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

by Alan M. Petrillo

  The door opening interrupted her thoughts and she watched Inspector Bradnum move across the thick carpet and lower himself into a chair set at right angles to hers.

  “Madame Chevellier, it is a pleasure to see you again. I trust this is a matter of some urgency, because as you can imagine, I am quite busy.”

  Bradnum’s face was a mask to her today. Usually he was quite open and readable, but today was different. He must be under considerable stress, she decided.

  She opened her eyes wide and smiled at him. “Inspector. I fully realize how the pressures of your job weigh heavily upon you, especially today. But I must tell you of an incident of which I have learned.”

  Bradnum leaned toward her. “Has someone threatened you?”

  She shook her head. “No, it is not me who is in danger. It is the American president, Roosevelt.”

  Bradnum leaned back and exhaled loudly, as if he had been holding his breath. “You are not telling me anything I do not already know.”

  Madame Chevellier narrowed her eyes and her lips formed into a tight line. “I had another dream about the president. It was not a good one.”

  “Madame,” Bradnum began. “Have we not gone down this lane before?”

  She nodded. “And have I not been proved right with everything I have told you from my dreams?”

  Bradnum raised his hand and stroked his chin. “You have been more right than wrong, I will warrant that.” He hesitated, still rubbing his fingers under his chin. “Tell me about it,” he said, finally.

  She closed her eyes and again saw the images from the previous night. “The president and the king are on a raised platform together, somewhere near a street. There are crowds of people around them in the streets, cheering and shouting at the two of them. A band is playing off to the side. I cannot quite make out the tune, but I believe it to be God Save the King.”

  Madame Chevellier paused and drew a lace handkerchief from the sleeve at her left wrist and daubed at the corner of her mouth with it. She breathed deeply and continued.

  “There is a commotion at the back of the crowd, some type of altercation and yet I cannot make out what it is. But it is the type of altercation that bodes no good omen. The king and the president, both standing near some type of machinery that I cannot clearly see, are looking toward the area of the commotion.”

  She paused again, and then spoke rapidly.

  “There is a loud flash and the sound of thunder, but whether it is actual thunder and lightning or something else, I cannot say. I also do not see the sky in my dream, so I do not know what type of weather persists there. When the flash has gone and the smoke clears on the platform, the king is still standing, but the American president is lying on the ground. It does not appear that he is breathing.”

  Bradnum had inched forward until he was sitting on the edge of his chair. As she finished, he scooted back into the soft cushions and then raised his forefinger to her.

  “You are being forthright with me, are you not, woman?”

  She held his stony gaze for a long moment. “Aye. That I am. I only tell you what I have seen.”

  Bradnum stood and looked down at her. “I am trusting you,” he said. “God help me if I am wrong.”

  “This man, Purling,” Bradnum said to Glew and another constable, Whiteside, “he has ‘trouble’ written all over him. I want the two of you to go over to the Tramway Depot and collect this man. Bring him into the station, in manacles if you have to. I want to have a few words with him. He’s the buggar that was at the reception last night, trying to get in to see the king and president. Needless to say, he did not have an invitation.” Bradnum stopped to stifle a belch with the back of his hand. “J.R. Earle sent the man on his way. I think it is time we had a long, probing conversation with Mr. Purling.”

  Glew elbowed Whiteside as they left the station, stepping out onto the crowded pavement.

  “That inspector is a right rum one, eh, Whitey?”

  Whiteside shrugged. “I does what I’m told. He says pick up this Purling bloke, that’s what I shall do.”

  Glew grinned at Whiteside. “How long have you been on the force now?”

  “Seven years.”

  “And you still don’t know when you have an opportunity to get on the good side of an inspector who can help you?”

  Whiteside only shrugged again.

  They engaged a dilapidated open carriage cab at the corner and quickly were clopping along the cobblestones toward a courtyard off 67 Flinton Street, down by the St. Andrew’s dock.

  “Hold it, cabby,” Glew called. “Pull over here.”

  Glew told the driver to wait, that they would soon return with another passenger. No double the deep blue of his uniform helped make up the driver’s mind to comply. Glew led Whiteside down a narrow space between numbers 67 and 68 Flinton Street to a dingy, grimy trash-strewn courtyard at the back of the buildings. At the far side of the courtyard, an open staircase led to the first floor of a weathered wooden building. While Whiteside waited on the ground, Glew ascended the stairs and then pounded on the flimsy door.

  He cocked his head as he heard scraping sounds coming from inside the room, and hammered on the door a second time.

  “It’s the police. Open the door. We want a word with you.”

  Glew tried the door latch, but it didn’t move. The door was bolted. The scraping sounds got louder and Glew hammered a third time. He motioned Whiteside to join him.

  “Hull police constables. Let us in or we’ll take the door down.”

  There was no response from inside the room.

  “Right, Whitey. On three, we’ll bust down the door. One, two, three.”

  The two constables rammed their shoulders into the flimsy door and crashed it from its hinges, the pair of them sprawling into the room atop the door sliding on the plank floor. Glew regained his feet first. He looked wildly around the shabby room and quickly saw the open window at the back.

  Glew pushed his head and shoulders through the window, stretching for a look outside.

  “Oh, shit,” he said, pulling back inside. “Whitey, let’s go. Our man has bolted across the back garden. He’s two fences over already and moving fast.”

  By the time Glew and Whiteside got over the second garden fence they were faced with nothing but gardenias.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “How the hell could you bloody lose him?” Bradnum shouted. “The man didn’t even know you would be there looking for him. How did he give you the slip?”

  Bradnum paced up and down a narrow aisle in the cluttered office, turning to face Glew again.

  “Well?”

  “I have no excuse, sir.”

  Bradnum stared at Glew for a long moment.

  “And why didn’t you send Whiteside around to the rear of the building? You had the front bloody well covered yourself.”

  Glew and Whiteside stood at attention in front of Bradnum’s desk, their eyes focused straight ahead and their faces betraying no emotion. Bradnum looked the pair up and down again.

  “Get the hell out of my sight.”

  As the constables each tried to be first through the doorway, Bradnum called out.

  “Glew, a moment of your time, if you will.”

  Glew stopped short and slowly turned to face Bradnum.

  “Take a chair, Glew.”

  Glew moved back into the office as if he were picking his way through a pasture littered with cow dung. He sat in the tattered old chair in front of Bradnum’s desk, his gaze following Bradnum as the inspector paced back and forth.

  Abruptly Bradnum sat down and slid open a desk drawer, withdrawing a blue bottle that he uncorked and raised to his lips. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and replaced the bottle in the drawer, slapping it shut with his shin. He looked straight at Glew.

  “Dinneford’s Magnesia,” he said. “It’s the only thing that gets rid of this damn indigestion that I get when cases go sour.”

  Glew nodded, but did
n’t say anything.

  Bradnum, still looking at Glew with a sergeant-major’s glare, finally exhaled loudly.

  “Relax, Glew. I shan’t scream at you again. I want a sympathetic ear.”

  “Sir? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Just this. Sit there and listen. If you have a comment on what I say, by all means tell me. I am trying to puzzle out this damned case so that we don’t end up with a dead king or a dead American president, or both."

  Bradnum saw he had Glew’s full attention.

  “You have worked with this Purling chap and reported that he is a fine engineer, but a man of limited social skills. Is that correct?”

  “Aye, Purling is much more comfortable with machinery than he is with people. He even talks to the machines, almost like…”

  “Like what, Glew?”

  The constable shrugged. “Like they was his family.”

  Bradnum pulled at his chin, pinching his lower lip between his fingers.

  “And he has no living family that we know of, does he?”

  Glen shook his head.

  “And Purling certainly has been vocal in his criticism of J. R. Earle and the Hull Tramway Company, has he not?”

  “That he has. In fact, the last time I worked with him he told me that Mr. Earle would soon regret the ill treatment that he gave his workers. Purling said he was going to set the balance straight.”

  Bradnum leaned back and gazed at the ceiling.

  “What the devil do you think he meant by setting the balance straight?”

  Glew shrugged again. “I suppose that he would somehow take his revenge on Mr. Earle and the tram company.”

  Bradnum’s slowly rose from his chair and his eyes grew wider as he did. He planted his hands on the desk and leaned toward Glew.

  “You have done well, Glew.”

  “I have?”

  “Positively. It is so clear to me now. Run out there and have the duty sergeant report to me. I think that we now know where Mr. Purling can be apprehended.”

  “And where is that?” Glew asked.

  Bradnum’s face creased into a sly smile. “Why the tram rededication ceremony, of course. It is the one event that he is sure not to miss."

  Albert Leake licked the tips of his ink-stained fingers and rubbed them back and forth on his black trousers. No one would know the difference, he thought. Besides, his trouser legs probably carried enough ink on them to print the entire text on the front page of today’s Graphic, which lay spread on the table in front of him. Leake adjusted a pair of spectacles on the bridge of his nose and leaned closer, reading to himself.

  POLICE REMAIN PUZZLED

  BY RECEPTION POISONINGS

  by Albert Leake

  Hull police are still devoid of clues that might help identify the villain who poisoned the hors d’oeuvres at the reception given by the American president Roosevelt for King Edward VII at the Waltham Street Hotel on Saturday last.

  No motive has been attributed for the dastardly deed, but wisdom suggests that the notable personages at the head of the reception line surely must have been the intended targets of the poison. But to the time of this writing, the police have refused to confirm that either the King or Roosevelt, or perhaps both, were the intended recipients of the poisoned food.

  As it developed, some 14 individuals were affected in some way by the poison, believed to be a form of strychnine or rat poison. Eight of those were hurt severely enough to require spending time in hospital, where three of them remain today.

  Leake straightened up from the table and pushed his fingers under the spectacles, rubbing his eyes. The damned police had been most unhelpful when he had tried to verify the number and names of the victims of the poisoning. Inspector Bradnum had refused to speak to him at all, while the sergeant who usually doled out information found other duties to attend to rather than talk to him. Leake had finally coaxed some of the information from a constable relatively new to the force, although it had taken plenty of small talk and three cigarettes to accomplish.

  Leake pushed the spectacles back down his nose and resumed reading.

  Those still in hospital are Madame Ruth Le Barge, a local dowager who has published two volumes of poetry; Mr. Simon Harris, owner of the coal exporters, modern transport company; and Mrs. Trudy Robbins, wife of the noted solicitor, William Robbins.

  The other five individuals who were taken to hospital that night were examined by physicians and released to go home. Six people who ate the poisoned hors d’oeuvres and became ill refused to go to hospital and sought the assistance of their private physicians.

  At the heart of the case is the question of not only who would perpetrate such a deed, but why. It must be obvious to the dimmest bulb in the lot that it was not these fourteen people who were the target of the attack, it must have been the King and the American president. And yet the police refuse to speculate on that possibility.

  And yet, Hull police have stepped up their efforts at protecting the King and President at J. R. Earle’s Elmfield house, even to the point of calling out a platoon of the East Yorkshire regiment to help secure the perimeter of the estate and patrol the grounds.

  It remains to be seen whether the squaddies of the 15th foot will also be used at the rededication ceremonies of the electrification of the Hull Tramway Company lines, where both King Edward VII and President Roosevelt will perform ceremonial duties.

  Leake smiled as he read the final paragraph. The idea to suggest in print using the Army at the tram dedication ceremony had leaped upon him like a stag fleeing a hunter and he had hurriedly included the notation, before his better judgment had changed his mind. But was it so fantastic to think that the inspector might not do such a thing? The man had surprised them all in the past, so Leake felt comfortable trying to stay a step ahead.

  Leake’s problem had been, though, one of a lack of access to information. But he hoped to remedy the situation, at least as far as the other story he was covering — the Tram Man case. Outside the Waltham Street Hotel on the night of the president’s reception, he had seen a man ignominiously ejected from the building, so forcefully that the man lost his balance and sprawled onto the pavement. Leake had helped him to his feet and listened as the man ranted about J. R. Earle and the tram company. Leake had pulled a battered pad and a pencil from his pocket and began writing. When the man had drawn a breath, he asked his name.

  “Richard Purling,” was the reply.

  Patrick Sweeney edged closer to the table and spoke in a raspy whisper.

  “This bloody project has begun to annoy me. It should not be so difficult to accomplish what we want to do, but we have not succeeded.”

  William Gallagher sipped a beer while Shamus Loughrey found something or someone of interest across the room to look at. Sweeney saw him looking away.

  “If it’s not too much bloody trouble, Loughrey, you might want to pay attention to me.”

  Loughrey snapped his head back in Sweeney’ direction.

  “Your trouble, Loughrey, is that you’re too bloody weak. You don’t have the nerve to finish jobs properly.”

  “That’s untrue, Sweeney. I’ve been a loyal member of the group. You only need to ask and I will do it.”

  A sly smile crept across Sweeney’s face.

  “Just ask, eh? That’s all I have to do?”

  Loughrey gulped hard and nodded.

  “Then listen carefully, because I don’t want anything to go wrong this time.”

  Loughrey drew himself up on the stool. “I’m listening, but I’m not hearing anything.”

  Sweeney narrowed his eyes, but smiled again. “Spunk. That’s what I want to see from you. More spunk. Now listen. The president and the king are going to do a ribbon cutting ceremony to mark the anniversary of the electrification of the trams. We are going to be there and are going to use that ceremony to a different kind of dedication.”

  “What kind of dedication?” Loughrey asked.

  Sweeney looked a
t him like he would at a backward child. “The Cause, you bloody idiot; the Cause.”

  Loughrey nodded. Next to him, Gallagher had not said a word, but had taken in the entire conversation.

  “In order for us to draw attention and support for the cause of Irish freedom, we shall have to involve the Americans. They are lazy and only concerned about what happens on their side of the ocean. We plan on drawing their attention to this side of the Atlantic. We are going to make sure that the Americans rise up on our side against the British.”

  Gallagher drained his pint mug and asked, “What do you plan to do? Blow up the president?”

  Sweeney slowed turned toward Gallagher and a wide smile spread across his face.

  “That is exactly what I intend to do.”

  The words had hardly been out of Sweeney’s mouth when Loughrey started breathing heavily and pushed back from the small pub table. He had the look of a stricken deer on his face and his legs trembled. He grabbed the edge of the round table for support.

  “I shall not be a part of any killing. Especially, of the… the… President.:”

  Loughrey glared at Sweeney, and after casting a sideways look at Gallagher, nodded and left the pub.

  Sweeney watched him leave. Once he was through the door, he turned to Gallagher.

  “Just like old times in the Republic, eh Boyo? It’s just you and me now.”

  Gallagher took a drink from the fresh pint the barmaid had brought. “You and me,” he echoed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  J.R.Earle had tried to prevail upon the city council to allow him to hold the tram rededication ceremony at a public square near Paragon Station in the center of Hull, but the councilors had balked at the possibility of major city thoroughfares becoming choked by unmovable masses of pedestrian, motorcar, tram and horse carriage traffic. After considerable negotiation and haranguing from Earle, they had allowed the use of Dryport Square and its adjacent green in Hull’s eastern ward of Drypool. The square had the advantage of a pair of crossing tram tracks, and it stood only a short distance from the Clarence Corn Mills to the northwest and the Drypool Basin and Victoria Dock to the south.