Inspector of the Dead

by David Morrell

  “Father,” Emily said.

  “My apologies, Emily. After what they did to Catherine, the men the colonel sent were too unnerved to make a proper display of her parents. The notes about Young England, Young Ireland, and William Hamilton—the fourth man to shoot at the queen—were hastily shoved into pockets instead of being dramatically positioned. It was a poor job, performed clumsily because the script had changed. Indeed at that point, there wasn’t a script, and the killers fled as soon as they could.”

  De Quincey turned toward the bedroom door.

  “Colonel, did you have any true regard for Catherine Grantwood? Or did you marry her merely as another way to achieve revenge against her parents, to the point of conceiving a child with her so that you could show them how much you possessed her?”

  On the opposite side of the door, the silence persisted.

  “Perhaps he did harm himself. Is there an ax in this building?” De Quincey asked the porter. “Sergeant Becker, I suggest you break through the door.”

  Sweat glistened on Becker’s face as he swung the ax, chunks of wood flying from the doorjamb.

  “It’ll be easier to get around the hinges than to go through the door,” he said.

  The ax rang as it struck metal.

  “There! I see a hinge!”

  “Let me have a go,” the porter said.

  He inserted a ripping chisel into a gap and pried, a large section of wood cracking free around the hinge. He and Becker charged toward the door, crashing their full weight against it. Wood split. The door banged inward, taking Becker and the porter with it onto the floor.

  “Careful!” Becker warned.

  With the porter behind him, he scrambled to his feet and scanned the bedroom.

  “What do you see?” De Quincey asked from the office.

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “The room’s deserted.”

  De Quincey squeezed past them. “But he couldn’t have vanished.”

  Becker searched behind the table and two chairs. He looked under the bed.

  De Quincey crossed the room and raised the window. His short legs required him to stand on tiptoes in order to peer out the window. The cold morning air struck his face as he stared toward an alley that led to the Thames.

  “It’s a sheer drop. I don’t see how he could have climbed down.”

  “Then where did he go?” Becker demanded. “Is there a trapdoor?”

  He and the porter tugged up the carpet, but found no sign of a hatch. They tapped the walls, listening for hollow sounds, feeling for cracks in the wainscoting that might reveal a hidden door.

  “What about the ceiling?” William Russell asked.

  They stared upward.

  “Even if the ceiling has a trapdoor, how could he have climbed to it?” the porter wondered.

  “Maybe he used a chair to climb onto the wardrobe,” Becker suggested.

  “The wardrobe,” De Quincey repeated.

  “Yes!” Becker said.

  With abrupt understanding, he pushed the wardrobe. It shifted, revealing a door. But when Becker tried the latch, he discovered it was locked.

  Becker and the porter assaulted the new obstacle. After using the ax and the ripping chisel to weaken the door’s hinges, the two men thrust their weight against it. With a thundering echo, it fell inward.

  “Watch out, there’s a drop!” Becker warned, grabbing the porter.

  They peered down into darkness.

  Russell brought a lamp and scanned a steep, shadowy stairwell.

  “I had no idea that this was here,” the porter said.

  Slowly, they went down the steps, Becker taking the lead. As the wood creaked, the motion of the lamp made everything seem to waver.

  Something snapped. Becker cried out, a step collapsing under him. The porter clutched his arm and pulled him back as the step dropped, clattering off walls, splashing into water far below.

  “Lower your lamp toward the step,” Becker told Russell with an unsteady voice. He crouched and pointed, the lamp revealing a clean mark where the step had been sawed partially through.

  “Go down in single file. Stay close to the wall,” Becker said. “Keep a tight grip on the person ahead of you in case one of us falls.”

  “I hear water dripping,” Russell said.

  “We’re close to the Thames,” the porter reminded him. “But I hear something else.”

  “Rats,” De Quincey said. He felt that he descended dizzily through chasms and abysses, depths below depths as in an opium dream.

  The staircase creaked and trembled.

  “Stop,” Becker said. “Even single file, there are too many of us.”

  “I’ll go first,” De Quincey told him.

  “But the risk…”

  “I weigh almost nothing. Even a board that’s been partially sawed might hold me.” The little man stooped, inspecting the next step. “And this board has indeed been sawed.” He peered at something above him on the wall. “Mr. Russell, may I have your lamp, please? Yes. There. Does everyone notice?”

  “Notice what?”

  “This black mark above my head. And there ought to be…yes. Five steps down, there’s a similar mark. That’s how the colonel identifies the boards that he tampered with, preventing him from being caught in his own trap. He puts the marks above his head because the natural impulse for a potential victim is to look cautiously down the stairs, not warily above them. The odds are slim that anyone would notice.”

  “But you noticed,” Russell said.

  “Because I’m trying to enter the reality of a trap-setter.”

  De Quincey stretched a leg over the compromised step and continued descending. Raising the lamp, he pointed toward another small black mark.

  “One more step to avoid.”

  The sound of dripping water became louder. De Quincey’s boots splashed into a pool.

  “I’ve reached the bottom!”

  Looking under the staircase, he aimed the lamp toward a stack of wooden crates over which rats scurried.

  As the men joined him, he turned in the opposite direction and revealed a dank tunnel whose moisture-slicked walls glistened in the light.

  “A long time ago, smugglers might have used this,” the porter said.

  “Look. Someone carved a date in the stones.” Russell pointed.

  “It’s just a bunch of Xs and such,” the porter said.

  “No. They’re Roman numerals,” Russell told him. “Sixteen forty-nine. This tunnel’s older than the Great Fire of London.”

  “And probably ready to collapse,” Becker said.

  They reached a rusted iron door. But the rust covered only a few sections, indicating that the door had been recently installed.

  “Let’s see if it’s locked,” the porter said.

  He lifted the latch and pulled. “We’re in luck. It’s moving.”

  “Wait.” De Quincey put a hand on his shoulder. “Would the colonel have left it unlocked?”

  “He was running from us. Maybe he didn’t want to take the time.”

  “But a locked door would have held us back and gained him more time.”

  “You think it’s another trap?” Becker asked.

  De Quincey raised the lamp toward the rocks that formed the ceiling. “I prefer to die another way.”

  “But if the colonel didn’t go through here, how did he get out of the tunnel?” the porter demanded.

  “There must be another tunnel,” Russell answered.

  “Where? We didn’t see it.”

  “Because we weren’t looking,” Becker said. “Isn’t that your point, Mr. De Quincey? To see, we first need to look. The crates underneath the stairs—the tunnel’s behind them.”

  They hurried back in that direction. As De Quincey held the lamp, the three men dragged away the crates and revealed a second tunnel.

  Cautious, they moved along wet cobblestones, reaching a second door.

  This door was wooden.
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  It was locked.

  “Which probably means it’s safe,” Becker said.

  Frenzied minutes later, he finished chopping the lock from the doorjamb and pulled the barrier open. Daylight made him squint.

  A chill breeze cleared the tunnel’s moldy odor. Stone steps led up to a dock that teemed with workers unloading crates from boats.

  Slouched against a wall, an overweight man smoked a pipe and gave orders. He glanced toward the group hurrying up the steps.

  “How long have you been here?” Becker asked.

  “Since dawn, makin’ certain this lot don’t steal from me. What’s goin’ on with so many people comin’ out that door?”

  “You saw someone else come out?”

  “A half hour ago, in a terrible hurry.” The man aimed his pipe toward the dock. “He got on a steamer.”

  The Thames was busier than any of the streets in London, with numerous steamboats acting as cabs, transporting groups of passengers up and down the river.

  “Did you notice which way the steamer went?” Becker asked.

  “The answer’s obvious,” De Quincey said before the man could answer. “He went upriver.”

  “That’s right,” the man told him in surprise. “How did you know?”

  “Because Buckingham Palace is upriver.”

  TWELVE

  From the Workhouse to the Graveyard

  Aboard the steamer, amid the jostling waves produced by hundreds of boats on the river, Colin O’Brien…Anthony Trask…the revenger…the hero…whoever he was…stared at the passing shore.

  One of the buildings, a tavern perched above a wharf, attracted his attention, his bitter thoughts taking him back fifteen years. It was there that he had been a penny diver, he and other desperate, starving boys leaping into the foul Thames, fighting the current and the mud to find pennies that the tavern’s drunken customers threw into the water. The men who tossed the pennies laughed at the frenzy with which the boys dove to retrieve the meager coins. Sometimes he banged his head on submerged objects. Sometimes he and the other boys punched one another in an effort to reach the pennies first. Streaks of slime stuck to him, making the coin throwers laugh even harder.

  It wasn’t exactly the same tavern at which he had been a penny diver. That place had been rebuilt—because a few years later, he had returned and set it ablaze, almost destroying the entire district before firefighting boats arrived, their crews frantically pumping water onto the flames. The newspapers said that the fire could have destroyed much of the waterfront between Blackfriars Bridge and the Tower.

  He wished that it had.

  Smoke billowed from the steamer’s engine, contributing to the pall above the river. As cold waves pounded the hull, he stared past roofs in the direction of the workhouse to which he had gone.

  Workhouses were supposed to be where orphans and the hopelessly poor could find a bed and food in exchange for tasks that they were given. But politicians feared that the workhouses would be too comfortable and encourage sloth, so conditions were made appalling to the point that only the most desperate applied for admission. Families were separated, wives and daughters put in one section while husbands and sons were put in another, seldom having the chance to meet. Dormitories consisted of cramped rooms with a few holes for ventilation. Food was gruel and stale bread. From sunup to sundown, the occupants were given numbing, repetitive work, such as separating strands of rope, which would be soaked in tar and used as caulking for ships’ hulls.

  He endured the workhouse for two weeks before running away. He worked as a chimney sweep, thrusting a bag and a broom above him while his employer lit a fire under him to make him climb the inside of chimneys faster. When his cough became persistent and he realized that the dust would kill him, he took the advice of a fellow sweep and broke a tavern window, making certain that a constable saw him and grabbed him. A broken window was worth a month in jail, where he wouldn’t freeze to death as winter loomed and where the food he received was slightly better than the gruel and stale bread in the workhouse. A week after he was released, he broke another window to earn another month’s free food and lodging, as terrible as the conditions were. The third time he broke a window, the judge recognized him and refused to put him in jail another time. It was just as well, because he eventually learned that habitual window-breakers were sent to Newgate, and that was the last place he ever wanted to set foot in again.

  A thumping sound jolted him from his hateful memories. As the cold breeze strengthened, he watched the steamer’s crew tie mooring ropes to the dock at Blackfriars Bridge, three stops from Westminster Bridge and its proximity to Buckingham Palace. A snowflake drifted past.

  Stepping onto the dock, he noticed a ragged boy who used chalk to draw trees on cobblestones as a form of begging. For the first time in many years, he deliberately revealed the Irish accent he had worked so obsessively to conceal.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Eddie.”

  “You mean ‘Edward.’ If you wish people to respect you, always use your formal name.”

  “Around here, they’d laugh.”

  “They wouldn’t laugh if you rose above a dockside life.”

  “What could I possibly rise to?”

  “You see that clothing shop? I want you to buy some items for me.”

  “That shop ain’t fancy enough for someone like you, even if you do sound Irish.”

  “I have some physical work that needs to be done.”

  “Physical work for a gentleman?”

  He ignored the question. “Plain corduroy trousers and a warm coat are all I need, Edward, plus gloves and a cap.”

  “Why don’t you buy them on your own?”

  He pointed. “Your own clothes are ragged. Perhaps you could buy a new coat and trousers for yourself.”

  “Yeah, and perhaps a cow’ll jump over the moon.”

  “Give this list to the clerk. I’ll wait for you in that lane over there. Five gold sovereigns ought to be more than sufficient for your clothes and mine.”

  “Five gold sovereigns!” One sovereign was more than the boy could hope to acquire in three weeks of begging.

  “Whatever coins the clerk gives you in return are yours, Edward. And there will be three other sovereigns when you bring the clothes to me. The note includes an explanation that the coins haven’t been stolen and that you’re performing an errand for someone of means. The clerk might give you a look, but he won’t bother you. I suggest that you also purchase new boots for yourself. Your toes are visible in the ones you have.”

  Not believing his luck, the boy ran excitedly into the shop.

  This was how he had established the new Young England. In the world’s largest city, desperation festered everywhere. He had sought out the hopeless, offering them a chance to rise above their misery. Five gold sovereigns—with regular payments thereafter—bought loyalty, especially because he had once shared their misery and knew how to appeal to them.

  But money and respect weren’t enough. He chose beggars who hated the rich and powerful as he did, who would keep secrets if they thought that their silence and loyalty would help them to achieve the revenge that he taught them was possible.

  The new Young England.

  He entered the lane, from where he scanned the chaotic dock to see if anyone had paid attention to him. The clouds darkened. Another snowflake drifted past.

  Ten minutes later, the boy returned with the clothes.

  “Thank you, Edward. The trousers and coat that you bought for yourself are good choices.”

  “You promised to give me three more sovereigns.”

  “And I shall. But first, I have one more task. Some people might come here, asking for anyone who looks like me.”

  “What kind of people?”

  “The police.”

  He opened his hand, displaying not three but five extra sovereigns.

  The boy’s eyes fixed on them.

  “Take your new
clothes and your new wealth and go to Lambeth.”

  “That’s a distance,” the boy said.

  “Precisely. Find a warm eating house there, Edward. You have enough money that the owner won’t object if you stay a long time. Eat slowly. Enjoy a day without begging. Tonight, it won’t matter if you return here. If the police ask about me, tell them the truth. By then, I’ll no longer care.”

  “You’ll be gone?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ll be gone.”

  “I never tell the bobbies anythin’ anyway. You can count on me.”

  “Perhaps your new wealth will allow you to see an opportunity for advancement. The trees that you drew on the cobblestones indicate that you have a talent. When I was your age, I started with much less than what you now have.”

  “But who’d pay me to draw?”

  “With your new clothes, you might not be chased away if you draw on the pavement of a wealthy district. Someone of means might be impressed. Hurry along, Edward. Think about my advice.”

  He waited until the boy vanished into the crowd. Then he proceeded north, using randomly chosen lanes, looking behind him to determine whether he was being followed.

  He came to a public privy, went inside, changed his clothes, and stepped outside. The workers who impatiently queued up behind him seemed not to notice that a gentleman had gone into the privy and a laborer had emerged. Nonetheless he kept his eyes down and averted his face. If there’d been time for him to get to it, he’d have worn the beard he frequently used to conceal his features.

  The breeze became colder. More snowflakes fell. As he continued northward, he placed his gentleman’s clothes at the entrance to an alley. They would be grabbed within seconds. The expensive garments would be worth many blessed sovereigns to the starving wretch who found them and sold them to a secondhand shop.