a small rock outcropping. When no further shots were fired, he stood and brushed himself off.

  “What the hell was that all about?”

  A keeper ran up to Roosevelt and touched his cap. “Mr. President, please come this way.” He led Roosevelt toward a fold in the ground where the king had already been taken.

  “Theodore, are you all right?” the king asked.

  “Fine. I might ask the same of you.”

  “I am untouched. Those shots…” the king began. “Do you think they were meant for us?”

  Roosevelt raised up on his toes and peered over the edge of the depression where they stood hidden.

  “I don’t think they were for the birds, your Majesty.”

  William Cole edged into Bradnum’s office and stood in front of the inspector’s desk wringing his cap in his hands. Bradnum thought he looked like a schoolboy called into the headmaster’s office for a rules infraction.

  “The sergeant tells me that you have information about what the papers call the Tram Man case. Is that correct?”

  Cole nodded his head and a thick lock of dark hair fell across his eyes. He brushed it back. “Aye, Inspector. I am acquainted with a man called Richard Purling, an electrical engineer at the tram depot where I work.”

  Bradnum motioned him to sit. “And what is your position at the tramway?”

  “A driver, sir. I believe you spoke to me at a derailment on Charlotte Street near the Queen’s Dock some months ago.”

  Bradnum rose and raised a forefinger in front of his face. “I remember you now. You were most helpful with details of the accident scene.” He angled his head and peered at Cole. “What do you have to say now?”

  “Only that I am certain that Richard. . . Purling, I mean to say. . . is planning something very unpleasant for the owners of the tramway.”

  Bradnum straightened and pinched his eyebrows. “Very unpleasant, you say. Would you care to elaborate for me?”

  “It’s like this, Inspector. Richard is an excellent engineer. He knows more about the properties of electricity than anyone else in the town, probably in the entire county. But he has been very secretive of late and spends more and more of his time in the electrical generating shed, even to the point of neglecting the maintenance on the trams. And that is one of his chief responsibilities.”

  “I don’t see how this relates to the case.”

  Cole squirmed in the chair. “I don’t know how to say this, sir, so I’ll simply come out with it. I believe that Richard is Tram Man.”

  Bradnum sat down and stared at Cole for several seconds before speaking. “Please tell me what makes you come to that conclusion?”

  Cole took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “You see, Richard has always been an unusual individual. Goes his own way, if you get my drift. But I have what you might characterize as a friendship with him, although I think it is more because of my efforts than his. In any event, he has been unusually reticent of late and much more vociferous in his railings against the world in general and J. R. Earle in particular. Richard believes that the tram company, and specifically Mr. Earle, treat the company employees badly. I cannot say that I agree with him. I think he has some type of limitation on his brain that causes him to think unclearly. That is the only answer that I can suggest for his unusual viewpoints and behaviors.”

  “And what would these behaviors include?”

  Cole drew another deep breath. “As I said earlier, he spends an inordinate amount of time in the electric generating shed, which he has never done in the past. He also has an assistant now, a Mr. Glew, to whom he seems to have attached himself as a professor would fasten onto a potential protégé. And from what Richard has told me in snippets of conversation, I believe that he prowls the tram lines at night. For what purpose, I cannot say.”

  Bradnum stared at Cole for a half-minute without saying anything. As if awaking from a daydream, he asked, “Was there any other point to which you would like to draw my attention?”

  Cole shook his head. “No sir. That’s the lot of it.”

  Bradnum jumped to his feet, smiling. “Well I must thank you for your candor, Mr. Cole,” he said, extending his hand. “I shall find you at the tram depot if I have any further questions.”

  Roosevelt entered the billiards room and headed toward the king, who was deep in conversation with his private secretary in front of the French doors. At his approach, the king said something nearly inaudible to Taylor, who nodded and excused himself.

  “What news of the mysterious shots this afternoon?”

  The king leveled his gaze at Roosevelt and took a long sip from the short tumbler he held. “A whiskey, first, perhaps?” he asked, and when Roosevelt nodded, the king snapped his fingers in the direction of a servant standing against the wall.

  When Roosevelt had a whiskey in hand and the king’s drink had been refreshed, the president tried again. “Edward, you are not being very forthcoming with details.”

  The king sighed heavily. “Theodore, you are a man used to the travails of the military life and have had the experience of being shot at before. Without result, fortunately. I have not been in such a situation until today and it has unsettled me.”

  Roosevelt sipped the whiskey and smacked his lips. “By god, that is tasty.” He leaned forward toward the king. “Eventually, you shall come to look at this incident as simply another event in your long life. And yes, I can sympathize with you about the effect being shot at produces in a man. The thing to remember is that whoever was behind the trigger, missed. We can be thankful he was a bad shot. I assume your men caught him?”

  The king leaned back into the folds of the chair, causing the leather to squeak. “My men were not able to locate the shooter.”

  Roosevelt’s eyebrows arched. “Edward, he had to have been within 50 yards or closer to us. How could they not catch him?”

  “Their first concern was for our safety, so they hustled you and me into that dip in the field. Only after they saw us safe did it occur to my chief man to search for the perpetrator. He was able to determine that the shots came from a small copse of trees to the west. By the time he arrived there and examined the surrounding area, the shooter had gone.”

  “There was no sign of him?”

  “Only one or two bootprints. And these.” The king drew a pair of shotgun cartridge casings from his waistcoat pocket. He passed them over to Roosevelt.

  “Twelve bore casings,” Roosevelt said, holding them up to the light. “And it appears they were filled with double zero shot, if this marking on the side is correct.”

  The king nodded. “Aye. What do you Americans call it?’

  Roosevelt leveled his gaze on the king. “Double-ought buckshot. It’s generally used to bring down deer-sized game. I suppose it would serve well on human-sized targets as well.”

  The king shuddered and took another sip before turning to the servant. “Find Mr. Taylor and ask him to step
into the billiards room.”

  The king’s private secretary appeared five minutes later, dressed in a black suit and white shirt that looked as if they were brand new.

  “Taylor, have you been able to tally the results of the shoot this afternoon?”

  “Yes, your majesty. I have it right here.” He pulled a paper from his inside jacket pocket and unfolded it before handing it to the king.

  “That will be all for now, Thomas.”

  When Taylor had gone, the king smiled thinly at Roosevelt. “You are desirous of knowing the bag results, Theodore?”

  “By thunder, you know very well I am. What are they?”

  The king handed him the paper. “I shot 57 birds and you bagged 62. I suppose I owe you a case of Dom Perignon.

  Roosevelt smiled broadly and extended his hand to the king. “I shall think of you each time I open a bottle.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Inspector Bradnum’s boots crunched on the gravel drive as he walked toward the main entrance of Elmfield House. The duty sergeant had sent a constable to awaken him at midnight and tell him of the attempt against the king and the president. Try as he might, he couldn’t fall asleep after that bit of news and spent the balance of the night pondering the improbabilities in this case.

  A well-tailored butler led him along the main corridor of the house and showed him into a sunny conservatory where the king, Roosevelt and Earle stood examining a grouping of orchids.

  “Inspector. Good of you to come by,” the king said. “Dastardly business.”

  “Your majesty. Mr. President. I have been informed that both of you are unharmed.”

  “Unharmed, but getting damned angry with whoever is behind these attempts,” Roosevelt said.

  “Yes sir, I can understand why you would be angry. But I have questions I would like to pose so I can get on with the investigation.”

  “The bloody police have been unable to find anyone responsible for all that has happened thus far,” boomed Earle. “What makes you think you shall be any help in this situation?”