pointed toward the two gates and the curved driveway in front of Lord Palmerston’s mansion, telling Emily, “Five years ago, someone tried to kill Her Majesty there.”
“ Another attempt against her?” Emily asked in surprise. She was seated between Ryan and Becker. Once more, she was grateful for her bloomer skirt. A woman in a hooped dress could never have fit into the crowded coach.
“All told, there have been six attempts,” Ryan answered. “I intend to make certain there isn’t a seventh.”
“ Six attempts?” Emily sounded even more taken aback. “And one of them was outside your house, Lord Palmerston?”
“It wasn’t mine then. The queen’s favorite uncle lived there. When Her Majesty went to visit him, a curious crowd gathered around her carriage and prevented it from moving. A man suddenly stepped forward and struck his cane across Her Majesty’s head. The blow was so strong that it drew blood.”
“Good heavens!”
“Indeed,” Lord Palmerston said. “Royalty is not supposed to be capable of bleeding.”
“Was he a member of an imaginary secret organization also, Your Lordship?” Emily asked. “Did he too write documents plotting to overthrow the government and the crown?”
“No. His name was Pate. He was a strange man who paid the same cab driver every day for months on end to drive him to various parks, where he charged into thickets and returned with his clothes soaking wet, covered with brambles. On the street, he marched with a goose step while he flailed his cane as if it were a sword in combat.”
De Quincey stared pensively toward the snow streaming past his window. “Pate wasn’t always that way. At one time he was a cavalry officer with three horses that he treasured above everything. All three were bitten by a rabid dog and had to be shot. After that, Pate acted strangely.”
“So, a mad dog was responsible for turning him into a mad man,” Becker offered.
“Except that, according to the law, Pate wasn’t mad,” De Quincey said as the coach jolted to the left from Piccadilly onto Constitution Hill.
“But his behavior…” Becker said.
“…was bizarre in other respects as well,” De Quincey added. “He sang raucously at all hours, annoying everyone around him. He refused to bathe in anything except whiskey and camphor. People describe such a man as a lunatic, but eccentric behavior isn’t proof of madness. According to the law, insanity is a disease of the mind that prevents someone from being aware of what he does and whether his actions are wrong.”
“You know the law?” Commissioner Mayne asked in surprise.
“After my studies at Oxford, I considered a career in it,” De Quincey answered, “but a year of legal training made me decide that it wasn’t for me.”
“To the benefit of the legal profession,” Lord Palmerston murmured. “Murder as a fine art indeed. You’re the one who’s insane.”
“But not according to the law,” De Quincey noted. “At Pate’s trial, the jury concluded that, even though his behavior—goose-stepping down streets, flailing with his cane, and so on—was unnatural, he knew that he was doing wrong when he struck the queen. The jury declared him guilty. As the judge said when sentencing him, ‘You’re as insane as it’s possible for a person to be who is sane.’”
“My headache worsens,” Lord Palmerston said.
“As is proper when considering matters of the mind,” De Quincey told him. “Determining madness isn’t simple. How interesting that Pate’s name is synonymous with the head.”
“We’re here,” Commissioner Mayne said tensely.
The coach stopped before the awe of Buckingham Palace.
L ess than a hundred years earlier, Buckingham Palace had been nothing more than a house. In 1761, King George III purchased the building for his wife to use and began improving it. In 1820, when George IV became king, he lived elsewhere while continuing the apparently eternal process of
“ Another attempt against her?” Emily asked in surprise. She was seated between Ryan and Becker. Once more, she was grateful for her bloomer skirt. A woman in a hooped dress could never have fit into the crowded coach.
“All told, there have been six attempts,” Ryan answered. “I intend to make certain there isn’t a seventh.”
“ Six attempts?” Emily sounded even more taken aback. “And one of them was outside your house, Lord Palmerston?”
“It wasn’t mine then. The queen’s favorite uncle lived there. When Her Majesty went to visit him, a curious crowd gathered around her carriage and prevented it from moving. A man suddenly stepped forward and struck his cane across Her Majesty’s head. The blow was so strong that it drew blood.”
“Good heavens!”
“Indeed,” Lord Palmerston said. “Royalty is not supposed to be capable of bleeding.”
“Was he a member of an imaginary secret organization also, Your Lordship?” Emily asked. “Did he too write documents plotting to overthrow the government and the crown?”
“No. His name was Pate. He was a strange man who paid the same cab driver every day for months on end to drive him to various parks, where he charged into thickets and returned with his clothes soaking wet, covered with brambles. On the street, he marched with a goose step while he flailed his cane as if it were a sword in combat.”
De Quincey stared pensively toward the snow streaming past his window. “Pate wasn’t always that way. At one time he was a cavalry officer with three horses that he treasured above everything. All three were bitten by a rabid dog and had to be shot. After that, Pate acted strangely.”
“So, a mad dog was responsible for turning him into a mad man,” Becker offered.
“Except that, according to the law, Pate wasn’t mad,” De Quincey said as the coach jolted to the left from Piccadilly onto Constitution Hill.
“But his behavior…” Becker said.
“…was bizarre in other respects as well,” De Quincey added. “He sang raucously at all hours, annoying everyone around him. He refused to bathe in anything except whiskey and camphor. People describe such a man as a lunatic, but eccentric behavior isn’t proof of madness. According to the law, insanity is a disease of the mind that prevents someone from being aware of what he does and whether his actions are wrong.”
“You know the law?” Commissioner Mayne asked in surprise.
“After my studies at Oxford, I considered a career in it,” De Quincey answered, “but a year of legal training made me decide that it wasn’t for me.”
“To the benefit of the legal profession,” Lord Palmerston murmured. “Murder as a fine art indeed. You’re the one who’s insane.”
“But not according to the law,” De Quincey noted. “At Pate’s trial, the jury concluded that, even though his behavior—goose-stepping down streets, flailing with his cane, and so on—was unnatural, he knew that he was doing wrong when he struck the queen. The jury declared him guilty. As the judge said when sentencing him, ‘You’re as insane as it’s possible for a person to be who is sane.’”
“My headache worsens,” Lord Palmerston said.
“As is proper when considering matters of the mind,” De Quincey told him. “Determining madness isn’t simple. How interesting that Pate’s name is synonymous with the head.”
“We’re here,” Commissioner Mayne said tensely.
The coach stopped before the awe of Buckingham Palace.
L ess than a hundred years earlier, Buckingham Palace had been nothing more than a house. In 1761, King George III purchased the building for his wife to use and began improving it. In 1820, when George IV became king, he lived elsewhere while continuing the apparently eternal process of
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