Cole smiled. “That’s the best part.”
Richard Purling shook himself like a wet dog, trying to wriggle into a sweater that had shrunk a size too small for him. When he finally struggled into it, he smoothed it over his shoulders, then stood in front of a stained mirror and wet his hand to plaster his unruly hair flat. Most mornings, no matter what measures Purling took, once his hair dried, it reverted to its chaotic state. He glowered at his reflection, then puffed out his cheeks and exhaled a sharp breath. Blimey, I look a fright, he said aloud.
Locking his flat door, Purling used care in negotiating the creaking staircase, well aware of the weak boards in the middle of the stair. Outside, he quickly walked to the corner and turned onto West Dock Street, heading toward its intersection with the Neptune Street Branch of the London & North Eastern Railway. He could smell the dead fish and garbage that inhabited the mooring areas of St. Andrew’s Dock and the adjacent Billingsgate Fish Market. As he drew opposite the market, the odor assaulted his nostrils more heavily, even though he was nearly two hundred yards away.
Purling quickened his stride and turned up Manchester Street, and within minutes was at the rear entrance of the Hessle Road Tramway Depot. He nodded to the elderly guard at the wire gate and hurried through a dark doorway into the engineering area, where he would spend his entire day, save a break for lunch, diagnosing problems with the electric trams.
“Morning, Richard. Rough night?” The question came from an engineer seated on a metal stool, toying with a copper-coiled rotor.
“Bullock, you old fool. Why don’t you mind your own business?”
Tom Bullock straightened on the stool and smiled. “Ever the cheery fellow, eh Richard? There’s a pot of coffee on the boil at the back. Hot water next to it if you prefer a cuppa.” Bullock inclined his head toward a workbench at the back of the workspace. “Help yourself, as usual.”
Purling brushed past the man and pulled a chipped porcelain mug from the back of a workbench, then blew into its interior before pouring coffee for himself. Sipping the hot liquid, he screwed up his face. “Bloody awful.”
“You don’t have to drink it then, do you?” Getting no answer, Bullock changed subjects. “Have you had a look at the newspaper this morning? It says King Edward is going to dedicate the new line going up Prince’s Avenue into Park Ward. There’s to be a ribbon cutting because of the tramway’s tenth anniversary of electrification.”
“Edward the Seventh,” Purling said in a sing-song voice. “He may be king but it’s a damned foolish waste of his time and energy. The managers and owners will be fawning all over him, trying to curry favor.”
“It’s not often that we see the king. The last visit he made here was six years ago in ought-one, the year he was crowned.
Purling fixed Bullock with a baleful look. “It can only mean more work for us, in any case.”
“Speaking of more work, we’ve two more trams down with motor difficulties. I was thinking you could have a look at them, as you’re so good with the motors.”
“You were thinking wrong, then.” Purling said. “I’ve got work to do on the electric generating unit out back. It’s been acting up, again.”
Bullock shrugged and returned his attention to the rotor. “Suit yourself. But you’re the best with the motors.”
Brian Murphy sat with his knees and feet together at the end of a wooden bench in Mayfair Square, his hands folded in his lap. The brisk wind threatened to blow his hat off, and he had to retain it with a restraining hand several times. After fifteen minutes, he was joined on the other end of the bench by a red-bearded man with a florid complexion. For several minutes the man said nothing, and only looked around the square at the birds flitting among the trees. Finally he spoke.
“I watched to see you weren’t followed. You should be aware of your surroundings and the people near you.”
Murphy noticed the man had not looked at him, but spoken straight ahead as if to the square itself.
“I am always careful when it comes to the cause. Your superiors should know that by now.”
The man slowly turned his head and stared at Murphy. “No one is contesting your loyalty. Your wire said the issue was urgent. That’s why they sent me. Now what is it?”
“What am I to call you?”
“Is that important?”
“It is, to me.”
The man hesitated. “You can call me Loughrey. Shamus Loughrey.”
Murphy studied Loughrey for a few moments before slipping a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. He pushed it across the bench toward Loughrey, who snatched it up and stuffed it into his coat pocket.
“Now give me the gist of what’s being planned.”
Murphy looked left and right before speaking. Then he quickly outlined the details that had been developed for Roosevelt’s visit.
When Murphy finished, Loughrey pursed his lips and stretched his leg in front of him. He stared straight ahead.
“Do you need any other information?” Murphy asked.
“As usual, any additional details that pertain to the project should be given to us as quickly as possible. Especially any information about locations and times. Do you understand?”
Murphy looked directly into Loughrey’s dead-fish eyes and nodded. He couldn’t seem to make his mouth work.
“Well that’s finished.” Roosevelt stood and dusted the thighs of his trousers as if he had been engaged in some dirty business. “Robert, you always have sound advice for me when I need it.”
Wallace smiled and nodded to the president, but said nothing.
“Now tell me about the king. What’s he like?”
“As you might imagine, Mr. President. He rules the British Empire and thus has subjects all over the world.”
“No, no. What I mean is what’s he like as a man? Any likes or dislikes that you’re aware of?”
Wallace sat back in the plush sofa and let his head thump gently against the silk brocade. “Yes sir, the king has plenty of likes. As the eldest son of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, he held the title of Prince of Wales. He was quite spoiled as a child, although that seems not to have affected his personality adversely. The king is revered by his subjects and well respected in foreign countries. The French are especially fond of him. He has a way of cutting through the diplomatic niceties of foreign visits and coming off as a likeable fellow. But one doesn’t expect that quality in royalty, it seems. Still, Edward has foiled his critics by being a king beloved by the people, both at home and abroad.”
“I could use some of that likeability here in the states with Congress.”
“Well put, Mr. President.” A thin smile broke over Wallace’s face. “As to what the king likes, he’s especially fond of shooting, as you are aware. He’s also keen on clothes and haberdashery, as well as social events and parties. And good conversation is said to be a personal favorite of his. On the dislikes side of the matter, I’m afraid I have nothing to offer.”
“You’ve done well. Look a little further into what he doesn’t like. I wouldn’t want to offend him in any way. Meanwhile, let’s plan some type of elegant party for the king while we’re in England. We’re to be in the north, right? Liverpool's our landfall?”
Wallace nodded.
Roosevelt leaped out of his chair and strode around the room. “Capital! We’ll throw a reception for the king. What’s the protocol for something like this? Should it be before or after he entertains me?”
“I’ll have to check on that, sir. I honestly don’t know.”
“It’s not often that you own up to that Robert,” Roosevelt said, cracking a smile. “So we’ll shoot some pheasant, have a party, do an official engagement or two with the king, then it’s off to Africa for the safari.”
“Yes sir. We’ll have to work out the details for the end of the trip. Perhaps the king’s people can suggest a likely point of departure for Africa.”
“Work it all out now, Robert. He’s going to be mighty unhappy afte
r I win the wager on shooting pheasants.”
Wallace stifled a smile. “Of course, Mr. President. I’ll see to it.”
Richard Purling shut the heavy wooden door to the electric generation shed and stared into the gloom at the hulking machinery. Satisfied he was alone, he fumbled along the wall until his hand brushed the metal conduit, then traced it down to the light switch. The illumination from the naked electric lights hanging from the high wooden ceiling threw sharp shadows on the twin generating motors that sat side-by-side on the raised concrete floor. Purling gazed along the length of the nearest motor, marveling at the intellect of the man who designed the twenty-foot long behemoth. With its flat gray paint scheme, the motor looked like a giant steel drum sliced along its entire length and laid with its open end down. Heavy steel reinforcing beams, mated to the unit’s end curves, gave the impression of a closed archway. A series of pipes snaked into the back of the motor, while heavy cabling, shielded in dense rubber cladding, emerged from the top of the unit. The cabling ran to insulators on a steel frame that led through the side of the building to a heavy wooden tower outside. The second motor was a twin of the first, with its cabling exiting the opposite wall.
Purling ran his hand over the cool steel of the nearest motor and drew a deep breath. As he stood staring at the motor, the door banged behind him and a harsh voice called.
“Purling, what are ye standin’ about for, ye bloody buggar. Get to work or ye’ll be out with the rest of the ne’er-do-wells. What’s the difficulty here?”
Purling cringed at the sound of the manager’s voice, but forced himself to reply calmly.
“The number one motor’s been acting temperamental, Mr. Gooding. Her wattage readings have been fluctuating widely.
“Well what are ye gawkin’ at? Fix the bloody thing!”
Purling drew a deep breath. “I was about to test its output when you arrived.” He pointedly left the “sir” off his reply.
Gooding stared hard at Purling, his eyes forming narrow slits in the still-gloomy shed. “Get on with it. Ye knows we have not time to waste.” He turned and left the shed.
Purling looked down at his clenched fists, his knuckles white with stress. Slowly, he opened his hands and flexed his fingers. “Bloody fool,” he said aloud. “Doesn’t know a spot about motors. He’d be lost without me.”
Then he stroked the motor’s flank again. “Time to get you set up properly. We’ll teach that arse a lesson he’ll not soon forget.”
Chapter Three
Shamus Loughrey sat motionless in a booth at the back of the Crowing Cock public house in Carr Lane, a block west of Hull City Hall, his left hand wrapped around a pint mug of Guinness. The post-work crowd had filled the Crowing Cock to the breaking point, so that thirsty patrons had taken to standing on the pavement outside the public house, taking their drinks, and their leisure there. Loughrey’s eyes seemed never at rest, continually scanning the room.
He shut his eyes momentarily when the pub door opened and emitted a rectangle of light that briefly shone into the dim interior of the place, but as quickly was extinguished when the newcomer shut the heavy door. As Loughrey’s eyes adjusted to the renewed dimness, he watched the man he knew as William Gallagher thread his way through the throng to the publican at the bar and then be served. Lord knows if that’s his actual name, Loughrey mused. Most of the higher-up types in the IRA had aliases.
Gallagher stretched to the left and right, peering around the bodies pressed against the bar and when Gallagher spotted him, Loughrey picked up two mugs and made his way to a corner booth.
“The saints watch over you,” Loughrey said, raising his glass.
Gallagher, a beefy man with an almost non-existent neck, nodded and drank, spilling ale down his chin and onto his jacket. He wiped the wet spot vigorously, seemingly unaware of Loughrey’s gaze. When he looked into Loughrey’s eyes, Loughrey knew better than to comment about the ale.
“You have something for us?”
A small smiled played at the corners of Loughrey’s mouth. “That I have. With the good lord’s help and the cooperation of a lackey in the king’s appointments section, I’ve learned the American president will visit the king in September for a shooting holiday before Roosevelt ships out to Africa for a safari. The appointments staff also has been delegated to come up with appropriate public appearances for the two of them.” Loughrey leaned back in the booth and sipped his ale. “Something of interest to you, perhaps?”
Gallagher drank and then wiped a thin film of ale from his lips. “Do you know where the public appearances will be held?”
“Not yet. But our friend in the appointments office will continue giving us information.”
“The shooting holiday. Where?”
“It’s to be at J.R. Earle’s estate.”
Gallagher drank again and pulled his hand across his mouth. “That might prove to be a possibility for us. What news do you have about how Roosevelt will arrive and depart?”
“Nothing at the moment. The arrival is sure to be a heavily promoted and guarded event, I expect. We might have an easier time at getting to the man during one of the events, or perhaps when he is scheduled to leave the country. But we don't know from which port he'll sail."
Gallagher laughed aloud before draining the contents of his glass. “We’ll see how long the fellow remains president when we are through.”
Albert Leake shuffled through the doorway of the main police station, scratching his chin as he entered the reception room. He eyed the row of wooden benches against the wall, which were filled with a wild-looking assortment of men and women, two of whom sat manacled to bench posts. He crossed the dull wooden floor to a high bench presided over by a diminutive policeman whose head barely showed above its top. Leake stood in front of the bench for a minute before the officer acknowledged him.
“Constable, I’m looking for the policeman in charge of the Earle burglary investigation.”
“And who might you be?”
“Albert Leake from the Hull Graphic.”
The policeman looked him up and down before replying.
“Have a seat over there and wait.” He gestured toward the benches along the wall.
Leake moved to the left of the benches and leaned against the drab-painted wall. Ten minutes later, the constable waved him through the doorway behind the counter.
“Ask for Inspector Bradnum,” he said.
Leake passed through a busy room filled with policemen working at desks and tables or talking together in small groups. A smooth-faced policeman pointed him to the Inspector’s office, where the door was ajar. Leake rapped twice on the wooden doorframe.
“Ah, Mr. Leake; come in. Take a seat, please. I am Inspector Bradnum. What may I do for you?”
Bradnum sat behind a battered desk whose top was littered with papers, bound books, manacles, a truncheon and two badly-stained teacups. His round face was impassive, as if he were watching a dull cricket match.
“I’ve come about the burglary at Elmfield House. I am told that J.R. Earle lost a considerable sum of money, along with other important items,” Leake said.
Bradnum sat stone silent for a half minute. At first, Leake thought the Inspector must be hard of hearing, but quickly changed his mind on hearing Bradnum’s response.
“Say, are you not the chap who the other reporters call ‘Leaky? How did you come by that name?”
A flush of red spread across Leake’s cheeks.
“That’s . . . that is not pertinent here, Inspector.”
“Humor me, then. Exchange of information, if you get my drift.”
Leake eyed the detective warily, as if a snake might pop out of his pocket at any moment. Finally, he relented.
“If you must know, it was an accident. I had a small bottle of gin in my trouser pocket during a football match. Some shoving started off to the side of me and I became caught up in it. I was pushed to the ground and the bottle broke, soaking my trouser leg. My mates thought it
was uproariously funny. They called me Leaky from then on.”
A wide grin spread across Bradnum’s face as he leaped to his feet.
“Waste of good gin, wasn’t it? Never mind,” Bradnum said, waving his hand. “You’ll want the details on the Earle case. Not much to tell at the moment. A burglar entered the house some time during the dark hours last night. Entry was made through the study window and an amount of cash, jewelry and some papers were taken.”
Leake wrote in a small, unruled notebook as Bradnum spoke.
“How much cash?”
“200 quid.”
“What kind of jewelry was taken?”
“An American-made Waltham watch, originally owned by Earle’s father, along with several other pieces — two rings, a gold watch chain and a gold fob.”
“What about the papers. What were they? Important in some way?”
“We have not yet been advised by Mr. Earle about them. We shall know more soon.”
Leake opened his mouth to ask another question, then reconsidered. There was a brief silence before he asked, “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“We think the burglary was the work of a lone man.”
“What leads you to that conclusion?”
Bradnum moved to the side of the desk and sat on its corner.
“There are boot prints in the soft ground under the window and small scrapes on the window sill. In addition, only one room was entered.”
“I don’t understand that last bit,” Leake said.
“Bradnum looked at him for a long moment before replying.
“Two burglars most certainly would have entered more rooms and probably drawn attention to themselves inside the house. And one hardly needs two people to burgle a single study. Plus, we would have found a second set of footprints outside and more scrapes on the sill. No, it was one man, alright. You mark me.”
Leake smiled and closed his notebook.
“Thank you, Inspector. I would like to check back with you to see how the case progresses.”
A Case of Dom Perignon: From the Victorian Carriage Mystery Series Page 2