by A. E. Moorat
McKenzie, looking up, saw an urchin at the alley entrance, watching them. He waved the boy away, then turned his attention to Egg.
'You've led me a merry dance, lad,' he said, sweeping his hat from his head and wiping perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. His whiskers dripped wet; his thick winter coat felt heavy with it. Damn the boy.
'I've not wanted to be found, sor,' said Egg, still breathing heavily. He was as unfit as McKenzie or so it seemed. The reporter made a mental note to report this fact to the fellow drinkers at the Quill & Pen on Fleet Street the next time he paid that particular hostelry a visit.
'Well, it grieves me to say you've no choice in the matter, boy, you've set the ball rolling. I wouldn't be much of a journalist if I wasn't to try and follow this story now, would I?'
Egg looked up at the back wall of the alley. It loomed over him, streaked with something he took to be human effluent: too sheer to climb, too high to jump up to, making escape nigh on impossible-using that route at least. Then his eye was caught by something else. For high up on the wall sat a young boy, cheeks black with coal dust, staring impassively down at him.
Egg wondered how the boy had reached so high. He must be a child belonging to one of the adjoining houses, he thought, who had crawled out of a window.
Glancing back at McKenzie, who stood with his hands to his knees, near doubled over as he caught his breath, Egg then turned his attention back to the little boy. 'You must be careful up there, my child,' he called to the waif, whose expression did not change in response. 'That's a very high wall to be sitting on, you know.'
The poor child probably cleaned chimneys for pennies, thought Egg. Indeed, he had heard of some of the cruelties visited upon these urchins; that they were apt to fall asleep up a chimney, they were worked so hard; or that, worse, they would become stuck in the chimney, unable to move up or down, and that in these situations it was common practice for the owner of the sweep to light a fire beneath the poor mite, which would, of course, do for him, nine times out of ten. Looking at it like that, supposed Egg, well perhaps the young 'un was better off at the top of the wall and certainly in no more danger than he might have been at street level and, what's more, was probably far more used to heights than Egg himself.
'Your concern for the lad does you credit,' rasped McKenzie, who had drawn closer, 'now how about you and I talk?'
'I've nothing more to say, sor. They've already tried to kill me once.'
'Yes, and your continued silence plays right into their hands.'
'Why is that, sor?'
'Because you haven't gone public yet. They want to get to you before you tell other people. The only way to stop them is to come with me. I can protect you. Help me with this, because if we can verify some of this information you've so far imparted, we have a huge story on our hands. A huge story, Egg. Have you any idea how big this could be?'
Egg was now flattened against the back wall, intimidated by McKenzie's greater physical presence. With his back to the brick he looked upwards as though the geography of the barrier might have changed and steps might have magically appeared.
They had not. What Egg did see, however, was that the first urchin had been joined by a second. Over McKenzie's shoulder he saw two more of the children at the mouth of the alley. As he watched, two more appeared. Then more.
'Egg,' continued McKenzie, 'if what you've told me about the Queen is true this could be the biggest story of the age, with me its author and you its source. We'd be rich men, Egg, and famous. The talk of the town, the toast of society. Don't you want that? Or do you want to live out your life mopping the entrails of vermin from rat pits?'
'Sor?'
'Yes.'
'I think you'd better look behind you, sor.'
Something in Egg's voice, the man's eyes, convinced McKenzie he was not the intended victim of a ruse and he turned.
Behind him, in the width of the alley, stood a number of urchins. More of them, he could see, were entering the alley. They moved in a mechanical, robotic manner.
Beside Egg, feet slapped to the cobbles as sweeps dropped from the wall beside him. One, two, three, four of them.
Until Egg and McKenzie were surrounded.
XXVIII
The same time
General Cemetery, Kensal Green
'Perkins?'
'Yes, sir?'
'You have my permission to eat these chimney sweeps.'
'Sir?'
'Go ahead, man. Fill your boots.'
'But sir-they are but children.'
Quimby looked at him, disbelief on his face. 'So?'
'We cannot kill children, sir.'
'Perkins,' said Quimby from the side of his mouth, deciding now that diplomacy might be the best way to deal with his reluctant manservant, and keeping his voice down, 'these are feral children, obviously, and little better than animals. I know full well that you are hungry...'
'Famished, sir.'
'Quite. Thus, here is your chance to kill two birds with one stone. Sate your appetite and get us out of this most unfortunate situation.'
The children, stood, motionless, looking almost cherubic at, though Quimby was struck by the proximity of angelic to diabolic-how their smiles, that had at first seemed so benign, were in fact blank and pitiless.
'I cannot eat a child, sir.'
Quimby wondered whether or not this was the best time to tell Perkins about the provenance of some of the more tender meat he had been enjoying of late. There had been a particular batch that Perkins had praised for its distinctive 'smoked' taste-a consignment Burke and Hare had called the 'Lazy Sweeps'. No, decided Quimby, it was not the best time to reveal that to Perkins. Perhaps that could wait until later.
If there was a later.
'I'm not sure these are actual children,' argued Quimby, 'after all what normal child could do that to a man?'
To illustrate he put his toe to the head of Hare, which rolled slightly on the grass, earth spilling from its mouth.
'But they are children all the same, sir, and children under a spell or so it seems.'
Quimby took a deep breath, ready to tell his manservant in no uncertain terms that if he did not neutralise the youthful threat-preferably by tearing at least one of them limb from bloody limb to teach the rest of them a lesson-then he had better start looking for employment elsewhere, speaking of which, did he know of any other members of the nobility likely to welcome the walking dead into their home? No. So plenty of luck finding suitable employment elsewhere. Now kill one of these children before I lose my bloody temper...
And Quimby was on the point of saying all this, when there came a voice.
'Gentlemen,' it said. 'Do not be alarmed.'
A figure moved forward. A man who wore a three-cornered hat and whose mouth was covered by a black scarf. He had long hair, Quimby saw, that hung in a ponytail from beneath his hat.
'These delightful children mean you no harm,' said the man, 'and neither do I. Quite the opposite, in fact. We all have your best interests at heart. I had rather hoped our gifts to you might have convinced you of that.' He indicated the severed heads of Burke and Hare. 'A little offering,' he added, 'a gesture of goodwill in the hope of gaining your trust, or at the very least taking the first step towards doing so-towards what I hope may well be the beginning of a fruitful relationship. For I am hoping that we may be able to help one another, you and I.'
Relieved that his own head was not about to join those on the ground, and able to savour the fact that Burke and Hare had very much been put out of his misery, still Quimby was nevertheless wary, saying, 'Whatever manner of help it is you require, I suggest an introduction might be a good start to the relationship.'
'Indeed,' and the man reached to pull down the scarf that covered his face. 'Please allow me to introduce myself,' he said. 'My name is Sir John Conroy.'
XXIX
'Conroy's "gone"? What do you mean, "gone"?'
Queen Victoria glowered at Ma
ggie Brown and Lord M, both of whom were afraid, very afraid. For without having slept since the terrible events of the night, stopping only to be seen by Dr Locock, to whom she'd offered the excuse that she had fallen out of bed, and who did not, of course, question her explanation, Victoria was already on the warpath.
It was her first day at work, and life in the Protektorate was never going to be quite the same again.
The Prime Minister and Maggie Brown had been summoned to the Green Drawing Room first thing. If asked, Lord Melbourne might have said that he expected to see the Queen in a state of shock, worrying and fretting, with occasional outbursts of temper; in short, it was the handkerchief queen that he expected to see in the drawing room that morning.
Maggie Brown, of course, had a better idea of how to expect Her Majesty, having been given a glimpse of her resolve at the roadside, just a few hours earlier. Yet even she, had it been enquired of her, would have admitted that she had anticipated the sovereign to be a little more compliant and acquiescent in the cold light of day. In fact: 'I think we can probably talk her out of it,' she had told Melbourne as they made their way to the drawing room that morning, 'she was determined last night, all right. Matter of fact, I've rarely seen anyone so resolved, but even so, I think we can appeal to her sense of duty. She has a country to run after all.'
Melbourne was more concerned with Maggie's attire. For in order to explain her presence at court she was required to look as though she belonged there, as though she spent long hours alone with the Queen, in fact, and so after considering and discarding several suggestions as to an alias, among them gardener, cook, cleaner and hairdresser, they were eventually forced to alight on Maggie's least favourite option, nevertheless, the most sensible one: lady-in-waiting.
So it was that for the first time in living memory-perhaps even in her life-that Maggie Brown, needless to say not without much cursing and resentment, wore skirts.
'You look a delight, Maggie,' Melbourne had said as they walked.
'Fuck off,' glowered Maggie in reply.
'Mrs Brown, such language! And hardly becoming of one of the Queen's trusted ladies-in-waiting. Really, if you're to pass as one you must act as one.'
'I'll must act a dagger into your ribs if you keep this up, Melbourne,' she growled.
He smiled. 'At least you have a head start in matter of behaviour,' he said. 'It occurs to me that you must be quite an expert in Royal etiquette, having spent so much time watching over the Queen.'
'Well, I know how to pour a cup of tea, and I can talk like I've got something lodged in my rectum, if that's what you mean,' said Maggie.
'Correct me if I'm wrong, Maggie, but I happen to think there's a little bit more to it than tea and rectums. And if you're to be a convincing lady-in-waiting you'll need to behave in the correct way at all times.'
'Shove it up your jacksy, Prime Minister.'
'Starting with your gait, Maggie. Really, you know, this is court, not the heathen colonies and correct me if I'm wrong but is that a broadsword in your skirts or are you just jolly pleased to see me?'
'You didn't expect me to come unarmed, for God's sakes,' she hissed, 'there was an attempt on the lassie's life last night.'
'Was there?' Melbourne became serious. 'Do you think so?'
'Well, no, as it happens, I don't. You ask me, those beasts were after Albert and Albert only.'
'And you think a ransom demand is their objective?'
'Aye, in the first instance, but more to the point that's what we should let the lassie believe.'
'For what reason, Maggie?'
'Because there's likely to be more to it than meets the eye.'
'And what might that be?' said the Prime Minister.
'Misdirection. So that we're looking in the direction of the burning stable while he's ransacking the house behind us.'
'Quite, quite,' said Melbourne, deep in thought. 'There would seem to be more expeditious ways of achieving the same effect. How about this? The Prince is a great reformer-a great reformer with the monarch's ear. He has the plight of the workers at heart and the ability to influence the monarchy-which is not such a good combination for those who would like to see an uprising.'
'Remove Albert, remove the likelihood of pacifying the masses...'
'Quite.'
'Increase the likelihood of revolt.'
'Exactly. And in the case of a revolution, who should be installed as leader? Why, he who orchestrated the rebellion, of course. Our very own Sir John Conroy.'
And then they were being admitted to the drawing room, where they awaited the Queen. And Hicks, who was installed somewhere in the room unbeknownst to Melbourne, made remarks about Maggie's attire for which he would no doubt pay dearly later on-and then the Queen was entering.
And talking to them.
No, in fact, she was talking at them.
And Melbourne began to understand quite what Maggie Brown had meant when she spoke of the Queen's determination and resolve, while beside him Maggie Brown realised she had rather underestimated the Queen's determination and resolve and now felt a little silly for not having predicted that it would have increased in the time since Albert's disappearance, rather than diminished.
And the two of them were having to face up to the answer to the Queen's opening questions, which had been, 'Where is he? Where is Conroy?'
Lord Melbourne had cleared his throat. 'I'm afraid we don't know, ma'am,' he said, 'He's gone.'
'What do you mean, he's gone?'
'Ma'am, it would be insulting your intelligence were I to express it any more euphemistically than that. All we can say at this stage is that it appears Sir John has disappeared for good. Clearly his preparations for departure were intended to partly distract the Protektorate, then he used the cover of the kidnap to flee.'
Queen Victoria stared at Lord Melbourne for a long time.
'You were watching Conroy?'
'Yes ma'am.'
'And why was that?'
Maggie and the PM shuffled uncomfortably, neither replying.
'Lord M,' pressed the Queen, 'why was Sir John Conroy under surveillance?'
'Well, Your Majesty--'
'When,' she held up a finger to stop him, 'you specifically told me that you had no reason to believe Conroy was a threat. Why was he under surveillance?'
'Well, Your Majesty--'
'Stop, Lord Melbourne. I want you to consider your next words very carefully. For you and I have met at least once a day for some time now, and it may surprise you to learn this, but I know when you are lying to me, Lord Melbourne. Your nostrils flare slightly, did you know that?'
'I can't say that I did, Your Majesty,' replied Melbourne, his nostrils flaring somewhat.
'Then you had better ponder on your next words,' ordered the Queen, 'and I shall give you time to do so, for...Maggie.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
Victoria's voice softened. 'Firstly, let me say again, Maggie, how grateful I am for the actions of the Protektorate last night. How sad I am that it resulted in the loss of Hudson, who behaved with such bravery I can hardly relate. The condolences of the Queen go out to his family and I trust you shall see this sentiment relayed. I am placing Lord Melbourne in charge of seeing to it that his family are most generously provided for. Can I be sure my wishes will be carried out, Lord M?'
'Yes, ma'am,' said Melbourne, whose nostrils did not flare on this occasion.
'Secondly, Maggie, I would like to compliment you on your attire, which I think suits you.'
'Thank you, ma'am.'
'Though I think in order to carry off the subterfuge successfully, you should perhaps be more discreet with the sword.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'Thirdly, Maggie, now is the time to make good on your assurances of last night. Please, if you will, take me to the Quartermaster.'
They began to walk, first along the cavernous galleries of the palace, then moving into the smaller corridors, where there were fewer portraits and the light w
as less generous, and then deeper into the bowels of the castle, where there were no portraits, just grey, rough stone walls, and there was even less light, until they were walking along passages below ground, and there was no light apart from what which was provided by flaming torches placed at irregular intervals along the route. Maggie led the way, somewhat erratically. Unused to movement in the long crinoline skirts, especially at this pace, she found herself constantly in danger of tripping forward until Victoria, spotting her discomfort gave her a surreptitious lesson in skirt-hitching.
As they travelled down, deep down into the recesses of the palace, Victoria bade Melbourne speak (and stopped him, more than once, to assess the diameter of his nostrils), commanding that he apprise her of all that was known about activities of the demons, and, most importantly, what he knew of Sir John Conroy.
Which he did, in a fashion. In the sense that he told her that they suspected Conroy of being an inhuman; that they thought he might try to wrest power, perhaps by providing the spark to a revolution.
'And you allowed this man to stay in close proximity to my family? To live under my roof?' she said, curtly. 'When you suspected him not only of being a demon, but of plotting to overthrow the monarchy?'
'Your Majesty, there is an old military aphorism that contends one should keep one's allies close, but one's enemies even closer.'
'I see. So what you're telling me is that it is thanks to the rigorous application of an aphorism that my husband is now missing?'
'Not quite, Your Majesty. You see, Sir John was, after all, your mother's comptroller and private secretary. There was little we could do save to see to it that his influence was kept to a minimum.'
'And my mother? How is she?'
'As far as we know she is well, Your Majesty. Naturally she is concerned as to the whereabouts of Sir John.'