by A. E. Moorat
This, at least, was something. Some action they could take, and Vasquez gladly snatched up her bow and quiver, ready for the journey to the rookery.
'No,' said Maggie Brown, 'Melbourne suggests you remain with the Queen.'
'The Queen is not here,' protested Vasquez.
'The only two places we can predict her to be are here or at the Rookery,' said Maggie. 'I'll be there, you'll be here should she turn up.'
And with that she pulled on her armour, back to her normal clothes now and glad of it, buckling on her broadsword, tying back her long, black hair.
'Maggie,' said John Brown.
He stepped forward and stopped her mid-tie, her hands at the back of her head as she tried to secure her hair, and he put his hands to her shoulders.
'What is it?' she said, but couldn't meet his eye.
'You know what,' he said. 'Something doesn't feel right about all of this. It's too convenient. Too well-timed.'
'Aye,' she sighed, 'it doesn't feel right. But nothing ever does, John.'
'It could be a trap,' he said.
She shrugged. 'It wouldn't be the first time the Baal have tried to catch Maggie Brown and not lived long enough to regret it.'
'They've never gone this far before,' he said, 'first the Prince, now possibly the Queen.'
'I'll be fine, John,' she said, after a moment of reflection during which she seemed to consider her options, 'I promise, I'll be fine.'
She reached and kissed him then took his arms away and made for the exit, climbing the few steps to the door, opened it and turned.
'Maggie,' said John.
'Yes, my love?'
'Block and parry,' he said, 'block and parry.'
She grinned and the door slammed behind her. There was a moment's pause and then the sound of horse's hooves, Henstridge and Maggie leaving, bound for Old Nichol.
John Brown sighed and sat down heavily. He placed his hands on the table in front of him and his head drooped slightly. He took deep breaths. He thought of Maggie.
And that she might be riding into a trap.
'Father,' said young John Brown, who sat opposite him, 'will she be all right?'
John Brown raised his head and grinned at their little boy. 'Your mother? Aye, she'll be fine. She's the redoubtable Maggie Brown, of course she'll be all right.'
There came a knock at the door.
'Oh thank God she's seen sense,' said John Brown in a rush, standing from his seat.
But Vasquez stopped him with a hand, her hand to the hilt of her sword.
'What is the code word?' she demanded.
'What?' came the voice. It was not a voice any of them recognised, and they tensed, Vasquez drawing her sword.
'What bloody code word?' came the voice, then: 'Perkins, did the Prime Minister say anything about a code word?'
'No, sir,' came a second voice.
'Er, I'm afraid we haven't been given one.'
'Then what is your business here?'
'We come from the Prime Minister, Lord Melbourne, about whom, I'm afraid, we have some rather bad news. But just before he...Well, before the event the bad news concerns, he gave us a message to give to a Mrs Maggie Brown...I say, I recognise that voice. You're not the archer from the House of Commons, are you? We met earlier. You might recall, I was the one with the advice on how to kill the zombies...'
But Vasquez had already dashed up the steps, yanked open the door and had her sword to Quimby's throat.
'What was the message?' she demanded to know.
'He said to tell her that it's a trap,' said Quimby, 'that she's walking into a trap.'
By Christ, thought Quimby, the blade at his neck, staring into Vasquez's beautiful, black and angry eyes, but the day was looking up. Talk about every cloud being the bearer of silver lining.
Up to that point, of course, things had been going spectacularly badly. He and Perkins had hurried out of the Commons, only narrowly avoiding detention by the peelers who were arriving at the scene in great numbers and who would most certainly have wanted to speak to Quimby and Perkins, especially given their state, which was that of bedraggled troops returning from battle: Perkins was hopping on one leg and was leaning heavily on Quimby as they staggered slowly away from the Houses of Parliament, Quimby moaning and swearing every step of the way. Their progress made even more arduous thanks to the difficulty Perkins was having in holding on to Quimby as well as keeping the limb out of sight in his topcoat. He'd already torn off the shoe in order to make the limb less unwieldy and Sugar's toes were constantly beneath his nose or tickling at his chin-a sight that was not lost on Quimby, needless to say.
But made it they had, and after helping Perkins into the driving seat, an operation that was far less strenuous than helping him to walk, Quimby had clambered into the cab and stuck his head out of the window as the cab rumbled on, shouting to be heard over the noise of the wheels.
'What am I to do, Perkins?' he called up.
'I don't know, sir.'
'I'm dead, Perkins, dead,' shouted Quimby, his hand at his top hat, 'either by the hand of Conroy or at the gallows. What am I to do, man?'
'Might I suggest, sir,' called Perkins over his shoulder, 'that a possible shift in strategy is in order?'
'What do you have in mind, man?'
'That we switch sides, sir.'
Quimby thought about this for a moment, the wind in his face. 'That's not a bad idea, Perkins,' he said. 'Not a bad idea at all. And I know just the man to see. Change direction at once and take us to Piccadilly, to the home of Lord Melbourne. If we can't catch him there, we'll try the Reform. At least we know he won't be at the House.'
Thus, not long later, Quimby's Hansom pulled up outside the pillars of Melbourne House on Piccadilly, where his Lordship saw a woman-a quite beautiful woman, actually-leaving from the side gate, saying something to the driver of her own cab and jumping in.
'Did you see her, Perkins?' said Quimby, thinking that the Prime Minister was obviously up to his tricks again. He always had been a dark horse, that one. And he looked down his nose at Quimby! The cheek of the man!
He grabbed the toolbox from the well of the carriage, then went to help Perkins climb down from the cab, the two of them getting back into the carriage and closing the curtains.
Ever since the unfortunate incident in Pall Mall, the pair of them had carried a few tools with them, a sort of emergency repair kit to be used should Perkins' leg come adrift again. Now Perkins pulled the leg from beneath his coat and handed it to Quimby, who brought it to his nose to sniff.
'Don't you think it's incredible that it doesn't decompose, Perkins?' he said.
'It is, sir,' said Perkins, who had rolled his trouser leg up to the thigh and was now hunting the box for the wooden staples and a hammer.
'In many ways this leg represents our most successful experiment, don't you think?' he said, passing the limb to Perkins, who began to affix it, hammering expertly away.
'Well, yes, sir,' said Perkins, who finished his hammering, and the two men admired his handiwork for a moment, before letting themselves out of the carriage.
Nobody answered the main doors of Melbourne House, so the pair of them decided to investigate the side door, which they found open.
'What do you think, Perkins?' said Quimby. 'Should we go in?'
'Perhaps we should write the Prime Minister a letter, sir?'
'Write him a letter? Don't be ridiculous, man. No, we'll go in. If he's here then all well and good-what we have to tell him justifies the intrusion. If he isn't, then no harm done. You first.'
Perkins led them along a hallway where they heard a noise, that of a quiet moaning sound that appeared to be emanating from the parlour into which they crept.
There on the sofa sat the Prime Minister. He could have been asleep but for the dark, spreading stain of blood at his chest.
'Melbourne,' shouted Quimby, and he moved over quickly to the sofa, thumping down beside Melbourne, who stirred a little, h
is eyes fluttering open, seeing Quimby.
'Oh God,' moaned the Prime Minister, 'I'm in hell.'
'No, you're not, Melbourne,' said Quimby quickly, 'you're in Piccadilly. What on earth happened to you, man?'
He motioned to Perkins, who reached to unbutton the Prime Minister's shirt so that he might tend the wound.
'Caroline,' croaked Melbourne, 'she...'
'Caroline? She's been dead ten years or more man, what's up with you?'
'No, not Caroline...' the Prime Minister was woozy. A droplet of blood escaped his lips and began running down his chin. Then he seemed to remember something and his head jerked, sending both Quimby and Perkins scrambling to their feet in surprise. 'No,' shouted the Prime Minister, 'not Caroline. It was her. It was the succubus. Oh God! Oh God what have I done, oh Sweet Jesus please forgive me!'
'Forgive you for what, Melbourne?' asked Quimby. 'What have you done, man?'
Melbourne turned and grabbed him. When he spoke his lips pulled back to reveal bloodied teeth. Perkins had by now uncovered the wound and it oozed blood.
But now Melbourne had grabbed him, wanting to speak and he pulled Quimby in close. 'Maggie Brown,' he said, 'you must save Maggie Brown.'
'Who is Maggie Brown?' asked Quimby.
'The Queen's...the Queen's Protektor.'
The Queen. Of course. That was why they were here.
'We bring news of the Queen, Prime Minister,' said Quimby. 'We know of a plot hatched by her mother's private secretary.'
'Then find Maggie Brown,' managed the Prime Minister.
'Where, man?' said Quimby. 'Where do we go?'
Melbourne told them.
Then, with a last gasp of pain, the Prime Minister died.
Shortly afterwards, they had left, bound for Windsor.
XLV
Maggie Brown tethered Henstridge outside the workhouse and waited. There was no sign of Melbourne, nor of any soldiers; around her just the usual dirt and hubbub of the slum, upraised palms that she waved away. She waited.
When still no one appeared, she went to the workhouse door, stepping over those who slept or sat slumped around the doorway and knocked, wondering if she had the right place. Or, worse, if it was just as John had warned, and it was a trap. Presently, there was the sound of bolts being drawn back and the door was opened by an old crone.
'Hello?' said Maggie. She peered inside over the woman's shoulder, one hand at her sword, feet slightly apart and braced. 'Do you have men here, from the government?'
'Oh yes, dear,' said the crone, as though such a thing were a regular occurrence. 'Mr Melbourne and his men. They in the back room waiting for you now. They said you should go through. Just follow the hall down.'
Maggie stepped cautiously inside. The workhouse was eerily silent.
'This way, dear, follow me,' said the crone and she hobbled slowly down the hall. Behind her, Maggie drew her sword, every sense alert. Not liking this. Not liking it one bit, but drawn to the room, for what other choice was there? Flight? No. Because that wasn't her way. Whatever was in the room, she would meet it.
She was Maggie Brown.
And now the old woman had reached the door and she opened it in order to allow Maggie to step through. She crouched a little, drawing a dagger with which to lead, her broadsword held low and behind her. Then she moved, slowly into the room, using the open door as cover on her left side, defending to the right.
Inside was dark, the only light coming from a single filthy window; on the floor the glow of something, a gas lamp at its lowest flame, which as she crouched, every nerve-ending screaming at her, was turned up by a figure, leaning from a chair.
Which straightened.
'The redoubtable Maggie Brown,' said the Arcadian, grinning at her. 'I told you we'd meet again.'
From behind Maggie the door slammed.
'So did I,' said the old crone at her back.
Except, of course, Maggie realised as she span around-it wasn't the old crone at all, it was the succubus.
XLVI
'You've lost the Queen?' Quimby had said.
'She went after Conroy,' snapped Vasquez.
She and Quimby had discovered much in common in their short time together, though none of it, sadly, as far as Quimby was concerned anyway, of much romantic currency. Not unless he counted the fact that they shared a nemesis in Sir John Conroy and had a vested interest in keeping the Queen alive.
'If she went after Conroy, then perhaps she's with him.'
'That is very clever-clever of you,' she said (he loved the way she used the language. As though she had learnt it but found it a little too prosaic for her tastes), 'but we don't know where Conroy is, do we?'
Quimby thought. What had Conroy told him? That he was moving his centre of operations. To the second abode he had spoken of, presumably, the one that was so noisy it was like...
Of course.
'Bedlam,' said Quimby.
'What?' said Vasquez, who looked most suspicious.
'Bedlam,' repeated Quimby, 'He's at the hospital: Bethlem. At least, that's where he might be. That's where I think he is.'
He smiled and he felt ridiculously happy to help, as though all of his other problems were as nothing compared to the pleasure he got from being with this archer-Vasquez. Oh, sweet, sweet, Vasquez. His joy was almost complete as she grabbed him by the top of the arm and dragged him towards Bess, Perkins limping along behind them.
'Get in,' she commanded, but Quimby preferred to sit beside her on the driver's plate. She frowned at him but shook the reins and they took off at high speed.
'If I'm right,' shouted Quimby, 'and the Queen is at Bethlem, can I perhaps count on your support when it comes to answering for my crimes? I am rather hoping that my good deeds will go some way to absolving me, you see. And perhaps when this is all over, the two of us could...'
'Your good deeds?' scoffed Vasquez. God, her hair looked beautiful in the half-light. The moon, sinking in the sky now, made it shine, and it was all he could do not to reach out and touch it. 'What good deeds is that you speak of?'
'By leading you to the Queen.'
'What about all the dead MPs? Are they one of your good deeds?'
Nobody will miss a few MPs, he thought, but opted not to say it. Contrition was the order of the day, he had decided. That and a willingness to atone for his crimes. If he could appear instrumental in the daring rescue of the monarch, he thought, then perhaps...
'You might escape the hangman, I suppose,' said Vasquez, sounding as though she were not especially bothered either way. 'The Queen may instruct the judge to be lenient, as you did try to make amends.'
'Well, that's something...'
'Maybe you will even escape deportation.'
Quimby gulped. 'Yes.'
'And perhaps simply be left to rot in jail?'
'Yes,' said Quimby, who by now, and despite even the presence of the beautiful Vasquez, was wondering about the wisdom of this latest strategy. Especially as it had the potential to deliver him straight into the jaws of Conroy.
Too late now.
The carriage thundered on. Bedlam in sight.
Maggie screamed in pain. She twisted away from the succubus and distantly heard her own blood splash to the floor and knew that she was hurt. She'd moved fast at least-and had been able to deflect the blow a little-deflect it from her throat anyway-but it had left her off balance and the succubus had struck again, hard and into Maggie's flank. Now Maggie knew she only had the armour to thank for the fact that she was still standing.
But she was only just standing. The bitch's talons had cut deep and she could feel the blood leaking from her.
Stupid Maggie, she thought. Stupid arrogant Maggie: 'I'm Maggie Brown.' You think like that and you're dead is what you are. She took up a stance, trying to catch her breath. There was no lock on the inside of the door so she had a chance of escape if she could make her way over to it. She might not make it to the front door of the workhouse but she had more cha
nce of taking them in the hallway. They'd have to come at her one at a time; they couldn't do what they were doing now, which was to come at her together.
The wolf was grinning, having stood up from the chair. Fuck him, though, she thought. They all knew the Arcadian alone was no match for her. The succubus, though. She was another matter. The succubus and the Arcadian together. Now she had a real fight on her hands.
A fight she wasn't sure she could win.
The succubus came at her fast and she worked hard to parry, but the wolf did what she'd half-expected it to do; as she was defending herself against the succubus attack, it moved in and slashed, then darted away from her broadsword. The sally over, succubus and wolf moved away, readying themselves for a second attack.
So it was to be that way, eh, she thought. Death of a thousand cuts. Wear her down until she was too exhausted to continue.
Not if she took the battle to them.
And she pounced forward, feinting to the left, then going right, wrong-footing the succubus and striking out at the Arcadian instead.
But she was slow. God, way too slow. From loss of blood, perhaps; the exhaustion; when was the last time she had slept? Either way she seemed to move like she was wading through molasses and the Arcadian danced out of reach, leaving her slicing at the air with her broadsword, only just able to pivot and return to the standing position before the two deviants were able to launch a counter-attack.
Once again, they faced each other.
'You're getting old, Maggie Brown,' taunted the succubus.
'You're getting slow,' added the wolf.
She felt it. She felt old and slow.
'How many of us have you killed over the years, Maggie Brown?' asked the succubus.
'Not enough,' grinned Maggie, wiping blood from her mouth with her sleeve. 'Not nearly enough...'
She lunged. The succubus dodged and slashed, catching Maggie on the shoulder, another wound oozing blood.
'You have killed the last of us, Protektor,' said the Arcadian as they resumed their positions. Maggie bristled at the way it paced the room as though it were in control. That mangy dog, that cowardly cur.
'Just you and me,' she told the Arcadian, spitting, 'and I'd take you apart.'