“Yes, we learned that your mother and your two sisters perished horribly in prison,” Father said.
“Emma with her wondrous blue eyes. Ruth with the gap in her smile where a tooth had fallen out, but her smile continued to be radiant.”
Those words shocked me. A mystery that had troubled me for days was solved. Now I understood why he wanted me in particular to leave.
I stepped forward.
“Colin, what happened to your father?” I asked.
“He died in the filth of an alley, consumed with a raging fever. No doctor would help him.”
Father’s voice broke as he quoted from one of his essays. “‘The horrors that madden the grief that gnaws at the heart.’”
“Take your daughter and go!”
“Colin, look at me,” I said.
He turned. His gaze was filled with an intensity that chilled me.
“I won’t leave you,” I told him.
“Go!” he pleaded, sobbing.
“Colonel Trask, why was your mother arrested for shoplifting?” Father asked.
“My name is Colin! We were newly arrived from Ireland.” He spoke swiftly, unable to contain his outrage. “We lived in a half-built village four miles outside St. John’s Wood. Father did carpentry work to help complete the village. Mother tried to make friends with the neighbors, who were suspicious of our origins. One of them was more open than the others. When she saw that my mother had a skill for knitting, she suggested that Mother take some of it to a shop in St. John’s Wood to earn money. The shop was owned by a man named Burbridge.”
“The merchant who accused your mother of stealing,” Father said.
“No matter how hungry we were, my mother would never have dreamed of stealing! Each night she read the Bible to my father and my sisters. That’s how she taught my sisters and me to read.”
“And yet Burbridge accused her,” Father said.
“I couldn’t understand it. Only after I grew older did I have the strength to force him to explain why he did it. The neighbor whom my mother tried to befriend was Burbridge’s sister. One day when he visited our village, he noticed my mother and was taken by her beauty. He told his sister to suggest to my mother that she bring her knitting to his shop.”
“But why did he accuse her of stealing?”
“It was his intention…I cannot speak of this in front of Em—” again he seemed to stutter—“Emily.”
I became more certain of why he looked at me the way he did.
“I believe I understand,” I told him, stepping even closer. “It might be easier if I say it for you. Burbridge wished to extract private favors from your mother in exchange for withdrawing his accusation. Because your mother was Irish, she was at his mercy.”
Tears trickled down his cheeks.
“The law moved too fast,” he said. “She was transferred to Newgate before Burbridge had a chance to speak to my mother at the local jail and try to make his bargain. Then my father confronted Burbridge in his shop. Burbridge decided that the situation was out of control. He remained silent.”
“The law will punish him,” Commissioner Mayne vowed.
“For bringing false charges against an Irishwoman? Ha. The punishment would be only a few months in prison. No need. Burbridge received his punishment long ago. I forced him to eat strands of yarn until he choked and died.”
Someone gasped.
The colonel looked at Queen Victoria with contempt while pressing the knife to her son’s cheek.
“I could have shot you easily in one of your many public outings. But that would not have been sufficient. Four years ago, at the Crystal Palace Exhibition, I stood among the audience at the opening ceremonies. A Chinaman wearing a colorful costume stepped from the crowd and approached you. I was astonished. With all the guards positioned in the Crystal Palace, not one of them tried to stop the Chinaman from reaching you. Because of his costume, almost everyone assumed that he was the Chinese ambassador, but he could have been anyone. He was introduced to you, to Albert, and even to your children. He walked with you as you proceeded through the many displays at the exhibition. You gave him your confidence when in reality he turned out to be no more than a local merchant who wanted publicity for a museum of curiosities that he maintained on a junk on the river.
“From that day, I devoted myself to becoming a version of that Chinaman. How could I trick you into welcoming me? How could I become a friend? My wealth wouldn’t be sufficient, because the dirt from building railways never washed off me. I needed an advantage, and when the war occurred, I found it. I paid for an officer’s commission that placed me near your cousin’s unit. I made the acquaintance of William Russell and arranged for him to see me in battle. Russell depicted me as a hero fighting for England, but the truth is, with each enemy soldier I killed, I imagined I was killing you. And you and you and you.” He pointed toward Prince Albert, Commissioner Mayne, and Lord Palmerston. “But most of all you, Victoria. When I saved the life of your cousin, my plan was secured. It gave me satisfaction that you would never expect death from someone you had knighted, someone who sat with you at dinner, someone you had invited into your life.”
“But then you caused the death of your wife and your unborn child,” Father said.
“I had no wife or unborn child,” the Irish voice insisted.
“But Colonel Trask did. There is no such thing as forgetting.”
“I recall my mother and father and Emma and Ruth very clearly.” The Irish voice deepened in anger.
“But not your wife and your unborn child? I cannot tell if Colin is an alien creature living within Colonel Trask or if Colonel Trask is an alien creature living within Colin. But at the moment, I wish to speak to Colonel Trask.”
As the man on the queen’s throne pressed the knife against the boy’s cheek, more tears leaked from his eyes.
“Answer me, Colonel,” Father demanded. “Did you love Catherine, or did you marry her and conceive a child as a way of achieving revenge against her parents?”
“The shock on their faces was perfect,” the Irish voice said.
“My wife,” another voice said. It belonged to Colonel Trask. “My unborn child.”
“Tell me about Jeremiah Trask.”
The sudden hate in his eyes was blinding. I had never seen such utter rage.
Abruptly, a fist pounded on one of the doors. From outside a man shouted, “Your Majesty!”
“Order him to go away,” the Irish voice demanded as he gripped the child’s neck tighter.
Before anyone could respond, a constable charged in.
“Your Majesty, we need to evacuate the—!”
The policeman’s voice froze when he saw what was happening.
The knife caused blood to drip from Prince Leopold’s cheek.
“Colin,” I said, no longer able to postpone what I needed to do.
Something shifted in his expression.
I moved toward the steps. “Look at my blue eyes, Colin. The first time you saw them, you recognized me. What is my name?”
“Emily.”
I climbed the steps to the dais. “Emma. Emily. Emma. Emily.”
“Emma,” Colin said.
“Yes! Emma! I’m ashamed of you!”
“What?” the Irish voice asked in shock.
“You never bullied Ruth and me! Now look what you did to this boy! Only a monster would make a child bleed!”
“Monster?”
“Give me that knife!”
In my frenzy I was able to pull the knife from his grasp. I dropped it onto the dais and pried his fingers from the back of the boy’s neck.
“Leave the child alone!”
I tugged the boy away and lowered him to Prince Albert. The previous night, seeing the brutality that had been inflicted upon Catherine and her parents, I had wished for the strength of a man to punish whoever was responsible.
Now I spun. With all my strength, I slapped him across the face.
The next
time I struck him, I used my fist, knocking him against the back of the throne. This way and that, with one fist and then another, I struck and struck and struck, ignoring the pain in my knuckles. The fury that I’d felt for days became stronger and stronger.
“You didn’t deserve Emma and Ruth!” I screamed. “You didn’t deserve Catherine! You didn’t deserve to be a brother! You didn’t deserve to be a husband or a father! For threatening a helpless child, this is what you deserve!”
I kept striking him, suddenly aware that my hands were smeared with blood, both mine and his.
A roar of emotion filled my ears. Through it, I heard shouts and someone charging up the steps to the dais. I was suddenly aware of Joseph running toward us. Colin hurled me into him, then picked up the knife and threw it.
In a blur I saw the knife speed toward the queen. In another blur I saw a man step before her.
Joseph and I crashed to the dais.
When I looked up, the curtains behind the throne billowed as the colonel disappeared through the hidden door.
Becker swept the curtains aside and rushed through the door. He entered a waiting area that the queen presumably used before emerging dramatically into the Throne Room for state functions. Dim illumination from the Throne Room behind him allowed him to see an open door that led to a dark corridor.
The odor of gas made him cough. He turned off the gas jet on a wall lamp. Then he cautiously entered the corridor, where he heard a man racing down shadowy stairs to the left.
Becker did his best to hurry after him, but he was forced to slow his pace when he bumped into a landing. Turning, he groped along a banister into deeper darkness.
Below him, the hurried steps became fainter. Hearing the hiss of gas, Becker stopped just long enough to feel along a wall and turn off the valve on another lamp. Descending, he closed the valve on yet another.
The air got colder. He felt a stone floor and realized that he had reached the bottom level. Warily opening a door, he saw gray light from barred windows along another corridor.
In a rush, Becker opened all of the windows, dispelling the gas. As cold wind streamed in, he closed the valve on every lamp he found.
He reached an unbolted door. Snow lay before it, evidently having been blown in when the door was opened. Becker pulled up his right trouser leg, withdrew the knife strapped above his ankle, and pushed it open.
Dim tracks in the snow led away from the palace. As he ran after them, gusts made it difficult for him to see. Having left his coat, gloves, and cap in the palace, he felt numbed.
As much as Becker could tell in the gloom, he was racing across the queen’s gardens. Trask might circle around and come at me from behind, he thought. Or will he take his chance to escape and attack the queen another time?
He saw the army greatcoat where it had been abandoned in the snow. Now he couldn’t tell the soldiers and the constables what Trask was wearing.
The tracks led to a wall. Next to it was a tree. In the shadows Becker saw that a branch above him was bare of snow. Had Trask leapt to it and crawled along it toward the—?
He sensed quick motion behind him. As something streaked toward his head, intense pain made him sink to his knees. His vision blurred.
The pain struck again and sent him sprawling.
“Got ’im!” a voice yelled. “The sod’s down! This ’un won’t be threatenin’ the queen again!”
Lord Palmerston gripped his arm, where the knife meant for the queen had struck him.
“You rushed in front of me,” Queen Victoria said in disbelief.
“I vowed to be your loyal prime minister,” Lord Palmerston told her as blood dripped from his sleeve. Pain made his features pale against his brown-dyed sideburns. “I know your low opinion of me, Your Majesty, but in ways that you can never imagine, I devoted my life to you. I would do anything to ensure your safety. Right now, however, all that matters is your son.”
Prince Albert continued to hold the terrified child. From a drop on the boy’s cheek, the blood had become a relentless stream that pooled on the floor.
“When he last bled this severely, he nearly died,” Prince Albert said.
Emily tore a strip from her bloomer skirt and applied it to the cut. Quickly, the cloth became soaked.
“You need to take him to Dr. Snow,” Queen Victoria urged.
“There’s no time,” Emily managed to say, “but we do need snow. Seven weeks ago, ice kept Sean from bleeding to death. Maybe snow will work the same way.”
De Quincey and Commissioner Mayne ran to one of the room’s tall windows, pushed it open, and hurried back with handfuls of snow.
Prince Albert set the boy on the floor and held his hand.
“Leopold, we’re here with you,” Queen Victoria said. “Don’t be afraid.”
The boy nodded, although his eyes communicated how much he was indeed frightened.
Emily turned Leopold on his side and pressed the snow to his cheek. So small a cut and so much blood, she thought.
The snow became crimson.
As Emily ripped another piece from her skirt, De Quincey and Commissioner Mayne hurried to bring more snow.
Emily compacted it and covered the boy’s cheek with it, placing the new strip of cloth over it so that the heat from her hands wouldn’t melt the snow.
Again the cloth turned crimson—but less quickly.
Looking paler, Lord Palmerston swayed as he clutched his wounded arm.
“Commissioner Mayne, please tie a cravat around His Lordship’s arm,” Emily said.
“You need more cloths,” Prince Albert said. “Take my handkerchief.”
“And mine,” Commissioner Mayne said.
Emily pressed more snow against Leopold’s cheek. “His cheek should be numb, tightening his blood vessels, slowing the flow. Good. I think it’s stopping. I think he’s—”
The lamps sputtered. Once more the room plunged into blackness. Footsteps rushed through a doorway.
“It’s Colonel Trask!” Queen Victoria said in alarm.
“No, a police sergeant, Your Majesty,” a voice said. “We’re the ones who shut off the gas this time. The intruder jammed the lock on the control room. It took us a long while to force our way in and close the valve. We’re opening every window. Until the danger’s eliminated, you need to leave the palace.”
“But Colonel Trask is still out there,” Prince Albert said.
Using a key that he kept hidden behind a loose brick at the back of the house, he entered the kitchen on Bolton Street.
It was deserted. He followed voices and the odor of recently fried lamb chops, stopping in the doorway to the room where the servants ate their meals.
The four of them looked up, astonished by the blood on his face.
“Good heavens, sir,” the maid said, “you startled me.”
“If you knocked at the front door, I didn’t hear,” the doorman said. “Your face…What happened to you, Colonel?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“The police came here earlier, looking for you. They insisted on seeing your father, but I’m afraid his mind has failed.”
“What makes you say that?”
“In the limited way he has of communicating, he claimed that you weren’t his son and that you were actually an Irishman named Colin O’Brien. What nonsense. The constable stayed with him, waiting to speak with you.”
“Colin O’Brien?”
“You sound as if you know someone with that name, Colonel.”
“Indeed,” Colin said.
They gasped when he revealed his Irish accent.
“Who has the key to this door?” Colin asked.
“I…I do,” the housekeeper managed to reply.
“Give it to me.”
Colin set down two hundred pounds in banknotes that he’d taken from the pouch before abandoning it. “This should tide you over until you find new employment. Thank you for your service.”
“But…”
Colin
locked the door.
With the snow falling outside, the house felt muffled as he climbed to the entrance level and walked to an umbrella stand near the front door. In addition to umbrellas, the stand contained a silver-knobbed walking stick, hidden in open view. Holding it, he climbed to the next level and the level after that, his footsteps soft on the carpet.
When he opened the door to Jeremiah Trask’s bedroom, a man’s voice asked, “Come to get the dishes, have you? I never tasted better lamb chops.”
Entering, Colin found a constable seated at a small table with lamb bones on a dish in front of him.
The constable gaped. Rising in alarm, groping for his truncheon, he accidentally upended the table. Colin struck the walking stick across his head and knocked him onto the floor.
Jeremiah Trask lay motionless beneath the covers of his bed—motionless except for his eyes, whose pupils grew larger as Colin approached. The eyes moved desperately from Colin’s blood-covered face to the blood on the knob of the walking stick he clutched.
“I understand that you answered questions for people you shouldn’t have,” Colin said.
Jeremiah Trask’s eyes projected as much panic as a scream would have.
“Tonight I failed to punish the queen,” Colin said. “I had the opportunity to destroy her—and I failed. But someone’s going to be punished.”
Tears leaked from Jeremiah Trask’s eyes. How different his withered body was from the strong, able man he’d been fifteen years earlier when he’d visited Covent Garden market and seen the desperate Irish boy begging for food.
Damn me, why didn’t I walk away? he thought. Why did I let my weakness destroy me?
At first glance there’d been nothing different about the boy compared to the others who roamed the teeming market and begged for food. His cheeks were as gaunt, his hair as scruffy, his clothes as filthy.
But there was something about the boy’s determination. Keeping a distance, Trask had followed him through the chaos of the market.
He watched as the boy reached for an apple and a stall owner struck his hand.
In another aisle, the boy reached for a potato. This time the stall owner struck the side of his head.
Inspector of the Dead Page 30