Murder as a Fine Art

  “He was dead to me a long time ago,” the elderly woman replied. “There’s no need to feel sorry about that. But for what he did because of my weakness, God pity me.”

  “A man can find within himself, in a separate chamber of his mind, a separate alien nature,” Father said, echoing something he had written. “But what if that alien nature contradicts his own, fights with it, and confounds what he once thought to be the inviolable sanctuary of his soul?”

  “Can you do without me?” Becker asked abruptly, glancing from Father and the commissioner toward Margaret and me.

  “We are safe now. Go!” I urged.

  Becker broke into a run, hurrying through the crowd, racing toward the glow on the dark horizon.

  FLAMES CRACKLED. Horses reared in terror. The din of bells summoned more help as men lay on the docks, stretching over the side to fill pails with water. They handed the pails to a line that led toward the warehouse. In a rush, another line brought empty pails back. Hoses went from the water to fire wagons, where men furiously worked the pumps and other men directed a spray toward the warehouse.

  In the chaos, Becker charged toward a constable. “Where’s Detective Inspector Ryan?”

  “Don’t know him.”

  In the reflection of flames, Becker sprinted toward another constable. “I’m looking for Detective Inspector Ryan!”

  “Haven’t seen him.”

  Breathless from his rush to the docks, Becker looked around frantically.

  “Did you say you were looking for Ryan?” a guard asked.

  “Yes!”

  “He was with those constables who were killed,” the guard reported.

  “Ryan’s dead?”

  “I don’t know.” The guard needed to raise his voice to be heard above the shouts and the roar of the fire. “He was stabbed.”

  “Stabbed?”

  “I helped him from the warehouse before it blew up. It tossed us through the air. I never saw him after that.”

  “Where? Show me where the blast threw you!”

  “Over there!”

  The guard indicated a gravel area. No one was there.

  Becker strained to look in every direction. “Ryan! For God’s sake, where are you?” He stopped a man hurrying by. “Do you know where the injured were taken?”

  “There! To the spice warehouse!”

  The man pointed toward a building near the burning warehouse.

  Becker ran to it.

  The living and the dead were positioned on blankets. Becker rushed to each of them, searching their faces, wiping soot from them.

  Desperate, he ran back to the opium warehouse. Through the flames, he saw where a doorway had been blown apart. Anyone coming through it would have been lifted by the explosion and—

  Becker followed a line from the doorway toward the section of gravel that the guard had indicated. He found blood. He followed it to the wood of the dock. The blood went over the side.

  “Ryan!”

  Kneeling, Becker stared down toward the greasy water. Despite the speed with which his heart pounded, it nonetheless seemed to stop when he saw a figure half submerged, right arm snagged on a loop of rope.

  “Help me!” Becker yelled. “For God’s sake, someone help!”

  A constable heard and raced toward him.

  “I’m a policeman!” Becker shouted. “That’s Detective Inspector Ryan down there!”

  Becker pulled his overcoat off with such urgency that several buttons popped. He yanked off his boots and jumped.

  The water was painfully, shockingly cold. Plunging into it, Becker felt the cold only briefly. In seconds, numbness spread through him. His hands shook as he grabbed a rope that the constable dropped to him. He tied the rope under Ryan’s arms and motioned for the constable, who’d been joined by another man, to pull Ryan up.

  But as Ryan was lifted from the water, the reflection of the flames showed the terrible slash in his abdomen.

  Becker almost gagged but stifled the urge and yelled, “Stop! He’s been cut! We’re separating the wound!”

  The constables eased Ryan back into the water. Becker, whose tenant-farming father had insisted he learn to swim before he could fish from a river that flowed near the farm, gripped Ryan with one arm and pulled at the water with the other, forcing his way along the dock. His water-soaked clothes weighed him down, but he gripped a piling and pushed beyond it. He grabbed at more water, fighting toward a walkway that stretched down from the dock.

  There, the constables waited, helping to lift Ryan from the water.

  “He’s dead,” one of them murmured.

  “No!” Becker said. “He can’t be! I won’t let him be!”

  “Look at the gash in his stomach,” the other constable said, not even bothering to note the slice in Ryan’s left arm.

  “I think he moved,” Becker said.

  “I want him to,” one of the constables said, “but it’s just the flames playing tricks.”

  “He did! His lips! I saw them move!”

  Becker leaned close, straining to hear what Ryan said.

  The other constables leaned close also.

  “Snow,” Ryan murmured.

  “The poor man’s hallucinating. He thinks it’s snowing.”

  “That’s not the snow he means! Help me lift him! Help me take him to Dr. Snow!”

  WILL INSPECTOR RYAN survive his wounds?” Lord Palmerston asked.

  For the second time in two nights, De Quincey, Emily, and Becker stood in the ballroom of Lord Palmerston’s mansion. Commissioner Mayne had been summoned also.

  Dawn paled the darkness beyond the windows. But Palmerston was dressed as if for business, wearing his customary gray slacks, black waistcoat, and black coat, the hem of which descended to his knees. His heavy frame continued to give him authority, as did his thick, long, brown-dyed sideburns that emphasized his powerful eyes.

  “Dr. Snow is cautiously optimistic, Your Lordship,” Becker explained. “The doctor says that under usual circumstances, Ryan would have bled to death, but apparently the cold water did something to his body—reduced the blood flow is how I understood it. The doctor disinfected the wounds and closed them. Now it’s a matter of waiting to see if Ryan’s body can heal itself.”

  “Where is Ryan now?”

  “Resting at Dr. Snow’s residence until he can be transported to a hospital,” Becker replied. “Ryan had sufficient strength to warn us about the men who helped Brookline. They were arrested, trying to leave the city in hearses that Ryan heard them talk about. The men were dressed as undertakers and had money they stole hidden under corpses in coffins.”

  “Commissioner Mayne, send a constable to Dr. Snow and tell him that I want Ryan brought here instead of to a hospital.”

  “Your Lordship is very generous.”

  Lord Palmerston nodded. “When Ryan is well enough to converse, I’ll have an opportunity to learn further details about what happened. During last night’s confrontation, did Brookline say anything about me?”

  “About Your Lordship? I, uh…”

  “Answer my question, Commissioner.”

  “He did in fact speak about you.”

  “In what specific words?” Palmerston’s gaze suggested that the conversation had entered dangerous territory.

  “With Your Lordship’s forgiveness…”

  “Get on with it.”

  “He said that you and your… I beg your indulgence… what he called your wealthy, powerful, arrogant friends were greedy and indifferent to the poor.”

  “And?”

  “That is all, Your Lordship.”

  “Nothing about politics?”

  “No, Your Lordship. Is there something specific that occupies your concern?”

  “Brookline was privy to numerous confidential discussions. It would be unfortunate if he had broadcast their contents.” Palmerston’s eyes relaxed. He changed the subject. “Becker, you’re shivering.”

  “The water was very cold, Your Lo
rdship.”

  “Will it make you feel warmer if, with Commissioner Mayne’s approval, I promote you to the rank of detective?”

  Becker looked as if he didn’t believe he’d heard correctly. “Detective?”

  “Stand before the fire.” Palmerston motioned to a nearby servant. “Bring Detective Becker dry clothes and a blanket. Hot tea for everyone.”

  The servant departed.

  “De Quincey,” Palmerston asked, “why are you walking in place? Your face shines with sweat.”

  “With Your Lordship’s forgiveness…” De Quincey pulled a bottle from his coat and swallowed from it.

  Palmerston looked horrified. “Is that…?”

  “My medicine.”

  “You’re pathetic.”

  “Quite so, Your Lordship.”

  “Aren’t you worried about ruining your health?”

  “After a half century of laudanum, my health was ruined long ago, Your Lordship.”

  “And aren’t you ashamed of setting such a poor example to your daughter?”

  “On the contrary, I set an excellent example. Emily’s daily experience with me teaches her never to touch a drop of this evil substance.”

  Palmerston, whose riches came largely from the opium trade, considered the word “evil” in reference to the drug. Briefly his eyes hardened again.

  “Yes, well, I summoned all of you so that I might do something that a man in my position almost never does—admit a mistake. You have my regret that I misjudged Brookline and misjudged you. If there is anything I can do to express my gratitude for your help, you need only ask.”

  “My daughter and I find ourselves without lodgings, Your Lordship,” De Quincey said promptly.

  Palmerston was surprised by the quick response.

  “Colonel Brookline arranged for our previous accommodations,” De Quincey elaborated, “but the association is so disagreeable that I’m afraid neither my daughter nor I could sleep peacefully under that roof.”

  Palmerston made a calculated decision. “The two of you shall remain here under my protection. Perhaps you’ll think of something else that Colonel Brookline said about me. If there’s nothing further…”

  “Actually, Your Lordship…” Emily, who’d been silent, stepped forward.

  “Yes, Miss De Quincey?” Palmerston looked uneasy, as if sensing what was about to happen.

  “An undertaker needs to be paid sixteen pounds for funeral expenses involving the first set of victims.”

  “Funeral expenses?”

  “In addition, my father made promises to a group of beggars on Oxford Street. For their considerable help, they were guaranteed an abundance of food throughout the next year.”

  “Beggars? Food?”

  “I myself promised one of them—a boy with acrobatic capabilities who was wounded—that his tuition and board would be paid at a commendable school.”

  “Tuition? Board?”

  “Also, I promised a group of privately employed ladies that they would be taken to a farm where they could become healthy in clean air, growing vegetables.”

  “Privately employed ladies?”

  “Prostitutes, Your Lordship,” Emily explained.

  “Detective Becker, is this young woman always so forthcoming?”

  “I’m pleased to say that she is, Your Lordship.”

  Emily concealed a smile, but not enough so that the new detective failed to notice it, concealing his own smile.

  “I grant your requests on one condition,” Palmerston pronounced. “An exceeding number of newspaper reporters wish to speak with all of you. You shall make clear that all the efforts to save the city were coordinated through my office and that I myself personally directed the unmasking of Colonel Brookline.”

  RYAN LAY ON A BED in a servant’s room in the mansion’s attic.

  Emily tried not to show how alarmed she was by his pallor. De Quincey and Becker stood on the other side of the bed.

  “Dr. Snow told me that your wounds do not appear to be infected,” Emily assured him, hoping that her brightness didn’t sound forced.

  Ryan’s eyelids flickered. Slowly he focused on his visitors.

  “Are you in pain?” Emily asked.

  “No,” Ryan managed to say. “Dr. Snow gave me laudanum.”

  “Be careful not to become habituated,” De Quincey cautioned.

  “I would laugh,” Ryan murmured, “but it might tear my stitches.”

  “Ah, I detect a smile,” Emily said victoriously.

  “Despite the circumstances, I admit I enjoyed meeting you and your father, Miss De Quincey.”

  “If that is intended as a good-bye, it is premature. You have not seen the last of Father and me. Rather than return to debt collectors in Edinburgh, we plan to stay in London a while longer.”

  Ryan considered her statement and nodded, surprising her. “Good. London will be more exciting for your presence.”

  Emily felt warmth in her cheeks. “Excitement turned out to be a dubious experience. Father and I look forward to the humdrum of resuming his discussions with booksellers and magazine writers.”

  “Surely you can spend your time to better advantage,” Ryan found the strength to say. “London has greater attractions than magazine writers.”

  “Yes, I heard so much about the famed Crystal Palace that I am eager to see it,” Emily enthused. “A glass structure so tall that full-grown elm trees decorate its interior.”

  “It is indeed a marvel. After the Great Exhibition three years ago, it was disassembled at Hyde Park and rebuilt at Sydenham Hill.”

  “I volunteered to escort Emily and her father there,” Becker said happily.

  “How thoughtful,” Ryan muttered. “I would have been pleased to volunteer as well.”

  “Your convalescence frustrates you, I am sure,” Emily noted. “That is another reason Father and I decided to stay in London.”

  “Another reason?”

  “Dr. Snow has obligations that prevent him from visiting you as often as he would prefer. He taught me to administer treatment to you in his absence.”

  “Since we are not related, the intimacy might be uncomfortable for you, Miss De Quincey. I fear I will be a burden.”

  “Nonsense. Given what Florence Nightingale has accomplished for nursing in the Crimean War, it’s obvious that an injury has greater priority than false modesty. Women will soon have a profession to pursue besides being a servant, a shopgirl, or a governess.”

  “One thing I have learned from my experience with you is to appreciate new thoughts. I shall be grateful for the attention, Miss De Quincey.”

  “Please call me ‘Emily.’ Detective Becker learned to do that. After everything that we have been through together, why do you insist on being formal?”

  “Detective Becker?” Ryan looked at him, puzzled.

  “My stature has risen,” Becker explained. “I owe it to the opportunity you gave me and look forward to many more adventures together.”

  “I believe I have experienced sufficient adventures.” Ryan’s eyelids began to droop.

  “Weariness makes you say that,” Emily decided. “You and Detective Becker are men of action if I ever saw them. We shall let you sleep. But in your hazy condition, perhaps I can persuade you to tell me your first name.”

  Ryan hesitated. “Sean.”

  “And what is my name?”

  “Miss…”

  “Please try again.”

  “Your name is Emily.”

  “Very good.” She looked at Becker. “And what is your first name?”

  Becker hesitated also. “Joseph.”

  “Splendid.”

  Emily looked from one man to the other. Becker seemed only a little older than her twenty-one years, a tall, strapping, handsome fellow with solid manners, and a slight scar on his chin that somehow made him more attractive. In contrast, Ryan was almost twice her age, theoretically too old to be considered as anything but at best a brother, and yet the lines of e
xperience in his face made him oddly pleasing to look at, not to mention that his confidence and even his gruffness were appealing.

  What strange thoughts, she told herself, but as Emily did with all new concepts, she refused to suppress them.

  “Sean and Joseph.” She touched their hands. “I believe we can finally declare that we are friends.”

  “There is no such thing as forgetting,” De Quincey said with a smile. “But for a change, this is one circumstance I shall happily always remember.”

  POSTSCRIPT

  IN 1886, SEVENTY-FIVE YEARS after the Ratcliffe Highway murders, employees of a gas company tore up the paving stones at the intersection of Cannon and Cable streets to dig a trench for a pipe. Six feet down, in the middle of the crossroads, they found a skeleton with a stake through its left rib cage. At first, the workmen suspected that they had discovered evidence of a long-ago murder, but a police investigation determined that the skeleton belonged to John Williams, a suspected killer who had hanged himself before he could be declared guilty of brutal slayings that had paralyzed London and all of England three quarters of a century earlier. People walked away with arm bones, leg bones, and ribs as souvenirs. The owner of a tavern at Cannon and Cable streets displayed the skull on a shelf behind the bar.

  No one knows what became of it.

  AFTERWORD

  Adventures with the Opium-Eater

  FOR TWO YEARS, I lived in 1854 London. Charles Darwin prompted me to do it, or at least a movie about him did. It’s called Creation, and it dramatizes Darwin’s struggle to complete On the Origin of Species. If you’re a Christian fundamentalist, you probably wish that his struggle had persisted. Darwin’s wife certainly did. She believed that his theory of evolution was blasphemous and urged him not to continue. Meanwhile he suffered from extreme guilt because he might have been indirectly responsible for the death of his favorite daughter, having sanctioned medical treatment—hydrotherapy—that possibly aggravated her lingering illness.

  These multiple pressures made Darwin chronically sick with headaches, heart palpitations, and stomach problems, rendering him barely able to function. But here’s the point. Darwin wasn’t aware of his guilt, both about the death of his daughter and about how his research was harming his relationship with his wife. We post-Freudians understand the link between the mind and the body, but Darwin’s persistent health problems were a medical mystery in Victorian England of the 1850s.