Murder As A Fine Art Part 26

"That also. Coleridge uses childlike rhyme and rhythm to make you feel that you are under opium's spell. In fact, he was under its spell when he wrote his poetry. But as much as it helped him create beauty, it destroyed his health. He tried desperately to gain his freedom, but it isn't easy to leave the pleasure dome."

Shouts made the wagon stop. Bodies jostled the sides, shaking Emily awake.

"What's that noise?" she murmured.

"Inspector, you'd better get out here!" the driver yelled.

Becker and Ryan jumped hurriedly down, confronted by shadows storming from the fog.

A shrouded streetlamp revealed men holding swords, knives, rifles, and clubs.

"What's your business here?" one of the men demanded.

"I could ask you the same," Ryan answered.

"But we know who we are, and you're a stranger."

"We're police officers."

"Look like beggars to me." The smell of gin wafted from the man. "The bloke next to you has a coat that's almost in rags." The reference was to the knife slashes that De Quincey's attacker had inflicted on Becker's garment.

"And blood!" another man shouted, pointing.

One of the knife slashes had nicked Becker's chest, the blood now dried.

"Still has the victims' blood on 'im."

"It's my own blood," Becker told them. "I'm an off-duty constable. This is Inspector Ryan. If you want to see a uniform, look at the driver."

"Yes, the driver's wearin' a constable's uniform, but so was the killer when he slaughtered fifteen poor souls in a tavern. People first thought he was a sailor, but it turned out he was a constable. Dressed as a sergeant."

"Not fifteen victims in a tavern," Ryan insisted. "Eight."

"And six people in a surgeon's office!"

"Three," Becker corrected him.

"How would you be so certain unless you was there! Uniform, my a.r.s.e. The killer was disguised as a policeman, so how can we believe a stranger wearin' a uniform?"

"Look, this other bloke has red hair peekin' under his cap!"

"Irish!"

"Wait! I'll show you my badge!" Ryan reached into his coat.

"He's goin' for a knife!"

"Get 'im!"

The mob charged, pinning Ryan and Becker against the wagon. The impact knocked Becker's teeth together. A club struck his shoulder.

Ryan groaned.

Abruptly a woman screamed.

A man attacking Ryan swung toward the fog. "Who's that?"

"Help!" the woman shrieked.

"Where?"

"There!"

"Help! He attacked me!"

Astonished, Becker saw a woman stumble from the fog. Her bonnet hung from her neck. Her coat was torn open, the top part of her dress ripped.

The woman was Emily.

"He grabbed me! He tried to-"

"Where?"

"Down that alley! A policeman! He ripped my dress! He tried to-"

"Let's go! The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's gettin' away!"

The mob raged past Ryan and Becker, disappearing into the fog toward where Emily pointed.

"Hurry," Becker told her, helping her into the wagon.

Under the canvas roof, Becker heard Ryan jump up next to the driver. "Get out of here fast."

As the wagon jostled rapidly over the cobblestones, Emily fumbled to secure the top of her dress and to close her coat.

"Well done," Becker told her.

"It was all I could think of." Working to catch her breath, Emily adjusted her bonnet.

"And if that didn't distract them," De Quincey indicated, "this was the other plan."

De Quincey had taken the lantern from its hook in the wagon and held it as if to throw it from the wagon.

"The crash when it landed and the explosion of flames might have confused them enough for you to escape into the fog."

"But what about the two of you? The mob would have turned on you."

"A short, elderly man and a young woman?" De Quincey shrugged. "We were prepared to claim to be your prisoners. Not even drunkards would have thought we were dangerous."

"But you are," Becker said, studying them with admiration. "You're two of the most dangerous people I ever met."

THE RUMBLE OF THE MOB in front of the tavern made Ryan tell the driver to stop. After Becker, De Quincey, and Emily dismounted from the wagon, he asked two constables to escort them through the crowd.

But the crowd had little respect for constables and made way with barely controlled hostility.

"Brilliant," De Quincey murmured.

"What are you talking about?" Ryan asked.

"First, the killer tricked them into attacking every sailor they could find. Then he made them believe that a policeman, any policeman, is the killer. They trust no one and suspect everyone. Brilliant."

"Forgive me if I don't share your enthusiasm."

The group reached the tavern, where two nervous constables stood guard.

"Glad you're here, Inspector."

"Yes, it appears you can use plenty of help."

"For certain, there aren't enough of us," the other policeman agreed.

Ryan turned to Emily. "There are eight corpses inside. I can't leave you out here with this mob. Tell me what to do with you."

"I'll shield my eyes. Constable Becker can lead me to a corner where I'll look away from the room."

"There's an odor."

"I can bear it if you can."

"The conversation will be disagreeable."

"More disagreeable than the conversations I've already heard? That is difficult to imagine."

"Becker..."

"I'll take care of her."

The group entered the tavern.

There was indeed an odor. Of bodily fluids and the beginning of decay.

As Becker escorted Emily to a table on the right, Ryan gestured for De Quincey to offer his opinions.

But De Quincey barely looked at the carnage. He walked deeper into the tavern, sidestepped blood, and reached the entrance that led behind the counter. He seemed oblivious to the tavernkeeper slumped forward as if asleep. His total attention was devoted to the shelves behind the counter.

"It's here. I know it is."

He scanned bottles of gin and wine. He searched behind rows of gla.s.ses. He stooped, inspecting the area around the beer kegs.

"It must be."

Desperation made De Quincey move faster, his short figure pacing back and forth behind the counter. Only his shoulders and head showed above it. He barely glanced down to make sure that he didn't step in blood.

"Where in G.o.d's name...? There!"

Like an animal that had found its prey, he pounced toward a shelf under the far end of the counter. He disappeared from Ryan's view. Then he rose, holding a decanter filled with ruby-colored liquid. He grabbed a winegla.s.s and filled it with the liquid. Hand shaking, he raised the liquid to his lips, fearful that he might spill some of it, and took a deep swallow.

Another.

A third.

Ryan watched in shock. A stranger might have thought that De Quincey was drinking wine, but Ryan had no doubt that this was laudanum. One swallow would have made most people unconscious. Two swallows would have killed them. But De Quincey had just consumed three, and now he drank a fourth, finishing the gla.s.s!

De Quincey stood as if paralyzed behind the counter. His empty gaze was directed past corpses drooped over a table, centering on the fireplace in the back corner, where chunks of coal smoldered.

But De Quincey didn't appear to see that fireplace. Instead his blue eyes seemed to stare at something far away. They became blank.

The moment lengthened.

"Father?" Emily asked from the front corner, her back turned to the room, unable to see him. "You are very quiet. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine now, Emily."

"Father..."

"Really, I'm fine."

But despite his a.s.surance, De Quincey continued staring intensely at something far away in the fireplace.

At once his eyes gained focus. Darkness in them lightened. His face became less pale. His forehead acquired a glistening sheen.

He stopped shaking.

He breathed.

"Inspector Ryan, I don't suppose you've read Immanuel Kant."

The statement was so surprising, seeming to come out of nowhere, that Ryan needed a moment before reacting. "That's correct." Pride made him refrain from adding, I never heard of him.

De Quincey breathed again and slowly withdrew his gaze from the fireplace.

He set down the empty gla.s.s and surveyed the room as if seeing the corpses for the first time.

"Yes, that's understandable. Since Kant wrote in German, his works can be difficult to find in London. I translated several of his essays. I shall send you some. May I touch the corpses?"

As with so much of what De Quincey said, the request suddenly seemed to be the most normal in the world. "If you think it's necessary."

"I do."