Of my many experiences with Father, I shall never forget our dinner with Queen Victoria and Prince Albert.
Father would have preferred to go to the judge’s house and examine the corpses there, but I pointed out that it had been twelve hours since we’d eaten. Without the benefit of Lord Palmerston’s hospitality, we needed to find our meals as luck handed them to us, and a dinner with the queen and the prince was lucky indeed. Not only would it be sumptuous, but also it would not cost us anything.
I settled his hesitation by telling him distinctly, “I’m hungry, Father.”
As a police van transported us to the palace, he peered mournfully out toward the falling snow. He fingered his laudanum bottle as though it were a talisman, but the sadness of his expression made clear that the talisman had long ago lost its magic.
“Sergeant Becker said that the judge wore ice skates,” Father said.
“Yes, making his death all the more disturbing,” I replied. “To be cruelly killed unaware while enjoying himself as a child might.”
Father turned from the window and stared down at the laudanum bottle, as if the skull-and-crossbones symbol on its label were a hieroglyphic to be deciphered, revealing a truth about the universe.
“The judge was not killed unaware. It isn’t coincidental that his wife was murdered at the same time. The events were coordinated. The killer forced his way into the judge’s home in the same way that he entered Lord Cosgrove’s home. He then admitted his companions, for none of this could have been done without help from the Young England of the notes that were left with the victims.”
Continuing to focus on his laudanum bottle, Father gave the impression of repeating a voice that only he could hear, the drug seeming to shift him into a half-world between the living and the dead.
“Perhaps they persuaded the judge to go with them by threatening to kill his wife if he didn’t comply. His wife, of course, was doomed, but the judge desperately hoped that wasn’t the case. When he was taken to the frozen lake at St. James’s Park, he pretended to engage in the skating frolic, fearing that something would happen to his wife otherwise. His terror increased as the seeming pointlessness of the activity persisted. There were numerous people skating around him, their laughter contrasting with his panic, but for love of his wife, the judge didn’t dare beg anyone for help.”
Father paused, then nodded in somber agreement with the voice he seemed to hear. “At an appropriate moment, he was made to fall onto the ice. Under the pretense of helping him, his abductors slit his throat and left their message in his pocket. They also left an unstated message that no one is safe in a crowded park any more than among a congregation at a Sunday church service.”
“You make it sound as if you were there, Father.”
“Tonight I shall dream that I’m the man who slit the judge’s throat. How I wish that, fifty years ago, I had not succumbed to opium’s charms.”
The guards at the palace did not look favorably at us when Father and I stepped down from the police van. Seeing our common overcoats, perhaps they thought that we were clerks or else criminals inexplicably being set free at the palace.
I followed Lord Palmerston’s earlier example and told the gatekeeper, “My name is Emily De Quincey. This is my father. The queen expects us for dinner.”
The gatekeeper’s dubious look immediately left him. Indeed the queen must have been expecting us, for the man snapped to attention. He briskly escorted us to a guardian of the main entrance, who in turn escorted us to someone else. This time, we weren’t taken through lesser-used passages and remote staircases. On the contrary, our route went through the main part of the palace, along corridors that were even more extravagant than those we had seen earlier. Father gazed around with increasing wonder, seeming to marvel at an opium mirage.
Our escort led us from a corridor toward what he called the Grand Staircase. The adjective was no exaggeration. Beneath a gleaming chandelier in a brilliantly lit hall, I gazed in awe at two curving staircases that were separated by another luxurious corridor. The balustrades on each of the staircases were made of wondrously cast bronze, depicting intricate clusters of various kinds of leaves. Colorful friezes of the four seasons and portraits of royalty lined the magnificent walls. The rose-colored carpeting on the Grand Staircase was the softest that I ever walked upon. Overwhelmed by the grandeur, I could only shiver when I remembered the numerous hovels in which Father and I had lived.
We followed our escort to a room from which several voices drifted out.
“May I have your coats?” an attendant asked. When we handed them over, he looked confused about why we’d worn bereavement clothes to a royal dinner. I imagined his greater confusion had we arrived in our usual threadbare garments, with Father’s elbows shiny and a button missing.
The attendant took us into the room, where a group of splendidly dressed men and women stopped speaking and studied us with greater puzzlement than the attendant had displayed.
“Miss Emily De Quincey,” he announced, “and her father, Mister Thomas De Quincey.”
The “miss” and “mister” made clear that we had no claim to any titles whatsoever. In theory, since we were obviously commoners, we had no business being there. But titles were the last things that the group was concerned about, so fixated were they on Father’s grim suit.
My own garment at least had the benefit of being less dour. I’d gone to the Mitigated Affliction department of Jay’s Mourning Warehouse, in which clothes of various gradations of sorrow were available—from black, to dark gray, to light gray—depending on how many months had passed since a loved one’s death.
I had chosen light gray, but on principle I refused to wear a fashionable hoop under the dress, preferring the freedom of my bloomer trousers. Fortunately I was so accustomed to judgmental reactions that I paid no attention. Even the queen and Prince Albert could not compel me to wear clothes that made me uncomfortable. Besides, I had the strong impression that one of the reasons Her Majesty had invited us was the novelty of displaying someone in a bloomer skirt.
The silence—I might even say the shock—of the group persisted until the most conspicuously dressed and most handsome of the men stepped forward to greet us. His scarlet uniform and immaculate white arm sling were familiar from the morning’s horrors at St. James’s Church.
“Mister and Miss De Quincey, I didn’t expect to see you again,” Colonel Trask said.
I remembered the troubled look he had given me at the church, as if we’d met before but he couldn’t recall when. Now the warmth in his eyes replaced his earlier confusion. He kindly failed to direct even a casual glance toward our unusual clothing.
“What a delightful surprise. May I introduce you?”
Colonel Trask led us to the uncommonly beautiful woman whom he had escorted into the church that morning, an event that seemed days in the past, so much having happened in the meantime. Her hair was resplendently straw colored.
“Allow me to present Miss Catherine Grantwood. These are her parents, Lord and Lady Grantwood.”
Catherine made a pretense of smiling, but it was obvious that something untoward had happened in the past few hours. Even in the midst of the horror at the church, she had gazed with undisguised admiration at Colonel Trask as he helped the police maintain order. Now her admiration had been replaced by what I interpreted as grave disappointment or worse.
Her parents did not look happy, either, but they hadn’t looked happy when they’d entered the church that morning, and I couldn’t tell whether solemnity was their natural aspect. Some lords and ladies seem to allow themselves to smile only when among their own kind.
“And this is a friend of Lord and Lady Cosgrove,” Colonel Trask added without enthusiasm. “Sir Walter Cumberland.”
Sir Walter appeared to be the same age as Colonel Trask, around twenty-five. He was almost as handsome as the colonel, but in a dark way that contrasted with the colonel’s fair-haired demeanor. While the colonel’s eyes were appealingly warm, Sir Walter’s had a dusky fire that suggested muted anger.
Sir Walter merely nodded, as did Lord and Lady Grantwood. It became even more obvious that prior to their arrival at the palace, something besides Lady Cosgrove’s death had upset the group.
“And may I also present you to”—Colonel Trask was pleased to get away from Catherine’s parents and Sir Walter—“the queen’s cousin, with whom I had the honor of serving in the Crimea. The Duke of Cambridge.”
Somewhat overweight, the duke seemed to be in his midthirties, but already he had lost most of his hair and compensated with a full dark beard. He turned his head aside and coughed, a deep sound that suggested he had been ill for some time.
“Forgive me. That’s my souvenir from the war,” the duke said. “It is I who feel honored to have served with Colonel Trask. He saved my life on the heights above Sevastopol.”
“I did what anyone else would have done, helping a fellow officer,” Colonel Trask said.
“The enemy turned out to be uncomfortably close in the fog.” The duke looked at Father and me. “This young man came out of nowhere, leading a group of soldiers who helped my Grenadiers repel a Russian attack. The gun smoke was thicker than the fog. He and I stood next to each other, striking with…”
Aware that the others in the room had become silent, Lord Cambridge told them, “My apologies. I was merely complimenting the colonel. I hope I didn’t excite you.” He nodded toward Colonel Trask’s sling, his tone becoming confidential. “Is your wound healing?”
“It’s been slow, but my physician assures me there’s no need for concern.”
“That’s what my own physician says about my cough. Two invitations to the palace in less than a week, one of them to receive a knighthood. You’re becoming a favorite.”
“I doubt that I could ever get used to this magnificence. The dining room is no doubt equally splendid.” Colonel Trask pointed toward a closed door.
The duke chuckled. “That door leads to where the servants prepare to bring in the dishes. The entrance to the dining room is along that hall. It’s easy to get lost here.” The duke looked at Father. “De Quincey. I know that name.”
Father gave a little bow. I worried that he was about to announce that he came from a noble lineage.
Blessedly, Colonel Trask changed the subject. “Mr. De Quincey, you seem to be looking for something.”
Father’s forehead was sweaty. “I thought that there would be wine or…”
At that point, everyone straightened as Her Majesty and Prince Albert arrived. I and the other women curtsied while the men bowed.
“Mister and Miss De Quincey, we are pleased to see you again.” Queen Victoria turned toward the group. “Miss De Quincey introduced us to several new ideas this afternoon, including the freedom of her costume.”
This gave permission to the women—all with hoops beneath their dresses—to study my bloomers without pretending not to. The men continued to look away, lest they seem fixated on the outline of my legs.
“You’ll notice,” the queen told the group, “that I’m not wearing any garment that is green. Until I’m assured that arsenic is not in their dyes, I ordered all green clothes to be removed from my wardrobe. Lady Wheeler, I see that you are wearing green, however.”
“Your Majesty, I didn’t realize that green was no longer…”
“If I may, Lady Wheeler,” Prince Albert said.
He reached inside his uniform and withdrew the vial I had given him.
“Please unfurl your cuff,” Prince Albert told her.
Lady Wheeler nervously did so.
He removed the stopper from the vial and pressed it against the inside of the cuff.
“Aha!”
At the touch of the stopper, the green turned blue.
“You’re wearing a dye laced with rat poison. Lady Barrington, shall we determine if the green dye on your clothes is contaminated also?”
Five of the ladies in the room had green somewhere on their garments, and on all of them the stopper caused a spot of blue.
The women looked startled.
“Miss De Quincey drew our attention to a health crisis,” Queen Victoria said. “There’s no telling how many of us and our children have become sick because of poisonous adulterations in the dyes of our clothing.”
“And also in our food, Your Majesty,” I noted.
“Food?” the queen asked with a troubled expression.
“Yes, most prepared food that is green—pickles, for example—has arsenic in its dye, Your Majesty. A jar of brown ones might not look attractive, but the green ones—for all their better appearance—are harmful to you.”
“Pickles? I can guarantee that no one here shall encounter pickles—green, brown, or any other color—at our table tonight,” Queen Victoria said. “Ah, Lord and Lady Palmerston have arrived at last. Just in time to go in.”
“My apologies for being late, Your Majesty.” Lord Palmerston gave her a significant look. “I was attending to the various matters we discussed earlier.”
“We had begun to despair of your attendance,” the queen said.
I now witnessed a strange ritual. The order in which the guests entered the dining room depended on the position they occupied in society: duke, marquess, earl, and so forth. The order was so complex that I found it bewildering, but the dinner guests quickly made the intricate calculations to determine who stepped ahead of whom.
I mention this because something curious happened with regard to Sir Walter and Colonel Trask. Queen Victoria had knighted the colonel in gratitude for his having saved her cousin’s life. Thus, like Sir Walter, he too could be called “Sir.” But Sir Walter was emphatic in stepping forward to escort Catherine, as though his title outranked Colonel Trask’s. Sir Walter’s expression indicated that he considered this distinction to be significant. Catherine’s parents dourly seemed to think that Sir Walter’s “Sir” was more exalted also. For his part, Colonel Trask looked despondent. It became his duty to offer his arm to me.
And what of Father? There was no woman of lower status whom he could accompany. In a surprising show of good nature, Lady Palmerston broke ranks and paired with him. Clearly our status as commoners caused disorder in the ritual.
Additional surprises awaited me, for at one end of the long dining table, the place card with my name was next to that of Prince Albert, who was known for his curious mind.
Because all the women wore hooped dresses, they had difficulty settling into their chairs while I, of course, had no trouble whatsoever.
The multitude of bowls and the vast selection of offerings went beyond anything I had ever experienced. An elegantly handwritten copy of the menu lay before me and each of the other guests in case we failed to notice something. Truly, I had not seen this much food at one time ever in my life:
White Soup
Broth
Baked Salmon
Baked Mullets
Filet de Boeuf and Spanish Sauce
Sweetbreads
Shrimp Croquettes
Chicken Patties
Roast Fillet of Veal
Boiled Leg of Lamb
Roast Fowls with Watercress
Boiled Ham with Carrots and Mashed Turnips
Sea Kale, Spinach, and Broccoli
Ducklings
Guinea Fowl
Orange Jelly
Coffee Cream
Ice Pudding
Matching the abundance on the table were the place settings. The many types of forks, knives, spoons, and glasses totaled twenty-four for each guest. As the combined aroma of the various dishes drifted over me, I was embarrassed to hear my stomach growl.
Colonel Trask, who sat next to me, coughed several times. When I glanced his way, he gave me a conspiratorial smile that suggested he had kindly masked the noise that my stomach made. I raised my napkin and returned his smile, reminded of schoolchildren sharing a secret.
Servants brought white wine, which Father was happy to accept.
Lord Palmerston raised his glass. “To our gracious hosts, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert.”
“Hear, hear!” the Duke of Cambridge said. “God save the queen.”
Under the circumstances, the duke’s comment was unfortunate. Evidently he hadn’t been informed that the queen’s life was in danger and that she did indeed need saving.
“And to the health of your children,” the Duke of Cambridge continued. “Has Prince Leopold recovered from his injury?”
The duke referred to Her Majesty’s most recent child, whose birth two years earlier had been celebrated in every newspaper throughout the empire.
“Thank you, yes,” Queen Victoria replied. “The cut on his forehead finally stopped bleeding. Even Dr. Snow is at a loss to explain why the slightest of falls causes Leopold to bleed so profusely. It seemed that the injury would never seal itself.”
A true monarch, Her Majesty did not allow her many concerns to spoil the occasion. “But enough of unhappy matters. Our original purpose for this dinner was to celebrate my cousin’s safe return from the war and Colonel Trask’s gallant service to him.”
Neither Sir Walter nor Catherine’s parents looked pleased about the glowing reference to the colonel.
“But now we have another reason to celebrate,” the queen continued. “Lord Palmerston has agreed to act as prime minister and form a new government.”
She said this as though her wine tasted bitter.
Catherine’s father asked Lord Palmerston, “With your experience as secretary for war and foreign secretary, do you see an opportunity to dominate the Russians?”
“I believe that is why Her Majesty entrusted me with this honor,” Lord Palmerston replied. “I shall pursue a victory with all of my strength.”
“Hear, hear!” everyone said.
Father finished his wine and accepted more from a white-gloved servant who patrolled the table.
“I confess I was not always clear about the reasons for going to war,” Lord Bell said.
“The Ottoman Empire has separated East from West for more than five centuries. But now it shows signs of crumbling,” Lord Palmerston explained with the expertise of his years as foreign secretary. “Taking advantage of its weakness, Russia invaded its eastern border, an area known as the Crimea. In response, we joined forces with France, declaring war against Russia.”
“I have not heard it put so simply and elegantly,” Catherine’s father said.
“But even put simply, it seems complicated,” Lord Bell persisted. “The Ottoman Empire is halfway around the world. Why do we care what happens there?”
“If we allow Russia to invade a portion of that empire, where will the aggression stop?” Lord Palmerston replied.
“And don’t forget the Suez canal,” Father interjected.
It was the first time he had spoken. His short stature required some guests to lean forward to get a better look at him.
“The Suez canal? I don’t believe I know of such a thing,” Lord Bell said.
“Because it doesn’t exist.” Father removed a tin box from his coat and selected a pill from it. “For my digestion,” he explained.
“But how can the Crimean War be caused by something that doesn’t exist?” Sir Walter asked.
“England’s wealth comes from trade with the Orient,” Father answered, “but a ship requires six months to return from India, sailing around Africa. Perhaps the distance can be shortened.”
The pill Father chewed was opium. Worried that the queen would realize, I hastily devoted myself to the soup in case I might not receive anything more to eat.
“Shorten the distance?” Sir Walter asked in confusion. “The world’s circumference can’t be changed.”
“Suppose British ships didn’t need to sail around Africa,” Father suggested. “Suppose that instead our ships journeyed across the Indian Ocean to the Gulf of Suez, deep within Egypt. The overland distance from that gulf to the Mediterranean Sea is only eighty miles. A British company plans to build a railway there. The journey from India to England would be reduced to a previously undreamed of nine weeks. Three times more ships would make the journey, with vastly greater profits.”
The group looked stunned.
“Is this true, Lord Palmerston?” Lord Wheeler asked.
“I’m not permitted to discuss it.”
Colonel Trask spoke up. “But I can. I was asked to help finance that railway.”
Catherine’s parents and Sir Walter looked unhappy about the colonel’s allusion to his wealth.
“And did you invest in that railway?” Lord Barrington asked.
“I did not. I considered it unwise.”
“But the profits!”
“For a few years.”
“Why only a few years?” Lord Wheeler asked in confusion.
“Because something more ambitious is being planned,” Colonel Trask replied. “The French have negotiated with Egypt to build the canal that Mister De Quincey refers to. That canal will revolutionize international trade. But the French want the project to themselves. I was disappointed not to be invited to participate in the financing.”
“Among magazine writers, it’s common knowledge that the future canal is the cause of the war,” Father said. “But we don’t feel at liberty to express it in print. It comes down to this—Egypt is part of the Ottoman Empire. If Russia’s invasion spreads to Egypt, Russia will control the Suez canal and world shipping.”
“But…” Sir Walter was temporarily speechless. “In that case, England would lose its dominance!”
“Indeed,” Father told him. “We allied with the French, hoping that if we both defeat Russia, the French will allow us access to the canal that they plan to build. Opium from India creates much of our trading profit. Imagine if our soldiers—dying from starvation, disease, and cold—suspected that they risked their lives not for England but for the opium trade. That’s why this information has not appeared in the newspapers and magazines.”
I have never seen so many jaws hang open in shock.
Clearly a distraction was needed.
I removed a vial from my purse and asked for a portion of red salmon. When I put a drop of the vial’s liquid on the salmon, everyone looked perplexed, seeing a part of the salmon turn brown.
“What are you doing?” Queen Victoria asked.
“Arsenic is not the only toxin used in dye, Your Majesty. Lead is often added to red dye in food.”
“Lead?” Prince Albert asked.
“This salmon was injected with red dye to improve its color, Your Highness. As you see, the red dye has lead in it.”
“Lead in the fish?” Queen Victoria set down her fork.
“It can be fatal, Ma’am. May I also test the lamb?”
I applied a drop of the liquid to an especially red part of the lamb, and that spot turned brown also.
“Lead in the lamb?” Queen Victoria murmured. “Mr. De Quincey, is that why you’re not eating? Are you suspicious about the food?”
“I have a sensitive stomach, Your Majesty.” Father munched another pill. “Perhaps I could have a bowl of warm milk in which to soak bread.”
“De Quincey.” Prince Albert searched his memory. “Now it comes to me. I read about you in connection with the murders in December. Your reference to opium triggered my recollection. Those pills…Good heavens, don’t tell me you’re the Opium-Eater.”
Certain that my moments at the dinner table were limited, I tested the beef and ate as much of it as I could.
“You’re also the man who wrote ‘On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts,’” Colonel Trask said. “We were together at St. James’s Church this morning. Do you have a theory about the murder that was committed there?”
I never expected to be relieved by a reference to murder. The group suddenly became distracted from Father’s opium.
“Not only that murder, but the ones at Lord Cosgrove’s home,” Father said.
“There have been several murders?” someone exclaimed.
“Including that of a judge, Sir Richard Hawkins, in St. James’s Park, not to mention his wife and a servant in his house,” Father said.
The faces of the men became red with alarm while those of the women drained of color.
“Sir Richard Hawkins?” Lord Barrington asked. “But he belongs to my club.”
“Lord Palmerston, why didn’t you inform us of these further crimes?” Prince Albert asked unhappily.
“I…I had no idea,” Lord Palmerston replied in confusion. “Your Highness, they must have occurred after I saw you.”
“Is no one safe?” Sir Walter demanded.
“That’s exactly the impression the killers wish to create,” Father said. “Tomorrow when London’s newspapers spread word about these terrible crimes, people will believe that neither their homes nor public areas are immune from danger. But there is another way to achieve panic. Your Majesty and Your Highness, with your permission—the newspapers will almost certainly print rumors about it.”
The queen and the prince stared at each other along the table. Her Majesty made a slight gesture, seeming to indicate that the choice belonged to her husband.
“It’s better if our friends hear it personally rather than read it in the newspapers,” Prince Albert decided.
“Notes were found at each murder,” Father said, “indicating that the deaths are part of a plot against Her Majesty.”
The men looked more outraged, the women paler.
“We feel confident in the ability of Scotland Yard to protect us,” Queen Victoria said.
“But why would anyone have hostile intentions toward Her Majesty?” the Duke of Cambridge protested. “She hasn’t harmed anyone. It’s the reverse. She’s the paragon of grace.”
“The Russians might not feel that way,” Colonel Trask said.
“Are you suggesting that the queen is not in fact a paragon of grace?” Sir Walter challenged.
“I suggest nothing of the sort,” the colonel answered. “But we need to consider the possibility that the Russians wish to cause panic here in the hopes of weakening our war resolve. As Mr. De Quincey explained, the stakes are huge.”
“The motive also seems to be personal,” Father added. “Notes left with the victims suggest that the murders are the result of long-held hostility toward them and also toward Her Majesty.”
“That is preposterous!” Sir Walter objected. “Her Majesty has never harmed anyone.”
“Again, the blasted Russians might not feel that way,” Colonel Trask said, exasperated with Sir Walter.
The vulgarity caused each woman, including the queen, to put a hand to her mouth.
“My apologies, Your Majesty,” the colonel said.
This time it was Prince Albert who provided the distraction. “But surely the killers won’t be hard to identify. Anyone capable of these crimes must be unstable. Murder will out. Their viciousness will display itself in their everyday behavior and give them away.”
“In some cases, Your Highness, that is correct,” Father agreed. “But I once enjoyed dinner with a murderer, pleasantly discussing every manner of topic, without once realizing the darkness in his soul. It came as a shock that I could not tell from someone’s demeanor what evil deeds that person was capable of performing. I refer to Thomas Griffiths Wainewright, the distinguished painter and contributor to London Magazine, a friend to Hazlitt, Lamb, and Dickens as well as to me, although I don’t wish to attempt to raise myself in your estimation by including my name among those worthies.
“Wainewright had an extravagant way of living that put him in debt. He and his wife were forced to move in with his uncle, who soon died and left Wainewright his house. Wainewright then persuaded his mother-in-law to prepare a will that favored his wife. His mother-in-law died shortly afterward. Wainewright then insured his sister-in-law for twelve thousand pounds. Soon, that woman died also. Suspicious, the insurance company hired investigators, who believed that Wainewright had used strychnine to kill his victims. While no poison was ever located among his belongings, the investigators did find insurance documents with signatures that Wainewright had forged, so it was for embezzlement rather than murder that he was found guilty. In prison, someone asked him if he had really killed his sister-in-law. ‘It was a dreadful thing to do,’ Wainewright admitted, ‘but she was easy to dislike—she had very thick ankles.’”
Queen Victoria, Prince Albert, and everyone else listened with open mouths. The topics of arsenic, lead, strychnine, and foul murder had caused all of them to stop eating, while I devoured as much of the beef as I could, more certain with each passing moment that Father and I would soon be ejected.
“I enjoyed one of the most pleasant dinners of my life and never dreamed I sat across from a monster,” Father said. “So you see, Your Highness, you can never tell.”
Everyone remained speechless.
Prince Albert finally broke the awkward silence. “Mr. De Quincey, I have never heard anyone speak so rapidly and unusually.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
Catherine’s father cleared his throat. “Perhaps I have a topic that will relieve the gloom. Her Majesty began our dinner with the announcement that Lord Palmerston had accepted the position of prime minister, hopefully to produce a victory in the war. May I conclude our dinner by announcing that my wife and I have the honor to inform you that our daughter, Catherine, will marry Sir Walter Cumberland. We welcome him into our family.”
It’s difficult to communicate my surprise. Catherine and Colonel Trask had seemed so splendid a pair when they entered the church that morning, her radiant gaze so adoring, that I assumed they were engaged or about to be.
Silent throughout the dinner, Catherine now peered despondently down at her hands.
Meanwhile, Sir Walter gave Colonel Trask a scornful look of triumph.