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

by Alan M. Petrillo

  “I want him alive, Glew. If that is possible, of course.” Bradnum craned his neck and squinted down Roper Street. “It appears the others are in the rear yard. Let’s go.”

  The main barroom of the Flying Fish Public House was crowded with midday drinkers, most of them workmen from the copper and brass works or warehousemen from around the docks. No one paid any attention to Bradnum and Glew as they made their way through the room to the back of the house.

  Bradnum stopped in front of a black-painted pine door. “In there, I expect. Are you ready?”

  Glew nodded and withdrew the Webley from his belt. There was a loud click as he cocked the hammer.

  Bradnum reached down and tightened his grip on the door latch, careful not to make a sound by rattling it. He turned it slowly and leaned his shoulder against the wood. The door opened freely into the room with a soft whoosh of air.

  Bradnum stepped through the doorway with his hands high in front of his face, ready for a fight. Glew came on just behind him, pointing the revolver into the room.

  As Bradnum’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he looked around the room wildly. The place was empty. Sweeney wasn’t there.

  Sweeney leaned back in the wooden chair and pulled aside the window curtain in the main barroom of the Flying Fish to stare out onto Myton Street. He quickly released the curtain and sat up straight. Two constables were hurrying up the street, seemingly intent on approaching someone in a furtive manner. The big constable had a revolver tucked into his belt.

  Sweeney swallowed the last of his beer. Damn fools, he thought. They’ll have to be more clever than that to get me. If two constables were headed around to the back of the building, he reasoned there must be at least a couple more coming in the front. He hurried back to his room, snatched up the satchel with his gear and grabbed his coat. He quickly looked around the room. Nothing left for them.

  At the end of the corridor, near the door to the water closet, he mounted a narrow staircase to the upper floor. No time to be quiet, he thought as he pounded up the stairs. Only time to be gone. The head of the stairs opened onto a small sitting area off of which there were three doorways. Sweeney ignored the other rooms and went to the window at the far end of the sitting area.

  Opening the window carefully, he stuck his head out and checked the flat roof of the back of the next-door building that abutted the public house. It was empty. He pulled on his coat and then dropped the satchel onto the roof, jumping out after it. Reaching up to the open window, he pulled it shut. Sweeney then grabbed the satchel and sprinted across the roof to a second flat roof, and then to an unlatched window on the upper floor of the Boys Club. He was inside within a minute and headed down the stairs toward the entrance on Roper Street.

  Out on the street, he turned east and walked quickly to Warehouse Lane where he offered a lumber lorry driver two shillings for a ride to the center of the city. As he pulled himself onto the board seat next to the driver, Sweeney looked back the way he had come and smiled.

  Bradnum had hardly dropped into his office chair at the station when a constable appeared in the doorway.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but there’s a strange woman out here who insists on speakin’ with you.”

  Bradnum let his chin drop to his chest and exhaled a long breath. “Would her name be Madame Chevellier?”

  The constable’s eyes grew wider. “Bleedin’ hell, sir. That’s it exactly. I mean, excuse me language sir, but. . .”

  “Not to worry. Just show the woman in.”

  Madame Chevellier was clothed in her usual costume of a long billowing dress and a colorful head scarf around her hair. Bradnum looked at the rings on her fingers and thought that the weight of so much jewelry might actually prevent her from raising her hands too high.

  “Inspector, you don’t look very well. Are you ill?”

  Bradnum shook his head. “Only a long, tiring day with little to show for a considerable amount of effort. Please excuse me for a moment.” He pulled a bottle of Dinneford’s Magnesia from a desk drawer and raised the bottle to his lips, taking three large gulps. “My apologies, but this is one of the only remedies that seems to work for me.”

  Madame Chevellier seemed to be inspecting him closely. “Perhaps you should have a break from your work. A holiday might put you back in proper form.”

  “A holiday! Now that’s a luxury I cannot afford at the moment.” Bradnum leaned forward. “How may I help you today?”

  “It is I who is here to help you, Inspector. I have had another vision. Last night.”

  Bradnum waited for her to continue, but she sat there stone faced.

  “And? Is there anything else?”

  Madame Chevellier drew a deep breath. “The man you are seeking is exceptionally dangerous. He plans to hurt the American president. And he is an Irishman.”

  Bradnum’s gaze had wandered to a report on the desk, but he snapped his attention back to the psychic at the mention of the Irishman. “How do you know he is Irish? Do you know his name?”

  She shook her head. “Not his name. But I heard his accent. He is Irish. That I know.”

  “From your dream. That is where you heard him?” Madame Chevellier stiffened. “I do not like your tone, Inspector. We have been over this ground before. The visions come to me in my dreams. Have I led you astray thus far?”

  Bradnum stood and rubbed his hands. “I intend no disrespect, Madame. But you must realize that police work and visions do not handily go together when one is conducting an investigation.”

  “I understand.”

  She began to stand, but changed her mind and sat back down. “There is more.”

  Bradnum rubbed his eyes. “What would that be?”

  “I saw the Irishman slipping into a large estate house. Where it was, I do not know, but it was certainly a grand place.”

  Bradnum gave her his full attention. “And… ?”

  She drew a deep breath and exhaled. “He was lighting something that looked like a fuse. I assume it was attached to explosives.”

  Bradnum slapped the desktop with a loud smack. “Of course. A bomb at Elmfield House. That is the way he would do it. It seems to be the way he operates.”

  He glanced at Madame Chevellier, who wore a startled look on her face. “Madame,” he said. “You just may have saved the day, and the American president at that.”

  Patrick Sweeney stepped from the bushes at the side of the road and tugged down on the narrow bill of the dirty cap he wore. The work pants chafed against his legs, still stiff from a hard soak and washing in the laundress’s place next to the carpenter’s shop where he had stolen the clothes. He looked back over his shoulder, and seeing no one else on the street, grabbed the handle on the wooden box of tools sitting at the base of the bushes.

  He put a jaunty swagger into his step when the gatehouse that blocked the access to Elmfield House came into view, and started whistling a noisy song slightly out of tune. Sweeney turned into the wide gravel roadway when a sentry, cradling a Long Lee Enfield rifle in his arms, stepped in front of him. Sweeney squinted at the soldier as he approached. The man wore the battle dress of the 15th Foot, the East Yorkshire Regiment.

  “Halt. What your business here?”

  Sweeney could see a second sentry standing alongside the stone pillar that supported one end of the massive iron-barred gate. The soldier had his finger inside the trigger guard of his rifle.

  The two-story high gatehouse formed a deep archway over the roadway, and was formed in a U-shape. Down each wing of the gatehouse, Sweeney could see a series of doors that led to interior rooms. The second floor of the gatehouse had leaded-glass windows at the front and down both wings.

  Sweeney cleared his throat and spit onto the side of the roadway. “Hello, Mate. I’m here about the carpentry work.” He rattled the tool box and smiled.

  “No carpentry work’s going on here. Be off with you.” The sentry gestured with his chin back toward the main road.

 
“Here, now. They sent a man to my shop and told me to come along today and repair the damage on the second floor of the gatehouse. Something about a leak in the roof that caused problems with one of the ceilings at the back of the place. I expect they don’t want it to fall in.”

  The sentry looked back at his partner. “Willie, do you know anything about this?”

  The second sentry shook his head.

  Sweeney saw the situation slipping away and decided to play his final card. He reached into his pocket for the crumpled piece of paper that he had filled out a couple of hours previously. “Hold on. Have a look at this work order. It says what is to be done.”

  Sweeney held out the paper to the sentry, who took it by a corner as if it were contaminated by lice. Sweeney watched as the sentry’s eyes moved back and forth, struggling with the words. The sentry handed the work order back to Sweeney.

  “You can come back another day.”

  Sweeney dropped his toolbox onto the gravel. He shrugged and stuffed the work order into his coveralls pocket. “Mr. Earle will be mighty displeased when he learns you sent me away. He’s the one who ordered the work done.”

  The sentry had stiffened at the mention of Earle’s name. Sweeney knew he had to push him over the edge.

  “Come on, Mate. It’s only the gatehouse. Let me get the work done and then I can get paid by Mr. Earle. You wouldn’t begrudge another workingman his daily wage, would you.”

  The sentry stood immobile for a few more seconds. Then he clucked his tongue and turned to his partner. “Willie, let the bloke through. He’s only going into the gatehouse.”

  The sentry turned back to Sweeney. “Second floor, you said. Right?”

  “That’s it, exactly.”

  “Use the second door on the left. Staircase is just inside.”

  Sweeney put on his brightest smile. “Thanks, Matey. I’ll return the favor someday.”

  The second sentry swung the heavy iron gate open and Sweeney walked under the archway and through the second doorway on the left, closing the door securely behind him. He trudged up the stairs, making sure his heavy boots made as much noise on the wooden planks as he could. When he reached the top, he found a large room at the back of the west wing and dropped the tool box onto the floor, rattling the tools loudly.

  Then he quietly moved back down the corridor that ran the length of the wing and peeked out a window overlooking the front of the gatehouse. The two sentries were directly below him, talking quietly. The sentry who had challenged him said something and the pair laughed loudly before they separated and went back to their posts.

  Sweeney saw his chance. He returned to the back room, retrieved the tool box, and then quietly made his way down the stairs. There he silently moved down a narrow corridor to a door at the end of the wing at its farthest point from the gate. He drew in a deep breath, opened the door and stepped outside.

  There was no one around. To his right was the gravel roadway leading to Elmfield House. To his left was a manicured lawn dotted with boxwood and hibiscus bushes. Sweeney checked behind him and then started off at a fast walk toward the foliage that lined the side of the estate.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Inspector Bradnum wasn’t comfortable with riding in a vehicle being driven by Constable Glew, but at least the trip out to Elmfield House gave him a chance to formulate a plan to deal with Sweeney. Bradnum had not understood how the Irishman could stay one step ahead of him and continue to threaten the president. At least that part of the mystery was clear now. Loughrey confirmed that Sweeney wanted to harm President Roosevelt to attract attention in America for the Irish cause. Damn fools, Bradnum thought, smacking the leather seat with a loud slap.

  Glew glanced over at him. “Something you wanted, sir?”

  Bradnum shook his head. “No, Glew. Just thinking out loud and getting upset about the results.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Bradnum saw a small smile creep across Glew’s face. The young constable was turning into a fine police officer. He was sharp-witted, followed orders implicitly, and seemed to have a knack for being in the proper place at the right time. Bradnum wished he had an entire squad of constables like Glew.

  Glew turned off the main road and braked the small vehicle to a jolting halt in front of the massive gatehouse to Elmfield House. A sentry from the 15th Foot came to attention and saluted, then approached the side of the car.

  “Good day, Inspector. Shall we open up for you?”

  “Very good, corporal. How are things going here? Anything to report?”

  “No, sir. It’s been quiet out here, even with the carpenter at work inside the gatehouse.”

  Bradnum leaned across the gear lever toward the driver’s window. “The carpenter, you say? What carpenter?”

  The sentry brightened. “The one who’s fixing the ceiling up on the first floor. He had the proper work order and Mr. Earle’s permission to do the work.”

  Bradnum leaned back to the passenger side window and cocked an ear. “I don’t hear any hammering. Actually, there’s no sound of work at all. I think you better get that gate open.”

  The sentry called to his partner to open the gate and once they were through, Bradnum bolted for the doorway.

  “He went up there,” the sentry said, pointing up the stairs.

  “Glew, stay here. Corporal, come with me.” Bradnum pointed to the sentry’s rifle. “And chamber a round in that thing.”

  The wooden planks creaked under his weight as Bradnum creeped up the staircase. The sentry seemed to be better at making less noise than he was. At the top of the stairs Bradnum stepped aside and let the sentry lead the way into the back room that overlooked the lawn at the front of Elmfield House. The room was empty and showed no sign of any carpenter or carpentry work.

  “Bloody hell.”

  Back under the archway, Bradnum met Glew, standing beside the police vehicle.

  “He’s here,” Bradnum said, looking behind him at Elmfield House.

  “Who is?” Glew asked.

  Bradnum bit his lower lip before answering. “The Irish assassin, Sweeney.”

  Sweeney slipped from behind spreading boxwoods and strolled toward the workmen’s entrance at the rear of Elmfield House as if he hadn’t a care in the world. The constable posted at the door was a young fellow, certainly not long on the force, Sweeney thought.

  “Your business here, please?” the constable asked, standing ramrod straight in front of the door.

  Sweeney set his tool box down and fished the work order from his coveralls pocket. He held it out to the constable. “It’s all in there, Matey. They want the water closet fixed.”

  The constable scanned the crumpled paper and handed it back. “It doesn’t say anything about a water closet there.” He stood his ground.

  “Of course, Matey. The upper class, they don’t write about such things as water closets that need to be unstoppered. They just call on me and tell me to get it done. That’s what they want.”

  The constable looked hesitant, but still didn’t move aside.

  Sweeney shrugged and picked up his tool box. “I suppose you’ll be the one to tell Mr. Earle that his water closet will stay full of shit because I wasn’t allowed to unstop it.” He began to walk away.

  “Wait.”

  Sweeney turned. “What’s it going to be, Mate? Yes, or no?”

  The young constable stood aside and pushed open the door. “Go on in and get it done. Quickly, mind you.”

  “You’re a right proper mate,” Sweeney said with a smile. He quickly went through the doorway and found himself in a tile-floored room. Two walls were taken up by a line of clothes hooks, from which hung an assortment of coats, jackets and shirts. A line of boots and muddy shoes stood along the wall under the clothes.

  Sweeney looked down a short corridor and saw a kitchen on the left and a pantry to the right. He sprinted along the corridor and peeked into the pantry before ducking inside.

  The room was spacious for a
pantry, with shelving and cabinets lining the walls, each crammed from floor to ceiling with glassware, china, cups and saucers, cutlery, nonperishable foodstuffs and linens. A pair of oak pocket doors stood three-quarters open. Beyond them was the dining room.

  Sweeney slowly peeked into the dining room and finding it empty, stepped inside. The room was fashioned as a long rectangle, with an oak table seating twelve in the center of the room beneath two crystal chandeliers. Along the wall to the pantry were two large sideboards, each with closed cabinets making up their lower portions.

  Sweeney set the tool box down next to the sideboard that stood closest to the head of the table. He rummaged around under the tools until his hands found the burlap-wrapped packages, which he removed and set on the floor.

  Unwrapping the first one, he extracted six sticks of dynamite that he had tied tightly together. Fuses protruded from each stick and then were twisted together to form a single, thick length of fuse about four inches long.

  From the second burlap package Sweeney withdrew a tight coil of quick fuse, so called because it was the fastest burning type of flame ignition available to detonate dynamite. He unwrapped the end of the fuse and uncoiled several feet to allow himself freedom to work. Quickly he twisted the end of the quick fuse onto the pigtail fuse leading to the dynamite.

  Reaching around behind the sideboard, Sweeney slid the fused explosives behind the back wooden panel and placed it on the floor at the base of the wall. When the dynamite detonated, the explosion would be directed out from the stone wall, splintering the wooden sideboard and exploding it into hundreds of lethal splinters that would blow through the dining room and kill its occupants.

  Sweeney pushed the fuse cord down into the joint where the floor and the wall met, and then led it around the edge of the doorway and into the pantry. There, he ran the fuse along the base of the cabinets and around the back of the room to the pantry doorway to the corridor.

  He returned to the dining room and retrieved his tool box, hiding among the pantry’s linens in a lower cabinet. He then laid out the rest of the fuse down the corridor, behind the boots and shoes in the entry hallway. Sweeney set the free end of the quick fuse next to a box of matches behind a pair of Wellington boots and returned to the pantry to wait.