Part 26 (2/2)
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 s.h.i.+eld 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, finis.h.i.+ng 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.”
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