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

  A CASE OF DOM PERIGNON

  FROM THE VICTORIAN CARRIAGE MYSTERY SERIES

  ALAN M. PETRILLO

  Published by August Words Publishing

  www.AugustWordsPublishing.com

  www.augustwords.org

  Cover design Cricket Freeman

  Book design Cricket Freeman

  Cover photos Historic images

  Author photo Courtesy of the Author

  Copyright © 2016 by Alan M. Petrillo

  Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without express permission, except for short passages for educational purposes. In complying you actively sustain the copyrights of writers, which fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Your support of working writers allows August Words Publishing to continue to publish books for readers just like you, but also allows support of literary and literacy charities which is the heart of augustwords.org.

  ISBN: 978-1-942018-11-7

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction and entirely an intentional product of the author’s imagination in the pursuit of telling an original tale to reach a higher truth. As such, any names, characters, places, and incidents are fabricated or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental and surely unintentional.

  For my wife, Gayle, who

  always helps keep my feet

  on the ground when I'm

  reaching for the stars.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Herbert Bradnum awoke with a start, bolting upright in bed, the sheets tangled around his legs. The lightning left a dull afterglow in the tiny bedroom, yet he could barely see the small bookshelf in the corner. His nightshirt, damp with sweat, stuck to his chest and stomach, and he shivered when the wind banged against the window pane, sending a draft of chilly air past him. The rain could not be far behind now, he thought, and in the next instant, fat drops of wind-driven rain began to flatten themselves against his window, then run in wavy rivulets down to the sill.

  He pulled the bedclothes close around him and went to the window, watching the storm unleash itself on the outside world. Bradnum shivered again and hugged the bedclothes tighter. Padding across the room to the washstand, he lit a lamp and peered at the container of Eno’s Fruit Salt. The old-time, ever-popular remedy for biliousness, sick headache, constipation, errors in diet, giddiness or gouty poison, according to the label. Well, he thought, I must have at least two of those afflictions. He poured a generous measure into a glass of water, swirled it around, and drank it off in a long draught.

  Back in bed he smacked his lips and tried to dispel thoughts of the unfinished cases piled on his desk. He’d get through them, he thought, but only if he didn’t die first.

  King Edward VII squared his shoulders and stared into the mirror while his valet brushed specs of lint from the back of a pin-striped Saville Row-tailored jacket hanging on the coat tree.

  “It’s ready, your majesty.”

  The king turned and held his arms out from his sides, then slid them into the sleeves with a soft rustling sound. He flexed and brought his shirt cuffs popping out of the jacket sleeves, then dropped his arms and studied himself in the mirror. Satisfied with his appearance, Edward nodded to the valet and strode from his dressing room. As he exited the suite, his private secretary fell into step behind him.

  “Your majesty, I have a telegram I think you should see. It’s quite. . . unusual.”

  Edward took the flimsy yellow sheet and squinted at the message.

  HIS MAJESTY EDWARD VII:

  PLAN TO SPEND FOUR WEEKS IN AFRICA SHOOTING GAME * SHIP STOPS FIRST IN LIVERPOOL * WOULD LIKE TO ARRANGE MEETING WITH YOU AND SPEND SEVERAL DAYS IN ENGLAND * ARRIVAL IN LIVERPOOL SCHEDULED FOR 14 SEPTEMBER 1907 * CAN YOU ACCOMMODATE ME? *

  THEODORE ROOSEVELT

  “What do you make of that, Taylor?” the king asked, handing back the flimsy. “The Americans are so damn informal. It sounds as if he’s leaning over the back fence and inviting himself for supper.”

  Edward saw the corners of Taylor’s mouth lift, even though the rest of his face remained impassive. “Your majesty must remember that such things are done differently in the colonies.”

  The king gave a loud snort. “I suppose there’s no getting around this visit. He seems to already have made up his mind. See to the arrangements.”

  Herbert Bradnum straightened and massaged his sore back with both hands. He found traces of footprints outside the broken window, plus the sill was scuffed where the thief had dragged something across it. He looked back through the garden behind Elmfield House to the copse of trees in the near distance. The old manor sat at the north edge of the city and at the very limit of his jurisdiction. As an Inspector in the Hull police force, Bradnum was not required to investigate a run-of-the-mill burglary, but the Chief Constable had thrust this one on him personally because the owner of Elmfield House was none other than J.R. Earle, the owner of Earle’s Shipbuilding & Engineering Yard.

  Bradnum hated dealing with the toffs from the upper class. They invariably looked down their noses at working men like him and usually harbored unrealistic expectations when it came to handling criminal matters. He shrugged off the thought and trudged around the sandstone-faced manor to the rear entry and then let himself into a small room adjacent to the kitchen. A large, moon-faced woman in cook’s garb bustled through a doorway and stopped short on seeing him.

  “Ah, madam. Inspector Bradnum,” he said, waving his warrant card in her direction. “I’d like to have a look around the room that was broken into. Is it through there?” He pointed through the doorway where she stood.

  “Down the hallway and second left.”

  Outside the indicated room, Bradnum stood for a moment and listened to the sounds in the house. Nothing. Quiet as a graveyard. If sound didn’t travel well through Elmfield House, then it was small wonder no one had heard the break-in last night. Inside, he surveyed the desk’s opened drawers and the scattered papers on the floor, then stepped to the window the thief had used to enter.

  “I beg your pardon. What do you think you’re doing there?” The plummy sounds of upper class diction cut through the stillness.

  “Inspector Bradnum,” he said, turning to face the tall, thin man standing in the open doorway.

  “Well why didn’t you announce yourself earlier?”

  Bradnum drew a deep breath. “I did so to the housekeeper, and also to the cook back there,” He jerked his thumb toward the rear of the house. “And to whom am I speaking?”

  “I ow
n this place. J.R. Earle.”

  “Ah, Mr. Earle. You are the one who can help here.”

  “It is not my duty to help the police do their job.”

  “No sir, it is not. However, if you could examine the desk and table over there, I would be most desirous of knowing what might be missing.”

  Earle hesitated in the doorway as if considering the request, then strode across the room and sat behind the desk. As he rummaged through the drawers, Bradnum returned to the window and inspected the floor around it.

  “This will take me some time, sergeant,” Earle said, slamming a drawer shut.

  “Of course, sir. Are there any other rooms in the house that show obvious evidence of being entered?”

  “I’ve not been told of any by the staff.”

  “I’ll just have a quick look around to be certain.”

  “Suit yourself.” Earle dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

  Bradnum made a complete circuit of the ground floor, and finding nothing amiss, mounted the wide stairway to the first floor. It appeared that nothing had been touched. Ten minutes later, he returned to the study and found Earle staring out the broken window.

  “It appears this was the only room that was entered, Mr. Earle. Were you able to determine if anything was taken?”

  Earle turned and leaned against the window frame. “Two hundred pounds in cash is missing, all banknotes. And also a gold watch and chain, and two gold rings."

  “Anything else?”

  “Some personal papers.”

  Bradnum cocked his head. “Papers? What kind of papers?”

  “What the bloody hell does it matter?” Earle exploded. “They were simply some legal papers. It’s no concern of yours.”

  Bradnum pressed his lips together tightly. “All right, sir. I’ll need a description of the watch.”

  “It’s an American Waltham. It was my father’s.”

  “We shall do all we can to recover it for you.”

  “You damn well better,” Earle said as he strode from the room.

  Thomas Taylor glided down the thick carpet in the center of the wide hallway, thinking about the difficulties that the American president’s visit would entail for him and the rest of the royal staff. The king would most certainly enjoy himself with the president, Taylor well knew. King Edward was first and foremost a social being, having been reared in privilege and power. But while such access might have turned another person’s head toward stiffness and aloofness, the king had a well-earned reputation as a popular royal, one beloved by the people for his good humor toward them and his accessible nature in public.

  But that was the difficulty the king’s staff would face with Roosevelt’s visit, Taylor thought as he entered the Blue Room on the first floor where the appointments staff worked. The American president was very much like the king in terms of popularity and it would be a near-impossible task to suppress the energy of the two of them once they got together in a public arena.

  And then there were the security concerns that faced him with the heads of the two most powerful countries in the world together in the same place at the same time. The police forces would be pulling their hair out by the roots once they learned of Roosevelt's visit.

  Taylor stepped inside a small office and shut the door behind him. From behind an ornately-carved walnut desk, a diminutive man wearing brass-framed spectacles peered up at him.

  “Murphy, I would like a few words with you. I have an assignment that you can assist with.”

  Brian Murphy stood and made a small bow, indicating a plush chair in front of the desk.

  “The king will be entertaining the American president in September for a brief visit while Roosevelt passes through on his way to an African safari. We’re to rouse up a bit of pheasant shooting for the two of them, along with several official appearances. Some type of dedication would do nicely, along with a formal dinner.” Taylor stood and dropped the telegram on the desk. “Contact the president’s staff and get the wheels turning for the visit. Get a schedule of the dates they expect to arrive, how long they intend to be here, and the date of departure.”

  Taylor paused as Murphy read through the wire.

  “Once we have the dates in hand, we can work on filling in the time for Roosevelt and the king. Any questions?”

  “None, sir. I shall make contact immediately.”

  Taylor reached across the desk and took the wire from Murphy’s hands. “There’s a good lad. Stay sharp on this detail.”

  Teddy Roosevelt paced the perimeter of the Oval Office, hands clasped behind his back, brow furrowed, his gaze fixed on the patterned carpet. As he completed his fourth circuit of the room, a light cough from the doorway distracted him and he glared at the interruption.

  “Robert, I asked not to be disturbed until I’ve worked this out. What is it?”

  Robert Wallace, the president’s chief of staff, slid into the room, extending a telegraph flimsy.

  “Sir, I thought you might like to see some cheery news.”

  Roosevelt snatched the message and read:

  MR. PRESIDENT:

  I CONSIDER IT AN HONOUR TO HOST YOU IN SEPTEMBER * MY STAFF WILL CONTACT YOURS CONCERNING ARRANGEMENTS * PERHAPS YOU’D LIKE A SPOT OF MOORLAND SHOOTING BEFORE AFRICAN VISIT? * PHEASANT AND HARE PLENTIFUL IN AUTUMN * WE CAN WAGER ON THE OUTCOME *

  EDWARD VII

  A grin broke over the president’s face. “Pheasant shooting! Not a bad way to spend part of a state visit. And there’s the probability of winning a bet from the king. See, Robert, there’s a silver lining in every cloud.”

  “Yes, sir. Shall I get things started on this end?”

  “Absolutely. And let’s be certain the arrangements aren’t bollixed up like that visit to Montreal last year. That was damned embarrassing.”

  “I’ll oversee the preparations myself.”

  Roosevelt fixed Wallace with a sharp look. “Be sure you do.” He gestured toward an armchair. “Sit down, Robert. I’d like to talk to you about this banking issue.”

  “Taylor, tell me again why it is important that I go to Hull for this dedication?”

  “Your majesty, the Hull Tramway Company is celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of its founding, and its tenth year of electrification. The firm has purchased the newest model trams available and placed them in service on the city lines. We’ve had an invitation from one of the directors, Mr. Earle, to have you perform the dedication.”

  Edward VII leaned back in the armchair and puffed a blue cloud of smoke from his cigar.

  “Bigod, old Earle.” He stood and paced in front of his aide. “J.R. Earle owns the largest shipbuilding company in Hull, probably on the entire east coast, save for the London trade. And Earle is a dead-on shot when it comes to pheasant.”

  “Yes sir. I remember the year he shot two dozen brace at the Duke of Pleasanton’s country house in Surrey.”

  “So do I, Taylor. So do I,” the king said, slapping his palm with his fingers. “I’ve a capital idea. “We’ve invited Roosevelt, or better said, he’s invited himself, for a state visit. I’ve offered pheasant shooting as a diversion. We should have the president come to Hull and help with the dreadful dedication. Then we all can go over to Earle’s country house and shoot birds. How does that sound?”

  Taylor made notes as the king spoke. “I think your majesty has hit on a splendid idea. By involving the American president, we will give the dedication an added emphasis, which is sure to please the company directors. It also places the president and your majesty at a shooting site that is sure to yield a large amount of birds.”

  The king’s face broke into a wide smile. “See to it, then. And be sure that Earle knows I want to be paired with Roosevelt. The wager, you know.”

  Taylor bowed lightly toward the king, then left the room to make the arrangements.

  Chapter Two

  William Cole struggled to the window and drew back the heavy drapes to reveal a brightening sky littered with deflated
clouds, and a wet landscape dotted with dark puddles. He had slept heavily during the night, helped along by a last pint of Tartan lager. Cole stretched and padded softly down the corridor to the bath, where a splash of cold water from the tap brought him fully awake and back in control.

  Once dressed, Cole rummaged in the kitchen cupboard for something to eat, but found nothing but a near-empty box of stale biscuits. He ate the two remaining biscuits, then put water on the boil for tea. Five minutes later, a steaming mug of unsweetened tea in hand, he negotiated the stairs to the ground floor and pulled his jacket collar close as he stepped into the chill morning air.

  Westbourne Street already was full of activity, with other early-rising workmen walking the pavements toward jobs at the Kingston Saw Mill or the Eastern Fish Curing Sheds. On the cobblestoned street, fume-belching gasoline-driven trucks jockeyed for position with lumbering, horse-drawn wagons, such that a pedestrian made nearly as good time as the vehicles.

  A quarter-mile walk brought Cole to the Hessle Road Tramway Depot, where he had worked as a tram driver since the electrification and expansion of Hull’s tram lines ten years earlier. He paid a young boy two pence for a copy of the News Herald, then tucked the paper under his arm and headed into the tram shed, a vast building that took up a space larger than a football pitch and occupied much of the block along Hessle Road and Liverpool Street.

  Inside, the clamor of metal parts being smashed together rose from the rear of the building as Cole stopped to admire the triple rows of Preston trams standing on the tracks in the main bay of the depot.

  “Billy, wot are you gawkin’ at?”

  Cole turned to see George McBirnie grinning at him. McBirnie was a former tram driver who had made the switch to tram mechanic.

  “Admiring the trams. They look so graceful when they’re all lined up like that.” He gestured toward the silent trams.

  McBirnie shook his head from side to side. “I’ll not understand what goes on between your ears. Isn’t it enough that we have to drive them all day?”