Inspector of the Dead (15 page)

Additional surprises awaited me, for at one end of the long dining table, the place card with my name was next to that of Prince Albert, who was known for his curious mind.

Because all the women wore hooped dresses, they had difficulty settling into their chairs while I, of course, had no trouble whatsoever.

The multitude of bowls and the vast selection of offerings went beyond anything I had ever experienced. An elegantly handwritten copy of the menu lay before me and each of the other guests in case we failed to notice something. Truly, I had not seen this much food at one time ever in my life:

Matching the abundance on the table were the place settings. The many types of forks, knives, spoons, and glasses totaled twenty-four for each guest. As the combined aroma of the various dishes drifted over me, I was embarrassed to hear my stomach growl.

Colonel Trask, who sat next to me, coughed several times. When I glanced his way, he gave me a conspiratorial smile that suggested he had kindly masked the noise that my stomach made. I raised my napkin and returned his smile, reminded of schoolchildren sharing a secret.

Servants brought white wine, which Father was happy to accept.

Lord Palmerston raised his glass. “To our gracious hosts, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert.”

“Hear, hear!” the Duke of Cambridge said. “God save the queen.”

Under the circumstances, the duke’s comment was unfortunate. Evidently he hadn’t been informed that the queen’s life was in danger and that she did indeed need saving.

“And to the health of your children,” the Duke of Cambridge continued. “Has Prince Leopold recovered from his injury?”

The duke referred to Her Majesty’s most recent child, whose birth two years earlier had been celebrated in every newspaper throughout the empire.

“Thank you, yes,” Queen Victoria replied. “The cut on his forehead finally stopped bleeding. Even Dr. Snow is at a loss to explain why the slightest of falls causes Leopold to bleed so profusely. It seemed that the injury would never seal itself.”

A true monarch, Her Majesty did not allow her many concerns to spoil the occasion. “But enough of unhappy matters. Our original purpose for this dinner was to celebrate my cousin’s safe return from the war and Colonel Trask’s gallant service to him.”

Neither Sir Walter nor Catherine’s parents looked pleased about the glowing reference to the colonel.

“But now we have another reason to celebrate,” the queen continued. “Lord Palmerston has agreed to act as prime minister and form a new government.”

She said this as though her wine tasted bitter.

Catherine’s father asked Lord Palmerston, “With your experience as secretary for war and foreign secretary, do you see an opportunity to dominate the Russians?”

“I believe that is why Her Majesty entrusted me with this honor,” Lord Palmerston replied. “I shall pursue a victory with all of my strength.”

“Hear, hear!” everyone said.

Father finished his wine and accepted more from a white-gloved servant who patrolled the table.

“I confess I was not always clear about the reasons for going to war,” Lord Bell said.

“The Ottoman Empire has separated East from West for more than five centuries. But now it shows signs of crumbling,” Lord Palmerston explained with the expertise of his years as foreign secretary. “Taking advantage of its weakness, Russia invaded its eastern border, an area known as the Crimea. In response, we joined forces with France, declaring war against Russia.”

“I have not heard it put so simply and elegantly,” Catherine’s father said.

“But even put simply, it seems complicated,” Lord Bell persisted. “The Ottoman Empire is halfway around the world. Why do we care what happens there?”

“If we allow Russia to invade a portion of that empire, where will the aggression stop?” Lord Palmerston replied.

“And don’t forget the Suez canal,” Father interjected.

It was the first time he had spoken. His short stature required some guests to lean forward to get a better look at him.

“The Suez canal? I don’t believe I know of such a thing,” Lord Bell said.

“Because it doesn’t exist.” Father removed a tin box from his coat and selected a pill from it. “For my digestion,” he explained.

“But how can the Crimean War be caused by something that doesn’t exist?” Sir Walter asked.

“England’s wealth comes from trade with the Orient,” Father answered, “but a ship requires six months to return from India, sailing around Africa. Perhaps the distance can be shortened.”

The pill Father chewed was opium. Worried that the queen would realize, I hastily devoted myself to the soup in case I might not receive anything more to eat.

“Shorten the distance?” Sir Walter asked in confusion. “The world’s circumference can’t be changed.”

“Suppose British ships didn’t need to sail around Africa,” Father suggested. “Suppose that instead our ships journeyed across the Indian Ocean to the Gulf of Suez, deep within Egypt. The overland distance from that gulf to the Mediterranean Sea is only eighty miles. A British company plans to build a railway there. The journey from India to England would be reduced to a previously undreamed of nine weeks. Three times more ships would make the journey, with vastly greater profits.”

The group looked stunned.

“Is this true, Lord Palmerston?” Lord Wheeler asked.

“I’m not permitted to discuss it.”

Colonel Trask spoke up. “But I can. I was asked to help finance that railway.”

Catherine’s parents and Sir Walter looked unhappy about the colonel’s allusion to his wealth.

“And did you invest in that railway?” Lord Barrington asked.

“I did not. I considered it unwise.”

“But the profits!”

“For a few years.”

“Why only a few years?” Lord Wheeler asked in confusion.

“Because something more ambitious is being planned,” Colonel Trask replied. “The French have negotiated with Egypt to build the canal that Mister De Quincey refers to. That canal will revolutionize international trade. But the French want the project to themselves. I was disappointed not to be invited to participate in the financing.”

“Among magazine writers, it’s common knowledge that the future canal is the cause of the war,” Father said. “But we don’t feel at liberty to express it in print. It comes down to this—Egypt is part of the Ottoman Empire. If Russia’s invasion spreads to Egypt, Russia will control the Suez canal and world shipping.”

“But…” Sir Walter was temporarily speechless. “In that case, England would lose its dominance!”

“Indeed,” Father told him. “We allied with the French, hoping that if we both defeat Russia, the French will allow us access to the canal that they plan to build. Opium from India creates much of our trading profit. Imagine if our soldiers—dying from starvation, disease, and cold—suspected that they risked their lives not for England but for the opium trade. That’s why this information has not appeared in the newspapers and magazines.”

I have never seen so many jaws hang open in shock.

Clearly a distraction was needed.

I removed a vial from my purse and asked for a portion of red salmon. When I put a drop of the vial’s liquid on the salmon, everyone looked perplexed, seeing a part of the salmon turn brown.

“What are you doing?” Queen Victoria asked.

“Arsenic is not the only toxin used in dye, Your Majesty. Lead is often added to red dye in food.”

“Lead?” Prince Albert asked.

“This salmon was injected with red dye to improve its color, Your Highness. As you see, the red dye has lead in it.”

“Lead in the fish?” Queen Victoria set down her fork.

“It can be fatal, Ma’am. May I also test the lamb?”

I applied a drop of the liquid to an especially red part of the lamb, and that spot turned brown also.

“Lead in the lamb?” Queen Victoria murmured. “Mr. De Quincey, is that why you’re not eating? Are you suspicious about the food?”

“I have a sensitive stomach, Your Majesty.” Father munched another pill. “Perhaps I could have a bowl of warm milk in which to soak bread.”

“De Quincey.” Prince Albert searched his memory. “Now it comes to me. I read about you in connection with the murders in December. Your reference to opium triggered my recollection. Those pills…Good heavens, don’t tell me you’re the Opium-Eater.”

Certain that my moments at the dinner table were limited, I tested the beef and ate as much of it as I could.

“You’re also the man who wrote ‘On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts,’” Colonel Trask said. “We were together at St. James’s Church this morning. Do you have a theory about the murder that was committed there?”

I never expected to be relieved by a reference to murder. The group suddenly became distracted from Father’s opium.

“Not only that murder, but the ones at Lord Cosgrove’s home,” Father said.

“There have been several murders?” someone exclaimed.

“Including that of a judge, Sir Richard Hawkins, in St. James’s Park, not to mention his wife and a servant in his house,” Father said.

The faces of the men became red with alarm while those of the women drained of color.

“Sir Richard Hawkins?” Lord Barrington asked. “But he belongs to my club.”

“Lord Palmerston, why didn’t you inform us of these further crimes?” Prince Albert asked unhappily.

“I…I had no idea,” Lord Palmerston replied in confusion. “Your Highness, they must have occurred after I saw you.”

“Is no one safe?” Sir Walter demanded.

“That’s exactly the impression the killers wish to create,” Father said. “Tomorrow when London’s newspapers spread word about these terrible crimes, people will believe that neither their homes nor public areas are immune from danger. But there is another way to achieve panic. Your Majesty and Your Highness, with your permission—the newspapers will almost certainly print rumors about it.”

The queen and the prince stared at each other along the table. Her Majesty made a slight gesture, seeming to indicate that the choice belonged to her husband.

“It’s better if our friends hear it personally rather than read it in the newspapers,” Prince Albert decided.

“Notes were found at each murder,” Father said, “indicating that the deaths are part of a plot against Her Majesty.”

The men looked more outraged, the women paler.

“We feel confident in the ability of Scotland Yard to protect us,” Queen Victoria said.

“But why would anyone have hostile intentions toward Her Majesty?” the Duke of Cambridge protested. “She hasn’t harmed anyone. It’s the reverse. She’s the paragon of grace.”

“The Russians might not feel that way,” Colonel Trask said.

“Are you suggesting that the queen is not in fact a paragon of grace?” Sir Walter challenged.

“I suggest nothing of the sort,” the colonel answered. “But we need to consider the possibility that the Russians wish to cause panic here in the hopes of weakening our war resolve. As Mr. De Quincey explained, the stakes are huge.”

“The motive also seems to be personal,” Father added. “Notes left with the victims suggest that the murders are the result of long-held hostility toward them and also toward Her Majesty.”

“That is preposterous!” Sir Walter objected. “Her Majesty has never harmed anyone.”

“Again, the blasted Russians might not feel that way,” Colonel Trask said, exasperated with Sir Walter.

The vulgarity caused each woman, including the queen, to put a hand to her mouth.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” the colonel said.

This time it was Prince Albert who provided the distraction. “But surely the killers won’t be hard to identify. Anyone capable of these crimes must be unstable. Murder will out. Their viciousness will display itself in their everyday behavior and give them away.”

“In some cases, Your Highness, that is correct,” Father agreed. “But I once enjoyed dinner with a murderer, pleasantly discussing every manner of topic, without once realizing the darkness in his soul. It came as a shock that I could not tell from someone’s demeanor what evil deeds that person was capable of performing. I refer to Thomas Griffiths Wainewright, the distinguished painter and contributor to
London Magazine
, a friend to Hazlitt, Lamb, and Dickens as well as to me, although I don’t wish to attempt to raise myself in your estimation by including my name among those worthies.

“Wainewright had an extravagant way of living that put him in debt. He and his wife were forced to move in with his uncle, who soon died and left Wainewright his house. Wainewright then persuaded his mother-in-law to prepare a will that favored his wife. His mother-in-law died shortly afterward. Wainewright then insured his sister-in-law for twelve thousand pounds. Soon, that woman died also. Suspicious, the insurance company hired investigators, who believed that Wainewright had used strychnine to kill his victims. While no poison was ever located among his belongings, the investigators did find insurance documents with signatures that Wainewright had forged, so it was for embezzlement rather than murder that he was found guilty. In prison, someone asked him if he had really killed his sister-in-law. ‘It was a dreadful thing to do,’ Wainewright admitted, ‘but she was easy to dislike—she had very thick ankles.’”

Queen Victoria, Prince Albert, and everyone else listened with open mouths. The topics of arsenic, lead, strychnine, and foul murder had caused all of them to stop eating, while I devoured as much of the beef as I could, more certain with each passing moment that Father and I would soon be ejected.

“I enjoyed one of the most pleasant dinners of my life and never dreamed I sat across from a monster,” Father said. “So you see, Your Highness, you can never tell.”