The Erotic Memoirs of Ambrose Horne

by Chrissie Bentley

  Around them, a clamour of voices arose; from the sides of the room, a platoon of equerries bore down on the pair, to be halted by a sudden command from Victoria herself.

  Again the room fell silent. The two girls, too, seemed suddenly aware of their surroundings and, still clutching one another, turned terrified faces towards the old, black-clad woman who surveyed them from her throne.

  ‘Lord H_____. These young women are your responsibility?’ Victoria’s voice was soft, but firm.

  Lord H_____, his customary red face now chalky white, remained silent. ‘No, they are mine, Your Majesty.’ At his side, Lady H_____ spoke loudly. ‘And Mr Horne’s.’

  Victoria swivelled slightly in her chair, her gaze falling upon the detective. ‘Mr Ambrose Horne. I had no idea that we were to be favoured with your presence this evening.’

  Horne bowed stiffly. ‘At your service, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I’m sure you are.’ The Queen’s tone was impossible to judge. ‘You may be seated. And you ...’ she returned her beady-eyed stare to the two lovers who remained frozen before her. ‘Perhaps you should celebrate what is obviously a most emotional reunion in a less public arena.’ She nodded to one of the equerries, who gently took both girls by the arm, and steered them through a side entrance.

  The matter was closed. Rising, the Master of Ceremonies returned to his register of names, and the parade continued as before. Horne, however, was barely aware of most of it. No sooner had he returned to his seat than another flunky was at his side. ‘Her Majesty would speak with you once the affair is concluded.’ Now the detective’s mind was awhirl, mapping the myriad turns that the forthcoming audience might take, rehearsing every response to any conceivable question.

  He wondered how Rosie and Lisa were faring. It had been the easiest matter in the world to track down the lost lover – once Horne ascertained the household from which she had been dismissed in disgrace, he simply contacted the various agencies that staffed the great houses with their wenches, waifs and servants until one identified the lady he was seeking.

  He procured the address, he arranged a meeting – effectively, he purchased the young lady’s contract from her present employer, and transferred her, temporarily, to his own home. Whether she remained there, or moved onto Lady H_____’s employ, was a matter for the future to take care of. For now, all that mattered was that the two girls had been reunited, in front of a Queen who believed that the nature of their love was impossible. Horne wondered whether she still felt the same way.

  At last the endless roll call of political aspirants was at an end; the meal was served and devoured with ravenous delight; and then, as the other guests were ushered out of the room, Horne was collected by yet another obsequious footman, and led through the same ornate door that Rosie and Lisa had disappeared through.

  They awaited him in a small antechamber, seated on a plushly cushioned couch, still holding hands. Both fired a legion of questions as Horne entered – how he knew about them, how he knew where to look, how long they had before they must again be parted. But the stream of relentless chatter could not disguise the nervousness that both women felt. The Queen had passed them just minutes before, sweeping by in a flourish of black crinoline and perfume, without so much as a glance in their direction. That, they agreed, could not be a good thing.

  Horne, too, wondered precisely what the purpose of this summons could be, but he did not have long to wait. Barely had he begun answering the first of the girls’ questions than a door opened softly, and a white-wigged figure beckoned him to enter.

  Her Majesty reclined in what, in any other surroundings, might have been described as an over-stuffed armchair. Set amid the lustrous opulence of Windsor Castle, however, it was like no chair Horne had ever seen before, a massive cushioned throne that all but devoured the septuagenarian monarch’s frame.

  Above her, framed in almost dazzling gold, hung a portrait of the Queen as a young woman; a girl, in fact, barely out of her teens, one of the many painted in the weeks that surrounded her coronation. Dark-eyed, longhaired, a porcelain-skinned beauty, she stood with her back towards the viewer, but her head was turned to gaze over one bare shoulder. She looked as though she might be leaving the room; the expression on her face insisted she did not wish to do so alone.

  The contrast with the woman seated below was astonishing, but it was also reassuring. Half a century had passed since the portrait was painted, and the years were etched heavily on both face and form. But the eyes retained their mysterious darkness, and the ghosts of that once proud beauty still danced where the shadows hung heaviest.

  Horne bowed low before the Queen; then straightened as he heard her chuckle, a strangely deep, throaty sound that, had it been uttered by any other woman, he would instantly have proclaimed it ribald, even raunchy. But from Queen Victoria? Perhaps, his mind flailed desperately, she was suffering from a slight cold.

  Victoria spoke. ‘There is no need for all that bowing and scraping, Mr Horne. After all, it’s not as if we are total strangers, is it?’

  Horne’s face remained impassive. ‘I’m not certain I follow your meaning, Your Majesty.’

  Victoria made a dismissive ‘phooey’ sound. ‘You follow my meaning precisely. At least three of my grandchildren have spoken of you at length, for ‘services rendered,’ as I expect you would put it. And a fourth – well, alas, he is no longer with us. But you know more about that sad case than I, I expect.’ She was silent for a moment, then bade him be seated. ‘So tell me, is it true what people say about you?’

  ‘Again, Your Majesty, you have me at a disadvantage.’

  A look of anger – or, perhaps, mere exasperation – crossed Victoria’s face. ‘Mr Horne. Your reserve and politeness are much appreciated. I am grateful for the respect that you show me. But I am not made of Dresden China. An acknowledgement of the fields in which you work will not cause me to shatter into a thousand fragments of piety and horror – for, if that were the case, I very much doubt that I could have borne my husband nine children. And, may I remind you, not only borne them. I conceived them as well, and I assume you are aware of how that was accomplished? The physical process?’

  ‘I am, Your Majesty.’

  ‘You are. I was married at 21, and conceived my first child during my honeymoon. My second child was born one year later, my third 18 months after that. My ninth and final child was born a month short of my 38th birthday. If the matters of which I wish to speak were so distasteful to me, do you truly believe I would have surrendered to them on quite so regular a basis, and over the course of so many years?’

  ‘No, Your Majesty.’

  ‘And do you suppose, having discovered such transports, that either dignity or morality prevented me from seeking out further delights when I lay with my husband?’

  ‘Again, no, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Thank you. At last, I believe we understand one another. Of course, these days, all I can do is speak of such matters, and I have precious little opportunity for that. But I still have my eyes and my ears, and so the things I cannot do, I read about, and hear about. And I have heard much about you, Mr Horne. I would consider it a favour if, one day, you would inform me if it is all true.’

  ‘I would be honoured, Your Majesty.’

  ‘And I, perhaps, will relate to you some of my own adventures,’ she smiled. ‘Were our ages and positions somewhat less disparate, I am sure we might have discovered much in common.’

  Horne remained silent. He had, he believed, anticipated every direction in which this conversation might lead. But never had he foreseen this. Where, he wondered, was the wily old girl leading him?

  Victoria uncorked another chuckle. As if she were a mind-reader, she repeated back the gist of his last thoughts. ‘Oh yes, Mr Horne, much in common. Including a fascination with, shall we say, the multitude of manners in which one person might express their love for another?’

  ‘Love? Or passion?’ Horne asked.

  ‘There are ti
mes when there is little difference between them,’ Victoria replied. ‘Perhaps passion can live a little longer without love, but love without passion is a sorry proposition indeed. Those two young things outside. Would you say they are in love? Or is it mere passion?’

  ‘I’d say they’re in love,’ answered Horne. ‘I know that, when separated, as they have been, they are miserable. But together, they are as happy as any couple I have seen.’

  ‘I thought that, too,’ Victoria replied. ‘But then I listen to the clucking of my courtiers, and the words of my advisors – great men, intelligent men, noble men – and they would have me believe that such affection is an affront to my Majesty, a crime before society, an abomination in the eyes of the Lord. And I ask myself, who am I to believe?’

  ‘You should believe your own heart, Your Majesty. For, in matters of the heart, which organ of the body is more likely to understand?’

  Again, that chuckle. ‘Oh Mr Horne. Such a question from a man. There is just one organ that a man will even listen to, much less obey, and it is rarely the heart. The ‘hard’ would be nearer the mark. And that includes my Albert, God rest his soul. But, to respond to your words, you are correct. Only the heart understands what other hearts are feeling. And that is why, when a certain piece of legislation was placed before me, I responded as I did.’

  She leaned forward, her voice a conspiratorial whisper, but her eyes gleaming with mischievous delight. ‘Yes, Mr Horne. I know why you are here. I know why you engineered the encounter that I witnessed ... that my entire government witnessed ... this evening, and I know what your employers hope to gain by it all.

  ‘But I will tell you something, and you are free to do whatever you wish with the information. When I struck out those lines in the proposed legislation, and uttered the words that will doubtless live on for as long as my memory survives, it was neither ignorance nor guilt that guided my pen. It was the knowledge that men – and by that word, I do mean men – will utilise any weapon they can, in order to maintain their presumed superiority in this life. And that includes their own absolute ignorance of matters that they know nothing about.

  ‘Two women embrace. Immediately, they are perceived as lesbians. One woman rejects a man’s advances. Immediately, she is a lesbian. I cannot curtail such whisperings. But I could forestall any further, and more damaging malice, and that is precisely what I did.’

  ‘But what of male lovers? They, too, have hearts.’

  Victoria sighed. ‘They do. But they also have friends. You will surely have seen for yourself, on the occasions that a prosecution is brought, the real issue is rarely homosexuality. It is violence, or corruption, or – regrettably, but necessarily – political expediency, a man who is considered dangerous, but who is otherwise guiltless. If a man goes about his business in an orderly fashion, it does not matter who he beds, or how he goes about it. Men can, and do, look after themselves. Women, on the other hand, sometimes need a helping hand, for no man will come to their aid once that particular slur has been thrown in their direction. I was proud to offer them what support I could give.’

  ‘So the girls – Lisa and Rosie. They are free to go?’

  ‘They may go. They may stay. There are always vacancies in the Royal Household and, if there aren’t, I’m sure I can invent some. As for you, Mr Horne, what are your intentions, now that you know the truth?’

  ‘My intentions remain as they have always been. To serve my Queen and my country in the best way I can. I will report back to the gentlemen who commissioned me, and inform them of what I believe to be true. If they wish to pursue their aims, I am certain that Your Majesty has the means to quell their ardour. And, if they choose to abandon them, the very creatures they claim to be representing will no doubt be all the more grateful to them for doing so.’

  ‘Oh, ever the gentleman, Mr Horne,’ Victoria laughed. ‘I do so wish ... but no, that is for my heart, not your ears. But please give my regards to Lady H_____’ (Horne’s mouth fell open; was there nobody in London who did not know of their relationship?) ‘and if, in your adventures together, you should ever require some additional properties, a tiara makes a fine substitute for a crown. In fact, the next time we speak, perhaps you could indulge an old lady with just such a story? For now, however, we must part, I to my own bed, you to – who knows whose?’

  Horne had not expected to see Lady H_____ again until after the election. Her husband, however, was so anxious to commence his campaigning, and so keen to prove that he was worthy of selection, that he left for Ireland just two days later.

  Horne, on the other hand, had disposed of his political responsibilities as swiftly as possible. He wrote letters to the newspapers, extolling Lord H_____’s virtues, and committed his name to be the list of subscribers who would vouchsafe the candidate’s financial pledges to the electorate – a generous sum that was not dissimilar to the fee he collected when he delivered his findings to six anxious MPs, at the appointed time, the following week.

  They heard his words, they accepted his advice and, as Horne told Lady H_____ that same evening, they agreed that there was no more to be said on the subject.

  Lady H_____ sighed loudly. ‘In fact, so far as I can see, the only person who seems not to have profited from this entire affair was myself. I, after all, have been deprived of my parlour maid, barely two weeks after obtaining her.’

  Horne patted her hand with mock sympathy. ‘Never mind, you may have lost a servant, but you have gained, by Royal Command, an entire Kingdom.’ Reaching into his valise, he produced the daintily-wrapped package that had been delivered to his own door that afternoon. Tearing it open, but not so carelessly that she did not preserve the wax crest that bound the folds together, Lady H_____ extracted a glittering silver tiara.

  ‘It is a perfect replica, I believe, of the tiara that Her Majesty wore on the occasion of her marriage to Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg Gotha,’ Horne explained. Lady H_____, however, was more intent on reading the handwritten note that accompanied the gift.

  ‘Neither is it the only replication in which we are invited to partake,’ she said slowly. Rising, she placed the tiara on her head and then, hitching up her skirt, placed one foot on the chair that stood beside her. ‘The events of their Majesties’ wedding night, too, would appear to be demanding an encore performance. And so, my love, I must demand that you kneel, and tell me your heart’s desire, ere I show you mine.’

  Horne obeyed, falling to his knees before her, and reaching out a hand to sweep aside the folds of her clothing. Then a thought occurred to him. ‘Are you sure the word is heart?’

  Lady H_____ laughed, a deep, lascivious laugh that, just for a moment, transported Horne back to his audience with his Queen. ‘Heart,’ ‘hard,’ it makes no difference. Because tonight, my dear Albert, I want to feel them both.

  The Strange Case of the Faberge Phallus

  ‘And I assure you that Holmes is no more dead than I am impotent.’ Ambrose Horne inclined his head, allowed his tongue to scoop up the globule of semen that was pooling against the girl’s nipple, and smacked his lips theatrically. ‘Which I most assuredly am not.’

  Marie sighed as she felt the flash of moist warmth on her breast. ‘But why would he claim to be? What can he possibly hope to gain from such a charade?’

  ‘Newspaper sales,’ Horne replied. ‘Holmes may be a charlatan, but he has an army of devoted followers. Think of this ...’ he reached out for the latest edition of The Strand magazine, which so luridly detailed the demise of Sherlock Holmes amid the torrents of a waterfall in the northern Swiss Alps, ‘... as the first deposit in his investment fund. There will be books, there will be magazine articles, there will be stage plays and theatrical presentations. And Holmes will profit handsomely from each of them. The public loves a hero. But it worships a dead one, and Holmes knows it.’

  It was December 9 1893, and, in years to come, Ambrose Horne would remember that date as though it were tattooed into his soul. But not because that was
the day upon which the world learned of the death (or otherwise) of Sherlock Holmes. He remembered it because it was the day upon which he, too, almost died ... almost drowned, in fact, in an eerie echo of Holmes’ own supposed demise. One thing, however, was certain. For Ambrose Horne, there would be no miraculous resurrection, no return by popular demand. For Horne, death would indeed be death, and the only consolation was – as he was wont to joke in later years – ‘there are worse ways to go.’

  Marie was not destined to become entwined in the events that would unfold as that fateful day progressed; indeed, she was already dressed and preparing to step out of the door into the cab that Horne had just flagged, when the stranger appeared.

  He was a stranger, too. His manner of dress, the florid complexion that peeped over his heavily bearded face, the very manner in which he disported himself, all spoke ‘foreigner’ to anybody who might have paid attention to him; Horne himself registered the new arrival as an eastern European even before the fellow opened his mouth, to introduce himself in that peculiar braying tone that was common, it seemed, to so many of his countrymen.

  ‘Ambrose Horne?’ The man spoke brusquely.

  Horne nodded. ‘I am.’

  ‘Then these are yours.’ Still walking, the man thrust a heavy bundle into Horne’s hand, then marched on without a backward glance, to disappear into the work-bound crowds that were now flocking onto the streets.

  Horne turned to Marie. ‘What a peculiar chap.’ He kissed her goodbye. ‘Until the next time,’ he whispered, and she squeezed his hand. ‘Next time.’

  The cab driver clicked his tongue and the two horses pulled away from the curb; Horne watched until the cab turned the corner, then stepped back into his home, still clutching the bundle that the stranger had handed him. But only once he was seated at the desk did he unwrap it, and carefully lay its contents out before him.