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

by Alan M. Petrillo

  Bradnum started to formulate a defensive answer, but was interrupted by the king, who said, “Tell us what you need to know.”

  “Mr. Earle, were there any new faces among the keepers on the estate?”

  Earle pushed out his lower lip and shook his head. “Nay. They have all been with me for years.”

  “How about among the beaters used to drive the pheasant?”

  Earle exploded. “How the hell should I know the background of every common worker who comes onto my estate. You can assume there were plenty of new faces among them.”

  Bradnum kept his temper in check. “I shall require a list of the names of those individuals used as beaters.”

  Earle glowered at Bradnum. “I shall have my man get it for you. Anything else?”

  “Your Majesty, did you notice anyone among the shooting parties who appeared not to belong there or not to fit in with the crowd?”

  “No, I cannot say that I did.”

  “Mr. President, how about you?”

  “Inspector, I was watching for the birds, not the beaters.”

  “Understandable, sir. But perhaps you might have noticed something that escaped your attention during the shoot.”

  Earle interrupted. “This is a waste of time. Are you not done yet?”

  “J.R., let the inspector finish,” the king said gently.

  “Now that you bring it up,” the president said, “there was a young lad among the beaters who seemed to keep well apart from the others when we stopped for a rest.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Short, slim, about nineteen or twenty years old. And he had a shock of red hair and freckles. Looked like an Irish lad.”

  Bradnum looked from one man to the other and finally snapped his notebook shut. “Gentlemen, thank you for your time. I shall not be troubling you further this morning.”

  Outside Elmfield House, as Bradnum was getting into his car, a small two-seat Wolseley car drew up beside him. Albert Leake stepped out and touched the brim of his hat.

  “Morning, Inspector. Would you care to give me a comment about the Tram Man case, or perhaps you would like to address the unexplained shooting at the king and the president?”

  Bradnum ground his teeth and clenched his fists, but then forced himself to relax.

  “Leaky, you really should take a bit more time in preparing your stories so you get the facts right.”

  “The facts are that the police are at a standstill on the Tram Man case. And my guess is that you shall be in similar circumstances concerning this shooting.”

  Like a bowstring snapping under too much pressure, Bradnum’s patience broke. He grabbed Leake by the collar and the scruff of his pants and propelled him back through the still-open driver’s door of the Wolseley, releasing him to sprawl across the seat and bump his head into the opposite door.

  Bradnum pickup up the notepad Leake had dropped and tossed it into the car.

  “Do not return until you find a civil tongue in your head,” he said.

  Bradnum watched the chief keeper shift from foot to foot and finally lean against the wall of the bird shed at the back of the estate, his fingers plucking at the fabric of his cord trousers. The shed was a three-sided roofed enclosure that provided the keepers a measure of protection from the elements as they tallied the animals taken during a hunt and then cleaned the carcasses in preparation for going to the kitchen. Bradnum moved in closer to the keeper.

  “Dutton, isn’t it?”

  The keeper nodded, still plucking at his leg.

  Bradnum smiled through pressed lips. “How many keepers were out among the crowd yesterday?”

  “Three keepers. Four counting me, sir.”

  “And the number of beaters?”

  “Oh, much greater, sir.” The keeper looked toward the roof of the shed as if the number of beaters were somehow written there for him to see. He rolled his eyes back down to look at Bradnum. “Nearly four dozen sir.”

  “All from the estate?”

  The keeper shook his head. “Nay. We cannot keep so many on staff, so we use men from the town. Men who have beat for us before.”

  “And was that the case yesterday. All men who beat for you in the past.”

  Dutton looked at the ground and scraped his boot heel in the dirt. “Nay, I cannot say they did.”

  Bradnum cocked his head and stared hard at the keeper. “I am sure you would like to explain what you mean.”

  The keeper drew a deep breath before answering. “We had to have another dozen beaters for the hunt, as it was such a large one. We are not used to pushing that many birds from cover all at the same time.” He pulled at the corners of his mouth. “I called on an acquaintance at the Old Mill Public House and had him send over some men who had worked as beaters before.”

  Bradnum took a step back, keeping his gaze on Dutton. “And the man’s name?”

  “Loughrey. Shamus Loughrey. You’ll find him at the Old Mill pub in the evenings.”

  Bradnum put his forefinger to his lips. “Not a word, Mr. Dutton. Nothing. Do I make myself clear?”

  Dutton hung his head and nodded. “Aye. You do.”

  Richard Purling splashed the tepid water on his face from the wash basin and swore silently as it splashed down the front of his trousers. He snatched a threadbare cloth from the wooden rack above the washstand and quickly soaked up the liquid on his pants and then returned to soaking his whiskers. When he was satisfied that the stubble on his face was soft enough, he wet a worn shaving brush in the basin and then swirled his vigorously on the thin cake of shaving soap. When he had enough lather, he leaned close to the small mirror on the wall and carefully painted his face with the lather. Stropping the straight razor several times to hone its edge, he held it up to the light before applying it to his face in a long, broad stroke.

  When he finished shaving, Purling rinsed his face and shook out a few drops of the precious lavender scent that he had saved for special occasions. He grimaced as the liquid stung his scraped cheeks, but forced himself to smile at the reflection in the mirror.

  “You shall have a fine time tonight with those who consider themselves your betters,” he said to the reflection. “And they shall see exactly who they are up against.”

  Purling studied himself for a minute before turning to the narrow bed where he had laid out the rest of the suit of clothes he would wear that evening. He got into the stiff white shirt and fumbled with the wrist and neck fastenings, finally securing them with another silent curse. He next put on the plain black waistcoat, and buttoning it carefully. Last, he shrugged into the jacket that was too long in the sleeves and a bit big in the shoulders. He had purchased the jacket at a second-hand store three blocks away and was not happy with the fit at the time, and yet could do nothing about it. Purling puffed out his chest and then turned sideways to look at his profile in the small mirror.

  “It will have to do,” he said to his reflection, before leaving the dingy room.

  The Old Mill Public House stood on the site of a medieval flour mill that was abandoned after the course of the stream it straddled dwindled and eventually dried up. The mill itself fell into disrepair until an enterprising stranger from one of the southern counties arrived in town with enough money and enthusiasm to buy the structure and try to rehabilitate it, not as a mill, but as a public house. Sitting near a major crossroads on the outskirts of Hull, and not far down the road from Elmfield House, the Old Mill Public House quickly became a social focal point for the area and remained as popular as when it was rebuilt.

  Inspector Bradnum pushed open the heavy pub door and stepped into the smoky haze in the large front room, stopping for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Seeing the publican at the end of the long bar, Bradnum threaded his way through throngs of patrons and squeezed into a spot at the bar’s end. When the publican approached, he showed his warrant card and leaned across the bar.

  “I would like a word with you about one of your patrons.�
��

  The publican's eyebrows rose and he scanned the bar room. “There’s lot of them here tonight.”

  “I am only interested in one of them. Shamus Loughrey.”

  Bradnum saw the publican’s gaze flicker to the back of the bar room, to a table in a corner where a sandy haired, middle aged man sat along, a mug of beer on the table in front of him.

  “Is that Loughrey?” Bradnum asked, cocking his head toward the corner.

  The publican nodded so slightly that anyone watching would have failed to notice.

  Bradnum raised his hand in acknowledgement and moved across the room. He pulled a stool out from under the table and sat.

  “Fancy a bit of company?”

  Loughrey stared hard at him. “Who might you be?”

  “Only a man seeking information.”

  “Try the reading rooms over on Hever Street,” Loughrey snapped. “They have plenty of books there for getting information.”

  Bradnum sighed heavily and produced his warrant card. “Inspector Bradnum. And you would be Shamus Loughrey, I believe.”

  “You would be right in believing that.”

  “Have you heard anything about what took place at Elmfield House this afternoon?”

  Loughrey stiffened. “I know nothing of the place.”

  “Then you did not supply a dozen beaters to the chief keeper there?”

  Loughrey opened his mouth to speak, but must have thought better of it. He said nothing.

  “I already have a statement from Dutton that you procured a dozen beaters to supplement those he usually uses for pheasant drives on the estate. If you are having difficulty remembering that arrangement with Mr. Dutton, perhaps we should step along to the police station where we can continue this discussion.”

  Loughrey snatched his mug from the table and swallowed half its contents, putting the mug back on the table with a shaky hand. “What if I did supply beaters for the hunt? There’s no crime in that.”

  “Ah, that is where you are wrong,” Bradnum said, waggling his forefinger. “You see, one of the men you put on that estate took shots at the king and the American president.”

  Loughrey’s eyes grew wide and his mouth formed into a circle as he sucked in air. “Oh, Christ.”

  “He will not be able to help you now, Mr. Loughrey. The man we are seeking is about nineteen or twenty, of Irish descent, with a shock of red hair and plenty of freckles. Does that description sound familiar to you?”

  “The stupid shit.”

  “I am sure that cannot be his name, Mr. Loughrey.”

  Loughrey exhaled loudly and stared at Bradnum for a long moment. “All right. His name is Billy Behan. You can find him in lodgings on Atwood Street.”

  “Very well. Finish your beer, Mr. Loughrey. You and I are going to the station to continue this chat. And then I shall go and see Mr. Behan.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bradnum looked at the address he had penciled on a scrap of paper and then peered down the row of dilapidated houses lining Atwood Street. He was two blocks away from the sawmills that flanked the enormous Victoria Dock and its adjacent timber ponds and yet the smell of freshly-sawn timber stuck in his nose. He found number 28 halfway down the street, a three story wood and stone house, with hanging shutters and badly in need of paint. Next to it was a narrow alley leading to a dingy courtyard in the rear.

  As he stepped into the courtyard, two dirty children scampered away from him, but not before he caught the nearest by the collar and lifted him off the ground. Bradnum held the boy at arm’s length, keeping his windmilling feet a safe distance away.

  “Run, Benny. Run. He’ll get you for sure,” the boy called to his companion, who disappeared into a narrow space between two sheds.

  “Easy, boy,” Bradnum said. “I mean you no harm.”

  The boy stopped kicking. “I knows a copper when I sees one.”

  “Since you are such an observant lad, perhaps you can help me. I am looking for a young man called Billy Behan who lives in the court. Can you tell me where he might be?”

  The boy eyed Bradnum warily. “Wot’s it worth for me?”

  Bradnum smiled as he set the boy on the ground. “Tuppence.”

  The boy folded his arms across his chest and looked away from Bradnum. Turning back, he said, “Sixpence.”

  Bradnum shook his head. “Thruppence will have to suffice.”

  “Done.”

  The boy held out his hand for the coin, but Bradnum held it back. “The information first.”

  The boy pointed to a doorway at the bottom of a short staircase to a cellar. “Down there. We calls him ‘rat boy’ on account of he’s always catchin’ rats.”

  Bradnum pressed the coin into the boy’s outstretched palm and watched him scuttle away into the same hole into which his friend had squeezed.

  Hitching up his pants, Bradnum approached the cellar door and rapped hard on it three times. He could hear someone moving inside and took a half-step back as the door swung open to reveal a red-haired, heavily-freckled young man of about twenty.

  “Billy Behan?”

  “And who wants to know?”

  Bradnum held out his warrant card and introduced himself. “You can tell me what you know about the shooting at Elmfield House here and now, or we can talk about it at the police station. It’s your choice, lad.”

  “What if I’ve nothing to say?”

  Bradnum sucked in his lower lip. “That would be a bit difficult for me to believe. We know you were employed on the estate as a beater for the king’s hunt. You were seen near the woods when the shots were fired at the king and the president. And Shamus Loughrey himself confirms that he supplied you with an old double twelve bore. He says you haven’t returned it. Shall I come inside and have a look for it?”

  Behan’s eyes had widened as Bradnum talked, and the inspector slipped his foot over the threshold in case the boy tried to slam the door. But Behan appeared to deflate as his shoulders sagged and he pushed the door open.

  “You may as well come in. You will anyway.”

  Bradnum followed him into the small, shabby room, its only furniture a rickety chair, a scarred wood table and a straw mattress set on a wooden frame. Bradnum looked around the room and bent down at the end of the bed frame, reaching under it. He extracted, butt first, a double barrel hammer gun.

  “Would this be the shotgun we were just discussing?”

  Behan hung his head and nodded.

  Bradnum set the gun down on the bed and took hold of the boy’s forearm.

  “Billy Behan, I am placing you under arrest for making an attempt on the lives of the king of England and the American president.”

  The Waltham Street Hotel stood to the northeast of the six-way intersection of Jameson, King Edward, Waltham. West, Story and Chariot Streets. The hotel had been erected 50 years earlier on the east side of Waltham Street, two buildings north of the intersection. In the intervening years, the hotel management purchased the buildings to the south and renovated the spaces so the hotel had a presence on the busy intersection, only a block north of City Hall.

  In the course of renovations, the hotel installed a magnificent ballroom on the first floor, where it was able to seat five hundred guests for formal dinner at a single serving. The room was lit by glittering chandeliers made by LeGrande, one of the finest makers in Paris, and its broadloom carpet was deep purple, the color of royalty. When the heavy drapes were pulled back from the windows fronting the hotel, guests could look down the length of King Edward Street to the statue of the late queen in Queen Victoria Square.

  Waltham Street Hotel was the place that Teddy Roosevelt chose to host a reception for King Edward VII and as many of Hull’s notable citizens as could be gathered in the ballroom.

  Roosevelt, ever the amiable host, stood at the center of a knot of well-wishers not far from one of the of several bars placed strategically throughout the ballroom, finishing the story of how he had dropped two pheasant with a singl
e shot.

  “Those birds rose from the bracken almost as one,” he said, “but I was ready for them. I had heard them running over there and was facing toward them, with my gun at the ready.” Roosevelt raised his hand to his mouth and kissed the inside of his fist with a loud smack. “It was a thing of beauty to see. The two pheasant rising hard, trying to get enough speed up to escape. And there I was, standing ready, my gun’s muzzles already swinging onto them, leading them just a little bit because they were moving so slowly. And then, Blam, Blam.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Down they went.”

  Someone at the rear of the group raised his glass. “To President Roosevelt.”

  Hands raised glasses and voices called, nearly in unison, “To the president.”

  As they finished the toast, a herald at the ballroom’s entrance stood to attention and bugled a call on his horn.

  “His majesty has arrived,” someone said.

  All eyes turned toward the ballroom entrance as King Edward VII stepped through the wide doorway, resplendent in a military uniform, his chest covered with ribbons and medals. The king made his way through to the center of the ballroom, nodding to well-wishers, speaking a word or two to several people. As he traversed the room, the group in front of Roosevelt parted and the king walked straight up to the president. The king smiled, showing very white teeth.

  “Well, Theodore. I can tell you it is an extreme pleasure to be honored by you at this reception.” The king gestured around the room. “So many good friends and acquaintances are here. I am very pleased.”

  Roosevelt inclined his head to the king. “Your majesty. The night is yours. I am pleased to be your host. There is only one thing I must ask.”

  The king’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “And what might that be?”

  Roosevelt winked. “That you don’t forget the case of Dom Perignon you owe me.”

  For a moment the king looked blankly on, and then broke out into laughter.

  “Theodore, you are incorrigible.”

  As he spoke, a commotion broke out near the ballroom’s entrance. Roosevelt looked over and saw a small man with a shock of unruly hair struggling with J. R. Earle. The man seemed intent on coming into the reception and Earle seemed just as intent on keeping him out. After a minute of pushing back and forth, a burly man in evening clothes and a constable took hold of the small man by his arms and ushered him out of the ballroom.