Inspector of the Dead

by David Morrell

As the man struggled, he gripped tighter, suffocating the constable while at the same time breaking his larynx. He pulled the dying man through the open gate and into the park, leaving deliberately obvious marks in the snow. All the while, he counted.

  Forty seconds from end to end. That was how much time the constable had said it took him to walk his section.

  Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five.

  The constable went limp.

  He dropped him in the snow and hurried backward along the tracks he’d made. He leapt for a tree branch and pulled himself up, climbing to the opposite side of the tree, his gray clothes again blending with it.

  “Help! He’s got me! Hurry! He’s killing me!” he shouted, directing his voice toward the ground.

  The other constable would have become suspicious by now, expecting to see his counterpart again before they turned and retraced their steps along the railing.

  “Help!” he repeated.

  Boots hurried through the snow, coming from the left. He heard someone else charging from the right.

  Two shadows raced through the open gate.

  “Tracks! Someone was dragged!”

  “The blighter’s in the park!”

  He heard other steps, this time from across the street. Vaguely visible in the darkness and falling snow, two more constables raced through the open gate.

  After they had rushed below him, he dropped, landing on their path. He walked backward in the tracks that came from the opposite side of the street.

  “That’s Harry!” a man yelled from the park. “The bastard killed him!”

  “But where’d he go? I see our tracks but nobody else’s!”

  He reached the gloom on the other side of Constitution Hill. Having scouted this location many times, he knew that a tree stood across from the park gate he had used. It was next to the wall that protected the palace gardens. The nearest branch was so high that only a man of his height could reach it, provided that he jumped up with sufficient force. Remaining in the tracks that one of the patrolmen had made, he leapt.

  “Go back the way we came!” a man shouted from the park.

  Dangling, he flexed his arms and pulled himself up.

  “Search the other side of the street!” someone ordered.

  He straddled the branch and squirmed along it. Although he couldn’t avoid dislodging snow from it, he hoped that the patrolmen would pay more attention to the top of the wall, where the snow was undisturbed. The growing wind tossed the tree’s branches, shaking snow from all of them, so perhaps it wouldn’t seem unusual that this particular branch was barer than the others.

  He heard the frenzied breathing of constables as they ran from the park.

  “Search everywhere!”

  “But we made so many tracks, how will we know which are his?”

  The opposite side of the wall was lined with evergreen shrubs separated by areas where flowers presumably grew in the spring. He swung down and dropped between bushes.

  A lantern approached. This time, the guard was a soldier. Wearing a greatcoat, the man passed the bushes, his head down, searching for tracks.

  The revenger lunged, again pressing a gloved hand over his target’s mouth and nose while using the other hand to clutch the throat. He pulled the struggling man behind the bushes and kept choking until arms and legs shuddered and the body lay still.

  In a rush he removed the soldier’s greatcoat and put it on. He shoved his worker’s cap into a pocket and grabbed the soldier’s helmet.

  A voice called an indistinct name. Able to secure only two buttons on the coat, he picked up the lantern and stepped onto the path that the soldier had made. He proceeded in the voice’s direction.

  A figure came near. “Corporal?” a voice asked.

  The insignia on the newcomer’s uniform indicated that the man was a sergeant, who relaxed when he recognized an army coat and the outline of the helmet.

  “What were you doin’?” The sergeant shielded his eyes from the light. “Relievin’ yourself in the queen’s shrubbery?”

  He struck a fist to the sergeant’s throat, shattering his voice box. He pressed a gloved hand over the sergeant’s mouth so that the man’s frantic wheezing couldn’t be heard. He dragged him behind the bushes.

  Two other sentries needed to be killed before he saw the back of the palace through the blowing snow.

  “Your Highness, at one time was your dining room located next to the area in which your guests assembled on Sunday evening?” De Quincey asked. “It would have been reached through a door that now leads to a servants’ area.”

  “What sort of question…?” Lord Palmerston muttered.

  Prince Albert answered, “Yes. Recently we moved the dining room to a new location. How did you know?”

  “On Sunday evening, before we went in to dinner, Emily and I spoke with Colonel Trask and the Duke of Cambridge. The colonel gestured toward a door and seemed to think that the dining room was on the other side. The duke explained his error.”

  “A simple mistake,” Lord Palmerston said. “Anyone could have made it.”

  “But it was Colonel Trask who made it,” De Quincey noted. “The Irish boy who begged Her Majesty to save his mother and father and sisters.”

  “I don’t see how Colonel Trask could possibly have known where the dining room used to be located,” Prince Albert said.

  “Eight years ago you renovated the palace, is that correct, Your Highness?”

  “Yes. To create the east wing. But the work didn’t involve the dining room, which, as I said, remained in its former location until recently.”

  “Apart from you and your architect, who else supervised the work eight years ago, Your Highness?”

  “The Cubitt brothers. Their firm is quite respectable. They built many homes in Bloomsbury and Belgravia.”

  “No one else, Your Highness?” De Quincey asked. “The task must have been enormous.”

  “Naturally they employed various contractors who had large numbers of laborers,” Prince Albert said.

  “And one particular man had an abundance of laborers,” De Quincey said.

  Prince Albert looked confused, then suddenly understood. “Heaven help me, I remember. One of the contractors was Jeremiah Trask. The colonel would have had access to the architectural plans for the palace.”

  As the implication struck them, everyone became silent, the only sound the howling of the storm outside.

  A door opened, its sharp echo startling them.

  “Your Majesty,” a servant announced, “there’s a police sergeant with an urgent message for Commissioner Mayne.”

  Covered with melting snow, the sergeant hurried into the immense room. When he discovered that he was in the presence of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, he looked flustered and bowed.

  “Commissioner, may I speak to you in private?”

  “You may deliver your message to everyone.”

  After an uncertain look at the queen, the sergeant obeyed. “Sir, a constable was killed in Green Park.”

  “What?”

  “And we found three dead soldiers in the palace gardens. The killer stole one of their greatcoats.”

  “Which means he can now pose as a guard,” Becker said.

  The light in the Throne Room suddenly changed. All along the wall, the gas lamps dimmed. Their flames sputtered, going out. The only illumination came from the flickering coals in the fireplaces, emphasizing the shadows.

  “He’s inside the palace,” Ryan said.

  Continuing the Journal of Emily De Quincey

  Although I could no longer see the remote corners and doorways of the Throne Room, the vast, dark area seemed to grow larger rather than shrink. I imagined infinite threats accumulating in now-​mysterious recesses.

  “Bring lanterns and candles!” Prince Albert told the suddenly invisible servant at the door.

  “Put a constable in every hallway!” Commissioner Mayne ordered the sergeant who’d delivered the alarming n
ews. “Warn the soldiers that the killer is dressed like one of them!”

  Despite the urgent commands, the men couldn’t rush to obey. They were trapped in the darkness, just as we ourselves were. Only when the servant lit a candle were they able to hurry along the corridor outside, their diminishing shadows ghostly.

  I heard Commissioner Mayne take something from his pocket. A scraping sound on a box was followed by the ignition of a lucifer match.

  In the faint light Sean said, “There’s a candle on the table next to me.”

  The commissioner quickly lit the wick and then saw another, lighting it also.

  “If the colonel’s attempting to toy with us, he hasn’t accomplished much,” Prince Albert said, showing a brave face. “In my youth, all I had was candlelight.”

  “Your Majesty, how many of your children are in residence?” Lord Palmerston asked.

  “Seven. Our oldest son, Edward, is at Windsor Castle.”

  “We need to place constables outside their rooms.”

  “No, bring the children together,” Sean murmured in pain. “Here. Bring them all here. They’ll be easier to protect if they’re all in one place.”

  “Or perhaps easier to reach,” Father said.

  Sean’s voice tightened. “Indeed, the colonel has us in a position where every choice can be wrong.”

  “I hear something,” I told the group.

  “The snow blowing against the windows,” Queen Victoria said.

  “No, something else, Your Majesty. A hiss.”

  I moved along the wall.

  “The lamp up here,” I said. “The gas is flowing again.”

  “I smell it!” Commissioner Mayne said.

  He lit another match and ignited the gas lamp.

  Lord Palmerston rushed to other lamps and did the same. There were many. By the time they reached the ones on the opposite wall, the gas had accumulated sufficiently that there was a tiny blast of flame when a match was applied.

  “Prince Albert, how many gas lamps does the palace contain?” Ryan asked.

  “I don’t have a precise number. Four hundred. Perhaps more.”

  “At this moment, most of those several hundred lamps are spewing gas,” Ryan said. “Will Colonel Trask have made it impossible to turn off the gas once more? If so, how long will it take the servants to relight every lamp? Will they locate all of them? Are there lamps in the basement or the attic or in various rooms that will continue to release gas until it reaches sufficient volume to cause an explosion? Quickly—we need to gather your children and get everyone out of the palace.”

  Movement caught my attention. I turned toward the dais and the throne. The rest of the group did the same.

  Wearing an army greatcoat, the gray color of steel, Colonel Trask emerged from the pink curtains that hung behind the throne. Like decorations for a stage play, they revealed a door that Her Majesty presumably used for special entrances.

  The colonel’s sudden appearance wasn’t as shocking as what he carried.

  “Leopold,” Queen Victoria said in alarm.

  The delicate-looking, frightened boy appeared to be two years of age. His forehead was bandaged, reminding me of something Her Majesty had mentioned during Sunday’s dinner.

  “Has Prince Leopold recovered from his injury?” the Duke of Cambridge had asked.

  The queen had responded, “Thank you, yes. The cut on his forehead finally stopped bleeding. Even Dr. Snow is at a loss to explain why the slightest of falls can cause Leopold to bleed so profusely.”

  This was Her Majesty’s youngest son.

  Colonel Trask no longer presented himself with the control, discipline, and military bearing that he had displayed when I first saw him at St. James’s Church. Now his movements were abrupt and impatient. His once-noble, handsome features were distorted by rage. He sat on the throne and placed the child roughly on his left knee, positioning him the way I had once seen an entertainer place a puppet in order to project his voice through it.

  With one hand, the colonel gripped the back of the child’s neck. With the other, he held the point of a knife against the boy’s cheek.

  “Lord Palmerston, call out to the servants that Her Majesty doesn’t wish to be disturbed. Then close the doors,” Colonel Trask ordered. His Irish accent was far stronger than it had been when I heard him say Catherine’s name in his restless sleep the previous night. “If a slight fall causes the boy to bleed uncontrollably, imagine what a nick from my knife can do.”

  The boy’s eyes were wide with terror.

  “Lord Palmerston, do what I tell you. Don’t test my resolve,” the colonel warned.

  His Lordship went to a doorway and leaned out, telling a servant, “We are in conference with Her Majesty. She doesn’t wish to be interrupted.”

  He shut the door.

  “Good. Now, everyone, step closer,” the colonel told us from the throne as the boy squirmed on his knee.

  We obeyed.

  “I’m certain that Dr. Snow is gifted at determining that a cholera epidemic can be caused by a cesspit-contaminated water pump in Soho,” Trask said. “But he is ignorant in many other matters, such as why your son bleeds.”

  The colonel’s anger made his usually handsome features cling to his facial bones, emphasizing his skull.

  My stomach felt cold.

  “Evidently I’m more curious than you, Victoria,” the colonel said.

  It was shocking to hear the queen’s name without her title.

  “Months ago, when I learned about your son’s condition, I sent men around the world—to the greatest universities and hospitals—to find out if anyone could explain the disease. Can you believe that in the American city of Philadelphia, of all places, a Dr. John Otto conducted an early study of the so-called bleeding disease? But it is Dr. Friedrich Hopff at the University of Zurich who has thoroughly explained the disorder. He calls it ‘hemophilia,’ which Mr. De Quincey, with his knowledge of Greek, can no doubt translate for us.”

  “Blood love,” Father said.

  Colonel Trask nodded. “A disease of the blood produced by love, by mating. Only boys contract the ailment, Victoria. Their mothers carry it and pass it along without showing symptoms.”

  “No,” Queen Victoria said.

  “Your child lacks an element in his blood that would normally cause it to thicken when he’s injured. He’s doomed to be a bleeder because of you. The disease lurks within you. It waited to be released when you married your close cousin and mingled bloodlines that should have stayed apart. If your daughters weren’t going to die tonight, if they had the chance to marry and give birth, they too could pass the disease to male children and contaminate the royal houses of Europe. It’s a sign of your rottenness, Victoria.”

  “Damn you,” Prince Albert said.

  “Albert, we are all damned,” Colonel Trask said. Again it was a shock to hear the prince’s given name used nakedly.

  The colonel looked at me with the same odd expression that he’d shown the first time we met.

  “Em—” he stuttered. “Emily, I want you to leave. You don’t belong here.”

  “I’m staying with Father.”

  “Then your father can leave also. I don’t want you here. Take your chance and go. Inspector Ryan and Sergeant Becker can leave as well. I have nothing against them. I applaud their skill.”

  Holding his abdomen, Sean grimaced and managed to stand. “I’ll remain with Her Majesty.”

  “I’m staying with Her Majesty, too,” Joseph said.

  “Do whatever you foolishly want. But Victoria, Albert, Commissioner Mayne, and Lord Palmerston remain.”

  “For how long?” Lord Palmerston demanded.

  “Until the palace explodes and kills us, of course. If any of you attempt to leave, I’ll nick the little boy’s face, and he’ll bleed to death. It’s an interesting dilemma. Victoria and Albert, you can run and save yourselves, at the expense of your son’s life. Or you can stay and hope that I’ll show mer
cy, that you and your son can somehow escape before a servant lights a match and ignites a lamp that’s near a pocket of gas. I assure you that the room containing the main gas valve is no longer accessible and that the basement and the attic are now filled with fumes. What do you suppose would win you and your son a reprieve? Let us think. Do you suppose begging me would help? Try saying to me, ‘Please let my son live.’”

  The colonel’s voice suddenly changed. His Irish accent now belonged to a little boy.

  I shivered.

  “Please help my mother and father and sisters,” he said.

  At the same time, he tilted Prince Leopold’s head up and down, as if moving a puppet. He made it seem that the Irish voice came from the child.

  “Stop!” Prince Albert demanded.

  Colonel Trask pressed the tip of the knife harder against the boy’s cheek, making an impression in the skin.

  “Instead of giving orders, you ought to beg as desperately as I begged. ‘Please help my mother and father and sisters,’” he said in that Irish accent that seemed to come from the child on his knee. “Now beg me! Get down on your knees and say, ‘Please save my son.’”

  Father surprised me, stepping forward.

  “Colonel Trask, having lost a child of your own, you understand how agonizing a parent’s grief is. I’m surprised that you’re willing to put anyone’s child in jeopardy.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The murder of your unborn child, Colonel Trask, a murder for which you are responsible,” Father said.

  “My name is Colin! I had no unborn child!”

  “But Colonel Trask did, and he was also responsible for the murder of his wife.”

  Suddenly the colonel’s bearing changed, no longer compacted in rigid fury but instead assuming a military posture. Similarly, the Irish accent was gone, and the London voice I knew as Colonel Trask’s exclaimed, “It was a mistake!”

  “Did you love Catherine, or was your marriage to her only a further means to punish her parents?” Father asked.

  The Irish voice returned, seeming to come through the frightened child. Fury again shrank his features, making his face like a skull. “They all deserved to die for what happened to my family!”