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

by Alan M. Petrillo

  “What can you tell me of his plans.”

  “Only what you already know from his letter.”

  Bradnum’s voice rose. “Then you actually can tell me nothing more than we already know.”

  Madame Chevellier’s eyelids snapped open, and she stared straight at Bradnum. “I make you no promises. I have offered to help and am willing to do so. It takes an enormous amount of energy from me to summon a dream visitor. But I am willing to do this to help you.”

  Bradnum studied her for a long moment. “All right, then. For the present time, we shall keep our collaboration between ourselves. Do I have your agreement?”

  “You do. And once this man is caught because of the help from my dreams, do I have your agreement that you will announce my part in the matter?”

  Bradnum had to smile at the woman’s impertinence. “By all means. You have my word. But you have work ahead of you, do you not?”

  “I shall begin tonight.”

  When she had gone, Bradnum reached into his bottom drawer and withdrew the canister of Brandreth’s pills. Biliousness in his stomach and aching in his head, he thought. Better take three pills for that.

  Chapter Eight

  The London and North West Railway Special Express thundered along the Liverpool to Manchester rail line, whooshing past quiet villages and sleepy hamlets on its run into the heartland of England. Robert Wallace thought it was especially ironic that the express hurtling across the English countryside was powered by a steam-driven “Atlantic” engine originally designed for use on the Pennsylvania Railroad in 1901. Wallace had scheduled the express to follow the rail line heading practically due east, passing north of Manchester and Huddersfield, and then into the center of the country just south of Leeds where it would pick up the North East Railway line and continue past small towns and through pastureland until arriving at Paragon Station in Hull.

  Wallace sat at the far end of a private railcar fitted not with compartments or banks of seats, but with ornate drawing room furniture bolted to the carpet-covered steel floor. Heavy draperies hung at the sides of the windows, held back by elaborate ties to allow the morning sun to stream into the car. On the seat beside him sat a small stack of papers, delivered to him late the previous evening by a king’s courier, which he studied with focused intensity. He leaned heavily on the arm of the chair, as his ribs still hurt from the assault in the hotel.

  Roosevelt, lounging on a loveseat at the other end of the railcar, watched him closely.

  “Well, Robert, are you going to tell me what’s in those papers you have your nose buried in or am I to be kept in the dark until it all happens?” He was smiling and his eyes glinted behind his eyeglasses.

  “Yes, sir. I was simply reviewing the arrangements to be sure that nothing was omitted.”

  “Omitted?” Roosevelt guffawed and stood up, his hands on his hips. “The only thing that concerns me is how many pheasant there are at this place — what’s it called — Elmsdale House.”

  “Elmfield House, sir. The correct name is Elmfield House.”

  “Well, bully,” Roosevelt said, still smiling. “Do you think it possible to shoot a hundred pheasant, Robert?”

  “I’m sure if it can be done, you will be the one to reach that mark, sir.”

  Roosevelt cocked his head at the thought. “You are a sly one, Robert. Sly, indeed.”

  Wallace nodded, and then began a recitation of the arrangements that the king’s staff had made for the president’s arrival at Paragon Station that afternoon and his transfer to the Grosvenor Hotel. He moved on through the reception and dinner to be given in Roosevelt’s honor by the king, finishing with a description of the short trip to Elmfield House that they would make the next day.

  “Ah, now we get to the good part. You know Robert, I really should check my Parker again. Is it in the next car?”

  “It is, Mr. President, but perhaps it might be wiser to allow the Parker to rest easy until we get to Elmfield House. After all, you shouldn’t need it between here and there.”

  Roosevelt clucked his tongue. “You are absolutely right. But my blood is up for some sport and it’s two days away. I certainly am looking forward to this match-up with the king.”

  “I know you are, sir. But remember, the king is a crack shot himself. You should be on your toes and shoot straight.”

  Roosevelt grinned widely at Wallace, the sunlight gleaming off his white teeth. “It is the only way I ever shoot, Robert. The only way.”

  Inspector Bradnum stepped off the tram and onto the pavement at Queen Victoria Square in front of the grand edifice of City Hall. Taking the steps two at a time, he brushed through the entryway and mounted the staircase to the first floor where the mayor’s office was located. Inside, a pinched-faced woman offered him a seat in a room dominated by a long table surrounded by high-backed chairs. After he had cooled his heels for five minutes, a door in the side wall of the room opened and the mayor stepped in, followed by a file of men in dark suits and waistcoats. The council members, Bradnum guessed. Last through the door was J. R. Earle. They all found seats around the long table, leaving Bradnum alone at the far end.

  “You are here to tell us what the police have done to protect us,” Earle began. “Get on with it.”

  Bradnum bit back a sharp reply and folded his hands in front of him. He drew a deep breath and started talking. He laid out the protective measures he and the superintendent had agreed on for the council members. For the mayor, he said, they had decided on added protection in the form of a bodyguard because of the high visibility of the office. He looked Earle dead in the eyes when he said the same precautions as those for the mayor would be extended to him.

  “Don’t need the damn protection. I can well take care of myself,” Earle said.

  “J. R., you should not be hasty,” the mayor began, but was cut off by a black look from Earle.

  “I said I don’t need the protection and shall not have it around me. Is that understood?” He glared directly at Bradnum.

  Bradnum held Earle’s gaze for several moments before responding. “If you choose to refuse police protection, then there is nothing else we can offer you, Mr. Earle.”

  Earle looked away first. “Then that is the way it shall be. Use the constables elsewhere. I shall not need them.” Earle rose, and without acknowledging any of the others, stomped out of the room.

  The mayor looked as if he had swallowed a bitter potion. “Mr. Earle sometimes gets his blood up. Perhaps he will reconsider at a later time.”

  Bradnum forced a tight smile. “The Hull police shall be pleased to oblige whenever we are needed.”

  Constable James Glew glanced to the left and right as he moved through the wide doors of the rear entrance of the Tramway Depot, the entryway most of the employees used. He hoped that no one would notice him or challenge his right to be there, although Inspector Bradnum had assured him that the manager had fabricated a plausible story to cover his presence in the depot. The constable closed his eyes for a moment and said a mental prayer the Inspector was right. Glew wasn’t by nature a religious man, but when confronted with unknown and unseen dangers, he usually turned toward a generic almighty being who might assist him in his plight.

  He found the corridor to Gooding’s office and presented himself to the stern-faced woman who sat behind the desk in front of the depot manager’s door.

  “James Glew,” he said, shifting from foot to foot. “Mr. Gooding said to report to him this morning.”

  The woman held up a finger toward him as if to test the wind direction and then disappeared into the back office without knocking. She returned within a half-minute.

  “He says to go right in.”

  Glew stepped into the tightly-stuffed office and immediately bumped against a stack of books resting alongside a chair covered with more papers. He successfully grabbed the books before they could sprawl across the floor and backed slowly away from them.

  “Constable, I will not keep ye long.
”

  Glew’s eyes widened. “D-d-d-don’t call me that in here. I’m only one of the workers, remember.”

  Gooding blushed, but ignored the rebuke. “I have assigned ye to the electrical generation department,” he said. “Back there ye will not have to deal with the trams and will be supervised by an experienced engineer. His name is Purling.” He jerked his thumb behind him, toward the rear of the tram yard where Glew had entered. “Go see him now and get started.”

  The manager picked up a sheaf of papers from his desk and bent his head close to them. Glew, finding himself staring at the top of the man’s head, began to respond, but changed his mind and held his tongue.

  Outside in the yard, he eyed the looming presence of the electrical generation shed. The place had a pulse of its own, he thought, made palpable by the hum of the generators and the coursing electricity that flowed from it to power the trams.

  “Do you require some help?” The man stood at the corner of the shed, shielding his eyes as he watched Glew.

  “N-n-no. I’m newly assigned here.”

  The man stepped up and thrust out his hand. “William Cole. I’m a tram driver. Had to bring number 56 back because of a bad spring. She’s listing quite badly.”

  Glew had his hand on the latch to the shed’s door, but made no move to open it. Instead, he shook hands with Cole. “D-d-do you know anything about Mr. Purling? I’m to work with him.”

  Cole barked out a laugh. “You’ll find him odd at first. But remember that he has forgotten more about motors and electrical generation than most of us will ever know. Pay him close attention.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  “Good luck. I’ll see you around the depot.” Cole waved and headed back around the side of the shed.

  Glew, his hand shaking lightly, cracked open the door and stepped inside, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light.

  “Who the devil are you?” The man who challenged him sat astride a low stool and held a mass of twisted wiring in his hands. He had a darkish complexion and a shock of hair that seemed to try to fly in all directions. He was not smiling.

  “James Glew. I w-w-was assigned here by Mr. Gooding just now.”

  “That dolt. Now that you have finished with him, you shall be better off. The man knows nothing about how these trams are cared for.”

  “I was told to find a man named Purling. Is that y-y-you?”

  The man on the stool studied him for a few seconds. “It is me.” He cracked the semblance of a small smile. “So you are to be my assistant.” Purling shook his head as he looked Glew up and down. “I never thought the old buggar would actually listen to me and get me some help.”

  He pushed himself off the stool and dropped the wiring onto the stone-flagged floor. “Come along. I will show you the operation of the place. But be wary,” he said, stopping and holding up his hand as if to stop Glew. “This is a dangerous place with voltages that can fry a man quicker than a chicken on a hot fire. You best listen to what I have to tell you.”

  Glew nodded. “I’m all ears.”

  “Capital. Then pay attention. We begin over here,” Purling said, walking toward the closest generating unit.

  Glew followed, wondering how much electrical generation knowledge he would actually have to learn.

  Patrick Sweeney tugged at the bill of his cap and pulled it low on his forehead, forcing his longish brown hair over his ears. He looked east along Carr Lane toward City Hall, and then back across the road to the Grosvenor Hotel. The morning sunlight threw sharply-slanted shadows across the hotel’s lower floors, while its upper stories were bathed in bright contrast to the dimness below. A flurry of activity at the pavement in front of the Grosvenor’s main entry caught his eye, but he lost sight of the arriving motorcars and their disembarking passengers as a tram passed in front of him, westbound on Carr Lane. When the tram had gone, Sweeney studied the four top-hatted gentlemen posing at the base of the steps, and after a long inspection decided they were not the individuals who he had to be concerned about.

  He drew back deeper into the recessed doorway of the Speckled Hen Public House and leaned against the weathered doorpost. He had been watching the arriving guests at the hotel for the better part of the morning and had nothing to show for his surveillance efforts except sore feet and an aching back from standing on the unyielding stone walkway. The details Gallagher had gotten from Murphy, the king’s clerk, must have been wrong, he thought. Either that, or the arrangements for the transport from Liverpool to Hull had been changed after Murphy was privy to them. If that were the case, it would explain why Roosevelt still had not showed up at the hotel.

  Sweeney rubbed the back of his neck and dug his thick fingertips into the cords at the base of his neck, trying to relieve the ache there. He could have done his surveillance at Paragon Station where the president’s train would arrive, but he had detailed that task to Gallagher. Sweeney wanted to be sure that Roosevelt transferred to the hotel. He wanted to see him step inside the Grosvenor. He didn’t want to assume that the man had gone there. If he had taken up post at the station, Sweeney could never have been sure. This way, he thought, I’ll have him in my sights.

  He smiled thinly and tugged on his cap again, thinking of what still had to be done.

  A mile west of the small passenger station at Goole on the North East Railway line, a flashing red railway signal at the entrance of a cutting directed the engineer of the president’s express train into a siding that looped around the cut and lay between a marsh on the north and fields dotted with gnarled trees and shrubs, and a handful of ancient cottages on the south. The engineer pulled the brake and the big Atlantic engine hissed to a halt, releasing billows of steam onto each side of the track.

  As the train shuddered to a stop, conductor J. H. Heron checked his pocket watch. Something’s amiss, he thought. Expresses aren’t shunted into sidings. Something must be wrong on the main track. Out on the rear car’s platform, he swung down to the ground and began to make his way along the side of the railbed toward to engine, its boiler still spewing steam. Apparently the engineer didn’t plan to be here long, he thought, because he’s keeping up a full head of steam.

  Behind the big Atlantic engine and its coal tender rode two mail coaches containing luggage and the personal effects of the president and his entourage, followed by three first class carriages, the center one of which housed the president and his assistant. As Heron strode alongside the president’s coach, the sole of his boot slipped on a flat, angled rock and he dropped onto all fours, catching himself from sliding off the roadbed and into the nearby ditch. As he began to straighten up, his eyes widened at what he saw inside the rails under the president’s coach. Heron edged closer and involuntarily held his breath as he put his head under the coach and examined the three piles of dynamite, each taped into a pyramid about a foot high. The three pyramids were wired together by a length of fuse that disappeared under the rail closest to him.

  Heron ran his thumb along the outside base of the rail and loosened the gravel there. The fuse continued under the gravel and down the roadbed into the ditch.

  Leaping to his feet, Heron ran the length of the train, shouting for the engineer to release the brake.

  Shamus Loughrey lay in the tall grass at the edge of the pasture, overlooking the railway siding. He was masked from view by scrub brush and uneven piles of stones that had long ago been turned out of the field to form a rough wall along its edge. Loughrey had protested that he should not be used as the sharp point of the spear, so to speak. He had told Gallagher that his talent lay in ferreting out information and compromising people in sensitive positions. Gallagher had simply laughed and ordered him to travel from London to Goole to take on this nasty bit of business. He said it would be good for Loughrey to experience the practical side of an operation, even if it meant being inconvenienced.

  Loughrey sighed and rolled back onto his stomach. Then he heard the train whistle. He raised up enough to see ov
er the grass in time to watch the special express steam into the siding and stop exactly where Gallagher had said it would. The second car from the end, the president’s car, was directly over the explosives. As the big engine hissed steam, Loughrey struck a match and touched it to the end of the fuse on the ground in front of him. The fuse sparked, and then hissed and sputtered to life, quickly burning through the grass toward the ditch and the rail line beyond.

  As he turned to leave, Loughrey saw a conductor jump to the ground from the rear carriage. No matter, Loughrey thought, you’re much too late.

  As Heron clambered up the side steps into the engine, the engineer put his hand out to stop him.

  “What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?”

  “Move the train. Get the train moving.”

  “There’s a bloody red signal in front of me. I cannot.” The engineer stood with his arms crossed and his feet planted wide apart.

  Heron took a deep breath to steady his breathing. “You must move the train now. There’s dynamite on the track and the president’s car is sitting directly over it.”

  The engineer’s face drained to white. Then he spun toward the controls and yanked on a long black handle, pushing it back against the boiler housing. With the brake off, he grabbed the throttle and pulled it open too much, causing the big Atlantic’s wheels to spin on the steel rails.

  “Easy, man. Easy. Get her rolling.”

  Sweat had appeared on the engineer’s brow. “Aye. Give me a second.”

  “I don’t know that we have a second.”

  The engineer eased the throttle back toward the housing until the engine’s wheels slowed enough to get a bite on the rails. The Atlantic began to inch forward, and with the application of more throttle from the engineer, started to pick up speed, emerging from the siding and onto the main track. As the luggage coaches crossed onto the main line, the fuse burned out of the ditch and up to the edge of the railbed. As the president’s car swung onto the main line, the dynamite exploded, sending a concussive shock wave crashing against the last carriage, shredding its door and blackening the exterior. But it remained on the track and within five minutes, the express shuddered to a stop at Goole Station in Hull.