Our book today is Inspector of the Dead, the latest novel from former University of Iowa stalwart (and the man who introduced the character of Rambo to an unsuspecting world) David Morrell. It’s the second murder mystery of his that features one of the least likely detectives of them all: Thomas De Quincey, the notorious author of that 1821 classic, Confessions of an English Opium-Eater. Morrell introduced the whole outlandish concept of De Quincey-as-detective in 2013’s Murder as a Fine Art, where he also introduced the character of De Quincey’s fiery, unconventional (she wears pants!) daughter Emily, as well as the stalwart detective team of Ryan and Becker to provide semi-official entree and also some much-needed muscle when the chips are down. And despite the fast-paced violence that filled the first book’s climax (this is an author who knows how to write such scenes – they’re a beauty to behold), the whole team is back for the second installment.

Their quarry this time is a serial killer who’s leaving clues on each of his victims: a series of names that at first seem random but, upon cogitation, turn out to be the names of would-be assassins, each one of whom has tried to murder Queen Victoria. Anyone who’s read Paul Thomas Murphy’s fantastic 2012 book Shooting Victoria (and that should be all of you, so make a mental note to order a copy once you’re done hanging on my every word) will recall that there were actually a surprisingly high number of such assassination attempts made on Victoria, and in this instance Lord Palmerston and the British government are worried that the killer is working up his courage to target the Queen herself. They come to De Quincey for help in cracking the case, although Palmerston himself is mystified by his guest detective’s physical vitality, given the givens. “Some people die from a spoonful of laudanum,” he observes at one point, “but you drink ounces of it, and you’re not only walking around – you never stop walking. Why doesn’t the opium make you tired?” De Quincey is ready with an answer:

When I was a university student and first swallowed laudanum to remedy illness, the increase in my energy was palpable. I suddenly had the strength to wander the city for miles on end. In markets and on crowded streets, I heard the details of countless conversations all around me. When I went to concerts, I heard notes between notes and soared with unimagined crests in the melodies. The reason I pace is to reduce the opium’s stimulation to a beneficial level.

This is the only strand running through these two books that tended to nag me right out of the willing suspension of disbelief, this implication that De Quincey was some sort of mutant who thrived on his drug of choice rather than simply acclimated to it. The idea of an addictive drug as just one more weapon in a super-detective’s arsenal strikes me as problematic to say the least, which is why I’ve always been pleased that the first fictional character to raise such a specter also simultaneously rejects it: Sherlock Holmes only resorts to his infamous seven-percent solution when he’s not solving crimes. When he’s intellectually and morally stimulated, he doesn’t need it – indeed, it would impair him. The idea that laudanum somehow made De Quincey more of a person instead of less is loudly contradicted by the written testimony of every single person who knew him – and his own written testimony.

I give Morrell the benefit of the doubt and assume he’s winkingly using it as a dramatic liberty, though, and lord knows, he doesn’t put a single foot wrong anywhere else in these two fantastic books, which combine the signature Morrell gift for moving a plot along briskly with another signature Morrell gift, and a much rarer one in historical fiction, the art of making blocks of exposition actually interesting:

In 1855, the concept of preserving a crime scene had existed for only a few decades. Disciplined investigation of a crime scene depends on organization, but not until 1829 had London’s police force been created, the first citywide unit of its kind in all England. Its principles were formulated by two commissioners, one of whom was a retired military commander, Colonel Charles Rowan, while the other was a barrister experienced in criminal law, Richard Mayne. Rowan’s military background was essential in the short term, modeling the police force on the regulations and ranks of the army. But over the years Mayne’s legal experience made the difference.

The readers with the most knowledge of Victorian history will receive the somewhat dubious reward of being the ones who’ll certainly guess well ahead of time all the revelations Inspector for the Dead has to offer, but they’ll also enjoy the proceedings, which is more than they can say for most historical fiction set in their favorite era. This author never disappoints.