The Chronicles of the Tempus

by K. A. S. Quinn

  DuQuelle sensed what they were thinking, and seemed to revel in the uncertainty he created. ‘Then we are agreed: Katie will take the role of Miss Katherine Tappan,’ he said crisply. ‘Now I will use some of those abilities referenced by Princess Alice. We need letters of introduction to the Palace – the Tappan family might be obsolete here, but they have powerful connections in the United States of America.’ DuQuelle smiled to himself. ‘I think I will write one from John Quincy Adams II – a man with a fine future, though not quite of the grandfather’s stature.’

  Alice’s eyes widened. ‘But wouldn’t that be forgery?’

  DuQuelle’s smile broadened, deepening the creases around his eyes. ‘Please do excuse me, Princess, but bringing Katie here was a violation of the laws of nature and of time – bending the laws of man is child’s play in comparison.’ He looked at James. ‘Don’t worry,’ he added, ‘I’ll cover my tracks and intercept any correspondence that might emanate from the Foreign Office or the Prime Minister. The Palace will be easier to handle. I don’t believe the Queen is in communication with many Americans – not with Mr Adams, and certainly not with Mr Tappan. She tends to stay within her area of comfort – princely cousins, uncle kings, the occasional grand duchess . . .’

  DuQuelle looked down at Katie, shaking his head in disapproval. ‘So much to do and so little time. There’s the letter to the Lord Chamberlain, the sponsor to be found, the dress, the train, the headdress, the curtsy – though I don’t believe Katie will ever handle the curtsy . . .’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Katie asked.

  ‘The presentation,’ he replied briskly. ‘We need to prepare you for the presentation to the Queen. If you are to be staying in the Palace, you must be presented to the Queen.’

  For the first time Katie could remember, James O’Reilly was laughing at DuQuelle. ‘This must be a tease,’ he said. ‘The idea of Katie being presented at court!’

  ‘You may laugh,’ ‘DuQuelle replied, ‘but there is no other way. The Queen is holding a presentation, a Court Drawing Room, in ten days; and Katie, I mean Miss Katherine Tappan, will be presented at that drawing room.’

  Katie did not like the sound of this, and James continued to bark with laughter. Only Princess Alice seemed to take DuQuelle seriously. ‘But of course,’ she said. ‘This will liberate Katie, give her stature in the household, making it possible for her to go anywhere with Grace.’

  ‘Do you mean to place her on the marriage market?’ James joked. ‘Then Katie could find a suitable country gentleman and settle down.’ Katie kicked him with her fluffy bedroom slipper, but Alice simply ignored him.

  ‘In truth, she’s much too young to be presented,’ Alice mused. ‘But Katie’s so well grown, she can pass for seventeen, or even eighteen.’

  ‘Overgrown,’ James commented, looking in amazement at Katie’s large foot in the fluffy slipper.

  ‘Oh, do shut up,’ Katie replied. ‘I want to do this like I want a hole in my head, but the plan does make sense. Now what do I need to do?’

  ‘I’ll tutor you,’ Princess Alice suggested. ‘Though with only ten days – the curtsy in itself can take months to master. We have to acquire the proper court dress. As M. DuQuelle said, there are the plumes, the headdress, the embroidered train – it takes much practice, to learn to handle the train – and if Katie’s coming out, she’ll need an entire wardrobe.’

  ‘And a trousseau,’ James added. ‘Within months she’ll need a wedding trousseau.’

  DuQuelle’s mouth turned up at the corners. ‘It would indeed be a problem, if some young nobleman were transfixed by Katie.’

  He was looking quite merry – for DuQuelle – but suddenly he stopped mid-stream. He sniffed the air in that odd way of his, and his face became still and very pale. Katie started to ask him a question, but he put his hand up, listening to the silence. He sniffed again. ‘Can you smell that?’ he asked. ‘Can you hear that?’ They all shook their heads. ‘How very strange,’ he murmured. ‘What a dank and foul smell; the stench of polluted water. And the sound; it is something falling into that water, from quite a height. Something heavy and lifeless, making a great splash.’

  ‘There is no water here,’ James protested. DuQuelle continued to listen and sniff.

  ‘The River Thames,’ he said. ‘London. Something is afoot in London. Something that bodes ill.’ Bernardo DuQuelle looked at Katie. ‘Lord Belzen, could he possibly know, already, that you are here?’

  Chapter Six

  Tower Bridge

  DuQuelle was right. Something was afoot in London. Not that one could see much. The inky blackness of night had been overlaid by a particular mix of soot and fog, known by the locals as a London particular. And this February night the cocktail of wet coal dust and icy droplets was foul in every way. It caught in the lungs and left traces of grime running down cheek and cloak. It was weather that invited one to stay indoors, bolt the shutters and draw close to the fire. Yet here was Lord Twisted, exposing both his health and a fine new Chesterfield coat to the harshest of elements.

  Lord Twisted was not adverse to midnight revels – nor had he spared himself the baser aspects of the city. Indeed, he had often been spotted in St. Giles in search of the night’s pleasures. Yet standing on Tower Bridge, at midnight, with a nincompoop like Sir Lindsey Dimblock, was far from fun.

  As if trying to add to his irritation, Sir Lindsey asked for the twentieth time, ‘Are you certain he said Tower Bridge? And at this time of night?’

  Lord Twisted turned his velvet collar up against the cold and nodded curtly.

  ‘As I said . . .’ was his only response.

  Sir Lindsey was not used to cold or discomfort, and his pride was wounded. ‘But really, dash it, such a demand is impertinent,’ he complained. ‘And to come from him, a nobody, no footing at court, no position in the country – a man of no standing. Lord Belzen, I swear, is no lord, no lord at all. To have him call the tunes, and for us to dance to them! Tower Bridge – at midnight! If I wasn’t so hard up, Twisted, I’d be home, safe in my own bed, and not catching my death of cold on a London bridge at midnight.’

  Lord Twisted resisted the urge to throttle his companion. ‘But you are that hard up,’ he reminded Sir Lindsey. ‘Your debts at gaming are the talk of society. You have no knack for cards, and yet you play.’ Lord Twisted omitted the fact that most of Sir Lindsey’s losses at cards had been to Lord Twisted, and most of the money Sir Lindsey so missed had been rehoused in Lord Twisted’s pockets. Not that much of that money remained. Lord Twisted lived a life of luxury – in keeping with his title, but far beyond his means. Jewels, horses, fine wines and women – nothing was too good for him. But it was for him alone: his only daughter, the Honourable Emma, was forced to make her own way as a nursemaid in Buckingham Palace.

  Lord Twisted looked at Sir Lindsey Dimblock. ‘He truly is an idiot,’ he thought, trying to mask his dislike. Sir Lindsey had sold his military commission, his family estates, his forestry, his mining rights, even the Dimblock silver. About the only thing left was the illustrious Dimblock pedigree. If ever an aristocrat needed money, it was Sir Lindsey. Belzen would lend this money to him. Lord Belzen, with his fake title and unknown history, was always generous. For him, the association with the gentry was worth the financial layout.

  And yet Lord Twisted feared Belzen. There was something about the man. On first meeting, he seemed handsome, almost a gentleman. But the more one looked at Belzen, the more uncomfortable one became, until it was necessary to look away. What was it? Twisted wondered. Was it the dart of Belzen’s eyes, the palsy-like shake of his body, or the way his head swayed strangely, as if not truly attached to his neck or torso.

  No, Lord Twisted wasn’t looking forward to this meeting, but Sir Lindsey needed the money, and Belzen loved to lend. This was no good deed, though. Lord Twisted knew Sir Lindsey; once he had the money, he would not pay off his debts but go back to the gaming tables. And some of that newly lent money would be Lord
Twisted’s by the end of the night. And Belzen? He would be grateful for the introduction to Sir Lindsey; yet another aristocrat in his debt, another victim. This might even lead Belzen to turn a blind eye to the vast amount Lord Twisted owed him already.

  Sir Lindsey was stamping his feet to stave off the cold, and muttering to himself, ‘To keep me waiting, really, to keep ME waiting . . .’ And then the wait was over. Neither man had heard a sound, yet Lord Belzen was before them, undulating slightly, and wrapped in a long, hooded cloak.

  ‘Perhaps it is his nose,’ Twisted thought, as Belzen bowed to them. It was a large, strangely blunted nose, with wide dark nostrils – more of a snout than a nose. Twisted shivered. Lord Belzen seemed to bring a deeper cold with him, making the uncomfortable weather unbearable.

  When Belzen spoke it was softly, quietly, with a pointed politeness. ‘Lord Twisted, a pleasure to see you again; and Sir Lindsey, what a pleasure to be introduced to such an illustrious member of the royal circle. I trust the night has not been too much for you? I do apologize for the time and place of this meeting, but such matters, between gentlemen, are best dealt with in secret.’

  ‘I don’t know why we couldn’t meet at my club, or even a public house, somewhere enclosed and warm,’ Sir Lindsey Dimblock complained.

  ‘Servants, waiters,’ Belzen murmured, ‘so quick to hear everything, to spread the story. This is a case where discretion is more important than personal comfort. We need to be entirely alone.’

  Sir Lindsey barely returned Belzen’s bow. He was willing to take money from this man, but he was not willing to treat him as an equal. Belzen was a money-lender, someone on the darker side of commerce. ‘I believe we are here to conclude a business transaction,’ he replied curtly. ‘I am ready to do business.’

  Lord Twisted looked from one man to the next. Sir Lindsey, bullish, stupid and proud, wanted the money but not the obligation. Belzen was angered by his tone. His body twitched in a weird convulsion; his head darted out from its hood. For a moment Lord Twisted could see Belzen’s watery blue eyes. They were angry. And yet his voice stayed soft, though with an ominous hiss. ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘It is too cold for pleasantries. I will name my terms.’

  Lord Belzen’s terms were surprisingly generous. Even a dunderhead like Sir Lindsey could see that. He could return the money when he wished, with only a small additional payment for all Belzen’s trouble. Sir Lindsey did not bother to question the offer. Money was money, and he needed it. ‘I accept your terms,’ he said to Lord Belzen. ‘Shall we draw up the paperwork?’

  ‘A gentleman’s agreement,’ Belzen replied. ‘A handshake will do.’ At this Lord Twisted held his breath. Would Sir Lindsey take Lord Belzen’s hand? Lord Belzen reached under his cloak and, removing his glove, held out a long, slim hand. Even on this night of fog and murk, it glowed with a damp opalescent hue, as if never struck by the sun. It was strangely joined, almost webbed, and curved downward. It was a thing of revulsion.

  Sir Lindsey hesitated, staring aghast at Belzen’s hand. How much did he need the money? In truth, he was desperate. He did not take off his own glove, but did hold out his hand, touching Belzen’s briefly. A shudder ran through his body. ‘I believe we are done here,’ he said. ‘I will await the funds at my club address.’ Without a bow, he turned to go.

  Lord Belzen then spoke. ‘Just one more thing,’ he hissed softly into the night.

  Lord Twisted knew this was not a good sign. Sir Lindsey, in his arrogance, had angered Belzen. This ‘one more thing’ was likely to be a large one.

  Sir Lindsey had the promise of funds, but as yet no money in his purse. He stopped. ‘If you could be quick,’ he snapped.

  Lord Belzen’s head moved forward in that unnatural jerking manner, but his voice stayed even. ‘It has to do with the war.’

  ‘There is no war,’ Sir Lindsey replied.

  ‘But there will be,’ Belzen retorted, a new edge to his voice. ‘There will be war declared against Russia, and very soon. We are already gathering troops, they are being shipped out as we speak, travelling to Constantinople and then on through the Black Sea. Only for exploratory purposes, at this point, only to observe, but war there will be.’

  Lord Twisted spoke up. ‘But of course. Sir Lindsey knows this. Why else would Napoleon III be visiting at this time? The French will ally with Great Britain to save the Ottoman Empire. We will be partners in war. We will defeat Russia.’

  ‘But will we?’ Lord Belzen asked. ‘That is a question for another day. I have a great interest in this war brewing in the Crimea. I would be grateful for any information I can receive on this war . . . financially grateful.’

  ‘I am neither willing, nor equipped for any such exploit,’ Sir Lindsey retorted. ‘I am no longer a part of the military; I have no knowledge.’

  ‘But you could,’ Belzen insisted in his soft insinuating way. ‘You have a military background, come from a military pedigree; and so does Lord Twisted.’ Underneath his cloak, Belzen rolled his shoulders in excitement. Sir Lindsey stared in shock. Even Lord Twisted felt rising alarm as Belzen continued to unveil his plan. ‘With a letter here, a string pulled there, you could attach yourselves to the highest echelon of the military campaign. Raglan, I believe, will be in command. From there you could inform me. I will set up the line of communication. You will go undetected, but not unrewarded.’

  Lord Twisted liked the sound of financial reward, but there were so many questions about Belzen. Which side of this war was he actually on? How dishonest was this activity? And the line of communication, how secure could it be? Underhand deeds did not bother Lord Twisted so much as getting caught.

  Sir Lindsey Dimblock had no such questions. He had made up his mind. Belzen was not a lord, not a gentleman, and probably not even British. In short, he was a traitor, and he was asking Sir Lindsey to become a spy. Gambling and gaming debts were one thing, but betraying Queen and country were another.

  He’d had enough of the bitter foul night. He’d rather face financial ruin and social disgrace than go any further. Turning to Belzen, he roared into his face. ‘I am no informer, no spy, no traitor. For that is what you are asking. I will pay my gaming debts some other way. Twisted, I suggest you leave with me, immediately. Any further communication with this . . . this . . . creature will only incriminate you further. It is below us to speak to him.’

  Belzen darted forward, blocking Sir Lindsey’s way. His soft voice had turned into a high rasping hiss, painful to the ear. ‘You call me a creature,’ he fairly shrieked, ‘below you, when you are the lowest form of man . . . and man himself is so low. My followers would tear you to pieces – you are stupid, arrogant and swollen with false pride, feeding off the world. You think you can leave . . . it is too late . . .’

  It was dark and the atmosphere was thick with fog. Lord Twisted could never be certain of what he saw. One moment Belzen stood writhing and hissing before Sir Lindsey Dimblock, the next moment Belzen’s head darted from underneath his hood – but was it his head? The beaked, blunted nose, the striking movement; he seemed more serpent than man. Sir Lindsey could see more. He cried out and backed against the rail of the bridge, flinging his arms up to protect himself. Belzen struck and struck again, his cloak rippling around him, his hissing mixing with Sir Lindsey’s shrieks.

  Sickened and terrified, Lord Twisted tried to run, but his legs were too weak. Behind him came the inescapable sound of Belzen, the angry hissing turning into a noxious gagging. Sir Lindsey’s cries grew weaker and weaker – and then all was silent. Almost against his will, Lord Twisted turned to see the aftermath of the assault. Belzen was gone, but Sir Lindsey Dimblock lay slumped against the side of the bridge. His body was slit from groin to chin and his mouth was filled with a strange black tar.

  Lord Twisted swayed and staggered as he looked down on his friend’s mutilated body. ‘You were a weak man,’ he muttered, ‘and a foolish one; but you did not deserve this. You must not be found.’ Gathering what strength
he could, Lord Twisted grasped Sir Lindsey by the heels and manoeuvred him on to the rails of the bridge. With a final push the body was over, plunging into the River Thames below; the splash of the befouled, lifeless object reverberating through the dead of night. ‘At least you have escaped,’ he said quietly, ‘while I am left tied to this devil of a man. I am to be the spy, the traitor, and I must keep this dreadful secret.’

  Twisted had the sinewy stubbornness one often finds in the true coward. Lord Belzen might be Lucifer himself, but to stay alive Twisted would follow his every command. For now, it was best to try and forget all that he had seen. ‘I need a drink,’ he muttered to himself, ‘or something stronger.’ He searched his mind for public houses nearby, but again his strength failed him. Weak and dazed, Lord Twisted leant over the rails of Tower Bridge, and vomited into the dark River Thames below.

  Chapter Seven

  The Queen’s Drawing Room

  Katie, in her role of Miss Katherine Tappan, sat very straight in a carriage on the Mall, leading up to Buckingham Palace. She had never been more uncomfortable. Her bushy black hair had been temporarily tamed – swept up tight at the back of her head, the curls laboriously tucked and pinned. Atop her hair was a headdress, a strange confection of tulle and flowers and large ostrich feathers, two of them, the middle one over a foot high. For a court presentation, Queen Victoria insisted on feathers, white feathers, very large white feathers. ‘I don’t want any fiddly fluffy things in their hair,’ she was reported to have said. ‘I want to see the feathers, from a long way off, as the girls come towards me to curtsy.’

  ‘Well, she won’t miss these, that’s for sure,’ Katie muttered. The feathers were so tall that they touched the roof of the carriage. She felt like she had a 30-pound wedding cake planted just above her forehead. She jerked her chin up in defiance and felt the whole thing lunge to one side.