Read Online Inspector of the Dead by David Morrell - Free Book Online
Authors: David Morrell
Ads: Link
suffered nightmares about that opened skull, too.
As the coach turned north, rattling from Piccadilly onto Regent Street, Father leaned out the window, calling to the footman on his perch at the back, “What is your route to Euston Station?”
“From Regent Street to Portland Place! Then right onto the New Road!”
“Please turn right onto Oxford Street instead.”
“We know the way to the station.”
“My route will take you there as quickly. I wish to look at something.”
Despite the noise of the coach’s wheels, I heard the footman mutter before calling to the driver, “Turn east at Oxford Street!”
“What for?”
“A request from our passengers!”
“Ha! The last one we need to oblige!” the driver said, perhaps unaware that we could hear.
After the coach veered right onto Oxford Street, Father called to the footman, “Stop!”
“But we need to get to Euston Station!”
“Stop!” Father shouted. For a small man, his voice was so loud that it startled me.
The sound of the horses’ hooves didn’t hide the driver’s curse as he halted at what I saw was the bottom of Great Titchfield Street.
Father opened the door and stepped down.
I followed.
“No, don’t get out!” the footman exclaimed. “You said you only wished to look at something! We need to go to the station!”
Early on Sunday afternoon, the shops on Oxford Street were closed. Traffic was sparse, only a few hansom cabs and carriages clattering past. Low clouds darkened the sky. Chimney smoke obscured the tops of buildings.
Father mournfully surveyed his surroundings. When he was seventeen, it was on this street that he had spent four starving months among prostitutes and beggars, trying to survive by his wits in the cruelty of a London winter. One of them, Ann—swallowed by the pitiless city long ago—had been the love of Father’s life before he met my mother.
“Even near death, I was more alive then,” Father murmured.
“Please don’t talk about death, Father.”
“Hurry!” the footman shouted. “If you miss the train, Lord Palmerston will blame us!”
“Tell His Lordship that the fault was mine,” Father said. “Tell him I refused to climb back into the coach.”
“What are you talking about?” the footman blurted.
“My deepest apologies. Kindly return our bags to Lord Palmerston’s house. I shall decide what to do with them later.”
“No!” the driver protested.
Father marched along Oxford Street, heading west now instead of east.
“Father,” I insisted, hurrying after him. “Did you consume too much laudanum in the coach? Tell me what you’re doing.”
We passed Regent Street, continuing west. Even with Father’s short legs, his determined pace was such that many people could not have matched him. Only the freedom of my bloomer skirt enabled me to keep up with him.
“Death,” Father said.
“You frighten me, Father.”
“Until seven weeks ago, I wakened at noon after opium nightmares of regret. If we hadn’t come to London, I would probably now have been waking at sunset instead of noon. Or perhaps an excess of opium would have prevented me from ever waking at all. Then I too would have joined the majority. At last I’d have been able to forget the pain that I caused you and your brothers and sisters and above all your mother…the debt collectors that I forced all of you to flee…the poverty that I made you endure.”
“Father, truly you are frightening me.”
“E dward Oxford?” Becker stared at the note he’d found in the book the corpse held. “What do you mean, ‘God help all of us’?”
“Fifteen years ago—how old would you have been?” Ryan asked.
“Only ten.”
“You told me that you were raised on a tenant farm in a remote part of Lincolnshire. Did your father read newspapers?”
“He couldn’t read at all. He was ashamed of not being able to,” Becker said. “When I wasn’t doing chores, he made me go to school.”
“Then maybe you
As the coach turned north, rattling from Piccadilly onto Regent Street, Father leaned out the window, calling to the footman on his perch at the back, “What is your route to Euston Station?”
“From Regent Street to Portland Place! Then right onto the New Road!”
“Please turn right onto Oxford Street instead.”
“We know the way to the station.”
“My route will take you there as quickly. I wish to look at something.”
Despite the noise of the coach’s wheels, I heard the footman mutter before calling to the driver, “Turn east at Oxford Street!”
“What for?”
“A request from our passengers!”
“Ha! The last one we need to oblige!” the driver said, perhaps unaware that we could hear.
After the coach veered right onto Oxford Street, Father called to the footman, “Stop!”
“But we need to get to Euston Station!”
“Stop!” Father shouted. For a small man, his voice was so loud that it startled me.
The sound of the horses’ hooves didn’t hide the driver’s curse as he halted at what I saw was the bottom of Great Titchfield Street.
Father opened the door and stepped down.
I followed.
“No, don’t get out!” the footman exclaimed. “You said you only wished to look at something! We need to go to the station!”
Early on Sunday afternoon, the shops on Oxford Street were closed. Traffic was sparse, only a few hansom cabs and carriages clattering past. Low clouds darkened the sky. Chimney smoke obscured the tops of buildings.
Father mournfully surveyed his surroundings. When he was seventeen, it was on this street that he had spent four starving months among prostitutes and beggars, trying to survive by his wits in the cruelty of a London winter. One of them, Ann—swallowed by the pitiless city long ago—had been the love of Father’s life before he met my mother.
“Even near death, I was more alive then,” Father murmured.
“Please don’t talk about death, Father.”
“Hurry!” the footman shouted. “If you miss the train, Lord Palmerston will blame us!”
“Tell His Lordship that the fault was mine,” Father said. “Tell him I refused to climb back into the coach.”
“What are you talking about?” the footman blurted.
“My deepest apologies. Kindly return our bags to Lord Palmerston’s house. I shall decide what to do with them later.”
“No!” the driver protested.
Father marched along Oxford Street, heading west now instead of east.
“Father,” I insisted, hurrying after him. “Did you consume too much laudanum in the coach? Tell me what you’re doing.”
We passed Regent Street, continuing west. Even with Father’s short legs, his determined pace was such that many people could not have matched him. Only the freedom of my bloomer skirt enabled me to keep up with him.
“Death,” Father said.
“You frighten me, Father.”
“Until seven weeks ago, I wakened at noon after opium nightmares of regret. If we hadn’t come to London, I would probably now have been waking at sunset instead of noon. Or perhaps an excess of opium would have prevented me from ever waking at all. Then I too would have joined the majority. At last I’d have been able to forget the pain that I caused you and your brothers and sisters and above all your mother…the debt collectors that I forced all of you to flee…the poverty that I made you endure.”
“Father, truly you are frightening me.”
“E dward Oxford?” Becker stared at the note he’d found in the book the corpse held. “What do you mean, ‘God help all of us’?”
“Fifteen years ago—how old would you have been?” Ryan asked.
“Only ten.”
“You told me that you were raised on a tenant farm in a remote part of Lincolnshire. Did your father read newspapers?”
“He couldn’t read at all. He was ashamed of not being able to,” Becker said. “When I wasn’t doing chores, he made me go to school.”
“Then maybe you
Similar Books
