Chapter Nine
Madame Chevellier glared at the beefy constable behind the high counter and pressed up on her tiptoes.
“You simply do not understand. It is a matter of the greatest urgency that I speak with Inspector Bradnum immediately.”
The constable fixed her with a fish-eyed stare and pointed to a bench against the wall. “As I told you earlier, you must wait.”
“But you have not even summoned him yet.”
The constable looked at her as if she had made a joke. “For a gypsy? I hardly think it necessary.”
She was on the verge of a tart reply when she heard Inspector Bradnum’s voice coming from the back of the large room. “Inspector. Inspector Bradnum. I must speak with you.” She waved her arms as if signaling someone in semaphore.
“Eh, who is that? Oh, Madame Chevellier,” Bradnum said, striding over to the counter.
“You know this woman?”
“Indeed, Constable. I believe she has information for me at this very moment, is that not correct, Madame?”
“I do, I do,” she said, swishing around the side of the counter while throwing the constable a black look. “Inspector, terrible things are about to happen…”
Bradnum pressed his forefinger to his lips. “In my office, please.”
She sat in the straight backed chair, edging forward so that she was balanced on the edge of the seat.
“You have information for me about Tram Man?”
She sighed heavily. “It is much more serious than that. It concerns the American president.”
“Roosevelt?”
She nodded, keeping her gaze riveted on Bradnum. “I saw him last night clearly in my dream. He was dressed in a shooting outfit and carried a shotgun through a field. Several shooting partners were to the left and right of him, but he was leading the way.” She stopped and breathed deeply, twisting her hands together in her lap.
“And then?”
“What I saw next was not entirely clear. As the president reached a low wall shielded by bushes and some trees, a shot sounded and he clutched his chest. Then he collapsed.”
Bradnum stood at the side of his desk, looking down at her.
“Collapsed? As if he had been shot?”
“Exactly as if he were shot.”
“Did you see who shot him?”
Madame Chevellier looked down at her feet and shook her head. “That was the unclear part. I could see the flash of the shot from the shadow of the trees, but not the person who made the shot.”
Bradnum dropped into his chair and pulled his hand across his mouth. “It’s unbelievable.”
She looked up at him sharply. “I am telling you the truth of what I saw in the dream. I had prepared myself to receive the dreams that night and this is what came to me. You can believe it or not. But if it happens as I say it will, you shall be sorry you did not heed me.”
“Madame Chevellier, you must remember that we spoke of using your dreams to help with the Tram Man case. Now you come to me with this tale of a possible attempt on the American president’s life. It is a bit beyond belief.”
She stood and brushed her full skirt flat against her thighs. Looking him straight in the eye, she said, “His blood will be on your hands, Inspector. You should consider that before you dismiss what I’ve told you.”
Then she left the office, leaving Bradnum with a puzzled look on his face.
Inspector Bradnum stared at the doorway and wondered how much faith he should put in the psychic’s claims. He had checked on her and determined she actually had some successes in locating missing people through her dreams. Or at least that was how she claimed she did it. But this business with the American president. He would look a right fool if he went to the superintendent and said he wanted to warn the president of a possible attack on his life, based on the dreams of a gypsy woman. Bradnum reached into the bottom drawer and withdrew the canister of Brandreth’s pills. He swallowed two of them. Tonight would be the time to allow the opium smoke to work it’s magic on me, he thought. The Brandreth’s pills would have to hold him until then. In the meantime, he still had to work on the Tram Man case. He flipped open his notebook and looked at the next name on his list to interview. Richard Purling.
A half-hour later he entered the electric generating shed at the Tramway Depot. As he rounded the back of a large motor humming with electricity, he came face to face with Constable Glew. Bradnum quickly held up his hand.
“Can you tell me where I might find the mechanic, Richard Purling?”
Glew’s eyes were wide, but he had enough sense to play along. “Just over there,” he said, pointing to a workbench at the back of the cavernous room. “The man working on the wiring.”
“Thank you.” Bradnum touched the brim of his hat and moved toward the workbench.
“Richard Purling?”
“And who wants to know? I am busy.”
“Inspector Herbert Bradnum of the Hull Police.” Bradnum showed his warrant card.
For a fleeting moment Bradnum saw fear on Purling’s face, but it was quickly replaced with a snarl.
“What, no crimes for you to solve? Must you be pestering law-abiding citizens?”
“We have been told that you have grievances with the tramway company. Perhaps you would like to elaborate on them for me?”
Purling stared at him for a long moment. “Aye, I have grievances. But they are nothing I will speak to you about.” He spat on the floor at Bradnum’s feet.
Bradnum looked down at the spittle, and then back at Purling. “A word to the wise, Mr. Purling. Don’t get too full of yourself with the police. It can have nasty consequences. Good day.”
The Special Express steamed into Paragon Station and came to a halt at the main platform as a brass band struck up the American national anthem. A huge crowd of well-wishers and gawkers had turned out to see Roosevelt arrive and had crammed every square foot of the platform, cheering and calling out his name. As the president stepped from his carriage and raised his arms in greeting, the crowd bellowed louder and surged forward, enveloping the dozen policemen who had formed a security line between them and the carriage.
Roosevelt was quickly surrounded by a hoard of Britons, many applauding him, some clapping him on the shoulders, all while the police tried to fend off as many individuals in the crowd as they could. Roosevelt began walking down the platform and as he did the crowd parted in front of him as if her were Moses opening up the Red Sea. He could hear snatches of shouts cast in his direction.
“Bully for you.”
“Welcome to Hull.”
“Teddy, you’re our man.”
Roosevelt exited the platform behind a wedge of five policemen who led him and Wallace out of the station and into the rear of a waiting automobile. But the crowd was not to be dissuaded and surrounded the big Napier saloon car, which had its top down, still cheering and applauding. Seeing no other way, Roosevelt stood up on the rear seat and raised his arms for quiet.
“My new friends,” he began, smiling widely, “it is indeed a pleasure to be greeted by such a warm welcome as you have given me today.”
The crowd began cheering again, and Roosevelt again quieted them.
“I am most interested in meeting your King Edward and spending some time taking in the sights of your lovely city. And we shall see more of each other when the king and I attend the celebration of your tramway’s electrification later in the week.”
The crowd erupted again and Roosevelt sat down, smiling and waving. It took some minutes, but finally the policemen cleared a path through the throng and the saloon car turned out the station approach on onto Brook Street, heading toward the Grosvenor Hotel on Carr Lane.
“What do you mean someone tried to blow up Roosevelt’s train?”
Bradnum could scarcely believe his ears. First the psychic telling him about her dreams of the president being shot and now this. He snatched the telegram flimsy sheet from the constable and read through it quickly. �
�By Jove, it is true. Fortunately, no one was injured.” He looked at the flimsy again. “Some damage to the last carriage in the train, but nothing that cannot be put right.”
He looked at the constable. “Do we know where the president’s train is now?”
“I have just had some of the constables assigned to Paragon return, sir. The president’s train has arrived and he has disembarked. He is on the way to the Grosvenor Hotel. He should be there by now.”
Bradnum folded the telegram into quarters and stuffed it into his breast pocket.
“I will be with the chief constable. After that, you can find me at the Grosvenor Hotel.”
Patrick Sweeney had to move his watching place when the Speckled Hen opened for the day and he settled for a narrow alley between the public house and a tailor shop. As he shifted his weight against the building to ease his aching legs, a black Napier saloon car drew up in front of the Grosvenor with four top hatted men in the back. Sweeney edged forward for a better view. Clearly, the man with the unframed eyeglasses perched on the bridge of his nose and the wide smile was Roosevelt.
Sweeney watched as the foursome exited the car and then climbed the steps into the entry hall of the Grosvenor. Splendid, Sweeney thought. He crossed the street and made his way along a narrow lane to the west of the hotel that led to a delivery area at the rear. A small lorry with its rear doors wide open was backed up to a doorway. Sweeney looked inside the lorry. Empty. There was no one in the rear yard, so he ducked through the doorway and disappeared into a storeroom at the back of the hotel.
Chapter Ten
“The president is indisposed and not available. Not even for the police.” Robert Wallace stood with his feet wide apart AND and his arms crossed. He wasn’t smiling.
Inspector Bradnum pointed to a floral-patterned sofa in the sitting room on the second floor of the Grosvenor Hotel. “May we sit and discuss the problem?”
Wallace nodded and sat down stiffly in a leather chair opposite Bradnum.
“Mr. Wallace, I trust you have recovered sufficiently from the unfortunate incident in Liverpool.” Wallace inclined his head in acknowledgment and Bradnum continued. “The superintendent has asked me to convey his regrets that he is unable to be here personally to arrange for the special protection of the president. Nonetheless, I think you will find that we are quite capable of putting together a plan that will meet the president’s needs.”
“What sort of plan did you have in mind?”
Bradnum leaned forward and planted his elbows on his knees, steepling his hands under his fleshy chin as if in prayer. “I daresay we shall pull out all the stops, as you Americans say. We already have detailed a squad of a half-dozen policemen in civilian clothes to patrol the interior of the Grosvenor night and day while the president is in residence. Constables in uniform are stationed at the major entrances to the hotel and will closely monitor the comings and goings of individuals at their respective locations.”
Bradnum drew a deep breath and continued. “Just down the street is the Hull City Hall. We have commandeered several rooms there to serve as a police command post while the president is here. Its close location will allow for a speedy relief of our men on duty at the Grosvenor. When the president moves about in the town, if he is so inclined to do so, we will assign two constables to be with him at all times. Each will be armed with a Webley revolver.”
Wallace’s eyebrows raised. “It was my impression that British policemen did not carry firearms. Only those sticks — what do you call them?”
“Truncheons.” Bradnum sat back and let the sofa’s cushions envelop him. “These are unusual times, Mr. Wallace, and such times call for extraordinary measures. We shall do all in our power to ensure that the president has a safe and memorable visit here in Hull. The security precautions I have outlined will be repeated at Elmfield House, with some minor modifications because of its location, during the time the king is in residence and when the president transfers there.”
Wallace stood and a small smile crept across his face. He extended his hand to Bradnum. “Thank you for your concern over my health, Inspector. And for your thorough preparations on behalf of the president. It all seems in order.”
Bradnum grasped Wallace’ hand in a firm grip. “I assume you shall be the point of contact for any issues involving the president?”
“That is correct. But we should strive for few or no issues, if you get my meaning.”
“I do. And I mean no disrespect, but nothing would make me happier than not to have to speak to you about this again.” Bradnum clapped his hat on his head and headed for the hotel lobby.
Indeed, he thought, I should be glad to be done with the entire job.
King Edward VII, lounging against the side wall of his traveling carriage as the Royal Express slowed, watched the looming bulk of the Argyle Street bridge pass overhead at the West Parade Junction, where the London and Northeast Railway lines made a quadruple-X cross just east of Hull’s Paragon Station. The carriage wheels screeched as the train passed a row of terrace houses, their sides and rears sooty from the coal dust blast of thousands of engines that had traveled the route before. The Londesborough Barracks stretched away to the north and the king could see a squad of men lined up at the entrance to the Miniature Rifle Range. He pointed toward the shooters.
“Thomas, there is an example of our fine fellows under arms exercising their skills.”
Thomas Taylor leaned closer to the window for a better view. “Yes, your majesty. Don’t they look splendid?”
The king looked at Taylor and raised his eyebrows. “Let’s hope they can shoot those .22 rifles as well as I can my double. We need soldiers in the ranks, not popinjays.” The king emphasized the word “soldiers.”
The shadow of the Park Street bridge dimmed the interior of the carriage for a moment, and the train slowed even more, finally edging to a stop at platform ten on the far northern end of the station.
Out on the platform, a dozen porters stood in a line along the edge of the concrete deck, waiting for the word to begin unloading the carriage stuffed with the belongings of the king and his entourage. Within minutes the king emerged from his carriage and the row of porters bowed as if someone had pulled a string controlling them. The king smiled and waved at them, and led by Taylor and two constables, made his way through the iron gateway at the end of the platform before disappearing out one of the station’s north doorways.
Drawn up outside on Collier ‘s Street were two Napier saloon cars, each with its engine running and its driver ready. The king pulled himself into the rear of the first vehicle, as did Taylor, while the constables and two assistants took the second car. Fifteen minutes later, after following a circuitous route through Hull, the vehicles pulled into the graveled drive at Elmfield House and parked opposite a fountain where water gushed from the outstretched hands of the statue of a goddess.
“Attractive sculpture,” the Taylor said, pointing to the fountain. “I wonder who it represents.”
“Actually it is the Roman goddess Minerva,” the king replied. “J. R. Earle had it commissioned because he and Minerva share the same birthday, March twentieth.” The king shot Taylor a mischievous look. “Or so I am told.”
A constable opened the door to the entrance hall of the house and standing in the doorway was J. R. Earle, feet splayed wide and his hands on his hips.
“Your majesty, I was about to give up on you and take a stroll out on the estate alone to scare up some pheasant. But now that you have arrived, we can do so together.”
The king chuckled and put a beefy hand on Earle’s shoulder. “You know there’s damned little that will keep me from a shooting holiday.”
“Well we shall certainly fulfill your wishes when it comes to the shooting. My keepers tell me the fields are loaded with game — pheasant, rabbit, even deer. You shall have your choice.”
The king winked and smiled thinly. “I am looking forward to the pheasant shoot with Roosevelt. Immensely.”
“Then perhaps we should get out there and view the field to re-familiarize you with Elmfield. Will that do?”
“Splendid idea, Earle. Simply splendid,” the king said and clapped him on the shoulder again. “I like the sound of that.”
Albert Leake leaned back and the old pine chair creaked ominously, its structural members protesting at the stressing movement. He held the proof at arm’s length to ease the strain his eyes had developed in the past year. Elderly eye, a colleague had called it. The farsightedness that came with aging apparently had caught up with him earlier than he had though possible, likely because of the laborious proofreading he had to do. Leake dropped the page to desktop and stretched his neck up and back, listening to the crackling and popping of the tendons releasing their tension. Picking up the paper again, he began to reread the story.
KING & PRESIDENT TO CELEBRATE TRAMWAY ELECTRIFICATION
By Albert Leake
A special event is in the making at the weekend as King Edward VII and American President Theodore Roosevelt will help the Hull Tramway Company celebrate ten years of electrification of its lines with a ceremony at the tramway depot on Manchester Street off the Hessle Road.
The King, who is entertaining the American president before Roosevelt makes his way to Africa for a safari, is residing at Elmfield House with J.R. Earle, the owner of Earle’s Shipbuilding & Engineering Yard and a director of the Hull Tramway Company.
Roosevelt is currently lodged at the Grosvenor Hotel, but is expected to join the king and Earle at Elmfield House for a taste of English country house living and a spot of pheasant shooting on the estate.
Leake dropped the paper to the desktop again and rubbed his eyes. He had re-read the story several times and it all appeared fine. The balance of the article gave more details about the tramway ceremony and the planned activities at Elmfield House. He had seen the information so many times, the words now tended to blur together.
A Case of Dom Perignon: From the Victorian Carriage Mystery Series Page 8