Inspector Bradnum stood at the head of a wooden barrier erected across Great Union Street where Clarence Street intersected it from the west. He peered toward Dryport Square as a handful of constables moved along behind him, each carrying another section of wood for a new barrier. A wooden platform had been constructed and placed in the blocked section of the road at the Square so that it stood adjacent to the tram tracks that ran down the road’s center. When a tram was run up the tracks from the south end of Great Union Street, it could be brought to a stop adjacent to the platform, where Edward VII and Roosevelt would perform their ceremonial duties.
Bradnum scuffed his boot across the polished tram tracks and then ducked under the barrier, striding down the street. At the front of the platform he turned and faced Drypool Green and studied the raised wooden benches that had been erected on the soft green turf. The entire Green was covered with seating, right up to the row houses that fronted on the Green itself, separated only by a narrow slate walkway. The rear of the Green was bordered by a six-foot-high weathered wooden fence that separated it from the timber yard beyond.
Satisfied that he had the lay of the land of the Green in his mind, he turned back toward the street and almost bumped into Glew, who had quietly crept up behind him.
“Damn, Glew. What the hell are you catting about for?”
“Sorry sir. You said to bring another squad of constables with me.” Glew indicated a dozen policemen milling around on the other side of the platform.
Bradnum moved in front of the constables and squared his shoulders.
“Men, you should be aware of how important the security detail for this ceremony is, what with the king and the American president planning to be present. As a precaution, we shall be forced to check the residents of every dwelling along the northeast side of Great Union Street over there, and along the west side of Drypool Green over here.” He pointed at the buildings as he spoke and saw each man’s gaze follow his pointed direction.
“We need not be concerned about the south exposure, because it is protected by a high wooden fence and there only is a timber yard beyond it. The eastern exposure of the Green, as you can see, is protected by the stone wall that fronts along the graveyard at the side of St. Peter’s Church. So we should expect no difficulties from that direction.”
A constable at the rear of the group raised his hand. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but what are we to ask the people in the houses?”
A murmur rose from the group and Bradnum raised his hands for silence.
“We want to be sure that the person or persons who are in residence in each house belong there. You can ask them to provide some kind of proof if you are doubtful about them. If there is any doubt in your mind about a resident, you are instructed to take the individual or individuals into protective custody until the tram rededication ceremony is over and the king and president have left the area.”
Another constable piped up. “Sir, what do you mean by questionable?”
Bradnum felt anger rising, but calmed himself. This is no time to shout at a thick constable, he thought.
“Just this, Constable. If you have any doubt at all that the individual you are talking to doesn’t belong in the dwelling, then you should remove that person immediately.”
“Where shall we take them, sir?”
“We have set up a special area in the Waterloo Public House around the corner to the west on Harcourt Street. Take anyone who is questionable there and make them comfortable in the back room. Constables will be on hand in the pub to be sure no one leaves until the ceremony has finished.”
Bradnum looked at the group. “Right. Since you’ve exhausted your questions, we should get to work. Constable Glew will serve as the coordinator for any individuals removed from their premises. Report to him first, over there at the barrier at the head of the road, before going to the Waterloo. Dismissed, men.”
The constables gathered around Glew and he divided them in half, sending the first group along the Green and the second to the other side of the road. When he finished, he turned back to Bradnum.
“Anything else, sir?”
Bradnum put a hand on Glew’s shoulder and drew him closer. “This is a very important detail, Glew. We must not mess it up.”
“Yes, sir. We won’t.”
“There are a couple of constables at the barrier up there,” Bradnum said, pointing to the blockaded road. “Run up there and have one of them fetch a dozen sets of manacles.”
“Manacles, sir?”
Bradnum clapped him on the shoulder and pushed him gently in the direction of the barrier. “Manacles, Glew. We don’t know what or who we will encounter in those houses. We should be prepared.”
The house to house search turned up nothing except a dozen weary constables and a group of uneasy residents of the lower section of Great Union Street. The area wasn’t in the league of the posher areas of Hull, but it still served as home to thousands of poorer folks who lived and worked in Drypool Ward’s many industries and commercial establishments.
Bradnum had bought a copy of the Graphic that morning and read Leake’s story about the ceremony, especially noting his mention of calling out the 15th Foot for added protection. But Bradnum was well ahead of the newsman. He had taken a quick lunch at Elmfield House with Colonel Hopkins two days earlier and received the Colonel’s guarantee that another platoon of the East Yorkshire Regiment would be made available to patrol the site of the tram rededication ceremony.
Bradnum stood in the middle of the platform and slowly turned in a circle, studying the ground and buildings around the Square and the adjacent Green, the barricades that sealed off the road from traffic, and the placement of constables and soldiers. He drew a deep breath and sighed. He couldn’t think of another thing he could do to protect the king and president, short of canceling the entire event, which he had already suggested and been refused.
People had begun to filter into the Square from both ends of Great Union Street, after having undergone scrutiny by constables and soldiers stationed at the barricades at each end of the road.
Bradnum had allowed food vendors to be admitted to the area and to set up on the Green. As long as he controlled the situation, Bradnum reasoned, he may as well make the event as enjoyable as possible for those attending. Each of the vendors had been interviewed by a constable and each cart thoroughly searched for any contraband. None had been found.
Along the west side of the Green were a coffee cart, an eel seller, a fruit cart, a ginger beer and lemonade hawker, and two women with carts selling cakes and tarts. Bradnum’s stomach growled as he looked at the food sellers. He had eaten an early breakfast at 5 am of nearly-cold, congealed oatmeal, a poached egg and a crust of stale bread. The breakfast was not carrying him far into the depths of the morning.
Bradnum started down the open staircase at the side of the stage and as he looked out over the crowd a movement caught his eye. Someone had ducked down underneath a set of the raised benches. It appeared to be a man wearing a soft green hat and a tan coat. Bradnum took the stairs two at a time and landed on the roadway harder than he would have wished. He motioned to Glew.
“Come with me, quickly.”
The pair wove through the crowd as it snaked its way toward the seating area. As they neared the benches, Bradnum broke off to the right, with Glew following him closely. Bradnum ducked around a coffee seller’s cart at the end of the row of benches and peered under the raised end. Crouched there was Richard Purling, wearing a tan coat and green hat.
As Bradnum lurched forward, Purling skittered out of his grasp and hustled in a stooped run under the raised benches to the other end. Bradnum grabbed at him, but came up with nothing but air.
“Glew, get after him.”
He had hardly shouted when Glew shouldered past him, running fast after Purling.
Purling exploded out of the far side of the raised benches and headed directly for the fence that separated the Green from the timber yard
. He leaped at the six-foot-high fence and pulled himself up so his chest was just above its top. Purling paused to look back at Glew running toward him and just as Glew reached the fence, Purling dropped over onto the other side.
Glew was up to the top of the fence within a moment and flipped over it, sprawling onto the soft dirt on the other side. Purling was laying there next to him, groaning and holding his ankle. Glew pulled a pair of manacles from his jacket pocket and locked them on Purling’s wrists.
“I arrest you in the name of the law,” he said, and then sat down next to the injured man, breathing heavily.
Inspector Bradnum burst into the front office of the bag and sack merchants, A. Kewley and Company, across the road from Clarence Corn Mills, and pulled his warrant card from his pocket, waving it at a pudgy clerk behind a chest-high counter. “The managing director, if you please. Police business.”
The clerk’s eyes grew wide as he looked past Bradnum toward Glew and two other constables who half dragged Richard Purling through the front door before they unceremoniously dumped him into a wooden chair.
“The managing director,” Bradnum insisted.
The clerk shot through an open doorway quicker than Bradnum thought possible and returned with an elderly, pinch-faced man with thinning gray hair.
“What is the meaning of this commotion?” the man asked, standing with his chin thrust forward and his hands on his hips.
Bradnum waved his warrant card at the man and half-turned to indicate Purling. “Inspector Herbert Bradnum of the Hull Police,” he said, leaning closer to the managing director. “I am in charge of the security arrangements for the king’s appearance at Drypool Square and am in dire need of a private room to interrogate a suspect.”
The managing director pulled a white handkerchief from his left cuff and touched his lips before waving it toward Purling.
“Take him away. We have no room such as you require.”
Bradnum stared at the managing director for several seconds, and then leaned still closer, his voice a loud whisper.
“If you do not find a quiet room for me to question this suspect, then I shall assume you are hostile to the police and will make it my business to find some obscure city regulation that your business has broken and charge you with the crime.” Bradnum straightened up and cocked his head. “What say you now?”
The managing director touched his lips with the handkerchief and then cleared his throat.
“We always have been supportive of the police. I suppose my office would suffice for your purposes.”
“Splendid!” Bradnum boomed, clapping the man on his thin shoulder. “Lead the way.”
When they had wrestled Purling into the office and put him in a chair in the center of the room, Bradnum dismissed the two constables, but kept Glew with him.
“Take off the manacles and let Mr. Purling recover a bit.”
When Glew had removed the manacles, Purling kneaded his wrists where the metal had bitten into the skin. “Don’t know why you had to have the damn things on so tight.”
Bradnum eased his butt onto the edge of the desk, one leg dangling over the side. “We do so in order that our charges don’t consider ill-advised attempts at escape.”
A sneer formed on Purling’s face and he turned to face Glew. “And you. I taught you things I have not shown anyone else at the depot. I thought I could trust you. But you’re a copper, that’s plain to see now.”
Glew shrugged, but said nothing.
“The constable was acting under my direct orders, Mr. Purling,” Bradnum said. “If you have an objection to his actions, you should take it up with me.”
Purling glowered at Bradnum, and then shook his head.
“Mr. Purling, we have serious concerns about your presence today at the tram rededication ceremony. Would you please tell us why you are here?”
Purling hunched his shoulders and mumbled.
“I did not hear you. You wanted to see the king, perhaps, Mr. Purling?”
“I care not for the king, nor anyone else.”
Bradnum arched his eyebrows. “That cannot be so, Mr. Purling. I have been told that you care greatly for what happens at Hull Tramway Company. You are especially concerned about the behavior of J. R. Earle, are you not?”
“That man,” Purling hissed. He drew a deep breath. “Earle has done nothing but pillage the town in the name of business and trample on the rights of good workers in his employ. He lives the life of a country squire, but denies his employees of the basic necessities. He is foul and a stain on society.”
Surprised by the outburst, Bradnum decided to continue to prod his suspect. “And as a stain on society, it was necessary for someone to remove that stain, is that right?”
Purling’s eyes widened and he nodded quickly. “Yes, yes, of course. You see it now. No one else had the courage to stand up against Earle, so it was left to me. That’s why I did it.”
“Did what, Mr. Purling?”
“Took him and the company on, of course. It was me who derailed the trams. It was me who assaulted the passengers. It was me who done in that toady, council member Ascot, for doing Earle’s bidding. And it was me who set the electrical generation equipment for today’s surprise.”
A cold chill swept down Bradnum’s spine. He chose his words carefully. “Exactly what kind of surprise have you planned, Mr. Purling?”
Purling leaned back in the chair and smiled widely. “J.R. Earle will be on the platform next to the king and the American president to cut the ribbon today. I have set a timing device on the electrical generation equipment that will send a huge bolt of electricity along the lines to the tram used in the rededication. It was a tram that I rigged out myself.” He snapped his fingers sharply. “There you have it. An electrical explosion. Too bad for anyone around J. R. Earle.”
Bradnum was off the desk and halfway to the door. “Cuff him to that iron pipe over there,” he shouted to Glew, “and then follow me. We have to get to the ceremony before the king and the president get on that platform.”
Patrick Sweeney walked swiftly along St. Peter’s Terrace until he reached its end at the front of a three story brick house that had been divided into a series of flats. Slipping into a narrow alley along the east side of the house, Sweeney emerged into a unkempt, overgrown garden surrounded by a stout wooden fence. After determining that he was alone, Sweeney crossed the open space and pulled himself to the top of the fence, and then dropped onto the other side.
He was now in another back garden, but this one belonged to Number 78 Great Union Street, a three-story structure directly across from the raised platform where the king and president would ceremoniously cut the ribbon. The police had considerately blockaded the road along the pavement in front of Number 78 to allow for space to park the vehicles that the king and the president would arrive in.
Sweeney hefted the satchel he carried and moved to the ground floor rear door of Number 78. It was locked. Looking left and right to be sure he was unseen, he pulled a short piece of iron from his pocket and inserted it above the hasp of the lock in the door. He gave the stout iron bar a quick pull and the sharp cracking sound of wood split the air. Sweeney looked around again, and seeing no movement, stepped through the doorway and pulled the door closed behind him.
The dim interior stairwell smelled of old trash and even older urine. Sweeney carefully picked his way up he stairs to the roof level where he cracked the door open and examined the roof. There was no one there, except for a pigeon coop in the back corner. Sweeney shut the door behind him and duck-walked along the roof so he would not be seen from across the road. When he gained the cover of a chimney at the front part of the roof, he stood up straight for a few moments to get his bearings on the street below. After a quick look he knew it would not be enough and decided he had to get closer.
At the low parapet in the front of Number 78, Sweeney hunched down to avoid silhouetting himself on the roof. Slowly, as he heard a cheer go up from below, he
half-stood and surveyed the scene in the Square.
J. R. Earle had just arrived and exited his touring car, which was parked at the edge of the roadway closest to Number 78. Sweeney quickly checked the nearby rooftops to see if constables had been stationed there, but they were empty. In fact, all of the rooftops around him were empty. Apparently the police had prevented the residents from getting on the rooftops for the ceremony. No matter, he thought, it will only benefit the cause.
Sweeney ducked down below the parapet and rustled in the satchel, drawing out four sticks of dynamite, a length of quick fuse and a pocket knife. He cut the quick fuse into equal lengths and pushed each one deeply into a stick of dynamite. He then twisted the fuses together to form a single fuse to be lit.
Pulling two lengths of stout twine from the bag, he wound them around the four sticks of dynamite so they formed a single, solid unit. He set the dynamite aside at the base of the parapet. Then he withdrew a small, shielded lantern with a candle in it from the satchel. He lit the candle and shut the shield, ready to light the fuse when he needed it. This he also set at the base of the parapet, but well away from the dynamite.
Sweeney had initially thought of dropping the dynamite on the president’s car when it first stopped below him, but had discarded that idea because too much attention would be on Roosevelt as he arrived for the ceremony. Better to bomb the car when Roosevelt returned to it after the ceremony when the attention of most people would be elsewhere. It would be the safest time for him to drop the dynamite and still escape from the roof. He had no intention of being caught.
Sweeney drew a deep breath and sat cross-legged in front of his equipment. It would not be long now before the American president arrived.
Chapter Nineteen
The driver of the Napier saloon car brought the heavy vehicle to a smooth stop and almost immediately a footman had the rear door open. As King Edward VII rose to exit the car, a loud cheer of “God Save the King” went up from the crowd, followed by extended applause. The king stepped out of the vehicle and nodded toward the crowd before turning toward back toward Roosevelt, who had stood up in the rear of the open touring car. As the crowd roared louder, Roosevelt raised his clasped hands above his head and smiled widely.
A Case of Dom Perignon: From the Victorian Carriage Mystery Series Page 15
