Inspector of the Dead (20 page)

“Doctor, you express the idea far better than I ever could,” De Quincey said.

“The idea is nonsense. Are you seriously proposing that by being encouraged to discuss the violence inflicted upon him in his youth, Oxford would understand his motives for shooting at the queen and no longer wish to do it?”

“The theory is worth considering.”

“Well, to repeat, you are not a doctor. If you wish to see Oxford, you’d better do so now. I have an appointment in a half hour.”

W
hen they emerged
from the office, a woman again shrieked from the hospital’s left wing. Once more, visitors stared toward the unseen source of the commotion. Dogs sleeping under benches raised their heads in distress.

“Our female patients are over there. Our male patients are in the opposite wing,” Dr. Arbuthnot said, leading the way past visitors.

Sunlight streamed through windows, illuminating paintings that showed soothing streams and meadows. Birds chirped in cages.

“Emily, the birds…” De Quincey said.

“…are not in your imagination,” she told him.

“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.

A
nother 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.”

“C
atherine, 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.”

“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.

D
e 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.”