Queen Victoria: Demon Hunter

by A. E. Moorat

  'Gentlemen,' said a prominent Whig, somewhat put out at having to pass along the corridor thus, 'might I ask the rules of this distraction?'

  'My Lord, it is very simple,' said Lord Fawcett. 'This heavy medicine ball, here, is rolled slowly and carefully along the floor, to here...'

  He, his manservant, the prominent Whig and Sir George Kraft all turned to inspect the pins.

  'The object being,' he continued, 'to gently touch one or more pins, those pins on the outside being the lower scoring pins. Any pins knocked down will...'

  'Gentleman, gangway please,' came a shout from the other end of the passage and all looked in its direction to see Lord Quimby, having taken up the medicine ball, adopt a low stance and swing it back behind him with all the prowess of an Olympian athlete.

  'No, sir...' exclaimed Lord Fawcett, too late because Quimby had released the ball and was springing into a standing position as it barrelled at great speed down the corridor and struck the cluster of pins, bringing each and every one crashing to the floor.

  'Excellent variation on skittles, gentlemen,' roared Quimby with a grin as he strode down the corridor towards where they stood, speechless. 'Have you thought about some fingerholes for the ball, perhaps? Give it a bit of extra grip? Otherwise, wonderful stuff. Mine's the score to beat, looks like.'

  And with that he stepped over the fallen pins and beyond them as they watched him go, none of them yet able to articulate a response.

  For Quimby's part, it was quite the diversion he needed, as he strode along the passages of the club: a welcome respite from the serious matters to which he must attend, this assignation, for example.

  First he went to the library where he glanced left and right, then sat at a seat, looked at the shelves and selected a suitably positioned book, Memoirs of a Madman by Gustave Flaubert, from the shelves and opened it. He took a knife from his pocket and used it to cut out a large section of pages creating a gap between the covers in which he might secrete the knife. With that done he replaced Memoirs of a Madman on the shelf, threw the sheaf of removed pages on the fire and exited the room, happy that he was adequately prepared for his meeting with-and oh, how it irked him to think of it-his blackmailer, an assignation that found him ruefully reflecting on the events of the last couple of years, the cumulative effect of which threatened to ruin him.

  Blackmailed! To think of it. Here he was, yet again, pocket weighed down by a small leather drawstring purse intended for his nemesis.

  Though, he mused, darkly, not for much longer, perhaps.

  What cheered him up was to see the Prime Minister, Lord Melbourne, sitting alone in the news room where members habitually spent time alone with a copy of The Times.

  It pleased Quimby greatly to make implications regarding the affair he had once had with the Prime Minister's wife, Lady Caroline Ponsonby, now deceased. In fact, it was an almost unlimited source of entertainment to him, as it was well known in social circles that Quimby had introduced the Prime Minister's wife to the delights of cunnilingus. It was well known, of course, because Quimby had been characteristically indiscreet about the fact; indeed, had made imitation of the Prime Minister's wife in the throes of orally induced passion his party piece (and ensured that there was no shortage of willing society ladies ready to assume the dear departed Lady Caroline's position in Quimby's bed. Whatever position that might be).

  Added to Quimby's merriment was the fact that prior to being bedded by him Lady Caroline had enjoyed a very public affair with Lord Byron, an episode during which she had coined the enduring description of Byron as being 'mad, bad and dangerous to know'.

  Poor Lord Melbourne. The catchphrase cuckold.

  Sometimes, reflected Quimby, it was difficult to know when to start when it came to the business of ridiculing the Prime Minister. A hard task indeed.

  Nevertheless, someone had to do it.

  'Gracious,' he said, approaching the leather armchair from behind, 'Lord Melbourne. It is you. The way you were holding your paper, why, it almost looked as though you were wearing a pair of horns.'

  He dropped into the armchair opposite Melbourne and revelled in the baleful stare of the Prime Minister. Melbourne was no doubt more used to being fawned over in court where his scandal lent him a certain romantic notoriety. Yet this was a character facet entirely indiscernible to anybody who knew the tawdry truth, which was simply this: that Melbourne was a man who loved his wife who had humiliated him, and who in death continued to do so. His tragedy was that he loved her then; that he never stopped loving her, and that he loved her still.

  'Quimby,' said Melbourne icily, 'I rather thought you had been blackballed from The Reform.'

  'Oh no, Prime Minister. The Athenaeum, the Travellers, Brooks', the Houses of Lords and Commons. From all of these I have been blackballed, but not yet The Reform, I'm pleased to say.'

  'Ah well,' said the Prime Minister, deciding on the spot to carry on along Pall Mall to the Travellers Club in future, where he could be assured of never having to bump into Quimby, 'I'm sure there's plenty of time for you to be blackballed here, too.'

  'Let's hope, eh, Prime Minister?'

  'In the meantime, what brings you here?'

  'Oh, a meeting,' said Quimby airily. 'I'm blackmailed. Undone!'

  Melbourne smiled thinly. 'Nothing too trivial, one hopes.'

  'As the custard-covered kitchen staff might say, it is but a trifle. Are you aware of a new technique called photogenic drawing?'

  'I must confess not,' sighed Melbourne, singularly unamused.

  'Photogenic drawing is a process by which one can capture a still image of an individual involved in all manner of indiscretions,' said Quimby, adding impishly, 'One's spouse, even...'

  Melbourne said nothing, refusing to give Quimby the satisfaction.

  'As you can imagine, my Lord, it can be employed in a most unfortunate application for a gentleman of my proclivities.'

  'Well, Quimby,' sighed Melbourne, 'I can but hope there is not so much as a sliver of truth to what you say. Oh, how it would truly pain me to see you either bankrupt or at the gallows.'

  'Quite, quite.'

  The two men were interrupted for a moment as a waiter bearing a tray and two glasses of port approached, bending to allow them to take one each, which they did, in frosty silence. Taking advantage of the interruption, Quimby's eyes raked the room: the leather chairs, tasselled gaslight shades, bookshelves. There was yet no sign of the man inveigling himself into the surroundings. His membership had been one of the many conditions of the extended extortion, and there were times Quimby wasn't sure what irked him more: the fact that the blackguard took his money, or the fact that he had used Quimby as a passport to the higher echelons.

  The waiter backed away, bowing low. Melbourne rustled his Times as though to signal his resumption of reading and raised the paper to obscure his face entirely.

  Quimby leaned forward and placed his hand in the fold, drawing down the paper to reveal the Prime Minister's resentful gaze.

  'What now, man?' said Lord Melbourne testily.

  'I wondered, what news of the Queen, Melbourne? How is Her Majesty?'

  'She adapts to sovereignty with great fortitude,' sighed Melbourne, with the self-satisfied air of a man regurgitating a well-worn soundbite, the telling of which nevertheless reflected well upon him.

  'Under your tutelage no doubt,' rejoined Quimby. 'I'm certain you wield quite the silver tongue?'

  Melbourne shot Quimby a withering look then raised his newspaper, shaking it to register both disgust and finality.

  Behind it he sighed, thinking, indeed, of the Queen, and of her walking angrily ahead of him as they exited the Browns' cottage in the grounds of Buckingham Palace. She had left him in her wake, hurrying to catch her up and feeling every day of his fifty-eight years.

  'The feverish visions of a boy,' she had raged, her arms working as she moved swiftly across the lawn, 'you ask me to sacrifice it all for the ravings of a schoolboy. My love fo
r Albert, the approval of my family, the joining of the two houses.'

  'Please, Your Majesty, I pray you stop so that we may discuss this.'

  She did so, spinning on her heel, one hand at her bonnet as though it were in danger of being torn off by the speed her fury generated.

  'Lord Melbourne,' she said as he came skidding to a halt, 'you have placed before me every conceivable reason why I might not marry Albert. That I'm too young. That he's too young, that he is interested only in my wealth, that he is too lowly. And now...this. This tactic I cannot even dignify with a name.'

  'Your Majesty, young John's visions have in the past proved very--'

  'You tell me he can see the future?'

  'Well, yes, ma'am, he has in the past--'

  'Really? Then why are the family not rich on their winnings?'

  'I don't think it works quite like that, ma'am.'

  'Did he predict your defeat by Sir Robert Peel?'

  'No ma'am, he didn't...'

  'No, he didn't. Has he any other sage words of wisdom for his country or monarch save a sense of discord involving men who speak the German language? How very convenient, Lord Melbourne, that it should be German. Ja, es ist sehr gunstig.'

  'Ma'am, not for the first time you have me in awe of your linguistic skills. Neither can I fault your logic which, as usual, you wield with the skilled precision of a surgeon, but--'

  'Pretty words, Melbourne,' she snapped.

  The air was very still about them.

  'Perhaps,' she added, taking a step forward that forced him to move back, 'what concerns you is not a matter of age or station, nor even of politics or international diplomacy; rather you fear Albert shall replace you as my mentor; that in future my counsel will be delivered with a German accent. Is that it, Melbourne, do you think?'

  'Ma'am--'

  She held up a hand to silence him.

  'That is all, Lord Melbourne,' she said, curtly. 'Now kindly point me in the direction of the Palace.'

  'It's that way, ma'am,' he said, pointing in the opposite direction to the one in which she was making for.

  She harumphed and brushed past him as she began walking, very swiftly, back to the Palace, leaving him chastened and pondering in her wake.

  Silver tongue? Not that Quimby's innuendo was lost on him, of course. Indeed, he was most sensitive to almost any remark pertaining to oral activity, and was known to flinch at the very mention of the name Byron, never mind repetition of that dreadful epithet. But silver tongue? Not then. Perhaps she was right, the Queen. Perhaps he revelled in his position as her advisor; perhaps he enjoyed their...intimacy? Was that it? Whatever it was, it was an intimacy afforded ever more rarely to him. Perhaps he enjoyed it too much.

  Opposite him, Quimby jerked upright and the Prime Minister noticed a flicker of displeasure across his previously amused features. Melbourne found himself wanting to turn around in his chair to see who it was that had caused Quimby such vexation but preferred that Quimby should think he took no interest in his affairs, so remained as he was.

  'Your meeting is here, it seems,' he said, instead.

  'Indeed,' said Quimby, who stood. 'Another time, Prime Minster,' he said.

  'I shall look forward to it,' said Melbourne.

  By the time he thought it safe to turn and look, Quimby and his guest were nowhere to be seen.

  As Quimby and his blackmailer made their way to the library, Quimby reflected that he had been right all along about the possible uses for the photogenic drawing equipment, man of great prescience that he was. Not that he had any call to congratulate himself, though. Absolutely not. The situation had brought him nothing but heartache.

  It had not been long after the gruesome events of that evening that Talbot's accursed assistant, Craven, had paid him a visit at the house. Perkins had let him in clad, as he always was then, in a large scarf wrapped around his neck to obscure the wound left by the zombie's bite. It was not the correct attire for a manservant indoors, even during winter, as it was now, and it had raised questions with other members of staff, who had noticed a difference in Perkins and at first begun avoiding him, then, one by one, leaving Quimby's employ, much to his chagrin.

  In addition, Perkins now walked with a pronounced limp. He and Quimby had tried to effect some emergency maintenance on his severed leg; his own had, unfortunately, been too severely chewed for use as a prosthetic, so instead they had sawn off Sugar's leg and used that in its place, affixing it by hammering wooden staples into it then tying it with bandages, and when hidden by his trousers, socks and shoes, there was no way of telling that one of Perkins' legs had had a previous owner, aside from the limp.

  Quimby knew, however. As he'd watched Perkins sawing off Sugar's leg, he had noted with a mixture of gratification, regret and no small measure of sexual excitement that Sugar had followed his somewhat unorthodox pre-orgy instructions to the letter by painting her toenails bright red and that, just as he had predicted, the painted toenails did indeed cast the foot in a most erotic light.

  A most erotic light.

  However, the leg was now attached to Perkins, and this Quimby found most confusing since he still found himself luxuriating in the sight of the leg and its brazen painted toenails, even though it was no longer attached to Sugar and her promise of musky nights, but to Perkins, his manservant. Indeed, often, and on the pretext of 'giving the leg some air', Quimby had his manservant remove his shoe and sock, and would cast furtive, charged glances at the foot.

  Together they had realised that the only way to arrest the decaying process, which applied to both physical and mental faculties, was to see to it that Perkins had a constant supply of fresh meat. Messrs Burke and Hare junior had been reassigned to ensure that new corpses were regularly admitted to the house. No doubt the two of them were privately dismayed that his Lordship somehow detected corpses that were older than a day or so, little knowing that he now had in his household a personage of refined tastebuds when it came to human flesh and the decomposition thereof. Indeed, Perkins' palate in this regard was so sophisticated that he and Quimby had devised a most amusing game in which Perkins was blindfolded and took the 'taste test' wherein he was usually able to determine the gender of the meat's source as well as the area of the body from whence it had been sliced.

  Throughout all of this, however, Perkins had remained in excellent spirits, and at no point had he neglected his duties as a manservant, including showing guests to his Lordship's study, which he had done that evening, guiding Craven to a seat in front of the fire, opposite where Quimby sat.

  Quimby had thanked Perkins and watched him leave, knowing that he would be pressed up to the door listening in, as was the plan should this set of circumstances arise.

  'Is your manservant suffering from a cold, sir?' asked Craven, as the door shut, arranging himself in his seat. 'He lacks colour, and I notice that he is wearing a scarf.'

  'Indeed,' said Quimby. 'Poor old Perkins is a martyr to his chest.'

  'An accident to the foot also, sir?' enquired Craven.

  'Quite. Poor fellow. Most clumsy of him.'

  'May I ask, was this wound sustained during the conflict of the other evening?'

  'Why, I really don't know what you're talking about, man,' said Quimby crossly. He'd already decided to call the man's bluff.

  'I have in my possession a photogenic drawing that might aid your memory, sir.'

  'Do you indeed? Do you...have it with you?'

  'I do, sir.'

  'Come on then, let's see it.'

  Quimby stood and came around to the front of the desk.

  Craven produced a large metal plate on which there was an image. He handed it to Quimby, who murmured a thank you, pretending to study it carefully as he moved to stand behind Craven.

  The image showed Quimby-from the side, although it was recognisably him-surveying the carnage in the library. Clearly visible in the foreground was Miss Corwent, who was sitting on her haunches with Fanny's dismembered arm up
to her mouth. In the background Jacqueline was feasting on Sugar's entrails.

  It was, indeed, a most incriminating image.

  Which was why, in one uninterrupted movement, Quimby tossed it into the fire, snatched from the fireplace a thick, heavy candlestick holder and raised it ready to bring it down as hard as was possible on the back of Craven's head.

  'That, Lord Quimby, was a copy,' said Craven calmly, unmoved by the destruction of his photogenic drawing, which blazed in the fire grate.

  Quimby hesitated.

  'A copy?' he said.

  'Yes, my lord,' said Craven, 'It was a photogenic drawing of the original photogenic drawing.'

  'I see,' said Quimby. He lowered the candlestick holder. 'And where is the original now?'

  'No need for your concern, your Lordship, it's in a very safe place. Nobody could possibly find it if they didn't know where to look.'

  'Excellent.'

  Quimby raised the candlestick.

  'Your Lordship,' said Craven, 'I must tell you that you have neglected to close your curtains. I can quite clearly see you reflected in the window.'

  Quimby looked up to see the mirror image of Craven, seated, with him standing behind him, the candlestick raised. Infuriatingly, Craven waved at him.

  Quimby lowered the candlestick once more.

  'Nobody can find it, the original photogenic drawing?' he asked Craven's reflection.

  'No, sir,' smiled Craven.

  'Then I don't need to worry about it, do I?' said Quimby.

  'Well, actually, yes, sir, because...'

  But he never finished his sentence because behind him Quimby had raised the candlestick once more, and now brought it down with a heavy thud, the blow tearing a flap from the back of Craven's skull and sent him smashing forward to the desk, blood and stinking grey brain matter splashing to the table surface with a wet slap.