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

by Alan M. Petrillo

  Abruptly, Leake rose from behind the desk and pushed the paper aside. He was through for now; the story was fine. It was time to find a bit of supper and a pint. He paused at the main doorway to the Graphic office and cast a long glance back at his desk. Turning quickly, he went through the door and headed down the street.

  Teddy Roosevelt set the coffee cup gently on its saucer and turned to Wallace. “Well, Robert, what is all this nonsense about protection from the local police?”

  “Mr. President, the police are very concerned about the explosion on the rail line. They are convinced it’s the work of Irish terrorists, intent on involving you in their political difficulties with the English.”

  “Is that what this is all about? Haven’t you told them that I am the man who led the Rough Riders up San Juan Hill? I don’t need special protection.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but these events are exceptional. First we had the problem at the Metropole Hotel in Liverpool. It’s difficult to ignore a message of ‘Long Live Ireland’ scrawled on a hotel room wall in red paint. Especially when the warning is accompanied by a brutal beating.” Wallace massaged his ribs as he talked.

  Roosevelt softened the look on his face. “I am thoroughly mortified that you have suffered on my behalf, Robert.”

  “I have no intent on seeking your sympathy, Mr. President.” Wallace stood and began pacing in front of the windows. “I am simply concerned about your safety. The episode on the train where we were shunted onto a siding and nearly blown up has made the threats very real. Mr. President, you could be in extreme danger here in England. I think that we might consider canceling the rest of your appearances and leaving straight for Africa at the earliest possible sailing date.”

  Roosevelt stared at Wallace for so long that his chief assistant was forced to look away.

  “I will not run from any man or group of men,” Roosevelt said, rising from his chair. “We shall proceed as we have planned with the itinerary here. We shall enjoy the Grosvenor’s hospitality and that of Elmfield House in the next few days. I’ll shoot with the king and Earle. And I shall damn well win the wager for the case of Dom Perignon.” Roosevelt pointed at Wallace. “See to it that everything goes as we have planned. I shall not miss a thing. No Irish thugs will push Teddy Roosevelt around.”

  Roosevelt turned and went to the window, staring out toward the River Ouse.

  Richard Purling slipped along the side of the huge electric generating motor and ran his hand along its cold steel flank. Those devilish capitalists, he thought. Their only concern was for their own well-being and gratification through profits. No concern for the working man, he harrumphed. No sir. J. R. Earle and his board of directors only were occupied by how much money they could wring out of the populace of the city. Purling stopped in mid-stride and stroked the motor again. They had no appreciation for the complexity of the machinery that provided them their profits, he thought. And because of their thoughtlessness, he would be sure they would become aware.

  Purling stopped at the workbench in the rear of the cavernous room and chose a selection of hand tools — two wrenches, a pair of pliers and a slotted screwdriver. At the control panel to the number two motor, he removed the covering plate and reached inside, being careful not to allow his flesh to touch the electrical contacts that bristled on the inside of the panel. Within ten minutes, he had rerouted the main electrical lines to a switch he had mounted at the back of the bottom of the cabinet. If anyone looked inside the control panel, everything would seem normal unless the wiring were moved to expose his switch.

  Purling stood back and admired his handiwork, and then reached forward and put his thumb and forefinger around the toggle switch. He put pressure on the metal switch and felt it move slightly in its housing. At the movement, he released the pressure and allowed the switch to return to its neutral position.

  No sense in alarming the populace with a spectacular discharge of electricity right now, he thought. Just wait until the ceremony on the weekend. Then, he would show them.

  Constable Glew shrank back into the shadows beside a pile of wooden crates alongside the east wall of the electric generating shed. He watched Purling come into the shed and walk directly to the workbench, where he collected a handful of tools. Glew peered around the edge of a crate and watched as Purling busied himself inside the control panel of the number two electric generating motor. Once Purling had finished his business, he shut the cabinet, returned the tools to the bench, and left the building.

  Glew waited several minutes to be sure he was alone and that Purling would not return. He crossed to the control panel and pulled open the cover, staring at the mass of wiring and switches inside. Purling had instructed him on the basics of wiring and electrical design, but the colored tentacles that snaked out in all directions inside the control panel made Glew’s head hurt. He reached out as if to touch one of the switches, but pulled his hand back as if it had been burnt by a hot stove.

  This was a conundrum for someone else to solve, he thought, shutting the control panel door. I’ll let Inspector Bradnum puzzle it out.

  He shut the panel door and was about to leave the building when the door creaked open and William Cole stood in the doorway.

  “Glew, how are you? Is the work to your liking?”

  “It is good enough. You were right about Mr. Purling.”

  Cole laughed and put a hand on Glew’s shoulder. “Come along with me. I’ll stand you to a pint down at the Fox and Hounds.”

  Inside the public house, the pair perched on low stools near the stone fireplace. Cole raised his pint in a mock toast.

  “To learning the finer elements of electricity.”

  Glew drank deeply and set the glass down gingerly. “Why do you think Mr. Purling is so secretive?”

  “Secretive, is he? Damn eccentric, if you ask me.”

  “What I mean is that he tells me things about the work as if he doesn’t want anyone else to overhear. It’s like he’s telling me secrets.”

  “Maybe they are.” Cole took another swallow of his ale. “What has he been showing you?”

  Glew told him. He recounted his day from the morning to the late afternoon, when Purling had left. When Glew finished his tale, Cole’s forehead was creased with horizontal furrows. When their glasses were empty, the two men shook hands again and parted company, but Glew could see that Cole had something on his mind.

  Chapter Eleven

  The king cleared his throat as he entered the ornate dining room, attracting the attention of everyone present except J. R. Earle, who had his face buried so far into the Hull Graphic that his nose practically touched the page. As the king rounded the far end of the elongated oak table, Earle looked up, seemingly startled.

  “Eddy! I didn’t hear you come in. Sit down, sit down.”

  The king eased into a chair at the side of table’s corner. He fixed Earle with a steely stare. “I have asked you in the past not to address me in that way, J. R. You take too many liberties simply because we grew up together.” He picked up the linen napkin and snapped it out fully, and then dropped it onto his lap.

  Earle seemed as if he were about to reply, but said nothing.

  After the staff wheeled in two carts laden with silver serving dishes, served the two men, and then disappeared back into the pantry, the king cocked his head toward Earle.

  “I suppose sooner or later you shall tell me about the arrangements for the shooting party.”

  Earle looked as if he had been surprised stealing an apple from a greengrocer’s cart.

  “Of course, sire, of course. The usual suspects shall be here with us. There’s Lord Carrington who you know to be a keen sportsman. Then there is the Duke of Cumberland, Lord Roseberry, MP Campbell and a few others.”

  He paused and surveyed the room as if he were searching for a spy behind the draperies. Earle continued in a near-conspiratorial whisper.

  “President Roosevelt will be joining us shortly. I propose that he and I sh
oot together so that we might have a friendly wager between ourselves. Actually, you may want to get in on the wager too. After all, there is no reason why you should not profit from my success.”

  “You assume that my wager would be on you to shoot more pheasant than Roosevelt does.”

  Earle drew back from the table like he had been slapped. “You believe that he will shoot better than me?”

  The king dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “I have heard Roosevelt is a keen shot and rarely misses his target. It is said of him both on the shooting field and in politics too.”

  “He shall not bag more pheasant than I do. You mark me.”

  The king smiled widely. “Perhaps the two of us should wager on it. My wager with Roosevelt is a case of Dom Perignon. Ours shall be the same. Agreed?”

  Earle barely nodded before excusing himself and leaving the dining room.

  The storeroom at the back of the Grosvenor Hotel was crowded with crates, barrels and shelving heaped with the kinds of supplies necessary to keep a first class hotel running smoothly. Floor to ceiling bins lined the wall across from Patrick Sweeney, most of them filled to bursting with dry goods, soap, towels, bed linens and hotel livery clothing. Sweeney moved to the center of the room and struck a pose, standing straight and folding his hands behind him at the small of his back. He thrust his chest out as he took a deep breath and angled his head downward to get a better look at his image in the hand mirror propped up in the corner of a bin. Amazing, he thought. If I didn’t know differently, I’d think me a member of the bleedin’ hotel staff. He adjusted his collar one last time, and after hiding the mirror at the bottom of the bin, strode out into the service corridor.

  He found a set of stairs at the end of the corridor, leading both toward the cellars below and the first floor above. Mounting the stairs with a quiet tread, he listened the whole time for sounds of anyone approaching, but heard nothing until he reached the first floor level and cracked open the staircase doorway. A gaggle of women in wildly-elaborate hats eased past him, talking loudly and making excited gestures.

  “He is such an imposing figure. I thought I might faint.”

  “Griselda, take a hold on yourself. He may be a striking figure, but he is still a man.”

  “And what a man he must be. And to be president of the United States. He must be the most powerful man in the world, after the king.”

  “I heard the staff talking in the entry hall. One of them said that Roosevelt and his entourage have taken up an entire wing on the second floor. The north wing.”

  “We shall likely never get a glimpse of him again.”

  Sweeney backed through the still-open doorway and closed the door noiselessly. Taking the stairs two at a time, he arrived at the second floor slightly breathless. This is no time to lose your wits, Boyo, he told himself. Slow down. After taking a couple of deep breaths, he stepped into the second floor corridor and paced along the thick carpet toward the north wing.

  Inspector Bradnum knocked again on the massive door to Elmfield House and was startled when the door was opened just after he finished pounding on it.

  “Ah, Inspector. Please do come in.”

  The housekeeper led him to a sitting room off the entrance hall where he amused himself by estimating the original size of the mounted animals that adorned the walls. A few minutes later the door burst open and J. R. Earle strode into the room.

  “Inspector, if you insist on continuing to show up at my home, I may have to lay in special accommodations for you.”

  Earle stood ramrod straight with his hands at his side. Bradnum could not detect even the hint of a smile on the man’s flinty face.

  “I would never put you to such trouble, sir. However, I would like your permission to examine the premises once more, if I may.”

  “What the devil for?”

  Ah, Bradnum thought. I never should have ascribed a sense of humor to the man. To Earle he said, “With the president coming to stay at Elmfield House and the king already in residence, security is our foremost concern. When the president arrives, he will have two constables accompanying him as bodyguards. They will need provisions in terms of a place to sleep, meals, that sort of thing.”

  Earle’s lips formed into a hard line. “I shall arrange it.”

  “In addition,” Bradnum continued, “I should like to station three constables outside on the grounds of Elmfield House. They should not trouble you with the inner workings of your manor, but will provide security in a zone around the estate.”

  “Will they have to be catered for, too?”

  “It would be most helpful if you could provide meals for them so they can stay on duty and not have to be removed from the premises. The men will be rotated in shifts and will not need any sleeping accommodations.”

  “Well there’s a damn silver lining in that cloud.”

  A quick retort rose in Bradnum’s throat, but he choked it down. Instead, he inclined his head in a small bow toward Earle.

  “Of course, the constables will be providing security for the king and yourself as well as the president.”

  Earle snorted. “Don’t fill my pockets with bull chips. I know what’s important to you and the superintendent. Your damn jobs, that’s what. Are you done?”

  Bradnum bit the inside of his mouth to keep from lashing out at Earle.

  “Yes, sir. I think that covers it.”

  “Then get out of here and leave me alone. I have an appointment I must keep.”

  Sweeney pulled the bottom of his waistcoat over the small revolver nestled in his trouser waistband at the small of his back and then knocked lightly on the doorframe of number 210. He bit the inside of his lip as he stood there waiting, trying to look as if he were a house porter summoned on an errand. He knocked again, a bit louder, yet not so loud as to cause a pounding sound at the end of the corridor. Attracting attention was the last thing he wanted.

  He was about to knock a third time when the door opened and a skinny young man in wire-rimmed spectacles gave him a bored look.

  “The president’s room requested assistance in moving furniture,” Sweeney began, playing over the rest of his cover story in his mind.

  “Not here, partner. Down the hall in number 201. But I can’t imagine why they would want to move furniture.”

  “Sorry to trouble you,” Sweeney said, raising a finger to his forehead. The door shut with a loud click of the latch.

  Down the hall he knocked forcefully on the door to 201. He could hear footsteps coming toward the door and stepped back as they approached.

  “Yes, may I help you?”

  The young man standing in the doorway certainly wasn’t Roosevelt. Sweeney’s mind raced and he could not fathom why he expected the American president to answer his own door.

  “I was told that you wanted to have furniture moved in the suite.”

  A shadow passed across the young man’s face. “Please give me a moment to check.” Then he shut the door.

  Sweeney looked back down the corridor. Still no one about.

  Within a minute, the door cracked open a few inches. “Someone has sent you on a wild goose chase. We have no need of furniture being moved here.”

  The door shut in Sweeney’s face with a soft click.

  As he stood there in front of the closed door, he could feel the rage rising in his chest. If only he could confront the man. If only he had the president within reach. He knew he could make Roosevelt come to terms with the Irish cause. If only …

  Sweeney spun around at the sound of a door closing at the end of the corridor and watched as a house porter walked toward him, carrying a tray laden with covered dishes. A tide of panic rose from Sweeney’s stomach, but he willed it back down and started walking toward the opposite end of the corridor. Coming abreast of the porter, he smiled. “Heavy load, Mate.”

  The porter nodded. “Eating right hearty up here, they are.”

  “Like politicians the world around, eh?’

/>   “You’ll get no argument from me.”

  As the porter moved down the hall, Sweeney slipped into the safety of the stairwell.”

  Madame Chevellier pushed past the thin porter at the door of the Prospect Club and sidestepped nimbly to avoid colliding with a pair of elderly gentlemen making their way out of the private club. She pulled her multi-colored scarf tighter around her shoulders and then angled her black turban to the side of her head. Her hair spilled in controlled disarray down her back. Seeing a wide-eyed cashier behind a polished wood counter set along a side wall, she swished across the carpeted entry hall.

  “You will show me to J. R. Earle,” she commanded.

  The man behind the counter opened his mouth, but no sound came out as he continued to stare bug-eyed at her.

  “Are you going to move or will I have to dash around the rooms seeking him for myself?”

  The threat of her scuttling around the club apparently was enough to scare the cashier into action.

  “I shall locate him for you immediately. . . Madame.” Then he bolted for a doorway at the rear of the entry hall.

  Madame Chevellier licked her lips and gazed around the room, returning the stares of the small groups of men who had begun to collect in the room. A few minutes later she heard the gruff growl of J. R. Earle before he descended a wide staircase from the first floor.

  “What is this all about? Who the devil are you to pester me in this way?”

  Madame Chevellier drew a deep breath and tried to stand taller and straighter, a task complicated by her bulk and weak knees.

  “I come to warn you of a great misfortune that will befall you and your company.”

  Earle turned to the cashier, who stood a pace behind him.