Inspector of the Dead Page 10

  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.

  The 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.

  East 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.

  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!”

  SIX

  The Warehouse of Grief

  “Why 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.”

  Using 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.”

  The 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 ev
ery 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.