Queen Victoria: Demon Hunter

by A. E. Moorat

  Still, however, Egg had been unable to recall the great secret he supposedly knew about the Queen and they had no time to wait to find out what it was. The plan for which Conroy had engaged them needed implementing and the first stage was now. Sir Montague Tales had been invited to Pembridge Villas for dinner, that dinner consisting of a glass of port as an entree, for the main course a glass of port. Then, for dessert, a young man.

  Characteristically, Sir Montague raced through the first two courses of his meal, pacing about the library in a state of barely concealed sexual excitement, his britches, at times, jutting, rather disgustingly.

  'What on earth is this, Quimmers?' he remarked at one point, red-faced and sweating.

  'That, sir, is a photogenic drawing,' said Quimby, who thought it made a fine addition to the mantelpiece. 'Are you aware of this new process at, all, by which you can capture an image of real life?'

  'Real life, you say?'

  'Absolutely, sir.'

  But Sir Montague was not listening. 'Just what is going on in this particular scene, Quimmers?' he asked, impressed. 'It looks bloody depraved.'

  'A mere fancy, sir,' said Quimby. 'A concoction. A little amusement involving some actors.'

  'And some sausages by the looks of things.'

  'Quite,' said Quimby, 'now, how about we skip to dessert, sir?'

  Sir Montague grinned, moving over to the chair where Quimby sat and taking a seat. Quimby moved over to his writing desk, took from it a dagger that he concealed in his sleeve, and went to join Sir Montague, taking a seat by his side and calling for dessert.

  Sir Montague, agog, watched the door, keenly awaiting the arrival of the lithe young fellow he imagined to be on offer, given the implications provided to him by Quimby, who had promised 'an innocent of the country'.

  The door opened and in limped Perkins.

  'Hello, sir,' he said.

  There was a somewhat shocked silence in the wake of his arrival, just the sound of Perkins' leg dragging on the boards as the manservant stepped in, closing the door behind him.

  Sir Montague looked at Quimby.

  Quimby stared at Perkins.

  'Ah, Quimby,' said Montague, 'without wishing to cause offence to this gentleman here, I had rather thought the entertainment might be on the, ah, younger side.'

  Quimby ignored him. 'Perkins, what's going on?' he snapped. 'Where is Egg?'

  'Egg is indisposed, sir.'

  'What do you mean, Egg is indisposed?' roared Quimby, 'He is not to be indisposed. He can bloody well un-indispose himself and get himself here.'

  'He's had second thoughts, sir, regarding the enterprise,' said Perkins. 'We were hoping that I might suffice.'

  Quimby was apoplectic. 'You! Christ you're older than I am. And you're dead. Sir Montague is a pederast, not a grave robber!'

  'I say sir,' protested Sir Montague, 'I would hardly describe myself as a...'

  'Shut up,' raged Quimby and jammed the dagger into Sir Montague's chest, jumping from his seat to confront his manservant. 'Perkins, what the hell is Egg doing? He should be here, seducing that pig over there. The fact that's he's not leads me to believe that he is not quite as under my command as you and I were hoping.'

  'Sir...' said Perkins.

  'And as for you! What the hell did you think you were doing limping in here like some kind of lame, ageing rent boy? When-when did I say, Perkins, that if Egg should perhaps be of a mind not to participate then why don't you come instead?'

  'Sir,' insisted Perkins, pointing over Quimby's shoulder, his eyes widening, 'Sir Montague, sir, I think he's dead.'

  Quimby span and the two of them looked at the MP, who sat, now quite dead. On his face was a look of surprise, while at his nose was a bubble of blood, which hung from his nostril, then, as they watched-popped.

  'Blast,' ejaculated Quimby, 'the bugger's dead. Perkins, quick, the elixir, where is it?'

  Perkins had stored it alongside his Lordship's collection of exotic liqueurs, on a sideboard, and he hobbled over to it, snatching it up, calling for his Lordship and tossing over the stoppered bottle to Quimby, who caught it deftly, tore the cork from the bottle with his teeth, spat it out then straddled Sir Montague, pouring the potion down his throat.

  'I honestly don't know why we're bothering to hurry in this instance, Perkins,' said Quimby, as the MP for Gloucester began to thrash, foam and writhe, his resurrection beginning, 'I actually think a bit of brain damage might have done Monty the world of good.'

  XXXIII

  Weapons training had begun and Victoria was yet to recover from the surprise of who was to be her tutor.

  'I don't wish to cause offence,' she said, 'but...are you sure?'

  John Brown senior ran a hand through unkempt hair and grinned blearily. 'I'm afraid so, Your Majesty,' he said, 'it's old Brown-in the flesh.' And he did a little jig to emphasise his point.

  'I know how it must appear, ma'am,' said Maggie, who was tucking Brown's vest into his trousers for him. 'He looks like he couldn't train a dog, I know he does, but really, despite all appearances to the contrary, he is an exceptional swordsman.'

  'Why, then, is he not a member of the Protektorate?' asked Victoria.

  There was a moment of awkwardness.

  'He was, ma'am,' said Maggie, 'until about ten years ago. My husband fought bravely but was overcome by numbers. They were Arcadians, ma'am, and they took a terrible toll on him. He has never recovered his nerve, ma'am, I'm afraid to say.'

  John Brown smiled sheepishly.

  'I'm sorry to hear that,' said Victoria.

  'Oh, it's all right. He has since discovered his metier, isn't that right, love?' cajoled Maggie, punching her husband.

  'That's right, Your Majesty,' said Brown, the male Brown, 'I have found within myself a remarkable talent for the imbibing of alcoholic drinks.'

  For which he received yet another punch from Maggie. 'He's jesting, ma'am,' she said, through gritted teeth, 'his talent is for teaching others swordplay.'

  Now the training had begun, with Brown male senior given instructions not to treat the Queen kindly on account of her rank, but to push her hard, time being of the essence, Lord Melbourne and Maggie taking seats to watch them.

  'How do the ladies sit in these skirts?' mithered Maggie after they had sat in silence for some time, watching John instruct the Queen in her stance and the correct way in which to hold the katana.

  'Not like that,' said Lord Melbourne, frowning at her posture. She sat as she was used to doing, with her legs crossed, right ankle resting on left knee, one arm across her stomach, the other at the hilt of her sword.

  Lord Melbourne supposed that it was a position best suited for combat readiness. Or, at least, if he objected then that was the reason with which he would be supplied.

  One could only thank God nobody could see them, he mused. For they were in the Yard Bed, deep in the gardens of the Palace, with mulberry bushes screening them from view and an order from the Queen that they should not be disturbed.

  'You're still keeping something from her,' said Maggie.

  'Am I?'

  'Indeed you are, Prime Minister. You've neglected to mention those prophecies that speak of the Baal siring an heir, a human heir, bearing the bloodline of Baal, and that this child is destined to rule the empire, and death and destruction will follow in his wake, and that child shall be the Antichrist. You didn't tell her all that, did you? Or perhaps you did and I missed it? Or maybe you thought it too minor a detail?'

  'No, I did not tell her that,' agreed Melbourne.

  'Was there any particular reason to keep it from her, Prime Minister?' said Maggie.

  Melbourne did not answer at first, and they sat in silence, watching Victoria with her katana.

  'All right, Your Majesty,' said John, who stood holding a branch as though it were a sword. 'Here I am, an old man with a twig and a weakness for whisky-attack me.'

  'Attack you?' Victoria looked over at Maggie, who in return gave her an encoura
ging nod.

  Victoria took a swipe at Brown with the sword, only for him to nimbly sidestep, grasp her sword hand at the hilt and place the stick at her neck.

  They stood there.

  He made a sound she guessed was aimed at approximating the noise her throat might make if sliced. He then followed it with a sound she assumed was meant to be that of her blood leaking from the imaginary wound. In all, he seemed to be rather enjoying this particular flight of fancy...

  Annoyed, Victoria pulled away.

  He tutor laughed. 'You have spent too much time at the theatre, Your Majesty,' he said, 'that might be how the actors wield their swords in Shakespeare but if you try that in real life, your opponent will skewer you. A katana isn't just an offensive weapon, it's a defensive one. Likely is, it will spend more time in battle employed protectively. That being the case you need to keep it close to your body...'

  Back at the bench, Melbourne took a deep breath. 'Maggie,' he said, 'young John's vision was of seeing the bloodline of Baal ascend the throne, but the vision may be open to interpretation.'

  'Go on.'

  'What if his vision were not of the future, Maggie?' he said. 'What if John was seeing the past?'

  'Index finger and thumb,' John Brown was shouting at the Queen, who was attempting to master defensive flicks of the katana.

  'I'm not sure I follow you,' Prime Minister,' said Maggie carefully. 'If it's in the past, then the vision has not come to pass.'

  'What if it has?' said Melbourne.

  'Prime Minister, stop playing games with me and tell me straight. What the bloody hell are you talking about?'

  'Forward hand roll, backwards hand roll. No, no, your wrist should torque forwards, not backwards.'

  'Maybe the Baal ascended to the throne on the morning of 20 June 1837, because Conroy, not the Duke of Kent, is the Queen's father. Perhaps this is what was discovered by Lady Flora Hastings and was the information she wanted relayed to the journalist.'

  Maggie gasped.

  'The dates add up, Maggie. Sir John was employed by the Duke. Victoria was born, the Duke died. Sir John could have had an affair with the Duchess. He could have killed the Duke. Perhaps those mischevous wags who implied that there was more to the Duchess's relationship with her comptroller than met the eye were on to something.'

  There was silence for a moment and they watched Victoria and John Brown, John Brown instructing his charge in the art of feinting, in this instance by transferring the katana from one had to the other:

  'Watch your stance. Feet apart, if that drops you'll be missing your toes. Right-throw...'

  'If that were the case,' said Maggie, 'then that lassie over there is no more the Queen of England than I am.'

  'Quite,' said Melbourne, 'and what's more, the carrier of the bloodline of Baal.'

  'Let's try a kata,' John Brown was saying.

  'What's a kata?' asked the Queen.

  'A kata? An attack choreography. Disorientates your enemies and puts them into a defensive position-oh, and it looks good.'

  Victoria laughed, looking over at Maggie Brown and smiling, Maggie returning her smile with a wave.

  'And if that was the case...' said Maggie.

  'Exactly,' said Melbourne, 'We'd have to kill her. And not only would we have to kill her, but also her children.'

  XXXIV

  Later, Melbourne, Maggie and the Queen had repaired to the Palace, where they had gathered in the Pennethorne Gallery under strict instructions they should not be disturbed. Quite what the staff were being told, Victoria wasn't sure; she was assured, however, that all was in hand.

  'We find that we are presented with a minor problem, and that is that Prince Albert is missing, yet this is not a fact we can afford to announce to the country. Moreover, you yourself, it is clear, are to be involved in the search to locate the Prince Consort, and thus may be absent from public life.'

  'That is correct, Lord M,' said Victoria, and felt a twinge of something she preferred not to name. For this was something she herself had anticipated. She had, if she were honest with herself, rather hoped that none of those close to her would arrive at the same conclusion. The search for Albert could mean that she was neglecting her leadership of the country-or soon would be.

  I must find Albert.

  But my people need me.

  But perhaps the people need Albert, she reasoned. Perhaps I need Albert in order to serve the people. Perhaps there was no right or wrong answer, and that she must follow her heart.

  And her heart told her to go to him.

  'What do you have in mind, Lord M?' she asked.

  'Ma'am, I have taken the trouble of engaging the services of a stand-in for Your Majesty, a double if you like, the notion being that this lady can make public appearances in lieu of Your Majesty and when Your Majesty might be needed but is otherwise indisposed. Maggie, if you'd be so kind.'

  Maggie made her way to the door, slouching rather as she did so.

  'Posture, Maggie, poise,' the Prime Minister reminded her, sharply and Maggie turned, about to regale him with some colourful language of Anglo-Saxon origin when she remembered she was in the presence of the Queen and so instead curtsied, sarcastically.

  'A stand-in?' echoed Victoria when she was gone.

  'That's correct, ma'am.'

  'A decoy?'

  'Quite.'

  The Queen resisted the impulse to laugh; in fact, found herself putting her hand to her mouth. 'Somebody will pretend to be me?'

  'Indeed. And Albert also, ma'am.'

  'Do you know what he would say, Lord M, if he were here?'

  'No, Your Majesty?'

  'I do believe he would tell you that you were quite mad. People pretending to be us. Why, whoever heard of such a thing?'

  'Would it surprise Your Majesty to learn that there are already those who pretend to be Your Majesty and the Prince Consort.'

  She started, drawing herself up. 'Really? For what purpose?'

  'The purpose, ma'am, well, nominally of entertainment, though one supposes there may be those who use the lookalikes perhaps in order to improve their standing in society.'

  'Lookalikes?'

  'Yes, ma'am,' said Melbourne, just as there came a knock at the door and in walked Maggie Brown-ahead of a man and a woman who had self-evidently made a cursory attempt at appearing a little like the Queen and her consort.

  Victoria's mouth dropped open.

  'May I introduce Betty and Coventry Jones, ma'am,' said Melbourne, 'your stand-ins.'

  Betty curtsied, Coventry inclined his head, the two of them murmuring a hello. Betty, noted Victoria, was rather more portly than she was, and shorter, and, she thought, though she disliked to think such unkind things, not quite so pretty, and perhaps her nose was a little sharper. Her hair was slightly lifeless, looked slightly greasy and wasn't well coiffed, she wore too much rouge on her cheeks, which were somewhat puffier then they should have been and her clothes were a shabby and looked a little small.

  In short, she really is not much like me at all, thought Victoria. What should have been an experience akin to seeing one's reflection in a looking glass was more like opening Punch and seeing a particularly crude and unkind satirical cartoon.

  And as for Albert. Oh. As with his fellow lookalike, Coventry had certainly made an effort, of sorts, and his hair was combed and parted correctly, his sideburns the length that Albert preferred. But his uniform bore signs of wear and tear, he looked to be thinning on top-even more thinning on top than Albert, that was-and again he was rounder than his counterpart.

  In many ways, of course, she was glad. Not only for the confirmation that Albert was unique, but also because she was not sure how she would have coped to see a doppleganger, safe and well and standing in the home of the real thing, when the real thing was lost.

  'Albert doesn't smile like that, Mr Jones,' she told him, not unkindly, 'he is not a smiler, my Albert, he is as likely to laugh as he is to smile, and when he's doing neither his m
outh is set, like so.' She made the correct face.

  'Yes, ma'am,' said Coventry.

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Begging Your Majesty's pardon, I said.'

  'Yes, I heard what you said, it was the way in which you said it. It was not quite...Albert speaks in a very considered and precise manner, you see, and with a pronounced German accent.'

  'Yes, ma'am,' said Coventry, in what she dearly hoped was not an attempt at the diction she had been describing.

  'Otherwise,' she said, placing a smile upon her face (and doing this with no small difficulty given the bewildering mix of emotions she felt, not least of which was a burning indignation that anybody could possibly think these two people actually looked like she and Albert), 'the likeness is really quite uncanny. Why,' she said, addressing Betty, 'it's like looking in a mirror. You do this as some kind of a...job, do you?'

  'No, Your Majesty,' said Betty, whose voice, Victoria was unsurprised to learn, sounded not at all like hers, 'during the day we work hard in the clothing factory. By night and at the weekend we scrape together a few extra pennies with this as a sideline.'

  'Ah,' I see, said Victoria, who had heard of the conditions at the clothing factories-that women sat in rags, stitching morning, noon and night; that their husbands heated irons and pressed the clothes in rooms choked with steam and dust.

  'I see,' said Victoria. 'And what manner of functions do you attend in your capacity as lookalikes?'

  'Well, ma'am,' said Betty, launching into what was, apparently, a well-rehearsed speech, 'we're often invited to parties thrown by the members of the new middle class, who think it a most entertaining distraction to have two members of Royalty present. We have also opened many fetes, appeared at numerous balls, and attended birthday parties as the surprise guests. We have been placed in the Royal box at the theatre and also, once or twice, appeared on stage as our namesakes.'

  'Quite,' smiled Victoria. Her smile was now so strained it was beginning to hurt the muscles in her face. 'And you enjoy this work, do you?'

  'Oh, most certainly, ma'am.' They both nodded enthusiastically. 'We're always made very welcome and well provided for. Often at fetes we're asked to judge the produce competitions. Why, I've had that much jam, you wouldn't believe!'