Someone once told me that to be remembered is to be immortal. So George and Sarah Green are remembered here, and their brave little daughter Agnes, and Wordsworth and his sister, Dorothy, and doomed little Catherine Wordsworth, and De Quincey’s sisters, Jane and Elizabeth, and De Quincey himself, as well as his daughter Emily—and my son and my granddaughter. On a remote mountain ridge, the Greens froze to death on March 19, 1808. Who could ever have predicted that more than two hundred years later, the ordeal of this poor, humble couple would continue to be remembered and that all of these long-lost souls would exist again, at least in our imaginations and our memories?
Acknowledgments
Thanks to the Wordsworth Trust, Dove Cottage, Grasmere, England, for permission to use the James Archer portrait of Thomas De Quincey with his daughters Emily and Margaret and his granddaughter Eva.
Thanks also to Donna Morrell, Ali Karim, Jeff Cowton, Carl Morris, Jean and Martin Norgate, and lakelovers.co.uk for permission to use various photographs.
About David Morrell
David Morrell was born in Kitchener, Ontario, Canada. As a teenager, he became a fan of the classic television series Route 66, about two young men in a Corvette convertible driving across the country in search of themselves. The scripts by Stirling Silliphant so impressed Morrell that he decided to become a writer.
The work of another writer (Hemingway scholar Philip Young) prompted Morrell to move to the United States, where he studied with Young at the Pennsylvania State University and received his MA and PhD. There, he also met the esteemed science fiction author William Tenn (real name Philip Klass), who taught Morrell the basics of fiction writing. The result was First Blood, a groundbreaking novel about a returned Vietnam veteran suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder who comes into conflict with a small-town police chief and fights his own version of the Vietnam War.
That father of modern action novels was published in 1972 while Morrell was a professor in the English department at the University of Iowa. He taught there from 1970 to 1986 while continuing to write novels; many of them went on to become international bestsellers, including the classic spy trilogy The Brotherhood of the Rose (the basis for the only television miniseries to be broadcast after a Super Bowl), The Fraternity of the Stone, and The League of Night and Fog.
Eventually wearying of working at two professions, Morrell gave up his academic tenure in order to write full-time. Shortly afterward, his fifteen-year-old son, Matthew, was diagnosed with a rare form of bone cancer and died in 1987, a loss that haunts not only Morrell’s life but his work, as in his memoir about Matthew, Fireflies, and his novel Desperate Measures, whose main character lost a son.
“The mild-mannered professor with the bloody-minded visions,” as one reviewer called him, Morrell is the author of more than thirty books, including Murder as a Fine Art, Creepers, and Extreme Denial (set in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where he lives). An Edgar and Anthony finalist, a Nero and Macavity winner, Morrell is a three-time recipient of the distinguished Bram Stoker Award from the Horror Writers Association. The International Thriller Writers organization gave him its prestigious Thriller Master Award.
With eighteen million copies of his work in print, his books have been translated into thirty languages. His writing book, The Successful Novelist, analyzes what he learned during his more than four decades as an author. Please visit him at www.davidmorrell.net, where you can also see images of Thomas De Quincey, De Quincey’s daughter Emily, and the fascinating Victorian locations featured in Inspector of the Dead.
Thomas De Quincey and his daughter also appear in David Morrell’s acclaimed Victorian mystery/thrillers Murder as a Fine Art and Inspector of the Dead. Brilliantly merging fact with fiction, Inspector of the Dead is based on actual attempts to assassinate Queen Victoria and brings a bloody chapter of Victorian England to vivid, pulse-pounding life. The first chapter follows.
London, 1855
Except for excursions to a theater or a gentlemen’s club, most respectable inhabitants of the largest city on earth took care to be at home before the sun finished setting, which on this cold Saturday evening, the third of February, occurred at six minutes to five.
That time—synchronized with the clock at the Royal Greenwich Observatory—was displayed on a silver pocket watch that an expensively dressed, obviously distinguished gentleman examined beneath a hissing gas lamp. As harsh experiences had taught him, appearance meant everything. The vilest thoughts might lurk within someone, but the external semblance of respectability was all that mattered. For fifteen years now, he couldn’t recall a time when rage had not consumed him, but he had never allowed anyone to suspect, enjoying the surprise of those upon whom he unleashed his fury.
Tonight, he stood at Constitution Hill and stared across the street toward the murky walls of Buckingham Palace. Lights glowed faintly behind curtains there. Given that the British government had collapsed four days earlier because of its shocking mismanagement of the Crimean War, Queen Victoria was no doubt engaged in urgent meetings with her Privy Council. A shadow passing at one of the windows might belong to her or perhaps to her husband, Prince Albert. The gentleman wasn’t certain which of them he hated more.
Approaching footsteps made him turn. A constable appeared, his helmet silhouetted against the fog. As the patrolman focused his lantern on the quality of clothing before him, the gentleman made himself look calm. His top hat, overcoat, and trousers were the finest. His beard—a disguise—would have attracted notice years earlier but was now fashionable. Even his black walking stick with its polished silver knob was the height of fashion.
“Good evening, sir. If you don’t mind me saying, don’t linger,” the constable warned. “It doesn’t do to be out alone in the dark, even in this neighborhood.”
“Thank you, constable. I’ll hurry along.”
From his hiding place, the young man at last heard a target approaching. He’d almost given up, knowing that there was little chance that someone of means would venture alone onto this fogbound street but knowing also that the fog was his only protection from the constable who passed here every twenty minutes.
Deciding that the footsteps didn’t have the heavy, menacing impact that the constable’s did, the young man prepared for the most desperate act of his life. He’d endured typhoons and fevers on three voyages back and forth from England to the Orient on a British East India Company ship, but they were nothing compared to what he now risked, the penalty for which was hanging. As his stomach growled from hunger, he prayed that its sound wouldn’t betray him.
The footsteps came closer, a top hat coming into view. Despite his weakness, the young man stepped from behind a tree in Green Park. He gripped the wrought-iron fence, vaulted it, and landed in front of a gentleman whose dark beard was visible in the shrouded glow from a nearby streetlamp.
The young man gestured with a club. “No need to draw you a picture, I presume, mate. Give me your purse, or it’ll go nasty for you.”
The gentleman studied his dirty, torn sailor’s clothes.
“I said, your purse, mate,” the young man ordered, listening for the sounds of the returning constable. “Be quick. I won’t warn you again.”
“The light isn’t the best, but perhaps you can see my eyes. Look at them carefully.”
“What I’ll do is close them for you if you don’t give me your purse.”
“Do you see fear in them?”
“I will after this.”
The young man lunged, swinging his club.
With astonishing speed, the gentleman pivoted sideways and struck with his cane, jolting the young man’s wrist, knocking the club from it. With a second blow, he whacked the side of the young man’s head, dropping him to the ground.
“Stay down unless you wish more of the same,” the gentleman advised.
Suppressing a groan, the young man clutched his throbbing head.
“Before confronting someone, always look in his eyes. Determine if his resolve
is greater than yours. Your age, please.”
The polite tone so surprised the young man that he found himself answering, “Eighteen.”
“What is your name?”
The young man hesitated, shivering from the cold.
“Say it. Your first name will be sufficient. It won’t incriminate you.”
“Ronnie.”
“You mean ‘Ronald.’ If you wish to improve yourself, always use your formal name. Say it.”
“Ronald.”
“Despite the pain of my blows, you had the character not to cry out and alert the constable. Character deserves a reward. How long has it been since you’ve eaten, Ronald?”
“Two days.”
“Your fast has now ended.”
The gentleman dropped five coins onto the path. The faint glow from the nearby street lamp made it difficult for Ronald to identify them. Expecting pennies, he felt astonished when he discovered not pennies or even shillings but gold sovereigns. He stared at them in shock. One gold sovereign was more than most people earned in a week of hard labor, and here were five of them.
“Would you like to receive even more sovereigns, Ronald?”
He clawed at the coins. “Yes.”
“Twenty-five Garner Street in Wapping.” The address was in the blighted East End, as far from the majesty of Green Park as could be imagined. “Repeat it.”
“Twenty-five Garner Street in Wapping.”
“Be there at four tomorrow afternoon. Buy warm clothes. Nothing extravagant, nothing to draw attention. You are about to join a great cause, Ronald. But if you tell anyone about Twenty-five Garner Street, to use your expression it’ll go nasty for you. Let’s see if you do indeed have character or if you throw away the greatest opportunity you will ever receive.”
Heavy footsteps approached.
“The constable. Go,” the bearded gentleman warned. “Don’t disappoint me, Ronald.”
His stomach growling more painfully, astonished by his luck, Ronald clutched his five precious sovereigns and raced into the fog.
As the gentleman continued up Constitution Hill, his watch now showed eight minutes past five. The watches of his associates—also synchronized with the Greenwich Royal Observatory—would display the same time. Everything remained on schedule.
At Piccadilly, he turned right toward one of London’s most respectable districts: Mayfair. He had waited what seemed an eternity for what he was about to enjoy. He had suffered unimaginably to prepare for it. Despite his fierce emotions, he kept a measured pace, determined not to blunt his satisfaction by hurrying.
Even in the fog, he had no trouble finding his way. This was a route that he had followed many times in his memory. It was the same route that he had taken fifteen years earlier when, as a desperate boy, he had raced to the right along Piccadilly, then to the left along Half Moon Street, then left again onto Curzon Street, this way and that, begging.
“Please, sir, I need your help!”
“Get away from me, you filthy vermin!”
The echoes of that hateful time reverberated in his memory as he came to the street known as Chesterfield Hill. He paused where a gas lamp showed an iron railing beyond which five stone steps led up to an oak door. The knocker had the shape of a heraldic lion’s head.
The steps were freshly scrubbed. Noting a boot scraper built into the railing, he applied his soles to it so that he wouldn’t leave evidence. He clutched his walking stick, opened the gate, and climbed the steps. The impact of the knocker echoed within the house.
He heard someone on the opposite side of the door. For a moment, his anticipation made it seem that the world outside the fog no longer existed, that he was in a closet of the universe, that time had stopped. As a hand freed a bolt and the door opened, he readied his cane with its silver knob.
A butler looked puzzled. “His Lordship isn’t expecting visitors.”
The gentleman struck with all his might, impacting the man’s head, knocking him onto a marbled floor. Heartbeat thundering with satisfaction, he entered and shut the door. A few quick steps took him into a spacious hall.
A maid paused at the bottom of an ornate staircase, frowning, obviously puzzled why the butler hadn’t accompanied the visitor. In a rage, the gentleman swung the cane, feeling its knob crack the maid’s skull. With a dying moan, she collapsed to the floor.
Without the disguise of his beard, the gentleman had been to this house on several occasions. He knew its layout and would need little time to eliminate the remaining servants. Then his satisfaction could begin as he devoted his attention to their masters. Clutching his cane, he proceeded with his great work.
Memories needed to be prodded.
Punishment needed to be inflicted.
Also by David Morrell
Novels
First Blood
Testament
Last Reveille
The Totem
Blood Oath
The Brotherhood of the Rose
The Fraternity of the Stone
Rambo (First Blood Part II)
The League of Night and Fog
Rambo III
The Fifth Profession
The Covenant of the Flame
Assumed Identity
Desperate Measures
The Totem (Complete and Unaltered)
Extreme Denial
Double Image
Burnt Sienna
Long Lost
The Protector
Creepers
Scavenger
The Spy Who Came for Christmas
The Shimmer
The Naked Edge
Murder as a Fine Art
Short Fiction
The Hundred-Year Christmas
Black Evening
Nightscape
Illustrated Fiction
Captain America: The Chosen
Amazing Spider-Man: Peter Parker—The One and Only
Nonfiction
John Barth: An Introduction
Fireflies: A Father’s Tale of Love and Loss
The Successful Novelist: A Lifetime of Lessons about Writing and Publishing
Edited By
American Fiction, American Myth: Essays by Philip Young
edited by David Morrell and Sandra Spanier
Tesseracts Thirteen: Chilling Tales of the Great White North
edited by Nancy Kilpatrick and David Morrell
Thrillers: 100 Must-Reads
edited by David Morrell and Hank Wagner
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
The Opium-Eater
Afterword: “The Opium-Eater” Photo Essay
Acknowledgments
About David Morrell
A Preview of Inspector of the Dead
Also by David Morrell
Newsletters
Copyright
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2015 by Morrell Enterprises, Inc.
Excerpt from Inspector of the Dead copyright © 2015 by Morrell Enterprises, Inc.
Cover design by Keith Hayes
Cover copyright © 2015 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Author photograph by Jennifer Esperanza
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must b
e obtained by contacting the publisher at permission
[email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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ISBN 978-0-316-26138-8
E3
David Morrell, The Opium-Eater
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