Queen Victoria: Demon Hunter

by A. E. Moorat

  'Who, as far as we know, now has Albert?'

  'We would have to assume so, ma'am, yes.'

  'Why Albert?' she wailed. 'What is his role in all this?

  'We don't know for sure, ma'am,' said Melbourne, 'only that your husband was an enthusiastic supporter of those causes which might have undermined Conroy's scheme.'

  Victoria stopped and wheeled around so that Melbourne almost bumped into her.

  'Not was, Prime Minister,' she said, then turned and continued, following Maggie Brown, who tripped on, oblivious. 'Is. He is an enthusiastic supporter of reform. You, of course, are not. Perhaps you might feel a certain vindication that it may have been these tendencies responsible for his capture?'

  'Ma'am, please,' protested Melbourne, 'I find that a most distressing implication.'

  She caught herself.

  'Then you must forgive me, Lord M, my emotions are high.'

  Lord M bowed his head, placing the moment in the past.

  They stopped.

  'Maggie,' said the Queen, 'I do believe you must have led us down a dead end.' She indicated the stone in front of them.

  Maggie tapped the side of her nose. 'The Quartermaster's work is highly secret, ma'am,' she said, reaching to a flaming torch upon the wall and pulling it, at which the stone wall began to move, revealing a flight of steps descending into blackness. 'Now, if you'd like to follow me.'

  XXX

  Old Nichol Rookery, the East End

  None of them spoke as they moved along the streets, which became more and more filthy the deeper into the labyrinth they ventured: Quimby, Perkins, Conroy, the urchins-all making their way through the night, which seemed to close in on them. As did the streets, which became more and more narrow the further they travelled, malevolent buildings rising up either side of them, blocking out the moonlight, a thick, suffocating fug in its place.

  Night air. The smog of the slum after sunset. Conroy, his eyes gleaming as he spoke, had warned them of it, covering his mouth with his scarf once more and telling them of how the night air might suffocate entire families, adults and children alike, their lungs screaming fruitlessly for oxygen amidst the poison that had crept into their room in lieu of air. Gulping, Quimby had found a handkerchief with which to cover his own mouth as they made their way through the ever-narrowing streets, to each side of them filthy black buildings and steps sluiced with running water that ascended to doorways and doors, which were closed like the windows-a miserly barrier to the deadly atmosphere that hung about the slum.

  As they walked the only sound they heard was that of the slum dwellers behind their doors, arguing, fighting and screaming the night away-this night the same as any other-waiting for daytime to burn the noxious fumes and chimney smoke away. They listened to the hubbub and they kept their own counsel. All with their mind on other things: Quimby on his salvation; Perkins on eating; Conroy on...well, it beggared belief what that man had on his mind; and the chimney sweeps no doubt dreaming of warm soup and bread rolls and, going on recent evidence at least, perhaps the odd decapitation. They walked in what appeared to be a formation, surrounding Conroy, who towered above them in his three-cornered hat, nimbly picking his way through the ordure of the streets, comfortable and at home in the squalor. As though he were the landlord of it all.

  'All of these children work in factories, or are sweeps, I take it?' asked Quimby, who had caught up with him, pushing through the urchins who formed his protective circle to be at his side for a moment.

  'Absolutely not, no,' said Conroy. He took great, long strides, his cane rising up and down as he walked.

  'Ah.'

  'No, some of them harvest cesspits.'

  'I'm sorry?' said Quimby, 'they harvest what?'

  'Cesspits, my lord. On hands and knees they must crawl in order to bring the stools to the surface of cesspits so that they might be sold as fertiliser. Human stools make wonderful fertiliser.'

  'Does it?'

  'Oh, indeed.'

  'And what of the children?'

  'Drownings are common, of course; disease, also.'

  'I see.' Quimby's stomach turned to think of things, and he found his mind unwillingly straying to the steak and kidney pie Perkins had prepared for him that evening.

  'I wouldn't have thought it will last much longer, though,' said Conroy.

  'Because of reform?'

  'Reform?' Conroy's laugh rang about the street, and an old crone sitting asleep on a step, as though living out her last moments, raised her head momentarily to proffer a begging hand-slapped viciously away by one of the urchins.

  'My dear Quimby, I should expect not. How else are we to keep the masses under control if not through repression and poverty, disease and starvation? Reform? Goodness gracious no, such a thing would go very much against our wishes, don't you think? Indeed, one of the objects of our stratagem is to ensure this incipient talk of reform goes no further. Indeed, this is where you come in...'

  'Quite,' said Quimby, with a sizable amount more certainty than he felt. For there was-how should he describe it, this insect in the unguent?-an issue concerning the proposal which was clearly unknown to Sir John, and Quimby was yet to avail him of it; in fact, had decided not to bring it up, certainly not at this very moment, his hope being to resolve the problem in private.

  'No,' added Conroy, 'the reason that the cesspit harvest will soon cease is that our crops are in need of a finite amount of fertilisation, whereas those who dwell in the city are producing an infinite amount of fertiliser. Here in the bowels of the city they are short of housing, of medicine and sanitation-those aspects of life I dare say you, my lord, consider essential to existence in a civilised society. What they are not short of, however, is shit. Shit is in plentiful supply here.' He laughed. 'This isn't life, really, is it?' he said, waving his cane at the dwellings crowding in on them, 'it's hell.'

  'It is certainly most distasteful,' said Quimby.

  'Thank God it's them instead of you,' added Conroy, 'thank God you are on the side of the victors.'

  Quite, thought Quimby, dropping back behind Conroy and his miniature guards and returning his thoughts to happier matters. For it was the case that Sir John Conroy, had, on their carriage journey from Kensal Green into the city, regaled them of his course of action, and of their function within it. Furthermore he had informed them of how they would profit once the scheme was a success, which of course it would be-it had to be, he'd said with a smile that Quimby had found mildly discomfiting.

  However, that what he'd had to say was but music to Quimby's ears. Sweet, sweet music.

  'This could be the end of all our troubles, Perkins,' he said, when he felt they were out of earshot.

  'What about the flesh eating, sir?' whispered his manservant, giving voice to that issue which also troubled Quimby.

  'We can work on that, Perkins.'

  'Sir, we have had three years to formulate a solution and been unable to do so.'

  'Matters are more pressing now, Perkins,' said Quimby. 'This arrangement will grant me power and influence beyond that I could ever have imagined. In short, we must try harder.'

  As they walked on, Quimby mulled over his words, which, he realised, may have given Perkins the impression that he cared more for his own fortune than for curing this flesh-eating affliction.

  'I had no idea it was so bad, Perkins, did you?' said Quimby after a moment's reflection. 'The poverty, I mean.'

  'My mother spoke of such living conditions, before she went into service sir,' said Perkins. 'I had hoped never to witness them first-hand.'

  'I hope never to witness them again,' said Quimby, at a whisper.

  'A sentiment known as upper-class apathy, sir,' said Perkins.

  Quimby opened his mouth to reprimand his servant but his words never came, for now they had reached a wide gulley, where the stench was particularly high. Peering through the layers of smog, Quimby could see the gulley overflowing with something he took at first to be mud but quickly realise
d was not. It was 'night soil' as they referred to it in the slums: human ordure that had overflowed from cesspits below homes. Into it, residents had thrown bricks in order to make stepping stones across but thanks to the intestinal activities of the evening, the gulley had filled sufficiently to cover many of the stones. As a result Conroy's young helpers were briefly employed adding more brickwork to the open sewer in order that the men might pass, which they did, emerging from the street into a courtyard that, despite the presence of the malodorous night air, teemed with life.

  'Gentlemen,' said Conroy, sweeping his hat from his head and performing an introductory bow for the building in front of which they now stood, 'welcome to the workhouse.'

  There before them, was a site built of foreboding: the workhouse, in front of it crowds of people: residents or would-be residents. Either way the party moved forward among them, to the door, the urchins pushing the slow and feeble out of the way to allow them passage. They reached the door upon which Conroy knocked and then they were being admitted, urchins scuttling inside followed by Conroy, Quimby and Perkins, the door begrudgingly held open then closed behind them to keep out the evil swirling air crowding their backs.

  Conroy thanked a toothless hag, clacking money into her outstretched palm then said something to her to which she replied with a coarse, dry laugh and a grunt in the affirmative. He turned and bade them move through.

  Inside the workhouse Quimby saw doors that he knew led to segregated dormitories in which slept those who lived here. Those who had fallen on such hard times they were obliged to present themselves at the workhouse door: men in one room, women in another, children in yet another. Quimby had heard it said that mothers in the poorhouse were separated from their babies and the anguished screams of the young seemed to bear out the rumour. Adults, he presumed were forbidden to talk-indeed, it was like a prison!-so the only noise was that of the babies, and it was all Quimby could do not to put his hands to his ears to block out the noise.

  Conroy led them along a central corridor, talking as he went, saying, 'I'm between homes at the moment, gentlemen. Would you believe I have been made most unwelcome at the Palace?'

  'Why would that be sir?' asked Quimby, tremulously.

  Conroy laughed. 'Never you mind, my Lord, nothing to worry yourself about, merely that I am...flitting at the moment. Here is preferable. The other place, well, you wouldn't believe the noise, gentlemen.' He grinned. 'It's bedlam.'

  By now they had reached a door into which he inserted a large iron key, ushering in the waifs then turning to Quimby and Perkins.

  'Shall we meet our mutual friend?' he said.

  The room was large, with a rough stone floor on which had been spread straw at some point many moons ago. High up on a back wall was one tiny window, barred and too black with dirt to admit light-not that the admittance of light was in any way a possibility. This, Quimby realised, was a punishment room. The wall to his left was inset with steel rings. Hanging, his hands bound to the rings with rope, was a man.

  McKenzie.

  Minus his hat, his head hung down, a patchwork of blood and bruises, plastered with his wet hair. Blood oozed from his mouth.

  The room was silent apart from the low groaning sound made by McKenzie and similar sounds emitted by a second, younger man; this one, tied to a chair, lolled against his ropes, threads of blood and mucus hanging from his face. Smiling cherubically, one of the smiling sweeps grabbed his hair and yanked his head back for Quimby to inspect him and for a second or so his Lordship regarded the man, almost feeling pity for him, for the state he was in: his face seemed to have ballooned around his features, which was now purple and yellow and red. His eyes stared back at Quimby, devoid of emotion. He was in shock, probably, thought Quimby, the pain had caused his conscious mind to shut down.

  'What do you think of our humble abode?' said Conroy, ironically. 'Oh, I know it's a bit basic and there are those who might say it's something of a comedown after life at Buckingham Palace, but I think it has a certain bijou charm, don't you think? Plus I think you're going to love the neighbours. Over here, Mr McKenzie, with whom I believe you are familiar. Over here the man we know simply as Egg. I know, I know-you're expecting me to make a pun about how Egg has been beaten, but I assure you I'm not-I'm sure Egg has had enough of my little yolks.'

  'I don't know him,' said Quimby carefully, wondering what it was that the youth had done to deserve such punishment. Something terrible, no doubt. At the same time he was aware that he was being shown something, he was being given a message, and that message was this: a punishment awaits those who cross me. Do not do so, lest the next occupant of the chair be you.

  'No,' said Conroy, 'of course not, it's Mr McKenzie that you're acquainted with. In point of fact we have no more need of Egg, since his only function is to be provide me with a joke, at which you didn't even laugh.'

  At his nod, one of the boys moved forward and grabbed Egg's hair, holding back his lolling head as Conroy stepped forward, pulled from his coat a knife and swept it across Egg's exposed throat with a backhand movement, sending an arc of blood splattering to the floor.

  His head held firm, Egg's eyes widened. He struggled at the bindings. His body shook the chair into which he was tied; the feet of it rattled on the stone floor. Blood soaked his front. From him came an unearthly gurgling sound as his lifeblood poured from him.

  For several moments they watched him die until the room was once again silent. That is, apart from an unusual noise that it took Quimby a few seconds to recognise.

  'Perkins,' he said, 'is that your stomach rumbling?'

  'Yes, sir, sorry, sir.'

  Perkins was staring at the dying Egg, on his face such a famished look that Quimby almost took pity on him.

  Conroy also took note, addressing Perkins, 'Oh, I'm sorry,' he said, 'where on earth are my manners? Do tuck in, old chap.'

  Perkins was moving forward, all but licking his lips, when there came an anguished shout from the other side of the room and all turned their attention to McKenzie, who regarded them through hate-filled, bloodshot eyes.

  'You bastards,' he repeated, 'you'll hang for this.'

  Conroy moved towards him and arched an eyebrows. 'Isn't that rather the pot calling the kettle black?' he said to McKenzie. 'I mean, for a man in your particular position.'

  McKenzie tried to spit at them but was unable to muster much range. Instead, pathetically, he spat upon himself, blood and saliva that slipped down his jacket.

  'Oh that's good,' said Conroy, 'it is so very bothersome having to wipe your victim's phlegm from your face. So much more civilised to have one who can't quite manage it.'

  McKenzie turned his head towards Quimby.

  'Quimby,' he managed.

  'All yours, your Lordship,' said Conroy. 'Consider me the matchmaker. A cupid, bringing men and blackmailers together.'

  'Of course,' said Quimby, trying very hard to keep his voice steady.

  This is what you wanted, he reminded himself, moving to stand in front of McKenzie, who gazed at him with eyes gummed up by blood.

  'Where's the photogenic drawing?' said Quimby.

  'Help me and I'll tell you,' managed McKenzie.

  Quimby looked over towards Conroy who smiled benevolently, nevertheless shaking his head no. 'I am sorry, Mr McKenzie, it is not possible, I'm afraid. There is no help now. You will die here in this none-too-fragrant room.' He turned to the urchins and theatrically held his nose at which the urchins fell about laughing, Conroy further exciting their hilarity by lifting the tails of his coat and wafting imaginary fumes from his backside as though having gifted an enormous fart to the assembled company.

  Christ, thought Quimby, watching him in action. What kind of man is it with whom I have become involved?

  (And a thought made its way into his head, uninvited. A memory of McKenzie at The Reform club, his comment about fearing not the monkey but the organ grinder. And he wondered if this was it: here be the organ grinder.)

&nbs
p; When the hilarity was at an end, Conroy turned his attention back to McKenzie. 'No, as I say, Mr McKenzie,' he continued, almost sadly, 'it really is a case, not of whether or not you die, which you will, here, tonight, in this room, but of how you die and at what speed. I hope that I'm not treading on his Lordship's toes by suggesting this, but I dare say that if you tell Mr Quimby here all he needs to know, then I'm sure he'll be sporting enough to allow his manservant to finish you quickly. If you refuse to do so, however, I will let my boys at you again, and goodness, as you've already discovered, they do so take a pleasure in their work, don't they?'

  At this, there was, again, much excitement among the boys in question.

  'Are we clear, Mr McKenzie?'

  In lieu of a gesture to the affirmative, McKenzie groaned.

  'Thank you,' and he turned to talk to the boys, crouching to them and talking in a low murmur.

  'Quimby,' whispered McKenzie, his voice low, his gaze darting over Quimby's shoulder-to Conroy presumably, urging, 'come close.' His voice barely audible.

  He means to take a bite out of my ear, the swine, thought Quimby.

  'I can't bite you,' managed McKenzie, 'look. All gone.' And he opened his mouth pulling back his lips to reveal a mouthful of bloodied stumps. Nothing, just the odd tooth left.

  Technically, of course, not all of his incisors were absent, but Quimby decided not to quibble, the man being in such obvious pain, and he leant forward to hear what he had to say.

  'The boy Conroy just killed,' whispered McKenzie, 'he worked for one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting. Hastings. She was in love with Conroy and had his confidence. She learnt things.'

  'Yes?' whispered Quimby.

  'Help me escape and the information is yours.'

  'How can I be sure of its value?'

  'It involves the Queen,' managed McKenzie. 'Something terrible...'

  Quimby looked doubtful. 'My good man, I just need to know the whereabouts of the photogenic drawing.'

  'Conroy had other affairs,' whispered McKenzie. 'He'd had an affair with--'

  Then his mouth was full of knife.