Inspector of the Dead (3 page)

After last night’s fog, a strong breeze cleared this morning’s sky. The only thing brighter than the sun was Lord Palmerston’s eager smile as he greeted us for what he clearly hoped would be the last time.

Glad to be rid of us, one of the most powerful politicians in England shook our hands heartily as we reached the ground floor of his mansion. Despite the war crisis that had caused the government to collapse, Lord Palmerston’s voice was enthusiastic.

“Pressing national matters prevent me from being here when you return from church.” His aged eyes were bright next to his brown-dyed sideburns. “But be assured that your bags will be waiting for you, and my coach will most certainly be ready to transport you to the railway station.”

Following the murders in December, it had been Lord Palmerston’s idea for Father and me to stay in the top-floor servants’ quarters of his mansion while we recovered. He had also insisted that Inspector Ryan stay there while his wounds healed. None of us was deluded into believing that His Lordship’s motive was selfless. A former war secretary and foreign secretary, he was now home secretary, the supervisor of almost everything that took place in England, particularly matters of national security and the police. I sensed his worry that, during our investigation, we might have learned secrets that could compromise him. He found frequent opportunities to ask seemingly innocent questions, the answers to which might reveal whether we knew things we shouldn’t.

But the answers failed to enlighten him, and after seven weeks, I cannot blame him for urging us, in the politest way, to leave. Indeed I’m surprised that he tolerated us as long as he did, or rather that he tolerated Father, whose incessant pacing as a way of controlling his laudanum intake clearly aggravated His Lordship’s nerves.

A few nights ago, as St. James’s bell tolled three, I went down to the ballroom to collect Father where he marched back and forth, his footsteps echoing throughout the dark mansion.

Pausing just outside the ballroom’s entrance, I saw Lord Palmerston—in a robe, with a three-flamed candelabrum in one hand—confronting Father.

“Good God, man, doesn’t the opium make you sleepy?”

“On the contrary. According to Brunonian medicine—”

“Brunonian medicine? What the devil is that?”

“John Brown developed his Brunonian system at Edinburgh University. When you studied there, My Lord, perhaps you heard of his
Elementa Medicinae.
”

“I heard nothing about Brunonianism whatsoever.”

“It maintains that physicians invent ways to make medicine seem complicated in order to delude ordinary people into believing that physicians are more learned than they truly are.”

“Not only physicians but also lawyers and politicians inflate themselves. Finally you make sense,” Lord Palmerston said.

Observing from the dark hallway outside the ballroom, I flinched when I felt someone next to me. Turning quickly, I discovered that Lady Palmerston had joined me. The light from Lord Palmerston’s candelabrum reached just far enough for me to see her wrinkled, troubled features under her nightcap. I expected her to scowl at me for eavesdropping. But in fact, her look indicated that she worried about His Lordship’s pensive late hours as much as I worried about Father’s.

We exchanged nods and turned toward the conversation in the ballroom.

“My Lord, the Brunonian system concludes that illness comes from a lack of stimulation or else too much of it. When these polarities are in balance, good health is the consequence,” Father said.

“At the moment…” Lord Palmerston sounded exhausted as he set the candelabrum on a table, then continued, “I suffer from too much stimulation.”

“Because of the war and the collapse of the government, My Lord? Your responsibilities must be considerable.”

“Talking about the war gives me a headache. Please answer me. Some people die from a spoonful of laudanum, but you drink ounces of it, and you’re not only walking around—you never stop walking. Why doesn’t the opium make you tired?”

“The Brunonian system considers opium to be a stimulant, My Lord. It’s the most powerful of all the agents that support life and restore health.”

“Ha.”

“That is the truth, My Lord. When I was a university student and first swallowed laudanum to remedy illness, the increase in my energy was palpable. I suddenly had the strength to wander the city for miles on end. In markets and on crowded streets, I heard the details of countless conversations all around me. When I went to concerts, I heard notes between notes and soared with unimagined crests in the melodies. The reason I pace is to reduce opium’s stimulation to a beneficial level.”

“What I’d like to reduce is this confounding headache.”

In the shadows outside the ballroom, Lady Palmerston clutched my arm.

“If I may suggest…” Father pulled his laudanum bottle from his coat pocket. “This will relieve your headache.”

“The queen dislikes me so much, she’d be only too happy if she learned that I drank opium with you.”

“One sip will not create a habit, My Lord. But if you won’t accept the benefit of laudanum, I recommend that you walk with me. At best, the activity will balance your nervous congestion. At worst, it will make you sleepy.”

“That would be a blessing.”

In the shadows outside the ballroom, Lady Palmerston and I watched the two elderly men pace. They started at the same time, but despite Father’s short legs, he soon outdistanced the home secretary. They looked incongruous, Father’s diminutive figure as opposed to Lord Palmerston’s tall bearing and powerful chest.

“You’re speedy for an old man,” Lord Palmerston said grudgingly.

“Thank you, My Lord.” Father didn’t point out that, at seventy, Lord Palmerston was one year older than Father. “I try to walk at least twenty miles each day. Last summer, I managed sixteen hundred miles.”

“Sixteen hundred miles.” Lord Palmerston sounded exhausted just repeating the number.

Father was the first to reach the opposite side of the ballroom and turn.

“
The
Times
has invented a new creature of the press: a war correspondent,” Lord Palmerston murmured.

“Yes, I’m familiar with William Russell’s dispatches from the Crimea,” Father said.

“Russell does not tell the truth about the war.”

“It isn’t going as badly as he describes? Expose his lies, My Lord.”

“I wish they were lies. Because of incompetence, the war is going even worse than Russell claims. More soldiers are dying from disease and starvation than from enemy bullets. Who could have imagined? A journalist with the power to create such a clamor that he toppled the government. Oh, dear. My head.”

The next morning, Lord Palmerston behaved as if the conversation, with its suggestion of a budding friendship, had not occurred. In fact, he spoke more gruffly than usual, perhaps embarrassed at having revealed weakness. It became obvious that Father and I needed to leave, even if that meant confronting our numerous debt collectors in Edinburgh.

Meanwhile, Inspector Ryan (whom I call Sean in private) had recovered from his wounds sufficiently to accompany us to church. Newly promoted Detective Sergeant Becker (I call him Joseph) joined us also. When I had first met them seven weeks earlier, their suspicion that Father was a murderer naturally made me hostile to them. But after the four of us joined forces against the danger facing not only us but London itself, I discovered a growing fondness for both of them, although in a different way for each.

At twenty-five, Joseph is only four years older than I. Our youth naturally creates a bond between us, and I confess that his features are appealing. In contrast, Sean—at forty—is almost two decades older than I. Normally, that might have created a distance, but there is something about Sean’s confidence and experience that appeals to me. I sensed a subtle competition between them, but none of us felt at liberty to speak about any of this and weren’t ever likely to, given that this was to be the last Sunday morning that we spent together, appropriately at church services, where we intended to give thanks for our lives and our friendship.