Inspector of the Dead (33 page)

Squeezing away his tears, Jeremiah Trask shut his eyes once. His voice would have broken with gratitude if he’d been able to speak.

Yes!

F
or a second time,
De Quincey stepped down from a police wagon in front of the mansion on Bolton Street. As snow blew past, an overhead lamp allowed him to study the front door.

“There aren’t any tracks leading up to it,” Commissioner Mayne noted.

“All the same, I’m certain that he came here,” De Quincey said. “At the palace, when I asked him to explain about Jeremiah Trask, the look of hate on his face was so profound that I can’t imagine him not returning here to deal with that hate before he runs.”

Accompanied by three constables, they approached the door and knocked. No one answered. When De Quincey tried the door, he found it unsecured. “The same as at the homes of his other victims.”

De Quincey pushed the door open and felt relieved that he didn’t discover the corpse of a servant lying on the floor.

“What do I hear?” Commissioner Mayne asked.

Muffled shouts and pounding led them downstairs to the servants’ area.

A key protruded from a locked door next to the kitchen. The door rumbled with the frenzy of the assault on the inside.

When a constable unlocked it, four desperate servants hurried out, blurting what had happened.

De Quincey cautiously led the way to the upper levels. The door to the bedroom was open. In response to a groan, one of the constables entered first, then motioned for everyone else to follow him.

Holding his bleeding head, a policeman rose from the floor. A servant hurried to him.

De Quincey and Commissioner Mayne approached the motionless figure on the bed. There was a difference between the immobility of paralysis and the immobility of death. After eight years of having been imprisoned within his body, Jeremiah Trask finally wore a peaceful expression. His eyes were closed. An empty laudanum bottle lay next to him.

De Quincey withdrew his own bottle and swallowed from it.

“This is where opium will lead you,” the commissioner warned.

De Quincey shrugged. “But now whatever memories afflicted him have finally been extinguished, and he suffers no regrets.”

A constable entered the bedroom. “Commissioner, footprints in the snow approach and leave through the kitchen’s back door. I followed them, but they merged with other footprints on a nearby street. There’s no way to tell where he went.”

“So he’s still out there, waiting for another chance to kill the queen,” Mayne said.

“Or perhaps he’s finished,” De Quincey offered. “Whatever his reason for hating this man, something in him changed. Notice the peaceful expression on Jeremiah Trask’s face. He wasn’t afraid of what was being done to him. This death wasn’t an act of hate. It was a blessing.”

“G
ood evening, My Lord,”
De Quincey said, rising as a servant opened the door and Lord Palmerston entered. Outside, a coach departed from the curved driveway, disappearing into the darkness and the snowfall.

Only a few days earlier, De Quincey had stood on this spot, greeting Lord Palmerston for what he had assumed would be his final hours in London. An eternity of terror had happened in the meantime, somehow making him feel alive, but now despair again settled over him, and given what he was about to do, he believed that this occasion would truly mark his final hours in London.

“Once more, I find you lurking on my staircase,” Lord Palmerston said. His bandaged left arm was in a sling.

“I trust that Dr. Snow treated your wound with his usual skill,” De Quincey told him.

“He recommends rest, which I’m about to enjoy before tomorrow’s cabinet meeting about a new war offensive. If you’ll kindly step aside…”

“My Lord, I’d like to discuss the confidential matter that I alluded to yesterday evening.”

“Confidential matter?”

“Edward Oxford and Young England, My Lord.”

Lord Palmerston gave him a warning look. “Are you really determined to do this?”

“I consider it essential, My Lord.”

With a stern gaze, Lord Palmerston mounted the staircase. De Quincey followed him into the ballroom, where His Lordship closed the door, then walked across the vast area toward a table and two chairs arranged along the back wall.

“This will be sufficient to prevent us from being overheard.”

“My Lord, when I visited Edward Oxford in Bedlam, he spoke as if he believed that Young England was real. He was mystified by the evidence that the group didn’t exist.”

“Of course,” Lord Palmerston said. “An inability to distinguish reality from fantasy is the reason Oxford resides in the madhouse.”

“He was also mystified that his two pistols didn’t contain bullets.”

“Because he can’t separate what he actually did from what he imagined he did.”

“But depending on one’s perceptions, there are many realities, My Lord.”

“I don’t have time for your ravings.”

“My Lord, in eighteen thirty-seven, when Her Majesty ascended the throne, she was cheered. People welcomed her after the excess and immorality of her recent predecessors. Young, smiling, and full of life, she astonished her subjects by appearing in public every day. Her smiles brought joy, the sense of a new beginning.”

“Yes, yes, what is your point?”

“Only three years later, Her Majesty was despised. Her marriage to Prince Albert was greeted with alarm. People feared that he would bankrupt the nation by channeling its funds to his poor German state and indeed that he would transform England into a German colony. Meanwhile the queen interfered in politics, expressing strong approval of one party over another. People were afraid that she would abolish any party with which she disagreed and return the nation to the tyranny of earlier times. There was talk about doing away with the monarchy.”

“But Her Majesty was still learning,” Lord Palmerston protested. “Yes, she shouldn’t have cared which party happened to enjoy power at any particular time. The pendulum always swings from one side to the other. A queen is supposed to be above the vagaries of government. She needs to be steady, representing the constancy of the nation. But Her Majesty learned and became a great monarch. All she required was the time to adapt.”

“Which you provided for her,” De Quincey said.

The most powerful politician in England narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps I don’t understand you.”

“It must have taken your operatives a long while to locate exactly the right person—someone who had difficulty finding employment, who was poor and aggrieved, and who displayed eccentric behavior such as staring at walls and suddenly bursting into laughter.”

“Be careful.”

“Your operatives pretended to be part of a group of rebels called Young England. They claimed to take orders from Her Majesty’s uncle, who supposedly plotted the takeover of England from the German state he ruled.”

“Truly, I caution you.”

“I assume that there were meetings in which Oxford was introduced to some of the supposed members of Young England, who were actually your operatives. They elected him secretary of the group. He was told the names of the supposed members and dutifully recorded them, along with details of its meetings. With the assurance that he would begin a bold new day for England, he was persuaded to shoot at Her Majesty.”

“Do you realize what I can do to prevent you from speaking this way?”

“At the least, you can put me in Bedlam the way you disposed of Edward Oxford. If he’d been executed, he might have become a martyr, but someone in a madhouse is merely pathetic, babbling about an imaginary organization. He truly believed that Young England existed. He truly believed that the pistols he fired were loaded. But of course, when your operatives provided him with the weapons, they made certain that the barrels contained only gunpowder and wadding so that Her Majesty couldn’t be injured. She knew nothing about the plot, but her reaction to being shot at fit the scenario perfectly. She ordered her driver to proceed calmly onward. She completed her announced carriage outing to Hyde Park and even went to visit her mother in Belgravia. What a brave monarch, the people decided, strong and steady. Then came the glorious news, a secret that your operatives spread among the excited crowds, that Her Majesty was with child, that an heir was on the way. Prince Albert was no longer an unwelcome foreigner. He was the father of a possible future ruler. ‘God save the queen!’ people yelled everywhere.”

“The proof that you’re insane is that you say these things to my face. I could have you removed to Van Diemen’s Land—or worse.”

“I realize that, My Lord.”

“Then why on earth did you disregard your safety by forcing this conversation upon me?”

“My intent is to help you exercise your new responsibilities as prime minister, My Lord.”

“I can’t imagine how.”

“Because of your actions fifteen years ago, the queen was nearly killed tonight.”

“What?” Lord Palmerston said.

“In a crossing of destinies that you couldn’t possibly have foreseen, the desperate Irish boy happened to occupy the same space that Edward Oxford and Queen Victoria did. Would Colin O’Brien have been as consumed with the need for revenge if he hadn’t been there when Edward Oxford fired his two pistols? Was that the moment when his anger acquired a focus? Would he have killed Lord and Lady Cosgrove, Lord and Lady Grantwood, and how many other victims we don’t know about if Edward Oxford hadn’t provided the example? But Oxford didn’t inspire only Colin O’Brien. He also inspired John Francis, John William Bean Junior, and William Hamilton, all of whom said that they were prompted to shoot at Her Majesty because of the example Oxford provided.”

Lord Palmerston shifted in his chair.

“My Lord, to preserve the monarchy and to give Her Majesty the time to learn to be a queen, fifteen years ago you unwittingly set forces in motion that almost led to her death many times since then, and especially tonight. My purpose in coming here is to remind you that, with the immense power that you now possess, you have an even greater obligation to imagine consequences.”

“If I accepted your logic, I wouldn’t do anything.”

“Yes, absolute power creates an absolute burden.” De Quincey stood. “My Lord, I shall never speak a word about this conversation to anyone. Think of me as the rarest person you know.”

“Rarest? I don’t understand.”

De Quincey drank from his laudanum bottle. “I’m the only person you ever met who cares so little about himself that he will tell you the absolute truth.”

H
er knuckles swollen,
Emily sat between Becker and Ryan. The two men rested on beds in a small servants’ room in the attic of Lord Palmerston’s mansion.

Becker’s head was heavily bandaged. Ryan kept still, trying not to aggravate the restitched wound in his abdomen.

“It seems that we haven’t come far from where we were seven weeks ago,” Emily said.

“If anything”—Becker winced from his headache—“we’ve taken a step backward.”

Seated next to Emily, De Quincey offered his laudanum bottle. “A sip of this will remove your pain.”

“No, Father,” Emily told him.

“At least our injuries have one benefit,” Ryan said. “Thanks to Dr. Snow’s suggestion, you and your father decided to remain in London a while longer to help us get back on our feet.”

Emily suppressed a smile.

“The thanks should go to Lord Palmerston for extending his hospitality,” De Quincey suggested.

Emily shook her head. “He’s not being generous. His motive is to keep us close. He always seems to worry that we know something we shouldn’t.”

“I have no idea what that would be,” De Quincey said.

A tall, slender figure appeared in the doorway.

“Your Highness!” Emily exclaimed, standing, curtsying quickly.

With Lord Palmerston behind him, Prince Albert nodded. “Inspector Ryan, please don’t try to raise yourself. Nor you, Detective Sergeant Becker. Lord Palmerston suggested that you come downstairs to meet me, but I decided that your injuries would make that difficult, so I came to you.”

“We’re deeply honored, Your Highness,” Ryan said.

The prince looked around with curiosity, no doubt unaccustomed to the austerity of servants’ quarters. “Are you comfortable in this small area? I could arrange for you to be transferred to the palace.”

“Your Highness, these accommodations are only temporary,” Lord Palmerston assured him. “My staff is preparing larger rooms for them. And for Miss De Quincey and her father,” he added quickly. “They are welcome here.”

“Her Majesty will be pleased to hear it. I came personally to invite all of you to a dinner at the palace as soon as your injuries permit.”

“Dinner at the palace,” Becker marveled. “If only my parents were alive to hear about this.”

“We also intend to bestow a suitable honor upon all of you, but as Lord Palmerston points out, at this critical time of the war, we can’t acknowledge that an attempt was made on Her Majesty’s life, lest it imply that she is vulnerable. It might encourage other threats. We’ll find another way of rewarding you.”

“A reward isn’t necessary, Your Highness,” Ryan said. “The safety of you, Her Majesty, and your family is reward enough.”

“Inspector Ryan, you could be a politician.” Prince Albert chuckled.

That prompted Ryan to chuckle also, then wince and again hold his freshly repaired wound.

“As for Miss De Quincey, no reward could measure our gratitude for saving our son’s life.”

“I merely combined my intuition with what Dr. Snow trained me to do, Your Highness.”

“Your quick thinking prompted me to appreciate the practicality of your bloomer skirt. If you’d been wearing a hoop, you wouldn’t have had the mobility to attend to my son. In gratitude, I brought you this.” He handed Emily an envelope.

When Emily opened it and read its message, her confusion changed to surprise.

“Dr. Snow informed us that you considered applying to Florence Nightingale to be trained as a nurse,” Prince Albert said.