A. E. Moorat - Queen Victoria: Demon Hunter

Contents

'I will be good'

Much later, as he watched his manservant, Perkins, eating the...

All was silent in the small, low room as Clara...

Princess Alexandrina Victoria, heiress presumptive to the throne, was seated at...

The rain and thunder didn't stop her hearing the drumbeat...

With the beds prepared, the lady-in-waiting departed. She would return...

While sitting in a carriage in the main forecourt at...

As the door closed behind the Duchess, Maggie Brown emerged...

Lord Quimby dropped the bloodied axe, which, just moments ago...

'One of my staff, a very capable man named Nobo,...

'I do'

McKenzie stood outside the Pillars of Hercules awaiting his contact,...

The Duchess of Sutherland, Harriet Leveson-Gower (such a beautiful, dignified...

Victoria would never forget the moment that she fell in...

'Prince Albert is in place,' said the demon, the one...

Victoria stood in a corridor overlooking a courtyard, which rang...

The drums were so loud it was as though the...

Blast! Since the engagement had been announced, Lord Melbourne seemed...

Sir George Kraft MP, his manservant, Frederick, and Lord Fawcett had...

Lord Melbourne sat in the sumptuous Blue Drawing Room, awaiting...

He always did make her laugh, she thought. Refrain from...

So it was that she awoke on Monday, 10 February...

The Queen was in a most dreadful turmoil.

'The code word is sasquatch,' came the voice at the...

The cabal had met to wet the baby's head, Stockmar...

Late December, the night was cold and their breath billowed...

'I'm on my way, lassie,' screamed Maggie Brown, who rode...

'I, Demon Hunter'

It was dusk and an urchin sat on a low...

'At last,' managed McKenzie, struggling to capture his breath, 'at...

'Perkins?'

'Conroy's "gone"? What do you mean, "gone"?'

None of them spoke as they moved along the streets,...

'Would you like to take a seat, Your Majesty?' the...

From outside came the sound of a carriage coming to...

Weapons training had begun and Victoria was yet to recover...

Later, Melbourne, Maggie and the Queen had repaired to the...

It was noticed, at the House that day, that Lord...

'Careful, Your Majesty,' said Melbourne, walking ahead of the Queen...

High above them was a sound.

When Victoria had first seen the interior of the Protektors'...

Quimby had sat nervously in the Strangers' Gallery of the...

Inside the House, Tennant had been greatly enjoying his meal...

The revenant lurched into the tiny room, snarling and reaching...

Maggie Brown gingerly made her way across the floor of...

The members of the Bethnal Green Baptist Ladies' Prayer Association,...

'I'm to go to a workhouse in the Old Nichol...

Maggie Brown tethered Henstridge outside the workhouse and waited. There...

'You've lost the Queen?' Quimby had said.

The Queen stepped through the door that led to the...

It was the early hours of the morning in the...

Quimby stepped quickly back from his gratifyingly weighty drapes and...

'I will be good'

M uch later, as he watched his manservant, Perkins, eating the dog, Quimby gloomily reflected on the unusual events of the evening.

But oh! It had begun so promisingly! All of the zombies were safely confined to the lower quarters, the prostitutes had arrived and were being served drinks in the library and Quimby was briefing the man about the...

'What is Henry calling it, this new technique of his?' he had asked, directing his question at the young man who stood in his study, Henry's assistant.

Quimby had schooled with Henry Fox Talbot at Harrow. The two had since gone their separate ways, of course: Quimby had inherited his father's title and estate and used his leisure and wealth to pursue a life of dissolution, ungodliness and an unholy interest in revenance; Henry, meanwhile, had inherited his father's great intellect and put his time to altogether more worthwhile use, developing something called calotype.

How calotype worked, Quimby wasn't sure and didn't care. He was interested only in the end result, and upon hearing of this invention and seeing its great potential for adding an extra frisson to his debauchery, he had issued a summons. Fortuitously, his knowledge of certain events at Harrow had secured him access to Henry's new process, though-somewhat understandably-not Henry himself. Instead Talbot had sent a young apprentice, a snickering fellow named Craven, to do his dirty work for him (and if Quimby had his way, which was after all a foregone conclusion, it would be very dirty work indeed) and it was he who now stood in Quimby's study having set up the contraption for his lordship to inspect.

It looked like nothing more than a box on a tripod, and a rather shabby box at that, but was, apparently, so it was said, capable of doing something most extraordinary.

'It's called photogenic drawing, sir,' said Craven. 'Though in France they're calling it photographie .'

Quimby thought about this for a moment.

'Hm,' he said, 'much as I hate to credit our seditious overseas neighbours with anything approaching common sense, it has to be said that photographie is certainly less of a mouthful than photogenic drawing, do you not think?'

'Mr Talbot's very keen on photogenic drawing, sir.'

'So be it. And what has Henry photogenically drawn so far?'

'He's captured some scenes of the lake of Como, sir, very nice they are too, as well as the Oriel window in the south gallery of Lacock Abbey, a truly beautiful photogenic drawing, sir, if I may say so.'

'Scenery,' snorted Quimby derisively. ' Scenery . Typical of Henry. No imagination whatsoever.'

'Sir?'

'Craven, listen carefully,' said Quimby, his voice taking on the tone of a conspirator, 'in the library downstairs sit three of London's most debased and degenerate women, and shortly I shall be availing myself of them. One at a time and all at once, though not necessarily in that order. It will be your job, Craven, to document this momentous event, using...that,' he indicated the tripod Craven had carried into the study, which now stood in the corner of the room, 'and I can promise you the results will be far more diverting than scenes of the lake of Como.'

'Yes, sir.'

Quimby leaned close. 'It has been said, Craven, that one of these ladies can accommodate an entire pineapple .'

'Goodness, sir.'

'Exactly. Not a sight we wish to entrust merely to our memory.'

'No, sir,' beamed Craven, happily.

From outside came the sound of a scream, and Quimby moved to the window in order to push aside his gratifyingly weighty drapes and peer out to the street beneath.

Filthy cobblestones shone dully, the only illumination from weak gaslights positioned at either end of the street or else from his own scullery window. He frowned, squinting, looking for the source of the noise-from the mews behind him, perhaps? But then, as he watched, a man appeared at one end of the street, running for his life, eyes wide in terror.

He wore the cloth cap and leather apron of a working man-a cooper, perhaps-and he appeared to be streaked with some fluid.

Was it tar? Oil? The gas-lamps were flickering wildly, as though affected by something more than the wind.

Flickering off.

Then on.

Off.

On.

No, not tar or oil, Quimby saw, as the man drew nearer, passing beneath his window; it looked like blood.

For a moment the only sound was of his boots on the cobbles. Next, another noise that Quimby took a moment to place. Scuttling.