Ruler of the Night

by David Morrell

  “I’ll find a cab for you!” the guard said quickly.

  “India,” the man found the strength to say.

  “What?”

  “Came back from India three days ago. Fever.”

  “Fever?”

  Streaks of red dripped from the man’s chin.

  “He has a tropical disease!” someone yelled.

  The man stumbled through the gate.

  “Follow me, sir! The cabs are this way!” the guard called, leading him past the ticket stalls, carefully not touching him.

  “Stop!” someone yelled. “He forgot his bag!”

  The guard turned. “What?”

  “He left his bag on the platform!”

  “Sir, wait at this door while I run and fetch it.”

  But the man seemed not to hear and disappeared through the exit.

  “Somebody go out and stop him while I get his—”

  A sudden roar lifted the guard off his feet. Powerful hands seemed to slam his chest, thrusting him backward, taking his breath away. Amid smoke and screams, the guard landed so hard that his ears rang and his vision dimmed. Debris crashed onto him.

  “Your Majesty. Your Royal Highness,” Lord Palmerston said, concealing his trepidation.

  He stood in the throne room in front of a dais upon which the two solemn figures sat glowering down at him. With his head at the level of their knees, he was very aware that the setting was meant to make him feel small and inferior.

  He had no idea why Queen Victoria had summoned him. Only yesterday he’d met with her and Prince Albert. Their dislike for him—in particular because of a scandal several years earlier in which he’d tried to seduce one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting—was such that a single meeting each week seemed the most they could tolerate. Whatever the reason he’d been told to come here, it couldn’t be good.

  Queen Victoria remained silent for a long while.

  “Prime Minister,” she finally said.

  The silence resumed, varied only by the whistle of a cold wind across the tall windows.

  The dark blue of the queen’s elaborate satin gown made her look more regal than the less ostentatious dress she’d had on when he’d spoken to her the day before. She now wore additional jewelry: several rings, a bracelet on each wrist, a necklace, and prominent earrings, the pearls, rubies, and diamonds exuding power more than wealth.

  Prince Albert wore an authoritative military uniform in place of yesterday’s frock coat. Its gold epaulets and polished brass buttons reflected light from a strategically placed lamp, as did the numerous honorary medals on his chest.

  They were a study in contrasts. She was short and stout, while he was tall and thin. She sat rigidly straight, while he tended to slouch. She had a round face, while his features were narrow. What they had in common was that they both regarded him severely.

  As their silence persisted, Lord Palmerston felt an impulse to clear his throat but resisted it.

  “Civis Britannicus sum,” the queen told him sternly.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?”

  “The Latin expression means ‘I am a British subject.’”

  “Indeed, Your Majesty.”

  Queen Victoria continued in the same harsh tone. “I intended it to echo an expression that you used in a speech to the House of Commons five years ago. Civis Romanus sum. You argued that the British Empire could never be as great as the Roman Empire until we defended the rights of our subjects as the Romans had—anywhere and to any extreme.”

  “It was an attempt at a rhetorical flourish, Your Majesty.”

  “Exactly how extreme do you feel it is necessary to defend British subjects?” Prince Albert asked. Although he had lived in England for a decade and a half, his German accent remained strong. “Five years ago, without anyone’s approval and certainly not that of Her Majesty, you dispatched the Royal Navy to Greece to defend the rights of a single British subject whose property had been destroyed by an Athenian mob.”

  “Your Royal Highness, if I may be so bold as to qualify what happened, it was a squadron of the Royal Navy, not the entire fleet, and—”

  “If you went that far to defend one British subject, how far would you go to defend a great many?” Queen Victoria interrupted. “And indeed the empire?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Your Majesty.”

  “What do you know about Dr. Martin Wilhelm von Mandt?”

  “Dr. Mandt, Your Majesty? The name isn’t familiar to me.” Despite his uneasiness, Lord Palmerston managed to keep his voice steady.

  “He is German,” Prince Albert said, his accent emphasizing a kinship. “He is…I should say he was the personal physician to the czar.”

  “Was, Your Royal Highness?”

  “A message reached us early this morning that the czar died two weeks ago.”

  “The czar is dead?” Lord Palmerston asked in a tone of astonishment.

  “Ten years ago, he visited us at Windsor Castle,” Queen Victoria said. “We had pleasant conversations about our cousins in various royal houses throughout Europe. Between social events, he tried to persuade us that it would be in Britain’s interest if we sided with Russia in its plan to dissolve the Ottoman Empire. He returned to Russia under the misimpression that we agreed to his plan when in fact it had merely been discussed as a possibility.”

  “You were wise not to commit to it, Your Majesty,” Lord Palmerston said. “Our goal should be to let the countries on the Continent fight among themselves. That way, we remain strong while they become weaker.”

  “But some of those countries are ruled by our relatives,” Prince Albert reminded him with annoyance.

  “I didn’t mean those countries, Your Royal Highness,” Lord Palmerston said quickly.

  “And as our war against Russia drags on, we no longer exhibit strength,” Queen Victoria pointed out. “Perhaps it would have been better to listen more carefully to the czar’s suggestion about siding with him against the Turks.”

  “Your Majesty, if I’d been in office when Russia first threatened the Crimean Peninsula, I’d have dispatched our navy to the Black Sea immediately rather than wait for diplomatic channels to prove fruitless. If the czar had realized how committed we were to opposing his aggression against our trading partner, he would not have persisted in his intentions.”

  “Well, as we know, you’re all too happy to dispatch our navy,” Queen Victoria said, then abruptly changed the subject. “It was from one of our royal relatives on the Continent that we learned about Dr. Mandt. He so distinguished himself as a physician throughout the German States that the czar chose him as his personal doctor. The czar’s advisers protested that he should rely on Russian doctors, but he dismissed their objections, saying that he wanted only the best medical treatment, no matter its source. When the czar died two weeks ago, Dr. Mandt recorded the cause of death as pneumonia.”

  “But rumors swirled,” Prince Albert added.

  “Rumors, Your Royal Highness?” Lord Palmerston asked.

  “Yes. That the czar didn’t die from pneumonia and that Dr. Mandt in fact poisoned him.”

  “But that’s unthinkable.”

  The queen leaned forward on her throne, staring down at him from the dais. “How else can one explain the doctor’s sudden disappearance from the czar’s palace, and indeed from St. Petersburg? While the czar struggled through his last breaths, Dr. Mandt was seen carrying a travel bag and hurrying into a carriage. Members of the czar’s security force pursued him, but he vanished.”

  “Your Majesty, perhaps he was afraid that jealous Russian doctors would accuse him of negligence.”

  “Do you truly believe that?” Queen Victoria asked. “Mindful of the attempt against us only a month ago, we would be distressed to discover that someone had indeed persuaded Dr. Mandt to assassinate the czar in an effort to influence the war’s outcome. If that was true, it would encourage elements in Russia to seek reprisals against us. Soon nothing would be sacred. There�
��d be no rules whatsoever.”

  “You have my word that I’ll look into this.”

  “Look into it carefully, Prime Minister.” Queen Victoria emphasized his title. “If anyone in your government was responsible for the czar’s death, we would be most displeased. It would be well for you to do everything possible to prove that these suspicions are false. Already, people in the street fear that the Russians were behind the murder on the train, and there’s a possibility those people are right. Is Scotland Yard any closer to finding the killer?”

  “They’re working as hard and fast as they can.”

  “Perhaps not hard and fast enough. Has Mr. De Quincey’s help been enlisted?”

  “Mr. De Quincey, Your Majesty?”

  “His unique perspective helped to protect us six weeks ago. We believe that he can be helpful again. Make certain that he’s consulted.”

  As Lord Palmerston inwardly groaned, someone knocked on a door. An attendant stepped into the room, saying, “Your Majesty, my apologies, but the home secretary sent a message for Lord Palmerston and asked for it to be delivered immediately.”

  Queen Victoria gestured for the attendant to step forward. He gave Lord Palmerston an envelope.

  Troubled, Lord Palmerston broke the seal and removed a sheet of paper.

  “What is the urgent matter?” Queen Victoria asked after the attendant left the room.

  “A bomb exploded at Waterloo Station, Your Majesty.”

  SIX

  WYLD’S MONSTER GLOBE

  An agitated crowd blocked the street in front of the station. Alarm bells clanged. Smoke swirled.

  “Police. Make way,” Ryan said.

  “Sod off,” someone told him. “You’re no more the police than I’m Prince Albert.”

  The man suddenly groaned and lurched to the side.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to elbow you,” Ryan said. “That bloke over there pushed me.”

  After struggling forward for a few moments, he and Becker reached a line of constables.

  “Stay where you are,” a policeman ordered. “Nobody moves past this line. Oh, sorry, Inspector Ryan, I didn’t recognize you in the commotion. Go ahead. The commissioner’s inside.”

  “Thanks, Harry.”

  The constable looked pleased that Ryan remembered his name from when they’d worked together the previous year.

  The odor of burned gunpowder hovered as Ryan and Becker entered the chaotic waiting area. Debris covered the floor. Normally the pastry room and bookshop would have been crowded with travelers preparing for their journey. But this afternoon, the fewer-than-usual occupants lay groaning among the rubble. While surgeons bandaged wounds, constables carried severely injured people on stretchers, taking them outside to wagons.

  Seeing Commissioner Mayne talking to another detective, Ryan approached him.

  “Right away, sir,” the detective told the commissioner and departed.

  Commissioner Mayne turned to Ryan and Becker. “The bomb went off a few minutes after noon. Two people are dead, thirteen seriously hurt. The only bright side is that if people hadn’t been avoiding train stations, there’d have been a lot more casualties.”

  “Now even more people will avoid train stations,” Ryan said. “Where did the bomb go off?”

  “On one of the platforms. It was in a travel bag that the perpetrator abandoned. This train guard spoke to him before the explosion.”

  The commissioner led the way to a pile of rubble where a guard sat, leaning wearily forward, his elbows on his knees. His blue uniform had bloodstains, as did the bandage around his head.

  “Do you have the strength to describe him one more time?” Mayne asked.

  The guard winced. “Anything to catch the bugger—excuse my language, Commissioner.”

  “Under the circumstances, you don’t need to be excused.”

  The guard drew an agonized breath. “He was dressed like he expected today’s cold wind to become a blizzard. A cap was pulled down over his forehead. He had a scarf wrapped around the bottom of his face, and a thick greatcoat. But for all that…” The guard closed his eyes, mustering his strength. “But for all that, he kept shivering. I asked him if he was ill, but he just walked toward the train.”

  “Through that archway.” Commissioner Mayne pointed to a gate that led to the platforms.

  “Perhaps he trembled more than shivered,” a voice interrupted.

  Ryan turned, surprised to find De Quincey standing next to him.

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” the little man said brightly.

  “Why are you—” Before Ryan could finish the question, he realized that if De Quincey was here, Emily would be here also. But where was she?

  Immediately he heard her voice.

  “Doctor, there’s no trick to applying bandages and astringent,” she was saying. “Please let me tend to this man while you take care of that seriously injured woman over there.”

  Ryan turned farther, seeing Emily take a bottle from a physician’s bag, tilt its liquid onto a cotton pad, and apply it to a man’s bleeding forehead.

  Ryan suppressed a smile.

  “I didn’t expect you,” he told De Quincey.

  “Not that we aren’t pleased to see you,” Becker quickly added, looking toward Emily.

  “Emily and I spent the morning with an old friend,” De Quincey said. “When we returned to Cambridge House, we found a message from Lord Palmerston telling us that Queen Victoria and Prince Albert wished for us to come here and join the investigation.”

  Ryan, Becker, and Commissioner Mayne appeared stunned.

  “The queen and the prince sent you here to help?” Ryan asked.

  The little man nodded. “But I’d have come anyway.” He turned toward the guard. “My good sir, have you heard of Immanuel Kant?”

  “Is he the sod who set off the bomb?”

  “No, but Kant might help us find who did this,” De Quincey replied. “The man was dressed as though the cold wind would bring a blizzard, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “He made agitated motions?” De Quincey continued.

  “Yes. His hands shook. So did his shoulders.”

  “Because you thought he was cold, you concluded that he was shivering.”

  The guard winced, raised a hand to his bandaged head. “There is no doubt that he was ill.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “He vomited blood. He told me he needed a doctor.”

  Ryan saw where this was going. “Now it’s my turn to show how much I learned from Immanuel Kant. Where was the man sick?”

  “He leaned over the edge of the platform and vomited onto the tracks,” the guard replied with difficulty. “At the first post. That’s where he left his bag.”

  Ryan walked toward the archway, hearing the others follow him. The odor of smoke became stronger as he emerged from the stone columns of the waiting area and reached the iron poles of the platform.

  The blast had shattered the glass roof; shards of it crunched under Ryan’s boots.

  “Becker, do you see those three places where the blood spreads away, looking like wings, becoming fainter? That’s where the nearest victims stood. If you stretch a cord from the middle of each blood pattern, the point where the cords come together indicates the center of the blast—this shattered pole, where I assume the man left his bag.”

  Ryan reached over and picked up a piece of glass covered with blood. Then he stepped to the edge of the platform and jumped down to the tracks.

  “Mr. De Quincey, would you care to join me?”

  De Quincey looked puzzled but nodded.

  Ryan gripped his waist and lowered the small man as if he were a youth.

  The air was colder near the tracks, the smell of oil and grease replacing that of the explosion.

  “If you hadn’t mentioned Kant, I might not be down here,” Ryan said. “Does reality exist outside us, or do our minds create it? The train guard said that the man vomited blood.
But how would the guard know it was blood? The only possible way is that its color was crimson. He made an assumption.”

  “And saw his own version of reality,” De Quincey agreed.

  Ryan pointed toward a splatter of crimson on the gravel next to the tracks. “One day, perhaps a chemist will invent a test to determine what is blood and what is not. But for now…”

  He crouched, placing the blood-covered shard of glass next to the splatter of red liquid. “Blood becomes reddish brown as it dries. The substance on this piece of glass has begun to turn that color, but this other liquid remains bright red. The substance on this glass has thickened as it dries, but the substance down here has not.”

  De Quincey nodded. “Before coming to the station, the man ingested a quantity of water that was dyed crimson. He bent over the edge of the platform so that no one would notice him stick a finger down his throat and force himself to vomit. Because he’d swallowed an excessive amount of crimson-dyed water, it wouldn’t have been difficult to encourage his body to eject it. The volume of what appeared to be blood would have horrified anyone around him.”

  “‘Appeared to be.’ That’s how you see things,” Ryan said.

  “There are many realities. Because of opium, I sometimes have difficulty distinguishing them.”

  “What version of reality do you think happened here?”

  “This was theater. An actor on a stage. His thick coat prevented anyone from seeing how bloated his stomach was from the considerable water in it. His low hat and scarf wrapped around the bottom of his face concealed his features. At the same time, the conspicuous costume drew attention to him so that when he vomited what appeared to be blood, people would already have noticed him and couldn’t help seeing the crimson liquid.”

  “But why the charade in the first place?” Ryan asked.

  “So that the guard at the gate wouldn’t question why he wanted to leave the station just after he’d arrived,” De Quincey answered. “The man said he needed a doctor, and the guard was no doubt eager to help him leave the station before he vomited more of what appeared to be blood. In all the commotion, no one noticed that he didn’t have his travel bag—until it was too late.”