Queen Victoria vs The Ministry of Darkness

12th October

My advisors have just informed me that yet another member of parliament has become mysteriously and inexplicably absent. This time I am told that it is Baron de Rothschild who has disappeared. A rather tedious bore of a fellow from some dreary backwater in Kent, but one that I am assured by the Prime Minister, holds great sway when it comes to upholding my own interests in the Commons. This makes him the third member to vanish seemingly without a trace. It’s a spectacle that’s quickly becoming both tiresome and exceedingly troubling.

The Home Secretary is insistent that it is a simple case of flight and that the three have each wholly absconded to some parts unknown. In his mind, it is nothing but a mere string of coincidences rather than a case of foul play. I am, myself however, of a less certain mind.

I have dispatched urgent summonses to Mr Dickens and Miss Nightingale to attend me here at Buckingham Palace forthwith and to assist me with my investigations into this bothersome sequence of events. Mr Dickens provided invaluable assistance when dealing with the unfortunate incident of that despicable little man in Whitechapel last summer. I am hopeful that, with his network of unsavoury contacts around the city, he can unravel the truth behind these disappearances. On the other hand, while I do not expect Miss Nightingale to be of similar utility in these matters, she does possess certain talents that could prove to be useful.

Victoria R.

The full moon reflected brightly off the still wet macadam of the wide, treelined street. The majestic facades of the townhouses lined the road, the pure white Portland stone gleaming in the moonlight. While gas lamps flickered in the damp air, throwing long, twitching shadows across the deserted pavement.

A black horse, waiting patiently beside its carriage, whinnied and stamped its hooves uncomfortably as he ran past. The thud of his black leather boots echoed loudly between the silent, dark houses.

Baron Mayer de Rothschild pulled his cloak tightly around himself as he dared a glance back up the empty street from where he had come. Sweat glistened on his brow, and every ragged breath burned and wheezed in his lungs. His legs trembled with exhaustion, and his feet bled, rubbed raw by fine leather boots that were better suited to a dignified stroll around a country garden than a frantic, midnight sprint through the streets of Westminster. But despite all his exertions, an icy chill seemed to gnaw at his bones.

Did they still follow him? Had they given up the chase? Had he perhaps managed to outrun them? Once or twice, he thought he saw movement, a slight twitch in the shadows, a silhouette watching from an alley, but nothing ever emerged from those dark recesses.

Stumbling sideways, his back slammed against the wet, black iron railings. Mayer collapsed forwards, bent over, his hands on his knees, his breath coming in forced, rattling gasps as he fought to compose himself.

As soon as he had managed to master his shaking limbs, the Baron pushed himself off the fence and continued at a brisk pace down Eaton Place.

How could he have been so stupid? ‘London by Dark’ was not the sort of place that a respectable gentleman like himself should be venturing into. He should have stayed home like every other sensible person in this godforsaken city did when the sun went down.

An icy shudder rippled over his body as a faint, mournful howl drifted on the wind. At least here, north of the Thames, he was safe from those particular monstrosities. They never crossed the river.

Cursing himself, he muttered under his breath. Something about his own stupidity and the lure of a pretty girl. He could still smell the scent of her perfume, that heady, exotic musk that mixed so alluringly with the sweet tang of opium smoke in the air. He could still feel the supple caress of her soft skin against his as they had lain intertwined on the red silk sheets.

A hundred guineas her company had cost him, money well spent for such unearthly ecstasy. He didn’t begrudge the cost for one moment, but what good were such pleasures if he didn’t make it home in one piece?

Unconsciously, his thumb ran over the small silver kamea that he hadn’t even realised he had taken out of his waistcoat pocket, his nail tracing the Hebrew characters engraved deeply into its smooth surface.

With a drawn-out sigh, he rounded the corner onto Upper Belgrave Street. The sanctuary of his townhouse was finally in sight. Through the gloom shone the warm, flickering glow of the gas lamp he had left lit between the grand Corinthian columns of his portico. Only a few dozen paces remained between him and safety.

“Well, you’ve led us on a right old merry chase tonight, ’aven’t you, m’lord?” A husky voice suddenly hissed in de Rothschild’s ear.

The Baron’s heart lurched in his chest as an icy grip grabbed and twisted his stomach, while the sharp, acrid stench of perfumed snuff and dry tobacco assaulted his nostrils.

He didn’t need to look around to know who stood behind him. He didn’t need to see the scarred face.

Muscles tensed and sinews snapped taut, hurling Baron Mayer de Rothschild into a panicked flight. The air stung his lungs, while a hot, searing agony flared through his injured feet. They burned as if he were one of those circus performers that the lower classes seemed to enjoy so much, walking barefooted across red-hot coals.

He made it no more than ten feet before the surrounding shadows shifted and writhed around him, animated by the yellow-orange flicker of the nearest streetlamp. In front of him, a dark, hulking shape materialised from the gloom. It was little more than a wisp of movement to begin with, but quickly solidified into the broad silhouette of a man.

A shrill, unconscious scream tore from de Rothschild’s throat as he barrelled headlong into the hard, thick chest of the thug. It was like crashing straight into a brick wall. Actually, a brick wall would probably have had more give.

Huge arms, thicker than tree trunks, wrapped around him, trapping him in a vice-like grip.

A desperate plea spilled from the Baron’s lips, “Help me, help me, please!”

“Shhhh! You’re squawking like a little bird.” The big man growled in a rough accent before shoving the Baron forward so hard that he fell to his hands and knees, the skin grazing and tearing on the rough flagstones. “There ain’t nobody who’s gonna help you.”

He was right, of course. Even if anyone did hear de Rothschild’s pleas for help, they wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave the safety of their houses. Only the hopelessly insane, or those with a death wish would dare to venture outside after dark.

Another chill shudder rippled through the Baron as once more the faint, haunting sound of a howl carried on the breeze.

“The dogs are restless tonight, ain’t they, Mr Sikes?” A gangly fellow, the one who had whispered to the Baron, stepped into the gaslight. He was tall and gaunt, his face drawn and pallid with a vicious-looking scar tracing a winding course from his forehead, through an empty eye socket, down his cheek and eventually finishing at his lip, pulling his mouth into an eternal snarl.

His long, ill-fitting, navy-blue frock coat swung around his calves as he stepped forward. Dirty brass buttons fastened it up to his collar. Two columns of buttons, with more than one or two missing, lined the breast. The once gold braid at the shoulders was now dirty and frayed, and the coat itself, worn and patched. An old, battered top hat sat upon his head. Raising a pinch of snuff between his thumb and forefinger, he inhaled it with a sharp sniff.

Mr Sikes glanced towards the pale moon, shining down brightly from overhead. “Right you are, Mr Crackit. Something’s got ’em all excited. Best we stay on this side of the river until they calm down, I reckon.”

Mr Sikes was a bear of a man. A thick, tangled, black beard covered his ruddy face, while a grey flat cap, pulled low, cast his eyes in shadow. He wore a dark grey greatcoat that strained tightly against his bulk. Beside his boots crouched the ugliest dog that de Rothschild had ever seen, a hideous, shaggy white beast with a thick, studded collar. Its face was scarred and its ears torn. A low growl rose in its throat as it glared at the Baron through its one good eye.

“It looks like you caught our little mouse, Mr Sikes. The boss will be right pleased with us,” said Mr Crackit, his deformed lip twitching.

“So, it would appear that I have, Mr Crackit,” Mr Sikes’ voice was cold and emotionless. His rough hand gave the Baron’s shoulder an agonising squeeze. “What should we do with him now? I quite likes listening to little mouses squealing just before their necks go snap.”

De Rothschild felt his body quivering and shaking uncontrollably as a warm, wet sensation filled his trousers and ran down his legs.

“You can’t do this, you know you can’t!” The Baron’s voice was shrill and trembling as he forced the words out. “The Queen won’t stand for it. When she finds out that the Rat King has been sending his roughs to this side of the city… there’s a truce, you know, and… well, after what happened last time…”

Mr Crackit spoke, ignoring de Rothschild’s stammering pleas. “No neck snapping here, please, Mr Sikes. The boss wants this one still warm, he does.” He stepped closer, fixing his solitary grey eye on the Baron. “And that’s just about enough chatter from you, little mouse. It’s time for a nap.”

A rough arm wrapped around the Baron’s chest and hauled him up until his legs were dangling like a rag doll’s. Struggling desperately, he kicked and bit at the brute that held him, but Sikes didn’t so much as flinch.

“C’mon now, little mouse, there’s no need for all that wriggling. Mr Crackit here has got a nice little something that’ll dose your glim.”

With eyes wide and bulging, de Rothschild could only watch as Mr Crackit stepped forward, a crooked grin on his face and a rough, dirty rag in his hand.

The tall man thrust the cloth into the Baron’s face, holding it there with surprising force. The sweet, acrid scent of the chloroform instantly slammed into the back of his head like a hammer blow. His eyes rolled back, his vision fracturing into a mosaic of flickering colours. The sound of the wind and the voices of the two thugs blurred and melted away until there was nothing but darkness and silence.