Her most frequent exposure occurred almost every day at 6 P.M. when she and Prince Albert, her husband of a few months, left Buckingham Palace in an open carriage. Their route always took them left onto Constitution Hill and past Green Park, from where they proceeded to Hyde Park, circled, and returned to the palace. Two horsemen accompanied the carriage.
The queen had reason to seek the affection of her subjects. Her husband was a foreigner from a poor German state. Although he spoke English, he preferred to use German. The queen’s mother, a foreigner from the same poor German state, also preferred to speak German. Newspapers predicted that soon all of England would be forced to speak German and empty the national treasury to pay German debts. People feared that it wouldn’t be long before England became a German state.
Thus, the thousands of spectators who had cheered Queen Victoria prior to her marriage now were reduced to mere hundreds during her appearances with Prince Albert. A few people on the street were known to hiss as she rode past. If her carriage happened to be empty, some even threw stones.
On that balmy Wednesday evening, one member of the crowd made a stronger display of disapproval. As the royal carriage passed Green Park, a man emerged from the onlookers.
He raised a pistol.
He fired from fifteen feet away.
“I was only a constable then,” Ryan said, “assigned to the area near the palace.”
Past the library’s parted curtains, snow gusted. The crowd was no longer audible, the harsh weather presumably having driven the onlookers back to their places of employment.
“The government buildings, St. James’s Park, and Green Park—those are some of the areas I patrolled. I always made a point of watching the path next to Green Park when Her Majesty went on her customary carriage ride. Even though the crowd was small compared to earlier ones, it still attracted dippers. The evening was rare when I didn’t catch a man with his hand in someone else’s pocket. At the sound of the gunshot, the crowd became paralyzed.”
Ryan looked at Emily, who continued to stare at the ceiling, avoiding the horror in the chair.
“The sitting room is a better place for this,” he decided.
He guided her across the hall, followed by De Quincey and Becker.
As Emily eased onto a sofa, Ryan took a place across from her, grateful to relieve the strain on his healing wounds.
“When the pistol was discharged, the queen’s drivers stopped in confusion,” he continued. “No one could believe it was a gunshot. I tried to determine the direction of the sound. Then I saw the smoke rising near the carriage and realized what had happened. A man lowered a dueling pistol. His other hand raised a second one. I struggled through the crowd, but before I could reach him, he fired again. All these years later, I still recall the pain in my ears. More smoke rose, but now the queen’s drivers were finally in motion again, speeding the carriage away.
“‘The queen!’ someone yelled. ‘He tried to shoot the queen!’ Someone else shouted, ‘Kill him!’ Then everyone was shouting it. ‘Kill him! Kill him!’ By the time I reached the struggle, I found two men with pistols. The crowd was tearing at both of them. ‘I didn’t do it!’ one of them insisted. ‘I grabbed this pistol from him!’ ‘They’re both in it!’ someone yelled. ‘Kill them both!’
“Several constables arrived. Using our truncheons, we separated the crowd. It was clear to me which man had carried the pistols. The first wore a suit too tight to have concealed the weapons. The second wore cheap linen trousers with big pockets. But the mob didn’t care. ‘Kill both of them!’ people kept shouting.
“The other constables and I managed to drag the two men away from the mob. ‘Take them to the station!’ I yelled. Even though I knew the innocent man from the guilty one, there wasn’t time to explain. ‘We’ll sort it out there!’ I shouted.
“Carriages and cabs stopped to learn what was happening. Even more people gathered, perhaps a thousand now. Grabbing for the two men we had in custody, they followed us angrily toward the station in Whitehall. The mob clawed at each man’s coat. Hands yanked at their collars, almost strangling them. As more constables arrived, we managed to get the men inside, where it became obvious that the man in the loose trousers was the only assailant. The other man, the one in the suit, had a card identifying him as a spectacles maker. He had a companion who confirmed that he’d wrestled one of the pistols from the attacker. In future days, the newspapers hailed him as a hero.”
De Quincey lowered his laudanum bottle from his lips. “The man in the loose trousers was Edward Oxford.”
Ryan nodded. “He readily identified himself. In fact, he was furious at the spectacles maker for drawing attention away from him. ‘I’m the man who fired! It was me!’ he kept insisting. Since the shots didn’t seem to have injured the queen or Prince Albert, I asked him whether the pistols were loaded with more than just powder. He answered angrily, ‘If the ball had come in contact with your head, you would have known it!’”
“And the queen truly wasn’t injured?” Emily asked.
“Neither she nor Prince Albert. To my amazement, I soon heard that instead of ordering her drivers to hurry back to the safety of the palace, she told them to continue up Constitution Hill to her Hyde Park destination, as if nothing had happened. According to reports, their pace through Hyde Park was almost stately. Thousands cheered their survival and their bravery.
“By the time they finally returned to the palace a half hour later, the news had become even more dramatic. Prince Albert, it was now believed, had been nicked by a bullet as he threw his body protectively over Her Majesty. That wasn’t the case, but as the rumors magnified, the heroism of the queen and the prince were universally admired. The prime minister, the cabinet, the Privy Council, all rushed to Buckingham Palace to express their outrage at what Oxford had done and to thank God that the attempt had been unsuccessful.”
“All this in the course of an evening,” Emily marveled. “But you said that Her Majesty was disliked at the time. Why did the crowd suddenly show allegiance to her?”
“What initially shocked them was that to attempt to kill a monarch was unthinkable—a crime against nature,” Ryan answered. “But they soon had another reason to cheer her survival.”
“The queen’s condition,” De Quincey noted. Peering down, he studied his laudanum bottle.
“Condition? Are you referring to…?” Emily started to ask.
Embarrassed, Ryan answered, “The palace had kept the information private. Now it revealed that Her Majesty was with child. The news about the possibility of an heir spread like fire throughout London. King George IV and William IV had an abundance of”—Ryan looked delicately away from Emily—“mistresses and illegitimate children, but now Her Majesty offered a legal heir to the throne. Prince Albert’s German origins, his preference for speaking German—all fears about him were forgotten as the population praised him for siring a potential monarch. That night, all the theaters interrupted their performances to announce that the queen had survived an assassination attempt. Everyone sang ‘God Save the Queen.’ Concert halls, eateries, all public gathering places, everywhere high and low, events were interrupted for toasts and songs in honor of Her Majesty.”
“What happened to Edward Oxford?” Becker asked.
“The Metropolitan Police didn’t have a detective division in 1840. Commissioner Mayne instructed two of my superiors and me to proceed across the river to where Oxford had a room in a Southwark lodging house. Among other pressing matters, we wanted to learn if he had accomplices. We searched his room and discovered a locked container. When I broke it open, I found bullets, gunpowder, a sword, and a puzzling black cap with two red bows. I also found documents and a notebook.”
As the snow increased beyond the window, Emily hugged herself. She turned toward a creaking sound in the hallway.
“The documents referred to an organization called Young England,” De Quincey said.
“That is correct,” Ryan acknowledg
ed.
“And those are the two words that you found in the note at the church,” De Quincey added.
Ryan looked surprised. “You should be stupefied by all the laudanum you drink, and yet you’re almost able to read minds. Yes, the two words on the note at the church were ‘Young England.’”
“I don’t understand,” Emily said. “Young England? It sounds innocuous: a group of young people in support of their nation. Or historians devoted to England in its youth—Magna Carta and so forth.”
“The purpose of Young England was the overthrow of the government and the abolishment of the monarchy,” Ryan told her.
She and Becker stared.
“There were four hundred members,” Ryan continued. “Each was required to have a pistol, a musket, and a dagger. Each had a false name and a fictitious background. Working as carriage drivers, carpenters, and so forth, many were trusted by noble families. Some had even managed to pretend to be gentlemen and join fashionable clubs. The black cap—which every member was required to have—could be pulled down to conceal features when the time came for the revolt. The two red bows on the cap in Oxford’s locked container indicated that he had the rank of captain.
“There were more alarming items,” Ryan added. “Letters referred to the group’s secret meetings in which they were prepared to fight to the death if the police stormed in. The letters also referred to Young England’s mysterious commander, who lived in the German state of Hanover.”
“Hanover?” Emily asked. “But isn’t that where…?”
“Indeed,” Ryan answered. “The queen’s oldest uncle had assumed the throne in that German state after Her Majesty became queen of England. Many believed that the uncle harbored fierce resentment that he hadn’t been made king and that he would do anything to take the queen’s place. He seemed to be the power behind Young England and its plot to overthrow the government and Her Majesty. Fears that England might become a German state appeared to be justified.”
“Since the overthrow didn’t occur, the police must have arrested all the members of the conspiracy,” Becker said.
“No.”
“They escaped?”
“They were all Edward Oxford’s delusions,” Ryan answered.
“What?”
“My superiors later informed me that all the documents were in Oxford’s handwriting and that Young England and the rest of it were his inventions,” Ryan said. “At his trial, the Attorney General himself acted as prosecutor, insisting that Oxford was insane. He pointed out that Oxford’s father had beaten his mother before she gave birth, thus damaging his brain. Phrenologists measured his skull and determined that its bulges and indentations argued for an unusually shaped brain and consequent insanity. This insanity could also have been inherited from his father, who had once ridden a horse inside a house and had twice tried to commit suicide with an excess of laudanum.”
Ryan gave De Quincey a significant look as he mentioned death and laudanum.
De Quincey shrugged. “It’s perhaps a pleasant way to join the majority.”
“Father, I beg you not to think this way,” Emily said.
“Do you realize how often you’ve drunk from that opium bottle since you entered this house?” Ryan asked.
“I confess I failed to keep count.”
“Six times.”
“You see, Emily—only six. I’m improving. Please continue, Inspector. I believe that Oxford was known to break out in giddy laughter that frightened those around him.”
“Yes, while at other times he stared at walls for hours on end. His behavior was so strange that he couldn’t hold jobs for more than a few months. He was mostly employed as a potboy, serving beer in taverns. ‘Don’t believe a word of what this lunatic says,’ the Attorney General told the jury at his trial. ‘Put him in a madhouse, where he belongs.’”
“Which is where he now resides for the rest of his life,” De Quincey said. “But let’s return to a previous topic. Did Oxford’s pistols actually contain ammunition?”
For a long moment, Ryan didn’t answer. “You can indeed read minds. You sense that it troubled me.”
“How many people do you estimate were in the crowd at the time the shots were fired?” De Quincey asked.
“Perhaps two hundred.”
“Among that many people, fifteen paces from the queen and Prince Albert, Oxford fired twice, and not only failed to hit his supposed target but also failed to hit anyone else or even several horses and the queen’s carriage. That is a remarkably poor aim. The bullets were never found, am I correct?”
Ryan nodded. “The palace wall is on the opposite side of Constitution Hill. The pathway there was searched. After that, it was raked, every pebble studied. No bullets were discovered. The wall itself was examined in case the bullets had become embedded there. On the opposite side of the wall, the palace gardens were searched in case the bullets had flown over. But they were never found.”
“So Oxford’s only proven crime was that he frightened the queen,” De Quincey said.
“Without evidence to the contrary, yes.”
“Plenty of Londoners break out in giddy laughter and stare at walls. People say that they’re lunatics, but those poor souls aren’t sentenced to a lifetime in a madhouse.”
“They don’t shoot at the queen,” Ryan noted.
“With pistols that no one can say for certain had ammunition,” De Quincey countered.
“Remember what Oxford told me—that if the ball had come in contact with my head, I would have known it,” Ryan said.
“But the conditional clause is not persuasive. As you admitted, this part of the event troubled you,” De Quincey parried.
“The only way you could know so much about this is by reading everything you could possibly find about it,” Ryan said. “You could have described that evening as well as I did, even though you weren’t there.”
“I could have described different versions of that evening, but not the vivid version that you provided, Inspector. The many newspaper accounts disagreed with one another, again proving that there are many realities. Some witnesses claimed that they heard the balls whistle over their heads. If true, Oxford’s aim was so high that he couldn’t have pointed his pistols at the queen, and therefore he didn’t try to kill her. As for the whistle of the balls, can we give credence to those statements, when no bullets were found after several days of looking for them? Without any evidence to prove that Edward Oxford did in fact try to kill Her Majesty as opposed to merely startling her, why was the queen’s Attorney General so determined to ensure that Oxford was sequestered in a madhouse for the rest of his life?”
“Do you have answers?” Ryan asked.
“Several.”
“Tell me. They might explain why someone wants us to connect these murders with what happened fifteen years ago.”
“I can’t speak the answers.”
“You can’t speak? My God, the laudanum has finally impaired your faculties.”
“In this case, I dare not speak the answers,” De Quincey told him. “They border on treason.”
Again, something creaked outside the room.
As a shadow grew in the doorway, Emily gasped.
Ryan and Becker stood protectively.
“Treason?” a voice asked.
Startling them, Lord Palmerston entered, followed by Commissioner Mayne. They brought the cold with them, their overcoats dotted with melting snow.
“What are you saying about treason?” Lord Palmerston asked.
“We were discussing Edward Oxford and Young England, My Lord,” Ryan answered.
Lord Palmerston kept his gaze on De Quincey and Emily. “What are you two doing here? Why are you in London at all? Imagine my surprise when I returned to my house and found your bags being unloaded from my coach.”
“Given the emergency, My Lord, I felt that it would be better to stay and offer any observations that might seem helpful,” De Quincey explained.
“Perh
aps your observations will become more acute when you find yourself sleeping in a snowdrift.”
Commissioner Mayne kept his gaze on Ryan and Becker. “Why are you discussing Young England with outsiders? At the church we agreed that the note was to remain confidential to avoid panic.”
“Mr. De Quincey guessed the note’s contents.”
“He did what?”
“After he read Edward Oxford’s name on a second note.”
The commissioner’s surprise increased. “A second note?”
“With another victim.” Ryan gestured across the hall toward the library.
Lord Palmerston and Commissioner Mayne hurried in that direction.
“Thank you for changing the topic from treason,” De Quincey told Ryan.
“You’ll tell us about it later, I hope,” Becker said.
“Definitely,” Emily promised. “It’s a rare thought that Father will not express. Anything that makes him hesitate is something I intend to hear.”
Commissioner Mayne and Lord Palmerston returned, looking shaken.
“Is it Lord Cosgrove?” Ryan asked.
Lord Palmerston nodded. Normally he exuded a sense of power. But now the pinched skin at the corners of his aged eyes communicated his shock. His usually powerful-looking chest seemed deflated.
Commissioner Mayne drew a sorrowful breath. “What kind of monster would have done that to him?”
“The noose, the law book, and the blinded eyes suggest that whoever did it believed Lord Cosgrove to be the monster,” De Quincey replied.
“You insult him,” Lord Palmerston said.
“That wasn’t my intention, My Lord. But the elaborate staging suggests that the killer did this because of what he felt was a justified rage.”
Inspector of the Dead Page 7
