Murder As A Fine Art Part 31

"You twist things."

"It is your mind that twists things. You advocated the immoderate use of laudanum."

"I described my own experience as a caution to others."

"You also indulged in a drug called 'bang.' "

"Bang?" Lord Palmerston sounded baffled.

"Otherwise known as has.h.i.+sh, Your Lords.h.i.+p, from which the word 'a.s.sa.s.sin' is derived."

"Good heavens."

"During the Crusades, fanatical Muslims smoked it before their murderous attacks on English officers, Your Lords.h.i.+p."

"No! Has.h.i.+sh encourages an appet.i.te, not violence," Father insisted.

"Violence. Yes, you praised extreme violence in several of your essays, revealing your obsession with John Williams and the original Ratcliffe Highway murders. You called Williams a genius."

"An attempt to be humorous."

"The many people who were murdered recently are not amused. Through drugs, violence, and radical views, you persistently advocated the overthrow of the aristocracy. Now your obsession with violence has impelled you to encourage accomplices to re-create the original Ratcliffe Highway murders in an effort to destabilize London. I have proof, Your Lords.h.i.+p."

Brookline raised an item from the doc.u.ments on the table. "In one of former inspector Ryan's few helpful acts, he arranged for a newspaper artist to sketch the face of the dead man at Coldbath Fields Prison. The man gained access to the prison by claiming to be a messenger from you, Your Lords.h.i.+p."

"From me? But I sent no one to that prison," Palmerston replied in confusion.

"He had a message in an envelope with your seal on it."

"Impossible."

"No doubt a forgery. The message inside turned out to be of no importance, merely a trick to gain entrance. Here is the sketch, Your Lords.h.i.+p. Certain grotesque aspects of his death have been eliminated in an attempt to achieve an ordinary likeness. Do you recognize this man?"

Palmerston held the sketch near a candelabrum on the table. "He didn't work for me. I've never seen this man in my life."

"Although he didn't work for you, you have in fact seen him, Your Lords.h.i.+p."

"I don't-"

"Granted, you saw him only fleetingly as I pushed you to the floor of your coach. This is the man who tried to a.s.sa.s.sinate you this afternoon."

"What?"

"The man who tried to kill you is the same man who attempted to rescue the Opium-Eater from prison. I strongly suspect that this isn't the Opium-Eater's only accomplice. With Your Lords.h.i.+p's permission, I think it would be appropriate to question the Opium-Eater in a persuasive manner after he is readmitted to prison."

Anger so controlled me that I raised my voice in defense of Father. "Persuasive manner. You can't be serious. Torture an old man?"

"No one used the word 'torture.' The British government does not torture prisoners," Brookline said.

"Then perhaps it's the British military who does the torturing, Colonel."

Brookline gave me the harshest glare I ever received. "I don't understand why this woman is allowed to be here. She doesn't serve our purpose, except to show by her scandalous clothing the contempt that she and her father have for the standards of society. Not only is the bloomer dress immodest by revealing the outline of her legs, but it is also synonymous with a notorious female activist who campaigns for the disruption of society by advocating the right of women to vote."

"Immodest?" Father said angrily. "First, you insult my mother."

"I merely state facts."

"Next you insult my dead wife."

"The daughter of an agitator."

"Now you insult my daughter."

"Don't try to distract us from our purpose."

"Which is to torture an old man!" I protested.

"Old?" Brookline scoffed. "Your Lords.h.i.+p, the Opium-Eater uses his age to deceive those who might otherwise suspect him. In the past few days, he demonstrated more nimbleness than most men twenty years younger than he is."

"I am thirsty," Father announced.

"What?"

Father went to a table in the corner and chose one of the half-full champagne gla.s.ses.

He swallowed its contents in one gulp.

My companions Ryan and Becker were accustomed to seeing this behavior, but Lord Palmerston and Colonel Brookline opened their mouths in astonishment.

Father selected a second half-full champagne gla.s.s and swallowed its contents as well. He looked around for a third.

"We'll see how insolent you are in Coldbath Fields Prison when you reveal the names of your accomplices," Brookline said.

Father turned toward Palmerston. "Your Lords.h.i.+p, the man you should be searching for is a British soldier who spent considerable time in the Orient. He learned the languages of that region sufficiently to be able to give instructions to a Malay. He became an expert in disguises there. He has extensive experience with killing."

"This is a laudanum fantasy, Your Lords.h.i.+p. British soldiers do not kill English civilians," Brookline objected.

"Are you suggesting that they kill only Oriental civilians?" Father asked him.

"Don't be impertinent."

"Only someone with extensive combat experience could have accomplished the recent skillful slaughters," Father elaborated. "Someone who was trained, someone who has done it many times."

"Outrageous! British soldiers are not madmen!" Lord Palmerston protested. "If we suspect British soldiers, there'll be no end of it. Your description could apply even to Colonel Brookline."

"Indeed it could." Father stared at Brookline. "Did you serve in India, Colonel?"

"This is another of the Opium-Eater's attempts to undermine society, Your Lords.h.i.+p. Through his accomplices, first he persuades the populace to believe that the killer is a sailor, with the consequence that many sailors were attacked and work at the docks has halted. Then he convinces the mob that the killer is a constable, with the consequence that several policemen have been a.s.saulted and faith in law enforcement has been eroded. Now he attempts to draw suspicion toward the military. By the time he's finished making accusations, no one will be above suspicion. Next, he'll claim that you're the killer, Your Lords.h.i.+p." Brookline turned toward our group. "Former constable Becker." He put the emphasis on "former."

"Yes?" Becker frowned.

"Even though you choose not to appear in uniform, I hope you are professional enough to possess handcuffs."

"They are in my coat pocket."

"Put them on the Opium-Eater."

"Excuse me?"

"When you address me, call me 'Colonel.' Put the d.a.m.ned handcuffs on the Opium-Eater."

Becker hesitated.

"Perhaps you too would enjoy a night's lodging at Coldbath Fields Prison," Brookline suggested. "You could pa.s.s the time with men you arrested."

"Do what he wants," Father said. "At the moment, there's no alternative."

"For a change, the Opium-Eater makes sense," Brookline noted.

I had difficulty catching my breath as Father held his wrists in front of him and Becker pressed the shackles onto them.

"The key." Brookline extended his hand.

"Any constable's key will fit any set of handcuffs," Becker said, "but if you're determined to have mine, here it is."

Becker gave him the key.

When Brookline reached for Father, his impatience prompted him to push Ryan out of the way.

Ryan b.u.mped into me. "I'm extremely sorry, Miss De Quincey." In the confusion, he pressed something into my palm.

It was the key to the handcuffs that Ryan himself carried, I realized. The key would fit any set of handcuffs, including Becker's.

Brookline tugged Father toward the door.

I forced myself to burst out weeping. "No!" After pus.h.i.+ng my way past Brookline, I grabbed Father, doing my best to sob hysterically.

"Everything will resolve for the best, Emily."

"We're wasting time." Brookline pulled Father toward the door.

"I'll pray for you, Father."

While I clung to Father, I put the handcuff key into his coat pocket.

"Your Lords.h.i.+p," Brookline told Palmerston as he pulled Father from the room, "it's dangerous for you to go to your office tomorrow. For the time being, I recommend that you conduct your business here."

The next moments were a blur as Lord Palmerston's guards urged Becker, Ryan, and me down the marble stairs. We followed Father and Brookline across the foyer and out the front door, into the lamp-lit fog, where we watched them climb into the coach that had brought us to the mansion.

Father leaned out, shouting, "You know where I'll be, Emily!"

"Yes, in prison," Brookline mocked.

"Where I listened to the music."

"Completely insane."

"Remember, Emily! Where I listened to the music!"

Brookline pulled Father all the way inside the coach. A guard stepped in with them, slamming the door. Another guard joined the driver on top.

The gate opened. The horses clomped forward. Almost immediately, the coach disappeared into the fog.

"Please bring another coach," Ryan told a footman.

"Not for you."

"I don't understand."

"Colonel Brookline's instructions were emphatic. He said the three of you can walk."

Beyond the illumination of Lord Palmerston's mansion, the coach entered dense shadows, b.u.mping over paving stones on the unseen expanse of Piccadilly. A lamp next to the driver cast a faint glow through an opening and permitted the occupants an indistinct view of one another's faces.

Colonel Brookline sat across from De Quincey. A security agent sat beside him.

The handcuffs pained De Quincey's wrists.

"I met your son, Paul, in India," Brookline said.

"Indeed?"

"In February of eighteen forty-six. After the Battle of Sobraon in the first Anglo-Sikh War."

"India's a ma.s.sive country. How surprising that you happened to meet him."

"Yes, a remarkable coincidence. Your son told me he enlisted in the military when he was eighteen."

"That is correct."

"I received the impression that he wanted to get away from home. To put considerable distance between you and him."

De Quincey refused to show that his emotions had been jabbed. "My children who survived to adulthood turned out to be wanderers."

"Now that I think of it, another of your sons joined the military and went as far as China."

"That is true also."

"He died from fever there."