“Come, Theodore,” the king said. “We must get onto business.”
“Yes, of course, Edward. But you shouldn’t deny a man his just acclaim. No doubt the people have heard that I have won our wager and are seeking to show their approval.” Roosevelt stepped onto the roadway and thrust out his chest, still smiling and waving at the crowd.
A wry smile played across the king’s face. “Perhaps they have. Or perhaps they are simply pleased at your appearance with a royal.”
Roosevelt cocked his head toward the king. “Don’t worry, Edward. I shall be gone in a few days and you’ll have them all to yourself once again.”
They walked in step toward the platform, where Earle, the mayor and other city dignitaries stood waiting.
“Theodore, you are incorrigible,” the king said with a light laugh.
“That’s probably one of the nicer things that has been said about me, your majesty.”
As they reached the top of the staircase to the platform, Earle stepped forward and bowed to the king. “Welcome, your majesty,” he said. Turning to Roosevelt, he offered his hand, which the president clasped. “Mr. President, we are most grateful that you could join us on this happy occasion.”
“Pleased to be here, Mr. Earle,” Roosevelt responded with a side glance at the king. “Very pleased, indeed.”
An attendant led the group to chairs that had been arranged facing the crowd that threatened to overflow the space available on the Green. After the king and president sat down, a commotion arose on the Green to the left of the platform where a half dozen young men had moved forward and began chanting “Long Live Ireland.” Three of them unfurled a cloth banner with the same slogan painted in red across its face.
As the chants grew louder and the men moved closer to the platform, constables converged on the Irish protesters and pushed the men back toward the bleachers. Two of the Irishmen threw punches at constables and very quickly the protest turned into a punching melee. More constables poured forward and waded into the fight. With the help of well-placed blows from their truncheons, the constables gained the upper hand and ended the protest by knocking the protestors unconscious.
The crowd, which had cheered wildly at the prospect of additional entertainment, grew silent as constables bundled up the blood-stained banner and dragged the protestors away from the area.
Earle rose and moved to the front of the platform. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a loud voice. “We beg your indulgence at the disgraceful conduct you have seen here today. But we shall not let it spoil our ceremony.”
As he spoke, the double ringing of a bell sounded from down the street.
Earle smiled at the crowd. “I do believe I hear our tram. We shall begin the ceremony momentarily.
Inspector Bradnum raced around the corner onto Great Union Street and skidded into a wooden police barrier at the head of the road, bumping his thigh on a protruding post. He grabbed his leg and rubbed furiously as tears of pain formed in the corners of his eyes. Down the block, the tramway’s newest Preston double deck tram, number 57, had glided to a stop alongside the platform. As Bradnum began to limp down the street, still rubbing his thigh as he ran, he saw a pair of tramway employees fasten a wide red ribbon across the side of the tram. He could hear the noise of the crowd now and knew he would have to shout in order to be heard.
“Don’t go near the tram,” he yelled in breathless bursts.
He ran as fast as his injured leg allowed him, but could plainly see that he would be too late to affect the outcome of the plot that was playing out on the platform. The king and Roosevelt had both stood and moved to the edge of the platform next to the tram.
Bradnum forced himself to run faster, ignoring the pain in his leg.
“Get away from the tram. Get out of there. It will explode.”
They still couldn’t hear him.
Earle took large pair of shears from an assistant and presented them to the king, handles first. Earle then passed another pair of shears to Roosevelt. As the king and president stood poised to cut the ribbon, Earle raised his hands over his head and asked the crowd for quiet.
As the cacophony of voices died away on the Green, Bradnum stumbled to the side of the platform and shouted, “Get away from the tram. It’s rigged to explode. Get off of the platform now!”
Bradnum turned to two constables at the base of the stairway to the platform. “Get them out of here. Bring them to the cars immediately.”
While the two policeman mounted the stairs, the king and president moved toward the stairs and met them at the top step.
“What is happening here?” the king asked.
“Orders, your majesty. Please come with us. It’s for your safety.”
As the constables hustled the king and president toward their cars, Bradnum mounted the steps and called to the rest of the people still milling around on the platform.
“Get off the platform. The tram is set to explode.”
Earle, who had stood dumbstruck at the spectacle of the king and president being hustled away from his ceremony, stepped forward with his arms spread wide. “Wait. There’s no need to go anywhere. Bradnum, what the devil are you talking about?”
“Mr. Earle, there’s no time,” Bradnum said, turning to see the king and president being manhandled into their cars.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bradnum saw Glew skidding to a stop near the platform and took a step down toward him as a white-hot flash of electricity exploded at the top of the tram pole. The bolt showered the platform in an umbrella of sparks as the main charge of electrical current coursed down the tram connecting pole and into its driving motor. A split second later, the tram erupted in an explosion of metal and wood pieces that scattered in a wide circle. Earle, the mayor and three councilmen who had been trying to get off the platform were blown off the edge and onto the Green.
Bradnum had been slammed to the ground by the blast. He pushed himself off the soft turf and stood, running his hands over his torso and head, checking for blood. He found none. Glew was beside him in an instant.
“Are you hurt, Inspector?”
“No, I am not, Glew. You?”
Glew shook his head.
“See what you can do to help over there,” Bradnum said, cocking his head toward the platform. “I’m going to check on the king and president.”
Glew moved toward the remnants of the platform and Bradnum loped across the street toward the two Napier saloon cars. He could see that the black paint on the near sides of both vehicles had been blistered by the explosion’s heat and pockmarked by flying debris. He reached for the front door handle of the first car when it suddenly accelerated and sped off down the street.
The second Napier revved its engine and Bradnum stepped in front of the vehicle, holding up his hand. The driver stuck his head out of the open window.
“Where are you taking him?” Bradnum asked.
“Back to Elmfield House.”
“I shall meet you there.” Bradnum stepped aside and the Napier roared off down Great Union Street.
The sound of humming electricity caused Sweeney’s ears to prick up and the hair to stand up on the back of his neck. He got to his knees and peered over the parapet at the tram standing next to the platform when a brilliant ball of electrical fire emerged at the top of the tram connecting pole and exploded in a shower of white-hot sparks. Sweeney involuntarily ducked back down below the top of the parapet and as he did, heard the thunderous explosion of the tram’s motor blowing apart. Pieces of metal and wood whizzed over his head and a three-foot slab of the tram’s tin roof landed on the roof ten feet away from him.
“By all that’s holy, what the bloody hell was that?” Sweeney said aloud.
Slowly he peered over the parapet again. Below him was a scene of confusion and chaos worthy of a Hieronymus Bosch painting. There was nothing left of the tram except the two pair of trucks still standing on the rails cut into the road. The platform looked as if it had been swept
by a charred broom. One body lay in its center, unmoving.
Across the Green, people were streaming away from the scene of the explosion, climbing over the fence into the timber yard, pulling themselves over the stone wall into the church’s graveyard, and shoving down the alleys between houses lining the Green.
Sweeney saw two policemen hurrying across the street toward the cars below him, each constable with a firm grip on the elbow of the king and the president.
Sweeney snatched up the dynamite and then reached for the shielded lantern. He sagged as he saw what he had done. When the explosion had rocked the street, he had inadvertently kicked over the lantern, extinguishing the flame inside.
He looked back down below him and watched as the first car speed away, and then as the policeman jumped in front of the second one. Sweeney pulled back from the edge of the parapet, but turned an ear toward the sound of the conversation below. Seconds later, Sweeney knew all he needed to know about the destination of the president. He had heard the words, Elmfield House.
I may have missed you here, he thought, but I’ll get you before you know it.
Sweeney quickly packed his gear and stepped over the still-smoldering chunk of the tram roof. Attacking at Elmfield House would be tricky, but it was the only card he had left to play.
Albert Leake stood at the corner of the stone wall that enclosed St. Peter’s Church and its graveyard on the eastern side of the Green furiously writing in his note pad. Streams of people moved past him, some gesturing wildly, all talking in excited tones and in raised voices. The explosion had frightened them badly and excited them at the same time. It had the same effect on Leake, but he forced himself to write a description of the scene as closely as he could remember it.
When he finished his notes, Leake spotted a Napier saloon car speeding away from the square. A second Napier stood across the road and as he watched, Inspector Bradnum stepped in front of the vehicle, preventing it from driving away. He saw Bradnum exchange words with the driver and then step aside to allow the vehicle to follow in the wake of the first car. The saloon cars were the same ones the king and president had arrived in, Leake thought, so no doubt they were returning the pair to Elmfield House. He knew he should follow them, but decided to get a closer look at the damage on the platform first.
The side of the platform facing the Green had received little damage from the explosion, except for the debris on the grass itself. Leake saw the mayor sitting cross-legged on the lawn, holding a red-stained white handkerchief to his bloody forehead. Councilman Abbott lay prone on the ground, breathing heavily as if he were trying to take a deep breath. Councilman Wakefield, his suit blackened by the heat of the blast, wandered in circles repeating, “Where is my hat. I have lost my hat.”
Leake hurriedly made notes of what he saw and then ascended the platform steps. In the center of the platform lay a man’s body, face down, scorched as if it had been held up to a giant candle. The hair on the back of the head had been burned off by the heat of the explosion. Leake turned the body over and as he released the man’s arm, charred bits of the jacket stuck to Leake’s hand. Leake wiped his hand down the side of his leg and stared at the lifeless body of J. R. Earle.
After restoring a semblance of order among his constables at the scene of the explosion, Bradnum placed Purling under arrest for murder and directed Glew to clap him in irons and convey him to the station house.
“I shall deal with him shortly. In the meantime, I am going to Elmfield House to check on the king and the president,” he said. “Once I am satisfied about their safety, I’ll join you at the station and we can take a statement from Mr. Purling about his role in this matter. I don’t expect it will be much different than what he has already told us.”
At Elmfield House, Bradnum found the security piano-wire taut. He was forced to show his warrant card to two different sentries of the 15th Foot, East Yorkshire Regiment before he was allowed on the premises of the estate. At the main entry to the manor house, two more sentries barred his entry. He hauled out his warrant card again.
Inside in a large sitting room off the entry hall, Bradnum met with Thomas Taylor, the king’s private secretary, and Robert Wallace, Roosevelt’s chief of staff. After a half hour reviewing the security arrangements with the two of them, Bradnum felt comfortable enough to leave.
Dusk was settling on the town and the last streaks of sunset were fading when Bradnum finally returned to the main station house. The first person he bumped into was Glew.
“Sir, I think you will want to talk to someone we have over there,” Glew said, drawing Bradnum to one side and flicking his gaze toward a dead-eyed Irishman sitting on a wooden bench next to a burly constable. “He says he has some information about the man we’re looking for. The man who is trying to harm the king and the president.”
Bradnum arched his eyebrows. “Does he, now? Well, bring him into my office and we shall have a chat. I’d like you there too, Glew.”
When they had assembled in the office, Bradnum dismissed the burly constable and shut the office door.
“Your name, please?”
The dead-fish eyes stared at Bradnum for a long moment. “Loughrey. Shamus Loughrey.”
“Well, Mr. Loughrey, perhaps you’d be so kind as to tell us what is on your mind.”
Loughrey opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. He looked down at the wood plank floor instead.
“Here now, this is no time to get shy, Mr. Loughrey. Do you have information for us or not?”
Loughrey’s head snapped up quickly. “I bloody well do,” he hissed. “But I shall be putting me own life in jeopardy by the telling of it to you.”
Bradnum leaned forward across his desk, his face neutral. “We can protect you.”
“Not from these animals and certainly not from Sweeney.”
“What animals are those and who might this Mr. Sweeney be?” Bradnum glanced at Glew and saw he already was making notes.
“Patrick Sweeney’s the one that will get the president, mark me.”
Bradnum leaned back in his chair. “Get him?”
“To be sure,” Loughrey said. “Kill him to involve the United States in the Irish cause. It’s all that he and Gallagher talk about.”
Bradnum exhaled a long breath that sounded like air whooshing down a narrow alley.
“Gallagher?”
“Aye, William Gallagher.”
“How does Mr. Sweeney plan to go about this assassination?”
“Well he’s missed his chance a few times already. There was the railway siding bombing, and when that failed, the poisonings at the Waltham Street Hotel.” Loughrey paused. “And I hear that he did not succeed with the bombing today at the tram ceremony either.”
“We do not believe that the explosion at the square was the work of Mr. Sweeney,” Bradnum said, leaning forward again. “In fact, we have incontrovertible evidence it was the work of another individual.”
Loughrey shrugged. “That simply means Sweeney didn’t get the chance to do what he had planned. Someone beat him to it.” Loughrey cocked his head and took a long look at Glew and then turned back to hold Bradnum’s gaze. “It also means he is not through. He will try again. And this man is so ruthless, I have no doubt he will succeed.”
“Well, it is my job to see that he does not. Can you tell me where to find Mr. Sweeney?”
Loughrey nodded haltingly. “I usually met Sweeney at pubs or in parks, so I was never at his place. But Gallagher told me Sweeney often stayed in a small room at the back of the Flying Fish Public House on Roper Street near the Prince’s Dock.
Bradnum bit his lower lip and stood. “Mr. Loughrey, you will be our guest here for a while.”
After Bradnum summoned the burly constable and Loughrey was manacled and removed from the office, he turned to Glew.
“Let’s pay a visit to the Flying Fish. And Glew, bring a revolver.”
Chapter Twenty
The Flying Fish Public House stood at th
e intersection of Roper and Myton Streets, a long block away from a row of warehouses that lined the west side of Prince’s Dock along Waterhouse Lane. Half a block down Roper, a tight knot of schoolboys stood on the pavement at the base of the stairs to the Hull Boys Club, listening to their guide lecture them about some point of expected behavior. From the other direction, south along Myton Street, came the sound of metal being tossed into huge bins at the Alexander Copper and Brass Works. The noise from the Works boomed along the street like a fog steadily rolling in from the sea.
Approaching the pub from the west side of Myton Street, Bradnum held his hand up to halt the column of constables accompanying him. He peered at the entrance to the Flying Fish, trying to see inside the pub’s open doorway. A thin stream of stale tobacco smoke wafted from the top of the doorway, but Bradnum could see nothing inside except the legs of an empty wooden table.
“Sergeant, you and Bowley nip down the street and pop into the pub’s rear yard,” Bradnum said. “I expect there may be a door at the back that has access to the rear rooms. If so, I want that escape route covered. We shall enter from the room’s interior. You have your revolver?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Then off with you.” Bradnum turned to Glew as the two constables hustled down the street. “I expect that it will be quite tight at the rear of the pub. I’ve never seen back rooms that were spacious. I want to be sure you’re prepared to do your duty if needed.” He glanced at the Webley revolver tucked into Glew’s wide belt.
Glew patted the Webley’s butt. “I’m a crack shot, sir. He’ll not escape.”
A Case of Dom Perignon: From the Victorian Carriage Mystery Series Page 16
