by A. E. Moorat
Above him there was the sound of scuttling as Egg made his way along the rooftops after him, hissing, 'Sor, sor, please stop, I meant no offence. Only that the lady on whose behalf I have agreed to meet with you has asked me to be most careful regarding matters of both confidentiality and security.'
A man and a woman walked past McKenzie arm in arm, giving him an odd look as they did so, having heard him talking to himself in the street like a lunatic, no doubt! He touched a hand to the brim of his top hat in return; then, once they were gone, stopped.
Above him the sound of movement also ceased, and for a moment the street was quite still: the hubbub of Soho in the background, receding laughter from somewhere as a pub deposited more drunks into the street. Then, silence. Just the sound of dripping water hitting brickwork that ran slick with rain and condensation, shining in the dark.
'Who is it then, this lady?' he called, casting his voice up, above the mist and smoke, above the waste both human and animal and above the running water, to the roofs above him. He had a poetic soul, McKenzie did, though nobody he would meet in his short life should ever suspect as such, and in that moment he imagined his voice travelling upwards, flying high, high and as free as a bird.
To the stars.
'I'm sorry, sor?'
'This lady who has you in her employ. Who is it?'
There was a pause, during which McKenzie imagined Egg looking up and down Greek Street. What a vantage point he must have up there. Able to see all around, no doubt.
When no answer came, nor was there any evidence of a reason why an answer might not be forthcoming, McKenzie continued his walk along Greek Street.
'Sor,' came the harried voice from above, to the accompaniment of more sudden scrambling as he negotiated his way across the roofs in pursuit of McKenzie. 'I can give you nothing save her first name, sir, which is Flora,' came the reply, 'and that she works at one of our great country's most prestigious houses, and that in fact she divides her time between homes of equal prestige in service of her employer.'
'I take it, my friend, that it's her employer who provides the interest?'
'There is no doubt at all, sir, that if she were in the employ of a lady belonging to the new middle classes, then, how shall I say it?, the subject under discussion might well be of less interest to a man in your profession. Indeed it is the exalted stature of her employer that leads us to believe you might be willing to pay for the information...sir.'
'Pay for the inform--' McKenzie stopped and brought his cane to the street surface, making a sound like that of a short explosion. 'What on earth makes you think that I will pay for the information?'
From above him came the sound of a stop as though done under emergency circumstances and there was a crash of an upset. A moment passed and a window somewhere was shoved open.
'Oi,' came the screech of an uncouth woman, 'fuck off or I'll whistle for the peelers.'
Both men kept their counsel. Just the sound of dripping water. Soho alive. Shouting, screaming and the smashing of glass; the banging of doors and a dog howling.
'Go on, then,' screeched the harridan, when no reply came, her voice rising above the din, 'fuck off.'
McKenzie looked up and for the first time he saw who it was he was speaking to, an outline at least. Quickly the man drew back from the edge.
McKenzie kept on walking.
'Sor,' said Egg, whispering now, sounding almost hoarse with it. 'Sor, the reason we need payment is that my lady will be forced to leave her employ before divulging the information, for the information is of such a sensitive nature. She tells me that she fears for her life should it be known that the plans to discuss these matters with a man in your profession, sor. Any payments made to her would be necessary to ensure her safety and continued well-being.'
'So the lady would be requiring a lot of money,' said McKenzie. 'How much money would she be requiring, exactly?'
Egg named the price.
McKenzie coughed theatrically, even though the price was what he had been expecting. 'Out of the question,' he said, 'I'm afraid you'll have to tell your mistress to approach another newspaper.'
'Yours is the best reputation in London.'
'Tell her to lower her price and we'll talk.'
'I'm afraid she will not agree to place a lower value on the information she has.'
'Tell me the information and I can be the judge of its worth.'
'I'm afraid I cannot do that, sor.'
'Then I shall have to bid you good night.'
'Very well. Here is how to contact me should you change your mind.'
A stone dropped to the ground at his side, wrapped in a piece of paper, surprising him.
'Egg?'
But there was no reply. The man had gone. McKenzie frowned, picking up the stone and taking from it the piece of paper, which bore the name of a hostelry.
Perhaps he had bluffed too hard, frightened Egg off.
Then again, no. If he held his nerve there was every likelihood Egg would return to him with his price lowered.
McKenzie hoped so. For if there was something in it, the story could potentially be big; certainly if, as McKenzie suspected, 'Flora' was Lady Flora Hastings, one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting.
XI
October, 1839
Buckingham Palace
The Duchess of Sutherland, Harriet Leveson-Gower (such a beautiful, dignified and graceful lady and a perfect choice for her Mistress of the Robes) was selecting Victoria's attire for the day, talking to the Queen as she did so. The main news of the morning, she said, was that several of the palace windows had been broken during the night and that the Lord Steward and the Lord Chamberlain were most aggravated and suspected vandals of the damage.
It was because of me, thought Victoria.
She sat at her dresser, her tea in a Spode china cup before her, regarding herself in the mirror, and she wondered: had vandals hurled rocks at the palace windows in order to register their fury at their Queen? Was she failing them already, her people?
'They really have taken you to their hearts, Your Majesty,' Lord Melbourne used to tell her (in fact, he was regularly telling her this during the first year of her reign, as she had many moments of self-doubt, often believing herself to be too young for the role she was being asked to fulfil). 'You are their Queen.'
She had to admit, however, she had something of a head start when it came to courting the affections of the public, as she was under no illusions as to the esteem in which her predecessors had been held. Determined not to squander that goodwill, she nightly repeated to herself her pledge that she swore to serve and respect her people. During her years at Kensington Palace her mother the Duchess and Sir John Conroy had insisted on instigating a series of what they called progresses, which involved taking the young Victoria on tours across the country. During this period Victoria had been the guest at a great many stately homes up and down the land, and been introduced to what seemed like vast numbers of noble men and dignitaries. She had, during that time, attended her fair share of balls and admired a great many feathered hats. And though she liked nothing better than a ball and was even partial to a combination of plumage and millinery, she found herself increasingly aware that life in the country she was soon to rule over was sharply divided: there were those who were very rich and those who were very poor. As she passed through the Midlands and into the north of England, through her carriage window she would see the poor of the rural areas, dirty and downtrodden, scraping a living in the fields, walking solemnly along roads, their backs bent beneath their load.
She had heard talk of the squalor in London, of course, but here it was in the provinces, too. She told herself then, and repeated to herself the pledge, that as Queen she would make it part of her duties to help those less fortunate than herself.
But in order to help them she needed their trust and now she wondered whether it had already been forfeited through her own silly, selfish actions.
Or, perhaps that
wasn't it.
Maybe the damage was the work of these dark forces Lord Melbourne had spoken of, and her mind went back to that very first day of her sovereignty, when she had met her Prime Minister, specifically to something he had told her: 'In that case Your Majesty, no, we have no evidence nor even any suspicion that Sir John is in any way employed against Your Majesty.'
Over the last two years she had grown to love and trust her Prime Minister. She now referred to him in private as 'Lord M', so the bond was undoubtedly strong, but her thoughts often went back to that moment during their first meeting and what she thought, quite simply, was this: Lord M lied to me then.
'You must trust nobody, ma'am,' he had told her.
Not even you, dear Lord M, she reflected ruefully.
She took her thoughts with her as she dressed, then, as had become her custom, went for a walk in the grounds of the palace.
Though she walked with the Baroness Lehzen the pair were silent, leaving Victoria alone with her thoughts, her breath blooming in the air in front of her.
Why had she allowed Melbourne his lie? she wondered. Perhaps it was because she was happy to have her sovereignty shield her from some of the more unpleasant aspects of the Empire's struggle. Her one encounter with a demon had convinced her that she would rather leave such matters to the Prime Minister and the Protektorate.
Then again, it was a double-edged sword, she supposed. After all, there was nobody more shielded from the secret war between the forces of good and the forces of darkness than the common man. What was the expression? Ignorant bliss, wasn't it? As she walked she wondered if she really did benefit from such a state of affairs. Instead of simply believing that the broken windows had been the work of vandals, which was no doubt the conclusion reached by the majority of those who lived and worked at the Palace, she, with her connections, her ministerial advisers and Royal Protektors, found herself beset by fear and paranoia. Not only that, but it was a strange sort of impotent fear and paranoia. After all, what could she, young Victoria, she with 'the weak and feeble body of a woman' do against demons?
There was at least one consolation, however: there had been no demonic activity in the last two years, certainly none to speak of anyway. Something had to happen soon, though, warned Lord Melbourne. When periods of quiet ended, they often did so with devastating consequences. In the meantime, there were the occasional findings of more than usually suspicious body parts on the banks of the Thames, suspected attacks by hellhounds or other hellish acquiescents, but whether or not it was the work of inhumans was hard to say.
'Sometimes, Your Majesty,' he said to her once sadly, having reported to her the discovery of an horrific baby farm, 'I wonder if humankind really needs a great deal of help from the underworld in order to do itself damage.'
Not that life at court had been dull in the absence of the demonic hordes. Indeed, there was another secret war being waged, that between her and her mother.
Victoria, unwilling to forgive her mother for her friendship with Sir John Conroy, had, when they moved the household from Kensington to Buckingham Palace, arranged for the Duchess to occupy apartments some way from those of her own. This infuriated her mother, who, it was clear, still hoped for a measure of influence in Royal affairs. The Duchess would try and contact Victoria, scribbling furious notes requesting permission for an audience. In return, Victoria would scribble notes in reply, bearing but one word: 'busy'.
The Duchess had been at the Coronation, of course, where the ceremony was long and muddled and, if Victoria were honest, erring on the side of dull, until something happened.
Something she would mull over later. The speed. How it was pure instinct.
Because as the ageing Lord Rolle approached the Queen in order to pay homage, he lost his footing, and in the same instant Victoria was reaching forward, her hand shooting out to save him. Then, she stopped herself, with a cry, turning the movement into something else, as poor Lord Rolle, in a manner befitting his name, returned to the bottom of the steps.
There was a gasp. Those assembled thought of protocol. Then the Queen rose to her feet, very quickly ran down the steps, sending her ladies-in-waiting into a minor panic, and bent down in order to help up the Lord, a gesture that was accompanied by a spontaneous round of applause led by Lord Melbourne.
Westminster Abbey had never witnessed anything quite like it.
Victoria thought only of how she had been able to stop Rolle-she had been quick enough to do it-but hadn't, because...
Why?
Because some other instinct told her not to.
Then came the moment when a new Queen was crowned, and it was as though the Abbey seemed to shimmer when those assembled put on their coronets. Trumpets were sounded and from outside came the salute of booming cannons to signal the fact that England had its new Queen.
At that moment she looked up into the gallery of Westminster Abbey, and saw her mother, her hands clasped in front of her, held to her face.
And beside her mother was Sir John Conroy, who stood with his hands behind his back, his hair in a ponytail, cheekbones casting dark shadows, his eyes black.
Victoria was bestowed her crown, her orb, her sceptre and, with absolute composure and dignity, she returned to her carriage, passing back through the streets of London, lined with her subjects, still smiling and waving, and back to Buckingham Palace.
There she gave Dash his bath.
Some tasks were sacred, Queen or not.
There had been times, during the difficult year that followed, when she had looked back on the day of her Coronation as being the last time she was truly happy. Not least of the scandals that had rocked the court in her first year of sovereignty was the business with Lady Flora Hastings. And who should be at the centre of that?
Conroy.
The Queen had dismissed him from her own life, but he remained involved with her mother, and was still her comptroller. He had taken Hastings as a mistress, and when she was thought to be pregnant a scandal broke out within the court. However the poor woman was not pregnant; she had an abdominal growth, which had turned out to be an advanced, cancerous tumour, and she had died.
Victoria had not been kind to Hastings, she knew. Nor about her.
But she paid the price for her unkindness when news papers picked up on the story and shortly afterwards, travelling through London in her carriage one day, Victoria had waved at some members of the public and they had not returned her wave; worse, they had hissed at her, as a mob might do to a criminal.
She was shocked and hurt. Somehow she had not expected the public to know there was another side to the story, and she had pushed herself back into the seat of her carriage, attempting a smile for the Baroness (who saw through it, of course), and felt a mixture of feelings: frustration, grief and sorrow.
She looked back on that incident now. There had been wrong done, she knew that. She had not been as diplomatic or as sympathetic as she would have liked to have been; she had allowed her feelings for Sir John Conroy-and therefore Lady Flora-to influence her judgement.
She had promised herself not to make such a mistake again.
And she had tried to keep that promise.
Throughout the year there had been little time for Victoria's mind to wander and consider matters of the heart; she had to admit that on occasion it had. And on such occasions, it wandered across the sea, to Germany, to the house of Saxe-Coburg. And Albert.
They had parted on good terms. She thought now of his very handsome countenance, not forgetting the immediate friendship that had sprung up between he and Dash. And, oh, there was something else, too, for not only was he handsome but there was something about him so upright, so moral and principled. It was difficult to imagine Albert enmeshed in the squabbles and petty politics that seemed to infect life at court like a dose of the flu. She imagined him above all that and what a support such a figure could be: his impartiality a wonderful asset; his wisdom a great strength, both qualities she longed to hav
e at her side. Of course Lord M was a wonderful confidante and mentor, and there was no doubt his advocacy had been most beneficial during these early days of her reign, but, friend though he was, he was also a politician and she was under no illusions about that.
Would Albert have allowed her to make the mistakes she did during the Lady Flora Hastings affair? Undoubtedly with a greater measure of sagacity than the advice she was given.
He could be an asset to the crown, she knew-an asset to her: handsome, kind and fair.
But did he feel the same way? After all, she had heard whispers of his reluctance; that her love of music and dancing was not to his taste; in addition it had reached her ears that he had once described her as 'stubborn', the cheek of him.
Would he want her?
As Queen it was up to her to make any marriage proposal; the idea of that proposal being rejected was out of the question. To do so would create a rift between the two houses. Uncle Leopold, pressing so hard for the liaison that he had organised another visit, would never allow it.
She couldn't help but grieve the process, though. Like anybody, she hoped to marry for love first, duty second. Like any woman she wanted to be romanced by a suitor who placed her on a pedestal. How would she know how Albert felt if the time came?
So, she had been quite clear about this, writing to Leopold, telling him that Albert must understand that 'there was no engagement between us'. She had never given any indication that she would promise to marry him, she said, and did not propose to do so now. She added, with a little wry understatement, that from what she had seen of Albert, she very much liked him, and indeed thought he made a most agreeable friend and relation, but there was to be no more to it than that. Even if there was, she continued, she 'could make no final promise this year for, at the very earliest, any such event could not take place till two or three years hence.'
Reluctant, she had thought, smiling, applying her wax seal. We shall see who is reluctant.