Free Inspector of the Dead by David Morrell Page A

across the hall.
    Emily touched Ryan’s arm. “I think the reason Father came here is that helping you might give him a purpose and make him want to live.”
    Ryan crossed to the library, where he found De Quincey shifting from one perspective to another, studying the grotesquely positioned victim.
    “You look impressed,” Ryan said.
    “The noose, the blinded eyes, and the law book amount to a masterpiece.”
    “I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything else from the man who wrote ‘On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts.’”
    “The victim’s position suggests that the motive was revenge for an injustice.”
    “It doesn’t appear to have been robbery,” Ryan agreed. “The pens in his eyes are silver. A gold watch-chain dangles from his waistcoat. There are many other items of value in this room, but it seems that nothing was taken.”
    “You mentioned the kitchen. Are there other victims?” De Quincey asked.
    “A cook and a scullery maid,” Ryan answered. “Lady Cosgrove must have been away from home when the murders occurred.”
    Becker stepped forward, confused. “But when she returned and discovered the bodies, why didn’t she alert the police? Instead of raising an alarm, why did Lady Cosgrove put on a mourning gown and go to St. James’s? It doesn’t make sense.”
    “At least one of the victims hasn’t been found,” Ryan said. “A bedroom upstairs was covered with dried blood.”
    De Quincey peered over the corpse’s shoulder and studied the black-rimmed piece of paper that Becker had returned to the open book.
    “There’s a name here. Edward Oxford? ”
    “That means something to you?” Ryan asked.
    “How could it possibly not?”
    “I don’t understand, Father. Who is Edward Oxford?”
    Emily’s voice surprised them. Turning, they saw her at the library’s entrance, where she averted her eyes from the horror in the chair and looked up at the corniced ceiling.
    “Emily, it might be better if you stayed in the other room,” Becker suggested.
    “I’d rather be here with everyone than alone elsewhere in this house.”
    “I wouldn’t want to be alone in this house, either,” Ryan agreed.
    “Father, given the astonishment with which you say Edward Oxford’s name, I feel foolish not to recognize it.”
    “You were only six when it happened,” De Quincey explained. “Inspector, Edward Oxford is still in Bedlam, am I correct?”
    De Quincey referred to England’s only institution for the criminally insane—Bethlem Royal Hospital, commonly known as Bedlam.
    “Yes,” Ryan answered. “I would definitely have been told if Oxford had been released.”
    “But who is Edward Oxford?” Emily insisted. “What outrage did he commit? Sean, your tone suggests that it must have been something truly terrible. Is this related to the note that Lady Cosgrove received at the church? You refused to tell us what you read.”
    “I’m afraid you’ll need to ask Commissioner Mayne about that.”
    “Perhaps not,” De Quincey concluded.
    “What do you mean?” Ryan asked with suspicion.
    “At St. James’s Church, before you shoved the note in your pocket, I saw enough to determine that it consisted of only two words. If those words were ‘Edward Oxford,’ the same as in this note, the secret would be out—you wouldn’t need to conceal it any longer. That means the two words were something else. Under the circumstances, they could only be…Inspector, please tell Emily about Edward Oxford.”
      
    Wednesday, 10 June 1840
    Q ueen Victoria insisted on releasing her daily schedule to the newspapers. Having ascended the throne only three years earlier, the young monarch wanted to show how different she was from her recent predecessors, who had almost never been seen by commoners. Determined to establish a connection with her subjects, she took frequent carriage rides through London’s streets and wanted the populace to know exactly when she planned to do so, giving people ample