Inspector of the Dead (10 page)

S
tanding in a doorway
with a shadowy corridor behind them, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert seemed to have materialized rather than entered the Throne Room. If they’d been members of the working class, they would have attracted no attention. Victoria’s slender nose emphasized how round her face was. Albert’s mustache and long sideburns did nothing to broaden his narrow, soft features.

But when it came to royalty, the shape of a face didn’t matter. These were Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, after all. Their elevated status led observers to endow the couple with an almost religious aura.

Victoria’s hooped dress—made from yards and yards of ruffled satin and brocaded silk—was a green so dark that no one could have called it festive, an example of her determination to appear reserved in contrast with the extravagance of her predecessors. The only decorations on Albert’s black suit were brass buttons and a gold-colored epaulet on one shoulder.

The queen’s light brown hair was combed close to her head and parted in the middle. A bonnet covered the back of her head, concealing where the ends of her hair were gathered. Although the bonnet was made of ornate cloth, it somehow resembled a small crown.

Prince Albert slouched slightly, but Queen Victoria stood perfectly straight. When she was a child, her mother had placed spiked holly leaves beneath the back of her dress. Thus at an early age, Victoria had learned to walk with flawless posture to prevent the holly leaves from pricking her skin.

“Your Majesty and Your Highness.” As Lord Palmerston bowed, the others imitated him, Emily curtsying.

The queen gestured for Lord Palmerston to approach.

“When you asked for a confidential meeting of utmost urgency, I did not expect that you would bring others.” Victoria’s voice was high-pitched in a way that newspaper reporters kindly described as silvery. “Who are these other people? That red hair. Constable Ryan, is it you?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Ryan again bowed.

“Why aren’t you in uniform?”

“I’m not a constable any longer, Your Majesty.”

“You left the police force? How will London get along without you? No one will be safe.”

“I was promoted, Your Majesty. I’m now a detective inspector.”

“Coming up in the world? Excellent. Prince Albert and I remain grateful to you for protecting us.”

“It was my privilege, Your Majesty.”

“And who is that tall man next to you?”

“His name is Detective Sergeant Becker, Your Majesty.”

Becker bowed again.

“My goodness, we’re awash in detectives.” Prince Albert joined the conversation, his German accent strong. “And Commissioner Mayne is here also. The little man next to you, is
he
a detective as well?”

“No, Your Highness,” Ryan answered.

“Thomas De Quincey, Your Highness.” Having been instructed not to speak, he received a sour look from Lord Palmerston.

“I know that name from somewhere,” the prince said. “It sounds distinguished.”

“One of my ancestors came from Normandy with William the Conqueror, Your Highness.”

Lord Palmerston coughed.

“Is something wrong, Lord Palmerston?” the queen asked. “Commissioner Mayne, perhaps
you
can resolve our confusion.”

“Your Majesty, a member of the peerage was murdered this morning in St. James’s Church.”

Queen Victoria’s mother had also trained her to conceal her emotions. A monarch—especially a female monarch—needed to appear strong. A public show of feeling was an admission of weakness.

“Murdered?” the queen asked in a forced, neutral tone.

As delicately as possible, Commissioner Mayne told them what had happened at the church.

“Were you familiar with Lord Cosgrove?” the commissioner asked. “I regret to say that he too was killed. At his home in Mayfair.”

The queen and prince continued to hide their reactions, except that now the corners of their eyes tightened.

“Your Majesty, we would not normally trouble you with news of this sort,” Lord Palmerston continued, “but Lady Cosgrove was holding a note that read ‘Young England.’”

“Young England?” Now Queen Victoria’s voice betrayed her concern.

“And Lord Cosgrove was holding a note also.”

“What was in it?” Prince Albert asked sharply.

“The name of Edward Oxford, Your Highness.”

The queen and Prince Albert quickly looked at each other.

“
Edward Oxford?
Has he escaped from Bedlam?” Queen Victoria asked.

“No, Your Majesty. We don’t yet know who wrote the notes or committed the crimes.”

In a rare public gesture, the queen touched the prince’s arm.

“It’s happening again,” she said.

“We came to tell you that everything is being done to ensure your safety,” Lord Palmerston promised them.

“And what could that be?” Queen Victoria objected, her round features straining with concern. “Without a government, no cabinet official has authority. You no longer act as home secretary, with the full power of your former office. What’s more, there’s no longer a war secretary to give orders to the army and increase the guards who patrol the palace.”

“With direct instructions from you, Your Majesty, we can bypass the lack of government,” Lord Palmerston tried to assure her.

“But the newspapers would object that I exceeded my power.”

“Would the newspapers prefer that you were harmed?”

“By giving orders to the army, I could survive but lose something more precious than my life: the monarchy.”

“Your Majesty, my own authority is still in effect,” Police Commissioner Mayne said. “The newspapers can’t object if I arrange for more constables to patrol the palace. A few unofficial words from me will prompt the army guards to increase their numbers as well, without any suggestion that you were responsible. Your schedule—if I may take the liberty—needs to be restricted, especially your public appearances. I recommend that you avoid contact with anyone whom you don’t know.”

“Such as that young woman over there.” Queen Victoria pointed with suspicion.

“She is Mr. De Quincey’s daughter, Your Majesty.”

“Why do I know that name?” Prince Albert wondered.

“He…” Commissioner Mayne was at a loss for words. “…consults with the police force, Your Highness.”

Queen Victoria kept staring at Emily. “What is that strange costume she’s wearing?”

“A bloomer skirt, Your Majesty,” Emily volunteered.

“Step forward, young woman. Anyone who walks around in that sort of costume could be suspected of being an anarchist. Are those
trousers
under your dress?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Along with the absence of a hoop, the dress gives me freedom of movement. An American woman named Amelia Bloomer championed the style. She believes in rights for women.”

“Rights for women?” Even though the queen herself enjoyed unusual rights, she looked mystified.

“Your Majesty, the dark green of your costume is beautiful, if I may say. But danger can come from many sources.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The dye on your dress is almost certainly embedded with arsenic.”

Color drained from Queen Victoria’s cheeks. “Rat poison?”

“Clothing manufacturers use it to strengthen the green color in their material. May I demonstrate, Your Majesty?”

Emily opened her handbag and withdrew a vial.

Commissioner Mayne grabbed it. “What on earth are you doing? Don’t tell me that’s arsenic.”

“Liquid ammonia,” Emily explained. “Your Majesty, if you would trust someone to put a drop of this liquid on your sleeve, you can determine whether you are wearing arsenic.”

Victoria directed another confused gaze toward Emily’s bloomer skirt.

“Albert,” she said.

The prince took the vial from Emily.

“Your Highness, please choose a spot that can’t be seen,” Emily instructed. “Merely touch the wet stopper to the material.”

“If this kills me, there are plenty of witnesses,” Queen Victoria warned.

“Your Majesty, honestly, I—”

“It is a joke,” the queen told her.

Albert bent Victoria’s left cuff outward and touched the wet stopper to the inside.

Instantly the spot turned from green to blue.

“The ammonia reacted with arsenic, Your Majesty,” Emily said.

“Rat poison on my clothes?”

“I’m afraid so. I’ve saved many women and children from illness by showing them this method of detection. I’d be honored if you kept the vial, Your Majesty. Perhaps you can help others.”

Queen Victoria regarded Emily for several seconds. A slight smile formed. “Prince Albert and I are hosting a dinner at eight this evening. We would be amused if you attended. You can’t come without an escort, of course. Your father is invited also.”

One of Lord Palmerston’s eyelids twitched.

“Commissioner Mayne, arrange for the increase in constables at the palace,” the queen ordered. “Inspector Ryan, I know you’ll do everything in your power to ensure my safety.”

“I swear it, Your Majesty.”

“Lord Palmerston,” Queen Victoria said with distaste.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“We wish to speak to you alone,” she told him, as if it were in fact the last thing she wished to do.

T
he queen’s distaste
reached all the way back to 1839. In the second year of her reign, she had invited Lord Palmerston to a weekend gathering at Windsor Castle. There, he had recognized a female guest who’d been one of his lovers. Indeed, in his youth his fondness for female companionship had prompted the newspapers to nickname him “Lord Cupid.” After dinner, he tried to follow the woman but lost his way in the labyrinth of the castle’s corridors. Believing that he’d found her room, he stealthily opened the door, closed it behind him, and discovered that instead of his former paramour, he was face-to-face with someone he didn’t know, a married woman who was one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. The woman whose privacy he had accidentally invaded was so attractive that he adjusted to the situation and made an effort to persuade the woman to accept his amorous advances. When she screamed, he tried to calm her, but servants were already pounding on the door. With profuse apologies, explaining that he had become lost, he asked directions to his room.

Victoria and Albert had detested him ever since, an intense dislike that increased when, as foreign secretary, Lord Palmerston acted on his own authority, issuing edicts to foreign governments and even dispatching military units. Most notably, he had ordered the Royal Navy to blockade the port of Athens, threatening to punish the Greek government if it didn’t reimburse a British citizen for damage to his property during a riot. Repeatedly, the queen had summoned him to Buckingham Palace, where she and the prime minister angrily ordered him to stop behaving like an absolute ruler. Again and again, he had offered his profound regrets, promising to abide by their wishes, only to break those promises and continue to behave as if he controlled Great Britain.

While the queen and the prince led him to the end of the enormous room, their distaste looked more pronounced. They mounted the dais, where Queen Victoria sat on her throne while Prince Albert stood to her left.

“When your message informed us that you had a matter of utmost urgency to discuss, we assumed that it related to the lack of a government,” Queen Victoria said.

“No. My purpose for coming here was to keep you from harm, Your Majesty.”

“We thank you for your concern.” The expression on the queen’s face said otherwise, communicating her doubt that Lord Palmerston could ever wish her well. “With Lord Aberdeen unable to continue as prime minister because of the war’s misconduct, we consulted with various other lords in the hope that one of them could form a new majority. None, it appears, is popular enough to unite all the factions.”

The queen and the prince studied Lord Palmerston with graver dislike.

“We imagined that you intended to make suggestions about how to solve the political crisis,” Prince Albert said grimly.

“I regret that I do not have
any
suggestions, Your Highness. The war has thrown everyone into disarray and uncertainty.”

Queen Victoria and Prince Albert seemed to wish fervently that they didn’t need to continue the conversation.

“Under certain conditions, would
you
be willing to accept the position of prime minister?” the queen asked, sounding forlorn.

“
I,
Your Majesty?” Lord Palmerston hid his immense surprise. Hundreds of years earlier, such royal disfavor would have prompted his beheading. “Become prime minister?”

“We said
under certain conditions,
” the queen emphasized.

“Kindly tell me what they are, Your Majesty.”

“You must swear to consult with the cabinet and Parliament, and above all with
us,
before you make policy.”

“Your Majesty, I have always tried to be at your service. On former occasions, an excess of zeal prompted me to act before consulting with you. But I have learned with age. I shall do my utmost to be your loyal prime minister.”

The queen and the prince continued to regard him sourly.

E
ast of Buckingham Palace
stretched St. James’s Park. Bordered by the Whitehall government buildings and the newly built Houses of Parliament, the park was surrounded by Britain’s sites of power. All Sunday afternoon, people hurried to its frozen lake, bringing skates or else renting them. This was a rare occasion when high and low, rich and poor, ignored social barriers.

Sweepers cleared the accumulating snow, hoping for a penny in return. A central drift formed the focus around which skaters glided, pirouetted, stumbled, or fell. A few even managed to skate backward, looking over their shoulders in a way that reminded some spectators of crabs. If a skater needed a respite, for twopence a vendor provided a chair and restrapped loosened skates. Brandy-ball men held trays of refreshments, their round confections laced with peppermint, ginger, or red pepper rather than the promised brandy.