Queen Victoria: Demon Hunter Read online

  Queen Victoria

  Demon Hunter

  A. E. Moorat

  To you, brave Bear

  Contents

  Part One

  'I will be good'

  I

  Much later, as he watched his manservant, Perkins, eating the...

  II

  All was silent in the small, low room as Clara...

  III

  Princess Alexandrina Victoria, heiress presumptive to the throne, was seated at...

  IV

  The rain and thunder didn't stop her hearing the drumbeat...

  V

  With the beds prepared, the lady-in-waiting departed. She would return...

  VI

  While sitting in a carriage in the main forecourt at...

  VII

  As the door closed behind the Duchess, Maggie Brown emerged...

  VIII

  Lord Quimby dropped the bloodied axe, which, just moments ago...

  IX

  'One of my staff, a very capable man named Nobo,...

  Part Two

  'I do'

  X

  McKenzie stood outside the Pillars of Hercules awaiting his contact,...

  XI

  The Duchess of Sutherland, Harriet Leveson-Gower (such a beautiful, dignified...

  XII

  Victoria would never forget the moment that she fell in...

  XIII

  'Prince Albert is in place,' said the demon, the one...

  XIV

  Victoria stood in a corridor overlooking a courtyard, which rang...

  XV

  The drums were so loud it was as though the...

  XVI

  Blast! Since the engagement had been announced, Lord Melbourne seemed...

  XVII

  Sir George Kraft MP, his manservant, Frederick, and Lord Fawcett had...

  XVIII

  Lord Melbourne sat in the sumptuous Blue Drawing Room, awaiting...

  XIX

  He always did make her laugh, she thought. Refrain from...

  XX

  So it was that she awoke on Monday, 10 February...

  XXI

  The Queen was in a most dreadful turmoil.

  XXII

  'The code word is sasquatch,' came the voice at the...

  XXIII

  The cabal had met to wet the baby's head, Stockmar...

  XXIV

  Late December, the night was cold and their breath billowed...

  XXV

  'I'm on my way, lassie,' screamed Maggie Brown, who rode...

  Part Three

  'I, Demon Hunter'

  XXVI

  It was dusk and an urchin sat on a low...

  XXVII

  'At last,' managed McKenzie, struggling to capture his breath, 'at...

  XXVIII

  'Perkins?'

  XXIX

  'Conroy's "gone"? What do you mean, "gone"?'

  XXX

  None of them spoke as they moved along the streets,...

  XXXI

  'Would you like to take a seat, Your Majesty?' the...

  XXXII

  From outside came the sound of a carriage coming to...

  XXXIII

  Weapons training had begun and Victoria was yet to recover...

  XXXIV

  Later, Melbourne, Maggie and the Queen had repaired to the...

  XXXV

  It was noticed, at the House that day, that Lord...

  XXXVI

  'Careful, Your Majesty,' said Melbourne, walking ahead of the Queen...

  XXXVII

  High above them was a sound.

  XXXVIII

  When Victoria had first seen the interior of the Protektors'...

  XXXIX

  Quimby had sat nervously in the Strangers' Gallery of the...

  XL

  Inside the House, Tennant had been greatly enjoying his meal...

  XLI

  The revenant lurched into the tiny room, snarling and reaching...

  XLII

  Maggie Brown gingerly made her way across the floor of...

  XLIII

  The members of the Bethnal Green Baptist Ladies' Prayer Association,...

  XLIV

  'I'm to go to a workhouse in the Old Nichol...

  XLV

  Maggie Brown tethered Henstridge outside the workhouse and waited. There...

  XLVI

  'You've lost the Queen?' Quimby had said.

  XLVII

  The Queen stepped through the door that led to the...

  XLVIII

  It was the early hours of the morning in the...

  XLIX

  Quimby stepped quickly back from his gratifyingly weighty drapes and...

  A Note On Historical Accuracy

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  'I will be good'

  I

  19 June 1837

  Notting Hill, home of Lord Quimby

  Much later, as he watched his manservant, Perkins, eating the dog, Quimby gloomily reflected on the unusual events of the evening.

  But oh! It had begun so promisingly! All of the zombies were safely confined to the lower quarters, the prostitutes had arrived and were being served drinks in the library and Quimby was briefing the man about the...

  'What is Henry calling it, this new technique of his?' he had asked, directing his question at the young man who stood in his study, Henry's assistant.

  Quimby had schooled with Henry Fox Talbot at Harrow. The two had since gone their separate ways, of course: Quimby had inherited his father's title and estate and used his leisure and wealth to pursue a life of dissolution, ungodliness and an unholy interest in revenance; Henry, meanwhile, had inherited his father's great intellect and put his time to altogether more worthwhile use, developing something called calotype.

  How calotype worked, Quimby wasn't sure and didn't care. He was interested only in the end result, and upon hearing of this invention and seeing its great potential for adding an extra frisson to his debauchery, he had issued a summons. Fortuitously, his knowledge of certain events at Harrow had secured him access to Henry's new process, though-somewhat understandably-not Henry himself. Instead Talbot had sent a young apprentice, a snickering fellow named Craven, to do his dirty work for him (and if Quimby had his way, which was after all a foregone conclusion, it would be very dirty work indeed) and it was he who now stood in Quimby's study having set up the contraption for his lordship to inspect.

  It looked like nothing more than a box on a tripod, and a rather shabby box at that, but was, apparently, so it was said, capable of doing something most extraordinary.

  'It's called photogenic drawing, sir,' said Craven. 'Though in France they're calling it photographie.'

  Quimby thought about this for a moment.

  'Hm,' he said, 'much as I hate to credit our seditious overseas neighbours with anything approaching common sense, it has to be said that photographie is certainly less of a mouthful than photogenic drawing, do you not think?'

  'Mr Talbot's very keen on photogenic drawing, sir.'

  'So be it. And what has Henry photogenically drawn so far?'

  'He's captured some scenes of the lake of Como, sir, very nice they are too, as well as the Oriel window in the south gallery of Lacock Abbey, a truly beautiful photogenic drawing, sir, if I may say so.'

  'Scenery,' snorted Quimby derisively. 'Scenery. Typical of Henry. No imagination whatsoever.'

  'Sir?'

  'Craven, listen carefully,' said Quimby, his voice taking on the tone of a conspirator, 'in the library downsta
irs sit three of London's most debased and degenerate women, and shortly I shall be availing myself of them. One at a time and all at once, though not necessarily in that order. It will be your job, Craven, to document this momentous event, using...that,' he indicated the tripod Craven had carried into the study, which now stood in the corner of the room, 'and I can promise you the results will be far more diverting than scenes of the lake of Como.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Quimby leaned close. 'It has been said, Craven, that one of these ladies can accommodate an entire pineapple.'

  'Goodness, sir.'

  'Exactly. Not a sight we wish to entrust merely to our memory.'

  'No, sir,' beamed Craven, happily.

  From outside came the sound of a scream, and Quimby moved to the window in order to push aside his gratifyingly weighty drapes and peer out to the street beneath.

  Filthy cobblestones shone dully, the only illumination from weak gaslights positioned at either end of the street or else from his own scullery window. He frowned, squinting, looking for the source of the noise-from the mews behind him, perhaps? But then, as he watched, a man appeared at one end of the street, running for his life, eyes wide in terror.

  He wore the cloth cap and leather apron of a working man-a cooper, perhaps-and he appeared to be streaked with some fluid.

  Was it tar? Oil? The gas-lamps were flickering wildly, as though affected by something more than the wind.

  Flickering off.

  Then on.

  Off.

  On.

  No, not tar or oil, Quimby saw, as the man drew nearer, passing beneath his window; it looked like blood.

  For a moment the only sound was of his boots on the cobbles. Next, another noise that Quimby took a moment to place. Scuttling.

  Then he saw it. The man was being chased by rats, four score of them at least. They seemed to flow along the street after him, thick and viscous like a stream of effluent, black apart from bared teeth. At their head, unmistakably, was a rat that was much larger than the rest.

  A rat that had two heads.

  The running man glanced desperately behind him then screamed again. In response the pack began to squeal, and for a second or so the sound was so piercing it was all Quimby could do to not cover his ears.

  Then the man reached the corner and was turning it just as the pack leader jumped, the teeth of one of its heads slicing deep into his neck, the other head twisting back then striking, almost like that of a cobra. The man was dropping to his knees as he turned the corner out of sight, his hands coming back, flapping at the two-headed rat, trying, failing, to dislodge it, his impetus carrying him forward, around the corner.

  Just his feet visible now, kicking on the cobblestones.

  Quimby watched as the chasing rats turned the corner, seeing their mass build. A pool of blood spread around the man's boots, still scrabbling but unable to find purchase, the weight of the vermin bearing down on him, preventing him from finding his feet. His screams became muffled, as though something had been forced into his mouth. Then came the sound of wet gagging.

  Then silence.

  His feet stopped kicking, his whole body jerked by the mass of rats as they ate him alive, the gas lamps flickering on and off.

  'Sir?'

  Craven spoke from behind him and Quimby turned. How long had he been standing at the window? He rubbed at his eyes. Christ, that was the last time he touched absinthe. The absolute last time...

  'What was the screaming, sir?' said Craven.

  'You heard it, too?'

  'Yes, sir. From the road outside.'

  'Did you hear...squealing?'

  'Something very odd, sir, yes.'

  Perhaps, thought Quimby, he'd been too hasty in blaming the absinthe. Maybe an unfortunate cooper really had been attacked by a two-headed rat right outside his window.

  He barked with laughter.

  Don't be so bloody ridiculous, Quimby. It was nothing but a hallucination. An old drunk running, who fell and hit his head, that was all.

  Could be dead, he mused.

  Hm, they were always in need of a cadaver. Messrs Hare and Burke had become so bloody expensive of late; neither were the bodies as fresh as they might be; thought they could charge the earth just because they had the name. Who's to say they really were the sons of the Burke and Hare anyway? After all, they could be any old pair of Scotsmen; there were so bloody many of them in London these days...

  Anyway. Quimby took a deep breath. Clapped his hands briskly.

  'Right, my boy,' he told Craven, 'down to business. Bring your contraption and we'll repair to the library for some...Hm, I've a mind to christen the process pornogenic drawing, what do you think?'

  'In France they'll call it pornographie, sir,' joked the younger man.

  'It'll never catch on, Craven.'

  Just then came the noise of an almighty scream, this time from inside the house, and the door to Quimby's study was flung open.

  The two men started as into the room burst Quimby's manservant Perkins, red-faced and flustered, reaching for the door and slamming it closed on the unmistakeable sounds of a great commotion from downstairs, then standing with his back to it as though to keep it barred. He stood for a moment, wide-eyed and breathing heavily, his clothes in disarray.

  'Really, Perkins,' snapped Quimby, 'what is the meaning of this?'

  'Sir, it's the zombies, sir,' Perkins managed, breathing heavily.

  There was a crack of lightning from outside, a rumble of thunder.

  'Yes?' said Quimby, still irritated. 'What about the zombies?'

  'Sir, they're eating the prostitutes.'

  II

  20 June 1837, twenty-five minutes past

  two in the morning. A servants' residence

  in the grounds of Windsor Castle.

  All was silent in the small, low room as Clara entered from outside, her brisk knock having gone unheeded. She bent to pass through the miserly frame then turned to close the door behind her, shutting out the night and a summer storm that raged hard and rent the sky: maniac lightning; distant, angry thunder; rain that fell in huge droplets then stopped. Then started again. Then stopped.

  She was pleased to escape it; grateful the rain had ceased long enough for her to make the dash across the lawns from the castle to the relative sanctuary of the Browns' cottage.

  Which was quiet, the family at rest. In the parlour before the fireplace, even though the fire was not lit, snoozed Margaret Brown in her rocking chair, a shawl pulled over her shoulders. Her husband, John, would be sleeping off the whisky behind the thick, dirty muslin curtain which hung from a rail dividing the room; while not far away was a low cot in which lay her son, John, eleven years old, curled up, sleeping and no doubt dreaming of catching fish on the River Dee in Crathie.

  Clara stood before the redoubtable matriarch, smoothed her apron, silently cursed her misfortune-the short straw, again-and cleared her throat as loudly as she dared.

  Mrs Brown slept on; young John Brown slumbered undisturbed; there was neither sound nor movement from the other side of the tattered muslin curtain.

  Clara swallowed, thrust out her chin, clasped her hands in front of her, then, casting her voice loudly and clearly into the room, said, 'Ma'am, I'm very sorry to have to disturb you, but...the King is dead, ma'am.'

  At that Brown jerked awake in the rocking chair, her eyes wide and her hair, long and black as a winter night, wild and untamed about her visage.

  'The King is dead?' croaked Mrs Brown. 'Did you say the King is dead?'

  She put her palms to her eyes, pushing the sleep from them.

  'Yes, ma'am,' replied Clara, and she crossed herself.

  The Royal household had been in a state of preparation for this eventuality since the end of May, when Sir Henry Halford, physician to His Majesty, had reported that King William was 'in a very odd state and decidedly had the hay fever and in such a manner as to preclude his going to bed', which the King had-gone to bed, that
is.

  Shortly afterwards the foreign secretary, Lord Palmerston, upon visiting the King, had felt it his sad duty to report that the King was in a very precarious state and unlikely to last long. (Privately the foreign secretary had declared that he hoped the King would last longer, 'for there would be no advantage to having a totally inexperienced girl of eighteen, just out of strict guardianship, to govern an empire.') On which note the Royal household had begun to ready itself for this very moment.

  And now the King was dead, and Mrs Brown, furious at having let herself fall asleep-quite literally, she thought, caught napping!-stood and reached for her broadsword, which leaned against the brickwork by the side of the fire. Picking it up she shrugged off the shawl to reveal a rough jerkin over which was strapped a leather brigandine.

  She wears armour, Clara realised with a start, and it was all the serving girl could do to suppress a laugh. Not of joy, but of shock.

  'How long?' barked Mrs Brown

  'Ma'am?'

  'How long has the King been dead, stupid girl?' she roared.

  John stirred slightly at the sound of his mother's raised voice and Maggie Brown cursed herself. He was so sensitive; he had such visions-such visions-he needed protection from all of this...

  'How long, Clara?' insisted Brown, her voice lower and kinder now. 'How long is it since the King passed over?'

  'I was told five minutes ago, ma'am,' replied Clara.

  'And have they left?'

  'Have who left, ma'am?'

  'Lord Conyngham and the Archbishop of Canterbury. Have they set off for Kensington Palace with the news?'

  'Yes, ma'am, they have.'

  'Then in two hours' time England will have a queen. A new reign will begin.'

  And nothing would ever be the same again, she thought. For too long England had been ruled by tyrants and madmen, womanisers and fools. Europe was wrought by revolution and in France...well, it hardly bore thinking about, what had taken place in that godforsaken country, the blood that had flowed in the name of revolution. As a result of it, English eyes were cast in that direction; some nervous, some envious.

  Revolution. Bloodshed. Anarchy. It was his work and he chose his moments well.

  Brown ceased busying herself then tilted her head slightly so that she appeared to be sniffing the air.

  'There is a disturbance tonight,' she said, softly at first; then, her voice rising, 'there is darkness abroad. I must reach the wee lassie before he does.'