Inspector of the Dead

by David Morrell

Then another name passed his lips.

  “Sir Walter Cumberland. Sir Walter Cumberland.”

  ELEVEN

  A Darkness within a Darkness

  “Sir Walter Cumberland,” Inspector Ryan said. Brooding, he turned from the bedroom in which the remains of Catherine Grantwood lay.

  The photographer whom Ryan had summoned to St. James’s Church was again setting up his camera. The artist from the Illustrated London News was opening his sketchpad once more.

  “This’ll be the last time,” the illustrator told Ryan. “I can’t bear the nightmares.”

  Ryan didn’t say anything about his own nightmares. “We’re grateful for your help.”

  Passing the constables searching the house, Ryan descended to the entrance hall.

  There, Colonel Trask slumped at the bottom of the staircase. Past the dried blood on his face, his eyes stared ahead, focused on infinity.

  “Has anyone ever seen anything like this?” Ryan asked. “He’s gone out of his mind.”

  “He’s trapped inside it,” De Quincey corrected him. “While he seems to stare outward toward nothing, he stares inward, paralyzed by the horrors that he found here.”

  “And what happened to him before he got here?” Becker asked.

  The normally immaculate sling on the colonel’s right arm was covered with dirt. The odor of smoke came off his torn overcoat.

  “He has a gash on his forehead,” Commissioner Mayne noted. “It stopped bleeding, so he must have been injured a while ago.”

  “The horse outside—do we know where it’s from?” Ryan asked a constable.

  “A tag on its bridle refers to a carriage service in Watford, Inspector.”

  “Watford? But that’s miles from here. Sir Walter Cumberland?” Ryan turned toward De Quincey and Emily. “That was the last thing the colonel said? Someone named Sir Walter Cumberland?”

  “Yes,” De Quincey answered. “As it happens, we met Sir Walter at the queen’s dinner yesterday evening.”

  That information made Ryan step closer.

  “Whenever possible, Sir Walter expressed strong differences with Colonel Trask, seeming to regard him as a rival,” De Quincey continued. “The tension was finally explained when Miss Grantwood’s parents announced her engagement to Sir Walter. Emily and I were surprised. We assumed that it was Colonel Trask to whom Miss Grantwood would be engaged.”

  “So Colonel Trask might have been jealous of Sir Walter?” Ryan asked.

  “That wasn’t my impression,” Emily answered, casting a sympathetic gaze toward the motionless colonel. “What I sensed was Sir Walter’s vindictiveness toward him.”

  A constable entered, bringing with him a young, expensively dressed gentleman of perhaps twenty. His open overcoat revealed a gaudy yellow waistcoat, the sort of color that a rake might wear when touring lower-class establishments. He had a sporty mustache. His eyes were red, perhaps from too much brandy.

  “Inspector,” the constable said, “this is Lord Jennings. He lives across the street with his parents, Earl and Countess Westmoreland. He just returned from his club and has information that might be helpful.”

  As the constable shut the door, numerous loud voices indicated that a crowd was gathering in the street.

  “Please tell me what you told the constable,” Ryan said.

  “This morning, outside this house, Sir Walter Cumberland and Colonel Trask had an argument,” the young gentleman explained. He enunciated carefully, perhaps trying to disguise the effects of alcohol, the odor of which hung about him.

  “How serious was the argument?” Ryan asked.

  “Enough for Sir Walter to shove the colonel down into the slush.”

  “You refer to Colonel Trask and Sir Walter as if you know them.”

  “I was invited to a reception at which the colonel was honored. That wretched-looking man seated on the stairs, don’t tell me that’s…? What happened to him?”

  “That’s one of many things we’re trying to learn,” Ryan said. “What about Sir Walter? How do you come to know him?”

  “Until six months ago, I didn’t. But then I started seeing him at the same clubs I frequent. I have no idea of his origins before that. Mostly I met Sir Walter at card tables. He plays so badly that if not for his inheritance, he’d be in the streets.”

  “Inheritance?” Commissioner Mayne asked.

  “Six months ago his uncle died, leaving no heirs except Sir Walter. Of course, he was just plain ‘Walter’ then. The inheritance included a baronetcy, along with fifty thousand pounds a year.”

  “I wonder what he and Colonel Trask were arguing about,” Ryan said.

  “Miss Grantwood.”

  “Are you telling me you heard the specifics?”

  “The whole neighborhood did. It was eleven o’clock in the morning, and their voices were loud enough to waken me. I parted the curtains in my room and peered out. I noticed servants parting curtains across the street. You’ll find plenty of people to tell you about the fight. At the clubs the night before, Sir Walter wouldn’t stop bragging about his engagement to Catherine Grantwood.”

  “So Colonel Trask confronted Sir Walter because of jealousy,” Commissioner Mayne concluded.

  “No. The opposite. It was Sir Walter who confronted the colonel because of jealousy. What I heard Sir Walter yelling was that Colonel Trask had somehow persuaded Miss Grantwood’s parents to change their minds. Now it was Colonel Trask who was engaged to Miss Grantwood. Sir Walter was so furious that he actually threatened to shoot Colonel Trask.”

  “Shoot him?” Ryan asked in amazement.

  “At Englefield Green. In a duel. Sir Walter’s exact words to the colonel were, ‘A manslaughter charge would be worth the price of never seeing you again.’ Is that how Colonel Trask was injured? Did Sir Walter shoot him?”

  “No,” Ryan answered. “But perhaps Sir Walter did something else.”

  They all looked at the colonel, whose stare remained vacant.

  “God knows what Sir Walter intended to do when he came back here this afternoon,” Lord Jennings continued.

  “What? Sir Walter came back here?” Becker asked.

  “At three o’clock. His shouting and pounding woke me again. Now he looked as if he were the one who’d been shoved into the slush. His clothes were dirty. His nose and mouth were bloodied. It only shows that simply because someone inherits a title, that is no assurance of good breeding.”

  “What was Sir Walter shouting?” Ryan persisted.

  “He demanded to see Lord and Lady Grantwood. He yelled that he wouldn’t be treated so shabbily, that he had loaned Lord Grantwood money and now he wanted it back, and if he didn’t see Miss Grantwood—for everyone to hear, he actually called her ‘Catherine,’ as if she were no more than a servant—he would ruin them more than they already were. In the afternoon on Half Moon Street in Mayfair, mind you. Of course, the neighborhood already knows that Lord and Lady Grantwood bankrupted themselves in a failed business venture. But that’s no reason for Sir Walter to shout it to the rooftops. The man has absolutely no manners. He paced the street in front of the house for several hours.”

  “Didn’t anyone summon a constable?”

  “No one in Mayfair would ever summon a constable to arrest a baronet.” Young Lord Jennings looked shocked. “Everyone hoped he would become tired and leave.”

  “And did he?”

  “At six.”

  “Can you tell us if he returned later?” Commissioner Mayne asked.

  “I left for an appointment at seven. I have no idea if he came back.”

  “I need to speak to him,” Ryan said firmly. “Do you know where he lives?”

  As the constable escorted the young gentleman from the house, the noise of the crowd outside was louder. Then the front door was closed again, and the only sounds came from constables searching rooms.

  “The Fairmount Club on Pall Mall,” Ryan said. “I know the place.”

  “While you look for Sir Wal
ter, where should we take Colonel Trask?” Emily wanted to know.

  Everyone turned toward the colonel, whose body remained rigid, his gaze blank.

  “The burn marks on his clothes, the dried blood on his face,” Commissioner Mayne said. “This is probably how he looked after battles in the Crimea. I read in The Times that if any of his men were wounded, he never failed to risk sniper fire, rushing forward to carry comrades back to safety before the enemy could capture and probably kill them. Like most officers, he paid for his rank—two thousand pounds, I was told—but those other officers had no military character whatsoever and merely wanted to wear colorful uniforms that impressed the ladies. That’s one reason we’re losing the war. But the colonel truly wanted to fight for England, and fight he certainly did. After everything he endured in the Crimea, he had every right to feel safe here. But instead he came home to this.”

  “He can’t be left here,” Emily said. “He needs to lie down and rest.”

  “But where can we take him?” Becker asked. “We don’t know where he lives.”

  “Wherever it is, it needs to be familiar to him,” Emily replied. “Imagine his further shock if he regains his awareness but doesn’t recognize where he is.”

  “When the colonel summoned Inspector Ryan and me to the outburst at the Wheel of Fortune tavern, he mentioned that his offices were in that area, on Water Lane,” Becker recalled. “There might be a couch or even a private apartment.”

  Emily’s blue eyes became resolute. “Then we shall take him there. We’ll send for Dr. Snow. He helped us seven weeks ago. I have no doubt that he will help us again.”

  “Perhaps there’s someone else who can help,” De Quincey offered. “Someone acquainted with the hardships of the war.”

  “An army officer?” Commissioner Mayne asked.

  “Actually, I was thinking of William Russell.”

  “The war correspondent?” The commissioner reacted with surprise.

  “Russell wrote at length about Colonel Trask’s heroism. He understands the stress that soldiers endure. Perhaps his familiar face will provide the assurance that Emily referred to.”

  “But William Russell is in the Crimea,” the commissioner objected.

  “No. An article in this morning’s Times indicates that he returned to London with the colonel. My newspaper friends should be able to tell me where to locate him.”

  “Then we all have our tasks,” Ryan said.

  As Becker and Emily helped the colonel to stand, De Quincey drank from his laudanum bottle. “A moment, please.”

  The little man’s troubled tone made the group pause.

  “Inspector, were notes found on the bodies of Lord and Lady Grantwood? I saw none in obvious view, and I didn’t want to risk your displeasure by touching anything before I had your permission.”

  “We found a note in Lady Grantwood’s dress,” Ryan answered. “It had the same black border we found earlier.”

  “And what was written on it?”

  “The name of William Hamilton.”

  “Yes, the fourth man to shoot at the queen. As predicted, the killer’s references are speeding closer to the present.”

  “We also found a black-bordered note in one of Lord Grantwood’s pockets,” Becker said. “Again, the words were ‘Young England’—Edward Oxford’s fictitious revolutionary group.”

  “Were there two additional words?” De Quincey asked, fingering his laudanum bottle. “‘Young Ireland’ perhaps? William Hamilton’s very real insurrectionist group?”

  Ryan studied him. “Your talent for prediction is such that you should have been a fortune-teller instead of a writer.”

  “Regrettably, there are many things here that I could not have predicted. The carefully established pattern was broken. As with the other murders, Lord and Lady Grantwood were killed in a symbolic way that expresses the killer’s hatred of the law. But one of them should have been found in a public place, perhaps in front of the Old Bailey courthouse, to reinforce the fear that no one is safe anywhere. Why didn’t that happen? Commissioner Mayne, at your home, the killer shouted that he wanted to kill you, your wife, and your daughter to avenge what happened to his father and mother and sisters. Presumably, he would then have arranged your bodies in a symbolic manner, including that of your daughter.”

  “I fear so.”

  “Then why wasn’t Miss Grantwood’s body arranged in a symbolic fashion?” De Quincey asked. “Her murder was not fine art at all. Why was the pattern changed?”

  Ryan opened the door. “Sir Walter Cumberland may have the answers.”

  “You’re cheating,” Sir Walter said.

  The young gentlemen opposite him at the card table pretended not to hear.

  “It’s impossible to be as lucky as you are,” Sir Walter persisted. He wore fresh evening clothes, but his nose and lips remained swollen. No one had shown bad form by commenting on the damage to his face.

  “Whist is a game of skill, not luck,” the young man replied, setting down his winning cards.

  “Skill? Is that what you call cheating?”

  “I think it’s time for a brandy,” one of the other gentlemen decided and walked from the room.

  “I’ll join you,” another young man said, leaving.

  “Really, Sir Walter,” the remaining young man offered, “you should polish your manners. We’re the only players you have. No one else will sit down with you.”

  At this late hour, they were the sole occupants of the card room. Each of the six green-baize-covered tables had an ornate brass lamp hanging above it, but theirs was the only lamp that was lit.

  “If you don’t have the means to pay your wager, I’m willing to take your marker,” the young man said.

  “Now you insult me in addition to cheating me,” Sir Walter replied. “I caution you—take care.”

  “Never mind. To spare you further embarrassment, I forgive the debt.” The young man stood. “But I wouldn’t depend on your being able to persuade anyone in this club to play cards with you tomorrow evening. In fact, there’s a petition afoot to rescind your membership.” The young man smiled. “I happily signed it.”

  “I warned you!”

  Sir Walter’s walking stick was propped against the table. He grabbed it, lunged to his feet, and swung.

  “Yes, Sir Walter Cumberland has lodgings here,” a club attendant said.

  “For how long?” Ryan asked, keeping his badge in view.

  The attendant searched his memory. “Almost six months.”

  “After he came into his inheritance?” Ryan asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know his uncle?”

  “The uncle was a member before Sir Walter was. That’s how Sir Walter was accepted as a member—because of sympathy.”

  “Do you recall how his uncle died?”

  “I can’t forget how swift it was. The unfortunate man became sick to his stomach one day. The illness persisted. But he didn’t have a fever, and his physician couldn’t determine what was wrong. Finally Sir Walter’s uncle blamed it on the miasma of London. He went to his country estate, but the change of air didn’t treat him any better, and he died two weeks after becoming ill. Very sad, especially considering how pleasant and generous Sir Walter’s uncle was.”

  “Unlike Sir Walter himself?” Ryan asked.

  “I never speak untoward about our members, Inspector.”

  “As it should be. Do you know if Sir Walter is on the premises?”

  “A while ago I saw him go into the card room above us. No, wait. There. I see him on the staircase.”

  Clutching his walking stick, Sir Walter backed away from the body on the floor.

  Breathing quickly, he hurried out of the card room. From a balcony he peered down toward the marble floor of the lobby. At this late hour the only people he saw were a man in shapeless commoner’s clothes speaking to an attendant.

  Sir Walter decided to summon help and claim that what had happened was an accid
ent. He could make a good case for that. His blow hadn’t struck its target. The young man had reeled back as the knob on Sir Walter’s cane hissed past him.

  But the young man had lost his balance. He struck his head on a table. Blood streamed from his head, staining the carpet.

  He wasn’t moving.

  Yes, get help, Sir Walter thought. If the young man died, there wouldn’t be anyone to say that he hadn’t merely stumbled and fallen.

  Ryan approached the staircase.

  Raising his badge so that Sir Walter couldn’t fail to see it, he told him, “I’m a Scotland Yard detective inspector. I need to speak to you.”

  Abrupt movement at the top of the staircase made Ryan peer toward the second level. A man staggered from a doorway. He wavered on a balcony, gripping it for support. Blood streamed from the side of his head.

  “Stop Sir Walter! He tried to kill me with his walking stick!”

  Sir Walter’s mouth opened in surprise. At the bottom of the staircase he looked at Ryan approaching him.

  He looked at the bleeding man on the balcony.

  He ran.

  The police wagon’s lantern probed the fog as it proceeded down Water Lane. The sounds of the unseen Thames—waves lapping against hulls and docks—felt disturbingly close.

  Becker gazed from the wagon and was dimly able to distinguish a sign that read CONSOLIDATED ENGLISH RAILWAY COMPANY.

  “Driver, stop.”

  Becker stepped down onto cobblestones and opened the back hatch. He and the driver helped Colonel Trask get out, a difficult task because the colonel remained motionless, staring blankly.

  “Stay close to us, Emily,” Becker cautioned as he pounded on the door.

  A window showed a light growing in the darkness, someone approaching with a lamp. The person on the other side raised the light to peer out. In a rush the man unlocked the door.

  “What happened to the colonel?”

  “He isn’t able to tell us,” Becker answered.

  “We didn’t know where else to bring him,” Emily added.