Inspector of the Dead Page 32

  “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.”

  Her 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 d
ecided 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.

  “Be trained as a nurse?” Ryan asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Becker told him. “Emily and I had a long discussion about it.”

  “When did you have time to talk about this? While I was risking my life in the Seven Dials rookery?”

  “Miss De Quincey, Her Majesty and I decided that if you want freedom of choice for women, then you should have this opportunity,” Prince Albert continued. “We’re aware of your limited means. If you decide to learn to become a nurse, we wish to provide you with a stipend, books, clothing, and a place to live in the palace. I should also mention food. I think that we’re sufficiently acquainted for me to say that I heard your stomach rumbling during dinner the other night.”

  “I’m speechless, Your Majesty.”

  “As rare for her as it is for her father,” Lord Palmerston murmured.

  “Take as much time as you need to decide whether you wish to do this,” Prince Albert said. “Of course, it would be challenging.”

  “As Sean and Joseph and my father know, I welcome challenges.” Despite her raw knuckles, Emily held Sean’s hand and Joseph’s. When she smiled at her father, tears stung her eyes. “At the moment, however, I can’t imagine being separated from the three people who are the most important to me in the world.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Jonathan.”

  “Good. Not Jon or Johnnie.”

  The newsboy came to attention. “Yes, I’ve been told that if I want people to respect me, I should use my formal name. Is it you, sir? Your voice is familiar, but I didn’t recognize you without your beard.”

  “We’re supposed to have a meeting tonight.”

  “Yes, on Old Gravel Lane in Wapping.”

  “Tell the others I won’t be there. I won’t be at any of our meetings again.”

  “But what about Young England, sir? What’s to become of us? You promised that we could bring the rich down to our level!”

  “Or rise to theirs. Perhaps this money will help you to rise. Take it to the group. Divide it equally. It will serve you for a long time.”

  “But Young England…”

  “…is no more.”

  A Letter from William Russell

  9 March 1855

  Dear Mr. De Quincey:

  Not having your address, I’m sending this letter to Detective Sergeant Becker, whom I met on a February night that I’m certain you remember. I suspect that the cleverness of Scotland Yard will enable him to locate you. For reasons of military security, I’m unable to tell you precisely where I am. Suffice to say, I’m back in the Crimea, in the thick of the new Allied offensive. The earlier details are in my dispatches to The Times. I won’t repeat them here. The purpose of my letter is personal, although again for security reasons, I shall continue to be vague. With the passage of years, I hope that one day I’ll be at liberty to write the tragic story that I learned on that terrible February night.

  An odd thing has happened, as if I have seen a ghost. Although I have no basis for believing that the man whom I cannot name is dead, the chill is the same. A week ago, when the offensive began, I made my way as close to the fighting as I dared. One particular figure caught my attention. He fought with an astonishing frenzy, using all his ammunition, picking up the muskets of dead soldiers, using their ammunition, constantly lunging forward across muddy slopes, thrusting his bayonet, killing, killing. His ferocity was amazing. In my nearly a year in the Crimea, I have seen only one other man who demonstrated that relentless determination. I might almost call it savagery. You know to whom I refer. As I observed this soldier a week ago, and on the next day, and on the day after that, the similarities became more manifest, until I began to wonder if they were possibly the same person.

  I observed him only from a distance. He has a beard, while the other man was clean-shaven, so it’s difficult to be certain. Their height and weight are the same, as is the inexorable way they move. I questioned officers, but none could identify him or tell me to which unit he belongs. Perhaps he is all alone. During the battles, I did my best to keep him in sight and to move as close to him as I could, although the enemy’s bullets and cannon bombardment are discouraging.

  Yesterday, however, I managed to come close enough that he noticed me. Not merely noticed me, but reacted to me, and that is why I believe it is the same man. He stepped back in surprise and indeed alarm. Even from a hundred feet away, I could see his eyes widen with recognition. At once, he turned and made himself disappear among the welter of the gun smoke and the other soldiers.

  Perhaps this is only my imagination. Nonetheless, as you are fond of saying, there are many realities. Fearing that I might distract him and make him careless in combat, I have backed away and again observe him only from a distance. But it is he. I am now certain. As I watch his frenzy, I cannot tell whether it is the enemy whom he attacks, or whether in his fantasies he again destroys the people who refused to help his mother and father and sisters, or whether his hatred is actually toward himself. Whatever the cause, a fierce emotion consumes him, and surely he can’t persist in this way, constantly exposing himself to Russian fire in order to achieve his ven
geance. But perhaps exposing himself is exactly the point. Perhaps his goal is for the enemy to silence the rage within him. If so, fate or the Almighty refuses to grant his desperate wish, and he ruthlessly presses forward, doomed to be in torment, never to find peace.

  Through a field telescope, I observed a cannonball strike a slope next to him, hurling him into the air as dirt, rocks, and fragments of the projectile spewed in all directions. Certain that he was dead, I watched with stunned surprise as he squirmed among soldiers who had indeed been killed. He rose unsteadily, picked up his musket, and staggered onward. His right arm, which he had formerly pretended was injured, streamed blood. Bullets tore chunks from the sleeves and sides of his greatcoat, reducing them to tatters. The next time the shock wave of a nearby cannonball knocked him down, he was able to rise only to his hands and knees, clawing for his musket, forcing himself onward, finally collapsing. Stretcher-bearers managed to carry him off the battlefield.

  After dark I went to the large tent that serves as a makeshift shelter for the wounded. The care they receive is minimal. Mostly they wait to see who will die or else be shipped to the large military hospital that Florence Nightingale manages on the Turkish mainland near Constantinople. I hoped to speak to him, to satisfy my curiosity. But no matter how intently I went from one horrid cot to another, I couldn’t find him. I described him to a surgeon, who remembered him well and said that when the man regained consciousness, he insisted that other wounded men deserved treatment more than he did. After waiting impatiently while his arm was bandaged, he hurried away, having learned that volunteers were needed for a night attack.

  I left the tent, peered up at the stars, and prayed for him.

  AFTERWORD

  More Adventures with the Opium-Eater

  De Quincey lives on in memory like a character in fiction, rather than a reality.