Inspector of the Dead

by David Morrell

  “It celebrated our victory over Napoleon,” De Quincey said, “and yet it occupied its original place of honor for only fourteen years before Her Majesty and His Highness took it down. How glory fades.”

  “For God’s sake, don’t speak that way inside,” Lord Palmerston warned.

  The home secretary walked through the snow and approached a gate. Announcing himself, he told a guard, “Her Majesty expects us.”

  The guard snapped to attention and led them to another guard, who took them to a third. Finally they were escorted into a tunnel-like entrance, where an attendant conducted them through a bewildering sequence of corridors.

  As if in a laudanum dream, De Quincey peered up at the stunningly high ceilings and their ornate chandeliers. He walked along the soft carpet in a daze, prompting Lord Palmerston to urge him to walk faster. The walls were papered and wainscoted and stuccoed and pillared in a French neoclassical style with pink, blue, and gold highlighting everywhere. There were Chinese patterns also, the strange contrast making De Quincey feel that he was hallucinating.

  Lord Palmerston’s urgent request for an audience with Her Majesty must have included the caution that the matter needed to be discussed in utmost confidence, for their escort took them away from the palace’s public areas, guiding them through deserted sections and up a narrow staircase perhaps used only by servants. The deeper they penetrated into the palace, the colder it became.

  More stairs, twists, and turns brought them to the largest room that De Quincey had ever seen. It was three times the size of the ballroom in Lord Palmerston’s residence.

  De Quincey wasn’t the only person who was amazed.

  “The Throne Room?” Lord Palmerston asked the attendant. Confused, he indicated the vast pink-and-gold magnificence. “Are you certain there hasn’t been a mistake? Surely this isn’t Her Majesty’s idea of a place for a confidential meeting.”

  “My Lord, the queen was explicit. She said that she and Prince Albert would meet you in the Throne Room. Please be seated.”

  As the attendant departed, De Quincey reached to open a curtain.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Lord Palmerston warned. “Get over here and sit down.” He pointed toward a line of chairs between French doors. Like almost everything else in the palace, the chairs were neoclassical in style.

  Everyone sat.

  “I wish my mother and father were still alive so I could describe this to them,” Becker said, awestruck.

  At the far end of the massive room, a throne dominated an ornate dais. Pink curtains hung in the background, creating the impression of a theater’s stage.

  Emily kept her coat on and pressed her arms to her chest.

  “It used to be even colder before the fireplaces were repaired,” Ryan said.

  Emily looked confused. “You sound as if you’ve been here before.”

  “Often,” Ryan answered. “The first time was in eighteen forty—because of Edward Oxford. The palace had an odor then.”

  “Quiet,” Lord Palmerston said. “The queen might hear you.”

  “But it’s a compliment to Prince Albert that the odor was removed,” Ryan noted. “Mostly it was caused by the smoke from the poorly designed fireplaces. The maids spent most of their time wiping soot from the furniture. The ventilation was so poor that when gas fixtures were installed, we worried that everyone might die from asphyxiation. Prince Albert took charge and put the palace in order.”

  “I met King George the Third once,” De Quincey said.

  “Be still,” Lord Palmerston repeated. “I hear footsteps.”

  “When I was fifteen, through a friend whose family had a title, I was invited to a royal event at Windsor,” De Quincey recalled, reaching for his laudanum bottle.

  “No, Father,” Emily said.

  De Quincey sighed and returned the bottle to his coat. “I was playing next to a stream when the king and his escorts strolled along it. ‘And how are you, young man?’ the king asked. ‘Fine, Your Majesty,’ I answered. ‘What is your name?’ the king wanted to know. ‘Thomas De Quincey, Your Majesty,” I answered. ‘De Quincey,’ the king said. ‘That sounds aristocratic. Were your ancestors French?’ ‘They came to England from Normandy with William the Conqueror, Your Majesty,’ I replied. The king indicated that he was impressed and walked on.”

  “You come from noble ancestry?” Lord Palmerston asked with new regard for him.

  “No, My Lord.”

  “But you told the king…”

  “I needed to tell him something that sounded of consequence. I couldn’t just say that one day my mother decided to add ‘De’ to the family name to give it more dignity.”

  Commissioner Mayne gasped. “You lied to the king? Thomas De Quincey isn’t your real name?”

  “What magazine editor would buy essays from someone whose name was as plain as Thomas Quincey?”

  “I wish I had never met you,” Lord Palmerston said.

  Footsteps again sounded in a corridor.

  “Stand when the queen and the prince enter,” Lord Palmerston told the group. “The men will bow their heads. Miss De Quincey will curtsy.”

  Lord Palmerston looked at Emily’s bloomer skirt. His expression suggested that he’d become so accustomed to seeing trousers beneath it that only now did he realize how unorthodox her garments might appear to the queen.

  “Commissioner Mayne and I will approach the queen and the prince when they indicate that is what they wish,” he explained quickly. “Inspector Ryan, stay here until we summon you. Sergeant Becker, Miss De Quincey, and Mister De Quincey”—Lord Palmerston sounded sarcastic when he used “Mister” and “De”—“remain standing. Under no circumstances say anything. How I wish you were on a train bound for Scotland.”

  “Mister De Quincey will be useful, My Lord,” Ryan said. “I have no doubt.”

  As footsteps entered the vast room, the group hurriedly stood, facing the most powerful monarch in the world and her closest advisor, her husband, Prince Albert.

  In 1855, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had been married for fifteen years. Initially the adjustment had been difficult. A husband normally exerted unquestioned dominance, to the point that his wife had no legal rights for herself or her children and no share of the property that she brought to a marriage or that the husband subsequently acquired. But in this extraordinary situation, the queen enjoyed centuries-long legal rights and owned massive amounts of property over which Albert had no control. Indeed Parliament insisted that Albert occupy a lower rank than his wife, making their marriage the most unusual alliance in the empire.

  There were many other ways in which the marriage was unusual. Middle- and upper-class wives took pride in not having an occupation, but the business of being the queen was the most prominent anyone could imagine. Wives were normally satellites of their husbands, but Albert was the satellite of his wife.

  When the excitement of the wedding passed, he had little to do except blot the ink on documents that Victoria signed. She excluded him from her meetings with her prime minister and her Privy Council. She didn’t allow him to read the parliamentary reports that occupied hours of her time.

  Albert took to pacing the palace corridors. In a fit of boredom, he became the equivalent of a nineteenth-century wife and organized the royal household, which absolutely needed to be organized. Servants responsible for the interior of the palace could wash the inside of windows but weren’t allowed to go outside and finish the job, a task reserved for other servants. Those responsible for placing wood in a fireplace weren’t allowed to light the fire, a chore assigned to others. The inefficiency was such that the palace, only recently renovated, was dirty and already showed signs of disrepair. Burdened by far more servants than were necessary, the household budget—grudgingly awarded by Parliament—needed to be increased each year. But after Albert released superfluous staff members and coordinated the work of the remainder, the improved conditions in the palace—not to mention the money he saved—pro
mpted politicians who had initially disliked him to become his supporters.

  Meanwhile, Victoria gave birth to a succession of children, four boys and four girls by 1855. Frequently unable to attend public functions, she assigned Albert to take her place. In time, she asked him for advice and gave him a desk next to hers. After she read confidential documents, she passed them to him. He added his notes to hers. He attended her meetings with the prime minister and her other advisors, offering his opinion. In all but name, he became a co-monarch.

  But only four years after Albert’s triumphant Crystal Palace Exhibition, England declared war against Russia. The mismanagement of the Crimean War, the needless deaths of thousands of English soldiers, and the real possibility that Russia would be the victor turned the populace against the government and the monarchy.

  Albert, in particular, experienced a spectacular fall from public admiration. Despite all his efforts to make England forget his origins, by February of 1855 people on the street had reverted to their initial dislike of him as a foreigner from a poor German state. They again believed that he would plunge the country into debt and make it the vassal of another nation. Germany. Russia. What was the difference? They decided that Albert was probably a spy.

  Standing in a doorway with a shadowy corridor behind them, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert seemed to have materialized rather than entered the Throne Room. If they’d been members of the working class, they would have attracted no attention. Victoria’s slender nose emphasized how round her face was. Albert’s mustache and long sideburns did nothing to broaden his narrow, soft features.

  But when it came to royalty, the shape of a face didn’t matter. These were Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, after all. Their elevated status led observers to endow the couple with an almost religious aura.

  Victoria’s hooped dress—made from yards and yards of ruffled satin and brocaded silk—was a green so dark that no one could have called it festive, an example of her determination to appear reserved in contrast with the extravagance of her predecessors. The only decorations on Albert’s black suit were brass buttons and a gold-colored epaulet on one shoulder.

  The queen’s light brown hair was combed close to her head and parted in the middle. A bonnet covered the back of her head, concealing where the ends of her hair were gathered. Although the bonnet was made of ornate cloth, it somehow resembled a small crown.

  Prince Albert slouched slightly, but Queen Victoria stood perfectly straight. When she was a child, her mother had placed spiked holly leaves beneath the back of her dress. Thus at an early age, Victoria had learned to walk with flawless posture to prevent the holly leaves from pricking her skin.

  “Your Majesty and Your Highness.” As Lord Palmerston bowed, the others imitated him, Emily curtsying.

  The queen gestured for Lord Palmerston to approach.

  “When you asked for a confidential meeting of utmost urgency, I did not expect that you would bring others.” Victoria’s voice was high-pitched in a way that newspaper reporters kindly described as silvery. “Who are these other people? That red hair. Constable Ryan, is it you?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Ryan again bowed.

  “Why aren’t you in uniform?”

  “I’m not a constable any longer, Your Majesty.”

  “You left the police force? How will London get along without you? No one will be safe.”

  “I was promoted, Your Majesty. I’m now a detective inspector.”

  “Coming up in the world? Excellent. Prince Albert and I remain grateful to you for protecting us.”

  “It was my privilege, Your Majesty.”

  “And who is that tall man next to you?”

  “His name is Detective Sergeant Becker, Your Majesty.”

  Becker bowed again.

  “My goodness, we’re awash in detectives.” Prince Albert joined the conversation, his German accent strong. “And Commissioner Mayne is here also. The little man next to you, is he a detective as well?”

  “No, Your Highness,” Ryan answered.

  “Thomas De Quincey, Your Highness.” Having been instructed not to speak, he received a sour look from Lord Palmerston.

  “I know that name from somewhere,” the prince said. “It sounds distinguished.”

  “One of my ancestors came from Normandy with William the Conqueror, Your Highness.”

  Lord Palmerston coughed.

  “Is something wrong, Lord Palmerston?” the queen asked. “Commissioner Mayne, perhaps you can resolve our confusion.”

  “Your Majesty, a member of the peerage was murdered this morning in St. James’s Church.”

  Queen Victoria’s mother had also trained her to conceal her emotions. A monarch—especially a female monarch—needed to appear strong. A public show of feeling was an admission of weakness.

  “Murdered?” the queen asked in a forced, neutral tone.

  As delicately as possible, Commissioner Mayne told them what had happened at the church.

  “Were you familiar with Lord Cosgrove?” the commissioner asked. “I regret to say that he too was killed. At his home in Mayfair.”

  The queen and prince continued to hide their reactions, except that now the corners of their eyes tightened.

  “Your Majesty, we would not normally trouble you with news of this sort,” Lord Palmerston continued, “but Lady Cosgrove was holding a note that read ‘Young England.’”

  “Young England?” Now Queen Victoria’s voice betrayed her concern.

  “And Lord Cosgrove was holding a note also.”

  “What was in it?” Prince Albert asked sharply.

  “The name of Edward Oxford, Your Highness.”

  The queen and Prince Albert quickly looked at each other.

  “Edward Oxford? Has he escaped from Bedlam?” Queen Victoria asked.

  “No, Your Majesty. We don’t yet know who wrote the notes or committed the crimes.”

  In a rare public gesture, the queen touched the prince’s arm.

  “It’s happening again,” she said.

  “We came to tell you that everything is being done to ensure your safety,” Lord Palmerston promised them.

  “And what could that be?” Queen Victoria objected, her round features straining with concern. “Without a government, no cabinet official has authority. You no longer act as home secretary, with the full power of your former office. What’s more, there’s no longer a war secretary to give orders to the army and increase the guards who patrol the palace.”

  “With direct instructions from you, Your Majesty, we can bypass the lack of government,” Lord Palmerston tried to assure her.

  “But the newspapers would object that I exceeded my power.”

  “Would the newspapers prefer that you were harmed?”

  “By giving orders to the army, I could survive but lose something more precious than my life: the monarchy.”

  “Your Majesty, my own authority is still in effect,” Police Commissioner Mayne said. “The newspapers can’t object if I arrange for more constables to patrol the palace. A few unofficial words from me will prompt the army guards to increase their numbers as well, without any suggestion that you were responsible. Your schedule—if I may take the liberty—needs to be restricted, especially your public appearances. I recommend that you avoid contact with anyone whom you don’t know.”

  “Such as that young woman over there.” Queen Victoria pointed with suspicion.

  “She is Mr. De Quincey’s daughter, Your Majesty.”

  “Why do I know that name?” Prince Albert wondered.

  “He…” Commissioner Mayne was at a loss for words. “…consults with the police force, Your Highness.”

  Queen Victoria kept staring at Emily. “What is that strange costume she’s wearing?”

  “A bloomer skirt, Your Majesty,” Emily volunteered.

  “Step forward, young woman. Anyone who walks around in that sort of costume could be suspected of being an anarchist. Are those trousers und
er your dress?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Along with the absence of a hoop, the dress gives me freedom of movement. An American woman named Amelia Bloomer championed the style. She believes in rights for women.”

  “Rights for women?” Even though the queen herself enjoyed unusual rights, she looked mystified.

  “Your Majesty, the dark green of your costume is beautiful, if I may say. But danger can come from many sources.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The dye on your dress is almost certainly embedded with arsenic.”

  Color drained from Queen Victoria’s cheeks. “Rat poison?”

  “Clothing manufacturers use it to strengthen the green color in their material. May I demonstrate, Your Majesty?”

  Emily opened her handbag and withdrew a vial.

  Commissioner Mayne grabbed it. “What on earth are you doing? Don’t tell me that’s arsenic.”

  “Liquid ammonia,” Emily explained. “Your Majesty, if you would trust someone to put a drop of this liquid on your sleeve, you can determine whether you are wearing arsenic.”

  Victoria directed another confused gaze toward Emily’s bloomer skirt.

  “Albert,” she said.

  The prince took the vial from Emily.

  “Your Highness, please choose a spot that can’t be seen,” Emily instructed. “Merely touch the wet stopper to the material.”

  “If this kills me, there are plenty of witnesses,” Queen Victoria warned.

  “Your Majesty, honestly, I—”

  “It is a joke,” the queen told her.

  Albert bent Victoria’s left cuff outward and touched the wet stopper to the inside.

  Instantly the spot turned from green to blue.

  “The ammonia reacted with arsenic, Your Majesty,” Emily said.

  “Rat poison on my clothes?”

  “I’m afraid so. I’ve saved many women and children from illness by showing them this method of detection. I’d be honored if you kept the vial, Your Majesty. Perhaps you can help others.”

  Queen Victoria regarded Emily for several seconds. A slight smile formed. “Prince Albert and I are hosting a dinner at eight this evening. We would be amused if you attended. You can’t come without an escort, of course. Your father is invited also.”