Inspector of the Dead (18 page)

“In eighteen forty, when I arrested Edward Oxford after he shot at the queen, when it seemed at first that he was part of a revolutionary group, there was a theory that someone had staged a diversion to distract the queen’s guards,” Ryan explained.

“A diversion?”

“A boy,” Ryan said. “A beggar.”

T
he ragged urchin
raced next to the queen’s carriage.

“Queen! Please listen, Queen! My mother and father need help! My sisters need help!” His accent was Irish.

A mounted guard commanded, “Get out of Her Majesty’s way, you vermin, before I run you down.”

Breathing hard, the boy strained to keep up with the carriage.

“Please, Queen, help my parents! Help my sisters!”

“You Irish scum, move on!”

The horseman kicked the boy into the gutter.

Ignoring the blood on his face, the boy struggled to his feet and raced after the carriage, yelling, “Please, help my mother and father and sisters!”

“T
hat’s when Edward Oxford
fired at the queen,” Ryan said. “I told you how the surprise of the shot made the queen’s driver halt and how that gave Oxford a second chance to fire. Before I could get to him, the crowd pounced. They’d have killed him if I hadn’t got there and if other constables hadn’t arrived.

“The crowd also attacked the boy,” Ryan added. “I remember a man punched the boy and yelled, ‘This Irish scum’s part of it. Ran in front of the horse guards! Tried to distract them! Yelled at the queen! Tried to make the carriage stop!’

“The man held the boy by the back of his collar the way he would a struggling animal. ‘He’s part of it, I tell ya!’

“‘Help my mother and father and sisters!’ the boy kept shouting.

“I had no idea if he was involved or not, but it was better to take him to the station house than leave him with the mob. ‘Right, we’ll arrest him, too,’ I said.

“But when I reached for the boy, the man loosened his grip. The boy fell to the path and scrambled away through the legs of the crowd. The man who’d punched him gave chase, but the boy reached the railing of Green Park, grabbed two of the spikes on top, pulled himself up, and leapt over before the man could stop him. I remember seeing a spike gouge one of the boy’s legs. The boy cried out and fell to the grass on the other side. But before the man could climb over, the boy lurched to his feet and managed to escape among the trees. He was limping, favoring his bleeding leg.”

“Do you believe that the boy was part of a conspiracy against the queen?” Emily asked.

“None was ever established,” Ryan answered. “When I went to Edward Oxford’s lodgings and found the documents about Young England, naturally I wondered if the boy was part of a plot. I investigated as best I could, but then my sergeant told me that Young England had been proven to be only a delusion of Edward Oxford’s deranged mind. I decided that the boy was no more than what he seemed—a child desperately trying to help his family. My curiosity remained, though, making me wonder why the boy’s family needed help. Perhaps because he was Irish like me, I never stopped looking for him as I patrolled.”

“Did you ever see him again?” Becker asked.

“Not once. Strange how memory works. I haven’t thought about him in years. And now…” Ryan turned toward De Quincey. “I’m sure I know what you’re going to say.”

De Quincey nodded. “There’s no such thing as forgetting. The inscriptions on our memories remain forever, just as the stars seem to withdraw during daylight but emerge when the darkness returns.”

“Ryan, do you truly suspect that the boy grew up to be the man who attacked my family and me?” Commissioner Mayne asked.

“Your daughter will suffer the way my sisters did. Your wife and you will suffer the way my mother and father did,”
Ryan quoted again, then switched to what he’d heard the boy shout years earlier.
“My mother and father need help. My sisters need help. Please help my mother and father and sisters.”
He shrugged. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but the boy fifteen years ago and the man last night are both related to a threat against the queen.”

“You mentioned that the boy had an Irish accent,” Commissioner Mayne said. “So did the man who attacked my family and me.”

T
he morning’s streets
were a mess. Sir Walter Cumberland cursed as he left his club and saw the grimy slop that he was forced to walk through to reach the cab that he’d instructed the porter to summon.

His head pounding from the considerable brandy he’d drunk the previous night to celebrate his engagement, he climbed into the cab and told the driver, “Half Moon Street in Mayfair. Traffic looks slight this morning. You shouldn’t take long getting there.”

“Slight indeed,” the cabdriver said. “People are keepin’ off the streets because of the murders. Newsboys are shoutin’ about ’em
ever
ywhere. You’re only the second fare I had this mornin’.”

“Just drive.”

Half Moon Street was where Catherine Grantwood’s parents lived, and after Sir Walter’s victory yesterday, he was on his way to reinforce what he’d achieved. But to his dismay, he saw another cab at the curb in front of his destination. He had no doubt who had hired it.

It’s a good thing I decided to come back this soon,
he thought. Furious, he jumped from the cab.

As he prepared to knock on the door, it opened and Trask came into view. Sir Walter refused to think of him by his military title, let alone as “Sir.”

At least, he isn’t wearing his damned uniform,
Sir Walter thought.
The way he tries to impress people with it is shameless.

But what Trask did wear annoyed Sir Walter almost as much. The brushed fur on his top hat and the quality of his tailored overcoat were better than Sir Walter’s, even though Sir Walter’s was very fine indeed.

“I should have known that you weren’t gentleman enough to accept the decision as final,” Sir Walter told him, gesturing with his walking stick.

“It was Lord Grantwood’s decision, not Catherine’s,” Trask replied.

“So you thought you’d appeal to him one more time? Do you think I don’t know about the collapse of the bank in which Catherine’s father had large deposits? Do you think I don’t know that he lost almost everything?”

Trask closed the door, adjusted the sling on his arm, and glanced at people walking along the street. “If you don’t lower your voice, the entire neighborhood will know about it,” he said.

“You took advantage of Lord Grantwood’s financial crisis and persuaded him to sell you a railway easement through his country estate.”

“I paid more than the easement was worth.”

“Of course you did—because you wanted to buy more than the easement. Soon you found a strategy to meet Catherine while you supervised the railway construction.”

“Her horse bolted. I rescued her.”

“No doubt her horse bolted from the noise of the construction. Perhaps you timed an explosion so that it frightened the animal.”

“Be careful, Sir Walter.”

“Then you took advantage of your visits, supposedly on business, to strengthen your friendship with her.”

“I did nothing that Catherine didn’t welcome.”

“When her family came to London, you followed them and continued your attentions to her. Lord and Lady Grantwood were so dependent on you that they couldn’t object.”

“Kindly lower your voice,” Trask told him.

Sir Walter’s headache from the brandy the night before was stronger than his patience.

“You gave orders in the army, but you can’t give orders to me. For all your railways and steamships and money, you can never buy respectability. People who matter will always see remnants of sweat on your brow. There’ll always be a residue of dirt beneath your fingernails. Even your language gives you away. Your embarrassing use of ‘blasted’ at the queen’s dinner last night reminded everyone of your poor breeding.”

Sir Walter’s sarcasm about poor breeding referred to Trask’s father, Jeremiah Trask, who’d built the first train link between Liverpool and Manchester in 1830, beginning the Railway Era. Trask senior was rumored to have financed the start of his empire by selling stock in worthless African gold mines.

“Again, I caution you to be careful,” Trask said.

“Step out of the way. I have personal matters to attend to.”

“Indeed you do,” Trask said. “You’ll find that Catherine’s father had second thoughts. The announcement of your engagement to Catherine was premature.”

“What are you talking about?”

Trask didn’t reply.

“What have you done?”
Sir Walter demanded.

“I merely asked Lord Grantwood to reconsider his decision.”

“Damn you!”

Shoving past him to pound on the door, Sir Walter knocked Trask off balance and toppled him into the slush.

Trask landed on his injured arm. Wincing but refusing to groan, he used his left hand to grip the railing and stand. His sling was now filthy. His hat lay in the ash-covered slush, its carefully brushed fur ruined. Half-melted snow slid from his overcoat.

Pedestrians halted and stared. Drivers leaned from their cabs in shock, never having expected to see such a scene on a Mayfair street.

Trask picked up his dripping hat. If he was angry, his impassive features concealed any sign of it.

But Sir Walter was overjoyed. “If you wish satisfaction, I’ll meet you at Englefield Green.”

“A duel? No. I saw enough killing in the war.”

“How noble. Or maybe you’re afraid that your injured arm will give me an advantage—which I would be happy to take. A manslaughter charge would be worth the price of never seeing you again.”

The door suddenly opened.

Lord Grantwood’s butler frowned at the commotion and at Trask’s soiled hat and overcoat.

Storming inside, Sir Walter asked, “Is he in his study?”

Not waiting for a reply, he headed in that direction and found Catherine’s father standing at the study’s open doorway.

“Did you hear us?”

“The entire neighborhood did,” Lord Grantwood told him.

“Was Trask lying that you changed your mind about Catherine marrying me?”

“He did not lie.”

“Where’s Catherine?”

“Preparing to visit a sick cousin in the country.”

“Tell her to come down. I wish to speak to her.”

“That won’t serve a useful purpose.”

Sir Walter had never seen Catherine’s father look so pale. “What on earth is the matter with you? What happened here this morning?”

“Colonel Trask and I had a discussion. He persuaded me that Catherine’s affection for him mattered more than any other consideration.”

“Why do your features look strained? Did he threaten you?”

“No.”

“I remind you of our conversation yesterday afternoon. Your financial disasters are common knowledge.”

Lord Grantwood’s face looked tighter.

“As beautiful as Catherine is, no member of the peerage would offer to marry her,” Sir Walter pointed out. “She can’t bring any material advantages to a marriage, and she might even prove to be a drain if she asks her husband to take care of you and Lady Grantwood.”

Catherine’s father sank onto the chair behind his desk.

“Moreover, Trask’s knighthood might qualify him to be called ‘Sir,’ but I shouldn’t need to remind you that it impresses commoners more than it does the aristocracy. I also shouldn’t need to remind you that the title of a knighthood can’t be passed on to an heir. If, God forbid, you allow Catherine to marry him, any child from their union couldn’t inherit his title. I, on the other hand, am a baronet.
My
title of ‘Sir’ is not only superior to Trask’s, but it
can
be inherited. If you renege on your promise and allow Catherine to marry him, you doom your descendants to life without a title. Finally,” Sir Walter said with emphasis, “my fifty thousand pounds per year might not be comparable to Trask’s fortune, but it’s far more than
you
now have. It would support Catherine in comfort while affording you some luxury as well.”

Lord Grantwood stared at the glowing chunks of coal in the fireplace, his expression indicating that he received no warmth from them. “There’s no need to remind me of yesterday’s conversation.”

“What the devil made you change your mind? How much money did Trask offer you? Enough to remove all your debts?”

“I won’t allow you to insult me by suggesting that I’d be willing to sell my daughter.”

“Then what did Trask say to make the difference?” Sir Walter stepped closer. “You’re not telling me everything. I can see it in your eyes.”

“He persuaded me that emotional considerations are finally what matter.”

“
Emotional
considerations? What do
they
have to do with anything? A woman learns to love her husband—or at the very least to appreciate what he provides for her.”

“I must ask you to leave.”

“He threatened you. I’m right. I know it. Not physically, perhaps, but he threatened you all the same. With what? What are you hiding? What’s your secret?”

Lord Grantwood continued to stare forlornly at the burning coals.

“I’ll find him and make him tell me what he used against you,” Sir Walter vowed.

“He’ll tell you that he loves Catherine and that Catherine loves him.”

Sir Walter tapped the knob of his walking stick against the palm of his hand. “When I finish with him, he’ll tell me a great deal more than that.”

“I
’ll have more
of that Cream of the Valley,” the banker’s clerk told Thaddeus Mitchell as midday business in the Wheel of Fortune reached its peak. “Bring another glass for my friend.”

Here in London’s business district, talk of money usually flowed like the Wheel of Fortune’s gin and beer. But today the only topics were the several murders and whether appointments should be canceled so that everyone had a chance to hurry home before the sun went down, which would happen in three hours. The lingering question was whether they would be safe even in the sanctuary of their homes.

“It’s the Russians doing this,” a stockbroker insisted, setting down his glass of beer.