Inspector of the Dead (11 page)

A corner of the lake remained unfrozen, accommodating geese, ducks, and swans. Dark ripples warned that if too many skaters swarmed across the ice or jumped in acrobatic maneuvers, the ice might break. Along the bank, signs warned
DANGER.
A large tent contained stimulants, hot-water bottles, dry clothes, and blankets heated by hot bricks to resuscitate people who fell through the ice—an increasing possibility as more people slid across it.

The ice began to tremble. Hearing a crack, the horde sped toward the banks, causing the ice to heave more severely. Amid screams, a large section made an explosive sound and broke away, dark water erupting as skaters plunged into it.

“Help!”

Rescuers grabbed ropes and ran toward the bodies thrashing in the icy water.

“Can’t feel my legs!”

As the crowd watched in horror from the safety of the banks, a man tried to pull his friend from the dark water but couldn’t quite reach him. He took off one of his skates, lay on the ice, squirmed as close as he dared, and swung the skate toward his struggling companion. The drenched, freezing man stretched out his dripping arm and managed to grab the blade when suddenly the ice broke again, plunging the would-be rescuer into the water with his friend.

So many flailing hands reached for the proferred ropes that the rescuers were nearly yanked into the water. Dripping, the victims hugged themselves and shivered, staggering toward the medical tent. The finest overcoats became as stiff with cold as the most ragged jackets. The most expensive boots became as waterlogged as those with gaps in their soles.

“There’s blood on the ice!”

“Look! Somebody’s floatin’ in the water!”

Even though wet, the quality of the gentleman’s clothes was readily apparent. He bobbed face down among chunks of ice. Blood tinted the water.

“Must’ve banged ’is ’ead! Quick! Get a pole!”

A half-dozen earnest souls sped to the task, dragging the fashionably dressed man from the water and turning him over.

“Can you hear me?” a rescuer yelled.

But it was obvious that the gentleman would never hear anything again, just as it was obvious that he had not struck his head on the ice—because the blood did not come from the gentleman’s head. The source of the copious crimson was his throat, which had been slashed from ear to ear. Sickened, one of the rescuers spun toward the snowbanks, where countless faces stared back at him.

“Murder!”

“What’s that he said? It sounded like—”

“Murder! Police! Someone get the police!”

A few rushed to obey. Most stayed to see what would happen next.

“I recognize ’im! That’s Sir Richard Hawkins! He’s a judge!”

“A judge?
Are you certain?
”

“Oh, that’s ’im all right. I was in court when he sent my brother to prison last month.”

“Blimey, look at ’is throat! It’s cut to the back of ’is neck!”

“W
hy are so many
people yelling?” Commissioner Mayne asked.

Panicked shouts made the group pause as they left the immensity of Buckingham Palace. It was after five o’clock, and night was upon them. In the falling snow, nothing was visible beyond Lord Palmerston’s coach waiting at a shrouded street lamp beyond the palace gates.

The commotion intensified, coming from the gloom across the road.

“Something must have happened in St. James’s Park,” Ryan said.

Police clackers penetrated the shouts, sounding the alarm.

“Sergeant Becker, find out what’s wrong,” Commissioner Mayne ordered.

“Yes, sir.” Becker hurried away, disappearing into the darkness.

“Inspector, kindly take us back to the church,” De Quincey said. “Emily and I have something to show you there. But first we need to stop at Jay’s Mourning Warehouse.”

“Jay’s Mourning Warehouse?” Lord Palmerston objected. “Why on earth do you need to go
there?
You barely have time to prepare for the queen’s dinner.”

“Prepare what?” Emily asked in confusion.

“Your dinner clothes,” Lord Palmerston explained.

“But we don’t have any.”

“A bloomer skirt isn’t suitable for a royal event. Your father’s sleeves are threadbare. A button is missing.”

“Do you have a coat that might fit him?” Emily asked, comparing her father’s short, thin frame to Lord Palmerston’s towering stature and powerful chest.

“None.” Lord Palmerston groaned. “The two of you are associated with me. If you ruin the queen’s dinner, she will blame me.”

U
sing the shouts
to guide him, Becker rushed through the darkness. He tugged gloves from his coat and pulled his cap down over his ears, but neither they nor his exertion dispelled the cold.

A shadow loomed; a man ran past.

“What happened?” Becker demanded.

“No tellin’ who’ll be killed next!”

Another figure suddenly appeared, jolting Becker and charging on.

“Hey!” Becker yelled, but the figure was gone.

The railings that enclosed St. James’s Park came into view a moment before he would have struck them. Beyond, faint lights bobbed from what Becker guessed were police lanterns. He ran along the fence, found people rushing through an open gate, and ignored the shoulders that bumped against him as he squeezed past. Taking long strides through the snow, he reached a constable, who aimed his lantern at a panicked crowd.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Becker. What happened?”

“A judge had his throat slit!”

“A judge?”

“Sir Richard Hawkins,” the constable answered.

“But I saw him only a week ago. I gave evidence in his court.”

“He won’t be in court again, I can tell you.”

Becker hurried to where other constables strained to establish order. Abruptly he felt movement beneath his feet. The ice rippled, seemingly alive. Dizzy, he spread his arms to keep his balance. The crowd hurried toward the shore. As the ice slowly stopped heaving, Becker took a long breath to calm his speeding heart and shifted cautiously toward the body before him.

A constable stood next to it, his lantern revealing the corpse’s unusually broad chin, a distinctive feature of Judge Hawkins. Falling snow speckled the crimson gash in his throat.

Feeling an emotion colder than the snow, Becker remembered Ryan’s warning:
Distract yourself.
Concentrate on the details.

“Any witnesses?” Becker asked.

“Hundreds,” the constable answered. “But I doubt any of them knew it. The murderer probably bumped into him when he was skating, slit his throat while he was down, then moved on before anybody noticed.”

“Skating?”

The constable shifted the lantern, revealing skates on the corpse’s expensive boots. Somehow the skates seemed more grotesque than the snow on the red throat.

“He still has his purse and his watch, so it doesn’t look like a thief killed him.
This
was wedged into his coat.” The constable handed Becker an oilskin-covered pouch.

Cold seeped through Becker’s gloves as he broke the ice that had started to form on the pouch. Inside, he found a piece of paper that the oilskin had kept dry. The paper had a one-inch black border identical to the one he’d seen at Lord Cosgrove’s residence.

“Aim your lantern,” Becker said.

The light revealed handwriting that appeared to be the same as on the earlier note.

The message contained only two words.

“
Young England?
” the constable asked. “Do you know what that means?”

“I’m afraid I do.” Becker’s chill sank deeper into his chest. “Do you know where the judge lived? I need to go there at once.”

T
he coach stopped
on fashionable Regent Street. De Quincey, Emily, and Ryan stepped down into the snow and faced a three-story building that seemed to be weeping. Its wood trim was black and resembled teardrops. Every window was draped in black. Lamps in the windows revealed that, all the way to the rear, every display and counter was also draped in black.

A sign indicated that this was
JAY’S MOURNING WAREHOUSE,
one of the most prosperous businesses in all of London. After a family member died, relatives were immediately required to put on mourning clothes. If such garments weren’t available, a servant or a neighbor was quickly dispatched to Jay’s, where a vast array of funereal raiment was available. If the bereaved family had means, Jay would even send them fitters in a hearselike carriage with black horses and a black-clad driver, lest the neighbors be scandalized by an insufficient show of grief.

“I still don’t understand why you brought us here,” Ryan said.

Instead of answering, De Quincey proceeded toward the front door. Lord Palmerston and Commissioner Mayne were no longer with them, attending to urgent duties related to the queen’s protection.

“Please wait,” Ryan said as they reached a protective canopy.

De Quincey looked at him questioningly.

“This has been bothering me since we were at Lord Cosgrove’s house,” Ryan said. “I need to ask what you meant when you said that you had doubts about what happened fifteen years ago and Edward Oxford’s intentions to kill the queen.”

“His pistols were almost certainly not loaded,” De Quincey said. “His only crime was to startle Her Majesty, and yet the Attorney General ensured that Oxford was sequestered in a madhouse for the rest of his life.”

“You said something about treason,” Ryan persisted. “Before I could ask for an explanation, Lord Palmerston and Commissioner Mayne arrived. We were forced to interrupt the conversation. What did you intend to tell me?”

“Not until I’m certain.”

As snow gusted under the canopy, De Quincey turned toward the front door.

Death didn’t maintain a predictable schedule. Day or night, the warehouse of grief was always unlocked. When the three of them entered, the impression of sorrow and gloom was even stronger than it had seemed through the window. The floor was covered with a thick black carpet that deadened sounds. Black mourning garments hung from specterlike mannequins. Coffin palls and bereavement veils were arranged on shelves. One counter had stacks of black envelopes with black-bordered notepaper next to them—the same death-announcement stationery they had found at the church and at the Cosgrove mansion.

A gaunt, somber man in a black suit with an armband emerged from the gloom. His voice was soft. “I’m sorry that circumstances require you to come here, and on such a terrible night.”

The man paused, doubtfully assessing Emily’s bloomer skirt, De Quincey’s frayed coat, and Ryan’s newsboy’s cap, which he took off, revealing his Irish red hair.

The clerk gathered himself and continued, “Jay’s Mourning Warehouse will assist you in every way possible. May I ask which of your loved ones has departed?”

“We are fortunate that our loved ones remain with us,” De Quincey replied, glancing toward Emily.

“Then it’s a friend who has died?” the clerk asked. “A true friend is a treasure. To lose a trusted companion—”

“We haven’t lost a friend, either.”

“Then I fail to understand.”

“You’re not the only one,” Ryan murmured.

“Have you perhaps lost a distant relative or the friend of someone close to you?” the clerk asked.

“None of those, either,” De Quincey answered. “Do you have a frock coat that would fit me and that I could wear to a formal dinner?”

The clerk looked baffled. Assessing De Quincey’s diminutive height, he answered, “I might have a youth’s coat that would fit you. But I never heard of anyone wearing funereal garments to a formal dinner.”

“Do your clients sometimes need medication to help them endure intense grief?”

“Medication?” the clerk asked.

“To soothe the nerves.”

“I believe he’s talking about laudanum,” Ryan said unhappily.

“Well, yes, we have what you refer to as medication, in case a client succumbs to extreme emotions.”

“Would you be so good as to refill this?” De Quincey gave the clerk his laudanum bottle.

“You came here for a coat and laudanum?” The clerk began to lose his sympathetic tone.

“And funereal garments for a woman.”

“Why for a woman?” Ryan interrupted, puzzled.

“Of the deepest gloom,” De Quincey specified.

“If I may inquire,” the clerk said, “under these unusual circumstances, considering that none of you has lost a loved one or a friend or even a friend of a friend…”

The clerk paused delicately.

“You want to know who’s going to pay for this?” Ryan asked.

“In a word,” the clerk answered.

“As much as I hate to say it—the Metropolitan Police.” Ryan showed his badge.

For a moment the clerk looked doubtful that the badge was authentic. Then he nodded. “We always wish to be on good terms with the police.” He turned toward De Quincey. “Follow me, sir.”

“Inspector, would you be patient enough to wait here while Emily and I attend to something?” De Quincey asked. “It would be better if you didn’t know my intentions.”

“It usually is,” Ryan said.

B
ecker ran toward Mayfair,
a half mile north of St. James’s Park. The sharp rush of cold air into his mouth froze his throat.

The address he’d been given was on Curzon Street, which he’d hurried along five hours earlier. His urgent strides sent snow flying as he rounded a corner and studied what he could see of the narrow street.

Like the other areas in Mayfair, the buildings here were attached. Their Portland stone and uniform four levels, with matching wrought-iron railings, made each house identical to its neighbor. The snow clinging to them reinforced the illusion that they were interchangeable.

The number he’d been given was fifty-three.

He raced along, counting off the brass numbers that lamps over entrances revealed. But at one entrance, the lamp wasn’t illuminated. Nor did any lights glow behind any of the curtained windows. If any tracks had preceded him, they had been buried by the snow.

Becker hurried up the steps and banged the brass door knocker repeatedly. The impact resounded inside but received no response. He reached for the latch and wasn’t surprised to find it unlocked, just as he wasn’t surprised that no one answered when he opened the door and shouted into the darkness.

“This is Detective Sergeant Becker! Can anyone hear me? I’m coming in!”

De Quincey had once talked to him about an opium dream in which he experienced the same grotesque event again and again, trapped in a hellish circle of time. That was how Becker now felt as the door jolted against something on the floor. He found a table and touched a box of matches lying next to a candle. His hands shook as he lit the taper.

A male servant lay on the floor. His head was cratered. Congealing blood indicated that the attack had been recent.

Holding the candle with his left hand, Becker drew his knife from under his right pantleg, then cautiously entered a front hall. Hothouse flowers filled Oriental vases. The scent was cloying. A portrait of a man in a military uniform gazed sternly down at him. As the echo of Becker’s footsteps faded into silence, he listened for any sound of movement, but all he heard was the ticking of a clock.

Closed doors confronted him on the right and left. The candle wavered as he opened the one on the right. Beyond it he found a sitting room like the one at Lord Cosgrove’s house. There, the sitting room had been deserted. Here, a silhouette sat in one of the many plush chairs.

“I’m a detective sergeant. Can you hear me?” Becker asked.

As he warily approached, the candle revealed that the silhouette belonged to a woman. She was tied to the chair. Her head was tilted back. An object of some sort projected from her mouth.

Feeling sick, Becker realized that the object was a bladder made from animal skin. The room had a distinctive odor, not of death (too soon) or of blood (there wasn’t any). No, the odor was something that he recognized from years of having lived on a farm. What he smelled was sour milk. The woman’s hair and clothes were drenched with it. The white liquid seeped from the bladder stuffed between her lips. Someone had forced milk down her throat, pouring relentlessly until she drowned.

Her right hand gripped a piece of paper. With a terrible premonition, Becker pulled it from her fingers and recognized the one-inch black border. Two words were written in the strong, clear script that was becoming all too familiar.

John Francis.

Becker couldn’t identify the name, but feeling an even deeper chill, he had no doubt that it belonged to another of the men who had tried to kill Queen Victoria.

W
hen De Quincey
entered St. James’s Church and took off his overcoat, Commissioner Mayne stared at the bleak suit he revealed.

“You look like you’re going to a funeral instead of a palace dinner,” Mayne said.

“Since the police force paid for the suit, I was grateful for what I could find,” De Quincey told him.