The Queen Must Die Page 11

  ‘It is good news and bad news,’ DuQuelle said. ‘Like it or not, the experiment proceeds apace. The children have entered the century. All three have arrived in this time. I have made contact with one of them.’

  The tapestries began to bang again, as the woman responded with a sweep of excitement, but DuQuelle put out a hand to stop her. ‘I have made contact with one of the children, but I do not know which one. It could be the child who brings peace, the child who brings war and peace or the child who brings the war to end the world. One of these three definitely – the question is, which one? I would have known last week, but for the interference of others. And that is the bad news: the child has become involved with the British Royal Family.’ DuQuelle paused, took a scented handkerchief from his pocket and delicately patted the beads of perspiration that had spread from temple to brow.

  The windows rattled in their frames as the visitor’s excitement turned to displeasure. The tables lifted from the floor and the curtains flew high into the air. The room grew static with angry electricity and the books thudded against the dresser. Katie ducked down further. DuQuelle stood up, and the two figures, one light, one dark, circled the room. Katie was thankful they only had eyes for each other. This was not the moment to be discovered. The figure of light spoke again. ‘Bring me the child,’ she demanded.

  ‘That I cannot do,’ DuQuelle replied. ‘I will not tamper with the Royal Family. It is their destiny to intermarry with half the crowned heads of Europe. To disrupt that would lead to political instability, international tension, paranoia.’

  ‘Bring me the child,’ the woman repeated with growing insistency.

  DuQuelle dropped his gallantry. His nerves had turned to anger. His green eyes gleamed and his skin glowed white. He was hardly recognizable as human. ‘I will need time,’ he thundered. ‘It will take some delicacy to disentangle the child. Lucia, you are playing into the hands of Mr Belzen, and all that is evil. I know what is at stake. You think the Verus will save the world, but you are marching down the wrong path, towards the war you so wish to stop, the destruction of the world you need to save. And isn’t that exactly what Mr Belzen wants? I weary of the Verus, your dogma, your lack of imagination. You will annihilate this world and our own with your pig-headed, narrow-minded concepts of good and right. Now, Mr Belzen would understand. Evil can be so creative – The Malum can see things from different angles. Perhaps I am engaging with the wrong side after all.’

  Each time DuQuelle said ‘Mr Belzen’, the woman’s light flared and then dimmed. Even hearing his name seemed to lower her energy. When DuQuelle used the term ‘Malum’ she had to sit down. Picking up a book, she opened it and inhaled. The pages flipped rapidly, from beginning to end. The words flew up, on a trail of light, and were absorbed into the woman’s eyes. This steadied her, refreshed her. ‘You may choose to reject the Verus’s beliefs, DuQuelle, but I cannot believe you would truly embrace evil, really work with evil. And there’s no point in threatening me. Mr Belzen would suck the life from you before you could finish bowing and smiling. You say you need time. Will Mr Belzen give you time? Should the Malum find these children first, this world you’ve grown so fond of will be destroyed in a flash.’

  She snapped her fingers and light shot from them, bouncing across the walls. ‘I am not interested in time, or delicacy. We must save ourselves, and in order to do so, must save this world. The Verus relies on reason, not mercy. Now listen, DuQuelle: you must find these children, you must protect and nurture the child who brings peace. The other two – they must be killed. So far each one has slipped through your fingers. Do not think they will escape Mr Belzen.’

  ‘You do not understand.’

  ‘I do understand,’ the woman interrupted. ‘I understand that you are the worst possible choice for this most important of missions. But you are the only one of us who can remain in this atmosphere for any length of time. How long have you been here?’

  Bernardo DuQuelle suddenly looked smaller and older, his anger gone. ‘Since the Chasm,’ he replied in a low voice. ‘You should remember, Lucia. It was the end of our, how shall we say, intimacy? And that was over 300 years ago.’

  Lucia shook her curls, rattling the windows in her wake. ‘Please don’t be sentimental, DuQuelle. Sentiment is the most useless of the human emotions. Passion or anger might give one energy, but sentiment simply wastes time. And please address me in the correct form. No one has called me Lucia in over 300 years, and I wouldn’t say we were on a first name basis at this point.’

  DuQuelle shrugged, regaining some of his usual jaunty composure. ‘To me you will always be Lucia. And you will always be dependent on my abilities. I have adapted to this atmosphere and I know this century – I am the only one with the authority and access to carry out this mission. So do try to relax for once, my dear – I said I needed time, I didn’t say I would fail. Child or no child – I will be ruthless in my pursuit. I know the other two are here – and the one I have spied is well within my grasp, I will find out which child she is, and take the appropriate steps. May I get you anything before you leave? Another book? Or something more regional? I must admit, I have developed a great affection for some of the English customs. Gone native, so to speak. A cup of tea?’

  The offer of tea irritated the woman no end. Her light flared up and the room again filled with brightness and air. The door banged repeatedly as she swept through it, leaving twisted rugs and upturned books in her wake. DuQuelle surveyed the wreckage, then sank back into his chair and stared into the fire. ‘I will act,’ he said to the flames, ‘and soon.’

  ‘He will be ruthless,’ Katie thought, her breath catching in her chest. ‘Ruthless with me, and I am ten feet away, crouched behind a dresser. That’s not much protection.’ As she had suspected, DuQuelle was key to her appearance in this time. But to confront him might mean death. The door opened and the footman entered with DuQuelle’s sparse supper, crying out at the chaos he found in the room. As DuQuelle continued to stare into the fire, Katie climbed over the dresser, as silently as possible, and slipped out of the door. With shaking legs she crept down the stairs and into the outer darkness.

  After the terror of DuQuelle’s townhouse, the London streets seemed very normal. Yes, it was a street in a different century; but at least it was a street filled with people – not book-eating, light-flashing supernatural beings. The lamplighters were going about their work, their long torch poles swung jauntily over their shoulders. She skirted away from the house, thinking it wise to stay out of view of DuQuelle’s bulging bow windows, and crossed Piccadilly, heading towards what she hoped was Buckingham Palace. Following the sound of carriages, Katie turned into a busy shopping thoroughfare. The shops’ shutters were still up and pyramids of fruits and vegetables tempted passers-by. Fresh fish lay on wet marble slabs, their scales gleaming in the lamp light. Old ladies wrapped in shawls had set their pitches on street corners and dozed by small fires as they roasted chestnuts and apples, the smell of smoke and cooking covering the less appetizing odours of old fish, rotting vegetables and horse manure. Of a more active nature were the coster-girls, hawking their wares from their pitches on the street. ‘Walnuts, Miss, walnuts a penny a dozen! Wouldn’t give you a bad one for the world, which is a great thing for a poor ’oman to offer to do,’ one called to Katie as she walked by.

  From the other side of the street, a girl called out ‘Apples! An ’apenny a lot, apples!’ Her voice was hoarse from the call and she had a large wooden tray loaded with apples harnessed around her neck. Her shoulders stooped from the weight – it must have been at least 30 pounds of apples.

  Crossing the street, Katie fumbled in her little reticule and found a penny. ‘I’d like some apples, please.’

  ‘Two lots, yes Miss?’

  ‘No, just one,’ Katie replied, ‘but keep the change, OK?’ Katie had grown up in New York and was hardened to street life: beggars, drug addicts, even prostitutes invaded her privileged uptown world. But she still felt
very sorry for this girl. Katie could guess that she’d been standing on the street since early that morning, trying to sell a batch of apples that frankly didn’t look that great. She deserved a break.

  The girl looked suspicious. The lady in the fine grey dress had a funny accent and strange ways. ‘You’d be pay’n’ me twice what I’m askin’. Take the two lots of apples or take the change, Miss.’

  ‘But I really only wanted one apple,’ Katie protested. ‘Please take the money. I have more, and you could use it.’ The girl thought of what awaited her at home. Four little brothers and sisters depended on her wages for all their needs; mother couldn’t earn nought, with all the children at home, and father was long gone. She handed Katie the apples.

  ‘Two lots, Miss,’ she said stiffly. ‘Wot you paid for. I am a poor girl, but I am no beggar.’

  ‘Thanks, great, that’s cool. Don’t work too hard,’ Katie mumbled and retreated with haste.

  Turning the corner, she deposited most of the apples in a neat pile on the sidewalk. She bit into one. It was withered and pitted with worm holes and the tight corset made it hard for her to keep any food down. She wiggled a bit and felt the corset strings loosen. What an idiot she’d just been – ‘don’t work too hard!’ – of course the apple girl had to work too hard, how else was she going to live? She could imagine James laughing in that unpleasant superior way of his.

  Katie remembered DuQuelle’s words to his strange visitor: ‘the Royal Family must not be interfered with’. ‘I’ll be safe with Alice,’ Katie thought, ‘DuQuelle won’t attack me if she’s there. But will she be safe with me?’ Katie’s knees buckled again. She hadn’t eaten for two days and the apple was making her nauseous. ‘I’ve got to find something more substantial to eat, and then I’ve got to get back to Buckingham Palace, and we’ve got to find a way to get me out of here. We are all in more danger than we’d ever imagined.’

  The noise and bustle of the street increased. The calls of the street vendors and the rattle of the carriages were joined by the jingle of a tambourine and the blare of a trumpet. Across the thoroughfare a troupe of street performers were giving a sample of their arts and handing out leaflets. They were a jolly, swarthy, robust lot and Katie watched them with pleasure.

  ‘Feats of daring and strength,’ cried a large woman, crammed into a greasy green shooting jacket. ‘Orso of Segovia will lift over 300 pounds, and Signor Salamander, the great fire-king, will dine on flames with a knife and fork! And I, the Countess Fidelia, will look into the future and reveal your heart’s desires.’ The Countess Fidelia had seen better days. Her hair resembled a sagging haystack, and her jacket was fastened together by one button in front, all the other buttonholes having been burst through. Protruding from her bosom, a corner of the Pandean pipes were just visible. She took them out and played a merry tune to liven up the crowd. ‘Acrobats and musicians,’ she cried. ‘And top of the bill – straight from her success at the Eel-pie-house, Peckham, ready to give us her heart-breaking rendition of ‘Only a Cabin Boy’ – we bring you the Little Angel!’

  The large woman pushed forward a tiny girl, very different from the rest of the performers. She could only have been five or six years of age and was slender, with fine features and a sensitive manner. Her skin was so white, it was translucent. Her dark enormous eyes were ringed by lashes. They looked like pansies set in her face. Katie blinked as the tiny girl caught her gaze and seemed almost to glow.

  ‘The visions,’ Katie cried. She’d seen this child in her visions. Here was another piece of the puzzle. She moved forward to take a leaflet from the child, but a man stepping out of an ornate phaeton blocked her way.

  ‘Lord Twisted,’ Katie heard the crowd murmur, and she instinctively reared back from him. The pretty little girl darted behind the Countess Fidelia’s voluminous skirts.

  Lord Twisted laughed, and observed the child through his pince-nez. ‘I do fancy her, you know,’ he addressed the large woman in the green shooting jacket. ‘A little angel indeed. She would make a lovely little mascot in the manner of my Jamaican servant boys. How well they’d work together. So light with the dark. Quite the effect. Today is your lucky day. I will pay you fifteen pounds for her services.’

  The woman swelled with rage, looking as if she would burst the last button of her jacket. ‘The child is not for sale, my lord,’ she said stiffly, trying to contain her temper in front of this grand man, ‘the child is my daughter.’

  Lord Twisted laughed again. ‘Oh come now, I have eyes in my head. This is not your daughter. You’ve obviously come by her the same way I wish to – through a few pieces of silver. I suggest you hand her over now. I will double the amount of money I’ve offered. Thirty pounds, that’s two years’ wages for a footman, I believe. What do you think of that?’

  The crowd had grown, and a rebellious mutter ran through it. ‘This is my daughter,’ the woman insisted. ‘Who I ’ave loved and tended since she was a wee babe in arms. She is not for sale. As for what I think – I think you should be gone, quick as ever, if you want to live to see another day.’ A man pushed through the crowd and stood shoulder to shoulder with the woman. It was the strongman, Orso of Segovia, and his hands were the size of ham hocks.

  Lord Twisted shrugged. ‘Threats and temper from such people,’ he admonished. ‘Losing the opportunity to make good money. Well, you shall end your days in the workhouse, that I can guarantee. Pity. This child – the Little Angel you call her – would have made a delightful tableau.’ Sighing, he stepped into his carriage and tapped the roof with his cane. ‘Hanover Square,’ he cried, and the carriage whipped down the street, leaving a wave of mud behind.

  Katie stepped forward again, and the little girl, seeing her, stepped forward too. But the child’s rough protectors would have none of it. ‘No more of the streets for you today,’ her mother admonished, and, taking the Little Angel brusquely by the shoulders, she bundled her down the street and out of sight.

  First DuQuelle, then Lucia, and now she’d come face to face with her vision, the Little Angel. Katie was shocked to her core. ‘It is like a really bad dream, I don’t get what’s happening at all.’ She mumbled to herself, walking blindly ahead, bumping into the passers-by. Eventually the curious looks directed at her brought Katie down to earth. ‘They might clap me in prison as a drunkard,’ she thought, her sense of humour returning briefly. Turning the corner she came across a store, much grander than the rest and shining with new paint, its large glass front lit up like a Christmas tree. ‘Belzen & Mackie’ the sign above the door read, ‘Purveyors to the Gentry of Jellies, Wines, Cheeses, Aspics, etc.’ An excited hum came from within the busy shop. Katie was still ravenous, and she felt she’d be less conspicuous in such a crowded place. Her good – though not grand – clothes and the coins Alice had insisted on putting in Katie’s purse made her look like any other upper servant sent out by their lady to make a final purchase before the shops closed.

  The store was filled with just such servants, as well as the ladies themselves. They were trailed by male clerks in striped trousers and tail coats. These clerks carried the customers’ baskets for them, leading them down aisle after aisle of goods, helping them with their choices along the way. ‘I suggest you sample this marmalade m’lady,’ Katie heard one say. ‘I’ve been told it is remarkably similar to that the Queen takes on her own toast.’ Katie looked closely at the orange marmalade and saw more than a passing similarity in the jar and labelling to the Queen’s. Looking around her she saw candles, cheeses and bottles of wine – all identical to what she had seen in MacKenzie’s secret storeroom.

  ‘So this is what MacKenzie is doing with his stashed provisions – setting up his own shop, selling the Queen’s jams and soaps to the great British public.’ Katie couldn’t believe his boldness, or his greed. The store was doing a booming business; at least a dozen people were waiting to be served. ‘MacKenzie, what a jerk,’ Katie said aloud. Several of the tail-coated clerks look around at her in surprise. Down
the aisle, a familiar figure caught Katie’s eye. A small elderly woman in a prim black dress, her grey hair braided and wound around her ears. It was Fräulein Bauer. Who could forget the Danish pastry hairdo?

  ‘She hasn’t seen me,’ Katie reminded herself. ‘I’m in no danger, and might as well follow her. She could be my ride back to the Palace.’ Fräulein Bauer was definitely looking for something or someone. She nipped around the aisle and down a staircase to the basement, Katie following behind her at a discreet distance. The basement was filled with enough pickled and preserved foods to feed the entire royal household, as well as cask after cask of the Queen’s wine, her coat of arms blacked out on the side. Katie helped herself to some provisions. She didn’t like stealing, even when the goods were stolen in the first place, but she was so hungry. Fräulein Bauer too had figured out exactly what was in the basement, and who it all really belonged to. Katie could hear her clucking and scolding under her breath.

  ‘Tech, tech. The shame of it. Mr MacKenzie is stealing from our Queen. I must go back to the Baroness at once. He will be clapped in irons; he will be hanged.’

  The Fräulein came to a sudden halt at the doorway of a smaller room. Inside was Mr MacKenzie, splayed across a chair, his shirt buttons popping under the pressure of his bloated stomach. The table in front of him was piled with pies and sweetmeats, as well as several bottles, already uncorked. ‘Well, we certainly have enough wine to sell, so a drink on the side won’t do any harm,’ he laughed to himself. ‘Princey wincey will never notice it’s gone. Dear Albert doesn’t approve of taking to the drink.’ Clearing his throat and spitting on to the floor, he began to mimic the measured foreign tones of Prince Albert: ‘What can one accomplish with the senses blurred from drink?’ MacKenzie laughed until he coughed and then uncorked yet another bottle. His senses, it seemed, were already blurred.