Inspector of the Dead

by David Morrell

  “The cells are off a corridor through there,” Dr. Arbuthnot said.

  “Cells?” Emily asked.

  “Because the patients are here at the order of the court, we acquired the habit of calling the rooms ‘cells.’”

  Another wail—this time from a man—echoed from somewhere deep in the building. They reached the end of the gallery and turned to the left, entering a different portion of the hospital.

  “This is where our criminally insane male patients are kept,” the doctor explained. Despite sunlight through windows, the area seemed to darken as they proceeded.

  “Bring Edward Oxford to the visitors’ area,” Dr. Arbuthnot told a guard, who looked puzzled at the idea of Oxford having visitors.

  The doctor told De Quincey and Emily, “Oxford is confined to a cell for much of the time, but during midday hours, he’s permitted to exercise in a courtyard. We encourage him to be useful by pumping water into pails for the hospital to use. But mostly he paces, muttering that he doesn’t deserve to be here.”

  They reached an alcove so far from sunlight that an overhead lamp was needed to dispel the shadows. A bench was positioned in front of a locked door, through which a small barred opening provided a view of the area beyond.

  “Oxford will soon be visible through there,” Dr. Arbuthnot noted.

  De Quincey sat on the bench and studied the barred opening.

  “Emily, please sit next to me. I would like Oxford to see the face of a healthy young woman. Perhaps it will raise his spirits.”

  Self-conscious, Emily did what her father requested.

  Beyond the opening, several heavy footsteps approached. As they grew louder, shadows came into view. Then the shadows became two guards, escorting a man who wore loose gray clothes.

  In the gloom, the guards set the man at a table that was perhaps ten feet from the opening through which De Quincey and Emily gazed.

  “Dr. Arbuthnot, can’t he be brought any closer?” De Quincey asked.

  “Not according to my instructions.”

  “Do the guards need to stand next to him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Edward Oxford, my name is Thomas De Quincey. This is my daughter, Emily.”

  Oxford had been eighteen when he shot at Queen Victoria: short and thin, with boyish features. Now he had put on weight, presumably from a fatty hospital diet. He was thirty-three, but his sagging cheeks made him look older. His long dark locks had been shorn, leaving tufts that had begun to turn gray.

  “I don’t know you,” Oxford said nervously.

  De Quincey and Emily leaned toward the barred opening in an effort to hear him.

  “Lord Palmerston gave us permission to visit you,” De Quincey informed him.

  “Lord Palmerston? Bah.”

  “We wish to speak to you about Young England.”

  Oxford’s gaze drifted toward Emily. “How can we speak about something that the police say didn’t exist?”

  “It’s what you say that my daughter and I care about,” De Quincey told him.

  Oxford kept looking at Emily. “There were four hundred of us.”

  “Yes, that is what the documents in your locked box indicated,” De Quincey said.

  “The documents tell it all.” Oxford laughed bitterly. “We invented names for ourselves. We worked in positions close to the rich, ready for the moment when Hanover would tell us to act.”

  “Are you referring to the ruler of the German state of Hanover?” De Quincey asked.

  When Oxford didn’t reply, De Quincey looked at Emily.

  “Mr. Oxford, do you mean the queen’s eldest uncle?” she asked.

  “Thank you. No one ever calls me ‘mister.’ Yes. Hanover. The queen’s uncle. You shouldn’t need to ask. Has he disappeared from memory in fifteen years?”

  “He died four years ago,” De Quincey said.

  Oxford ignored him, continuing to look only at Emily. “Died?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ha. They said that he wished us to seize the government so he could become king in Victoria’s place.”

  “They?” Emily asked.

  “The other members.”

  “Of what?” Emily asked.

  “Young England!”

  Dr. Arbuthnot murmured, “You can see how delusional he is. If you upset him, I’ll need to have him put back in restraints.”

  “Mr. Oxford, can you tell us if an Irish boy was part of Young England?” Emily asked.

  “Irish boy?”

  “When you shot at the queen…”

  “Without bullets!” Oxford shook his fist, agitated.

  “An Irish boy wearing rags rushed toward the queen’s carriage, begging Her Majesty to save his mother and father and sisters,” Emily explained. “He distracted the queen’s mounted guards. Some people believe that he was part of your plan.”

  “Part of my plan?” Oxford sounded mystified.

  “While the guards directed their attention toward the boy, you had an unrestricted field of fire.”

  “Without bullets! I know nothing about an Irish boy or about his mother and father and sisters! It was Young England, not Young Ireland!” Oxford pounded the table.

  “I can’t permit you to continue,” Dr. Arbuthnot said. “Guards,” he ordered through the barred opening, “return Oxford to his cell.”

  Oxford resisted, staring toward Emily. “Just another moment to look at you.” When the guards tugged at him, he struggled, keeping his gaze on Emily through the bars.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” Emily said.

  “All I did was what I was told, and look where it got me. Young England. Damn Young England.”

  Oxford’s frantic gaze remained on Emily as the guards dragged him through a shadowy archway.

  Another patient shrieked as they returned to the gallery. Birds stopped chirping in the cages that hung from the ceiling. Once more, dogs raised their heads from under benches. Visitors again froze.

  But Dr. Arbuthnot paid no attention as he escorted De Quincey and Emily impatiently toward Bedlam’s exit.

  “I should not have allowed the conversation to continue,” the doctor complained. “It may take Oxford weeks to regain the slight equilibrium he possessed. And what was accomplished? You learned nothing that hadn’t already been established—Oxford is delusional.”

  “In some respects, his thoughts are perfectly clear,” De Quincey noted.

  “You made sense of that raving? Wait. Now it comes to me. De Quincey. Lord save me, are you the Opium-Eater? Those pills you’ve been munching…They’re opium! Anything would make sense to you, except logic.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. The experience was very informative.”

  He and Emily passed a guard and stepped outside. A cold breeze greeted them.

  “Refreshing,” De Quincey said, surveying the slush-covered lawn.

  When he held out his hand, Emily gave him his laudanum bottle.

  “Father, what did you learn?”

  “That there are many kinds of treason.”

  “Catherine, I apologize if I embarrassed you,” Colonel Trask said.

  “Embarrassed me? Because of Sir Walter’s outburst? You weren’t to blame.” Catherine’s eyes flashed, their spirit making them more lustrous and lovely. “I heard him shouting all the way up in my room. For certain the neighbors and the cabdrivers heard him. After you left, he directed his anger at my father.”

  They were in the drawing room of the Grantwood house, next to the warmth of the fireplace. Trask boldly reached for Catherine’s hand. Although the door was open, the lack of a chaperone would have been unacceptable if her parents hadn’t given permission for them to marry.

  “I worried that you might be ashamed because Sir Walter shoved me down and I didn’t fight back.”

  “What would that have accomplished? Only a greater scandal in front of the neighbors. Brawling at my doorstep? Anthony, I was proud of you for showing restraint.”

&nb
sp; “Even so, be prepared for gossip,” Trask said. “I’m supposed to be a war hero. Now perhaps people will say that I’m actually a coward.” He tried not to focus on her lips.

  “Your right arm is in a sling. How could you have fought back?”

  “In truth, I eventually did fight him.”

  “What?” Catherine sounded pleasantly surprised.

  “After he argued with your father, he tried to force his way into my office on Water Lane. He said some things about your parents.”

  “What things?” Catherine demanded.

  “That I’d purchased you from them, that they valued money more than they valued you.”

  Catherine’s cheeks colored, enhancing their luster. “Purchased me? Like a horse?”

  “Sir Walter and I fought outside my office.”

  “Well, at least it was on Water Lane, not here on Half Moon Street.”

  For a moment Catherine’s expression was difficult for Trask to interpret. Perhaps her reference to the business district indicated contempt for the way he and his father had acquired their wealth.

  Then she chuckled. The chuckle became an appealing laugh, making Trask laugh also. Soon their laughter was uncontrolled.

  A frowning butler peered into the sitting room. They did their best to restrain themselves.

  “This time around, I hope you knocked him down,” Catherine said.

  “I did.”

  “Good,” Catherine said with delight.

  “Twice, in fact.”

  “Better. And with only one arm.” Catherine touched his handsome face. “I love you,” she whispered.

  Despite the barrier of her hooped dress, she stood on her tiptoes, leaning forward to kiss him.

  Breathless, he held her close, their kiss lasting as long as they dared. The sound of footsteps in the corridor made the moment all the more exciting. They stepped back only an instant before another servant looked into the room.

  “I can’t wait for the church ceremony,” Catherine said. “To be married in front of the entire world.”

  “With all my heart, I too look forward to when we can live together. It will happen soon,” Trask assured her. “But for the next few days, things won’t be easy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sir Walter won’t give up gracefully. I’m afraid he’ll return and cause another outburst. Perhaps he’ll direct his fury at you instead of your father.”

  “At me? No matter what my father said to him, I never promised Sir Walter anything. I gave him no assurances whatsoever.”

  “Of course you didn’t. But Sir Walter’s an angry man, and anger doesn’t see clearly. I can’t be here this afternoon if he returns, Catherine. Your father and I agree that you should go through with your plan to visit your sick cousin in Watford.”

  “The coach will take me to the station in an hour,” Catherine assured him.

  “I’ll join you tomorrow. But for God’s sake, don’t tell your cousin that I own the railway. When my father built it, her parents hated the engine noise so much that they made him route the tracks away from their estate.”

  “And now the village depends on your railway for its livelihood. Anthony, to the contrary, I intend to brag about you.”

  Trask looked toward the open door. No one was in view. No footsteps approached in the corridor.

  He drew her toward him. This time when they kissed, their desire was so intense that they wouldn’t have known if anyone discovered them.

  De Quincey and Emily took shallow breaths as Ryan and Becker lifted a trapdoor, permitting them to climb into the musty attic of a police building in Whitehall.

  Commissioner Mayne followed them up the ladder, explaining, “These are the arrest records for eighteen forty.”

  Dust hovered in the light from their lamps. Becker sneezed. Neatly arranged rows of boxes upon boxes stretched before them.

  “So many,” Emily said, amazed.

  “The details of every crime committed in Greater London fifteen years ago,” Mayne indicated. “They’re arranged according to the type of crime and the month in which it occurred.”

  “Commissioner, this is brilliant,” De Quincey said.

  Mayne studied the rows of boxes with rarely displayed pride. “There’s no criminal-record system as thorough anywhere in the world. Can I help in any other way?”

  “Thank you, no. Sorting through these files is suitable work for Emily and me while the rest of you do what you’re trained for. This is a good place for us—out of your way.”

  “The more people searching through these records, the better,” Ryan said. “This is the best method I can think of to explain the motive behind the killings. Becker and I intend to stay.”

  As Commissioner Mayne descended from the attic, Becker sneezed again. “Sorry.”

  “We’ll soon all be sneezing,” Ryan said. “You can see from the thickness of the dust that many of these boxes haven’t been opened since they were stored up here.”

  “June tenth, eighteen forty,” De Quincey said. “The day when Edward Oxford shot at the queen and when the Irish boy tried to stop the queen’s carriage.”

  “Help my mother and father and sisters,” Ryan recalled. “But we have no idea if it was his mother or his father or his sisters who were arrested, and we don’t know for what crime.”

  “Why don’t we each choose a row of boxes and go backward from June tenth, looking for Irish names?” Becker suggested.

  Despite the glow of their lanterns, shadows hovered in the attic’s corners.

  Ryan opened a box, lifted out some files, and as predicted, he too sneezed.

  “Because of poverty, a lot of Irish came to England and London in the thirties and forties,” he said for the benefit of Emily and Becker, who were too young to know how bad it had been back then. “They were starving, willing to work for almost any wage. Most people were hostile to them, blaming them for taking jobs from English workers. As a boy, I learned to hide my accent and my red hair.”

  “William Hamilton was Irish,” De Quincey said as he studied a faded document.

  “William Hamilton?” Becker asked in confusion.

  “The fourth of the men who shot at the queen,” De Quincey answered. “He was raised in an orphanage in Ireland. During the potato famine he tried his luck here in England but couldn’t find work and went to France in eighteen forty-eight. That was the Year of Revolution over there, with most of Europe in flames. When Hamilton returned to London, he brought back ideas about destroying the government. After months of living on food scraps from women who felt sorry for him, his rage so consumed him that he shot at the queen.”

  “If the pattern stays true, we’ll soon find a victim who has a note with William Hamilton’s name on it,” Ryan said.

  “Without doubt the killer is moving relentlessly toward the present,” De Quincey agreed. He took out his laudanum bottle, stared at it, shook his head, and put the bottle back in his coat. “Perhaps a note left with a further victim will refer to Young Ireland instead of Young England.”

  “Young Ireland?” Emily asked.

  “Hamilton belonged to a group called Young Ireland, which organized riots against the government.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m finding many Irish names in arrest records from that period,” Ryan said. “Constables often paid extra attention to the Irish.”

  “I’m finding the same thing,” Becker added, reading through files. “Too many Irish names to investigate in the limited time we have.”

  “Perhaps we’re doing this the wrong way,” Emily told them.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Since the boy was begging the queen to save his mother and father and sisters, it may be we need to look beyond June tenth, not before it,” Emily suggested. “We need to search for something terrible that might have happened to an entire Irish family after that date, within the next couple of days or a week.”

  Colin’s father normally had a health
y, ruddy complexion, but as he waited impatiently among the jostling, clamorous crowd outside Newgate Prison, his cheeks were pale.

  “This is taking much longer than I hoped,” his father said. “Emma and Ruth can’t stay by themselves for many more days. Go back to them. Bring them here. Every day at eight, noon, and six, I’ll look for you on this spot.”

  “But I don’t want to leave you,” Colin protested.

  Sweat beaded on his father’s forehead. “There’s no choice. I can’t concentrate on getting your mother out of prison if I also worry about what’s happening to your sisters.”

  After Colin tearfully hugged his father, he hurried away, desperate to reach home. The sooner he could bring his sisters to London, the sooner he could be with his father again…the sooner they could free their mother…the sooner they could be a family once more.

  But he felt light-headed as he raced through the choking air of London’s congested streets. By the time he reached the outskirts, he was sweating more profusely than his exertion and the June heat could explain. When he finally arrived at St. John’s Wood, he had the sensation that he was floating. He dizzily recalled that he and his father had used a water pump near the alley in which they slept. After drinking from it, they had soaked their hair and rinsed dirt from their faces. A few people in the neighborhood had warned them not to use the pump because people who drank from it became sick. But other people insisted that bad air was what made people sick. In the end, there hadn’t been a choice—it was the only water they could find.

  At twilight Colin staggered when he reached the dusty lane to their half-completed village. His vision was so hazy that he arrived at their cottage without realizing it. He found out later that Emma and little Ruth saw him lurch past and ran to help him.

  For three days, fever overpowered him. When he finally wakened and recognized the terrified faces of Emma and Ruth, all he could murmur was, “We need to go to Papa. He’s waiting for us.”

  But Colin wasn’t strong enough to travel for another day.

  “You shivered so powerfully that we feared you were going to die,” Emma said.