Jonathan Broughton - The Russian White - A Victorian Thriller

“No one will mourn your passing Mister Ridley.” William whispered in his ear. “And no one will know what became of you. From this moment on, you will cease to exist.”

Mister Ridley fell forward. Every visible nerve and muscle twitched with horrible rapidity. His face contorted into a grimace of fear and pain, and then his eyes rolled up and he lay still.

Terrington kicked him with his boot, but there was no response.

“Burn him,” commanded William.

“Sir.”

“And Terrington?”

“Sir?”

“Leave nothing. Not a trace.”

“Of course sir.” Terrington dragged the dead man out of the room.

William picked up Mister Ridley’s knife and studied it in the light under the lamp. A long thin blade, ideal for the quiet work of an assassin. Green leather bound the hilt. On the guard, the stamped imprint of the maker’s mark. Foreign, Far Eastern he thought.

He slid it into the drawer next to the red box. He dropped the head into the sack to give to Terrington in the morning. Then he blew out the lamp and went to bed.

Isobel woke up and screamed. She pushed her fingers into her mouth and calmed her beating heart with deep breaths. A bad dream, just a bad childhood dream.

Sweat soaked her neck, and she pushed back the blankets to cool down. There had been a cry, like pain or fear. She thought it was in her dream, but had it been in the room?

A lamp glowed on the table beside her. She climbed out of bed and tried the door. The handle rattled, but the lock held secure, as always. She stumbled over to the window and pulled back the thick green velvet drapes.

A full moon shone in a cloudless sky and lit up the grounds of Parklands in muted shades of grey. There was no wind and a sharp frost settled on the grass. Her breath steamed against the glass and she wiped away the condensation with the sleeve of her nightdress. And she saw, out of the corner of her eye, something run into the trees, but when she searched, there was nothing.

Then she heard it, that cry that invaded her dreams; a long low moaning howl.

The hairs rose on the back of her neck. Another called to the first, and a third and a fourth, and more, calling to each other in the night. A discordant chorus, rising and falling, and then joining in unison.

Wolves, baying at the moon.

She saw them; dark under the trees, running with easy loping strides across the grass. One stopped and fixed her with its stare. Its grey tongue hung from the side of its open jaws, a glint of white where moonlight caught a tooth, its orange unblinking eyes. He held her gaze with ease, panting; the steam enveloped his muzzle in a cloud of white vapour as he waited for the rest of the pack.

They ran to him, their bodies lowered as they supplicated themselves before the Alpha male. They acknowledged him as their leader, vied for his admiration, but he ignored them. All his attention was on her.

He trotted towards her. The pack followed, silent and watchful.

She tried to look away, but his eyes held her, trapped her. Mounting panic made her gasp. She rocked backwards and forwards, dug her fingers into the deep velvet pile of the curtains, but she couldn’t avert her gaze.

His silver fur shone in the moonlight. He snarled, tensed, and leapt straight towards her.

She screamed and dropped to the floor and covered her face to ward off the attack. She screamed again, terrified.

She heard voices outside the bedroom door, and running feet coming down the corridor. A key turned in the lock and then William’s voice called out instructions. Strong arms lifted her off the floor, and she screamed again as she fought against them.

A hand clamped across her forehead. A bitter liquid washed into her mouth. Strong fingers squeezed her jaw shut. She had to swallow or she would choke. The liquid burned her throat. She struggled, but her muscles turned to water, and her mind went dim, and she fell into darkness, and then she knew nothing at all.

William lay her down on the bed and covered her with the blankets. He walked over to the window. The trees stood silent and still in the moonlight. Stars flickered in the black sky. He drew the curtains, left the room and locked the door behind him.

Isobel woke up to find the curtains open and bright sunlight streaming into the room. Her head thumped.

On the bedside table stood a tray with cold meats and a hard-boiled egg and an apple. The smell made her sick. She climbed slowly out of bed. The room lurched and wavered around the edges of her vision, and she sat still until her balance settled. She stood up and the dizziness receded.

She tried the door; still locked. William had taken away all her clothes but she opened the wardrobe just to check. The doors rattled in the empty space. She went to the window and stared out. It was a beautiful day and the night time terror that had seemed so real, receded like melting fog. She lifted the clasp and pushed the window wide open. The air made her gasp, it was so cold, but it cleared her head and stopped her feeling nauseous.

How long had she been at Parklands? Days, nights, weeks? It was all a muddle. A series of drugged moments, half-remembered, and William’s voice asking endless questions.

Her stomach growled, but she wasn’t going to eat anything off the tray. So far, all the food had been laced with laudanum to make her sleep.

She leant over the sill. Below the window, a wide stone ledge ran along the length of the wall towards the roof of the East Wing. She grabbed hold of the window frame and pulled herself up onto the sill. The drop was terrifying. Her gaze concentrated on the stone ledge.

She lowered her right foot through the window and kept a firm hold of the frame, then eased her foot down inch by inch, until the rough stone scraped against her sole. It was icy cold

She gritted her teeth and pressed down to test her weight. Satisfied that the ledge would hold her, she climbed out of the window.

Her mind reeled with instructions. Don’t look down. And breathe. If only her body would stop trembling.

She couldn’t believe what she was doing. She stood on the ledge panting with nerves. Her white nightdress flapped in the breeze. She took a deep breath, slid her right foot sideways, adjusted her weight, and slid her left foot up to join it. She jammed her fingers into the cracked stones, and repeated the sideways shuffle. The concentration required all her willpower.

Her arms ached with the sustained tension, and her head thumped. The thought of the void below made her legs wobble like water.

The roof of the East Wing inched closer. The black tiles gleamed in the sunlight.

A huge stone gargoyle, some mythical creature with a lead pipe protruding out of its leering mouth, stood between her and the roof. Its arching stone body was easy to climb, but she manoeuvred herself like a snail over its strange humps, fearful that she might lose her grip in the excitement of escaping. She reached the roof and lay down on the warm tiles to recover her breath.

She had made it. If only she could rest and enjoy her freedom, but her disappearance would soon be discovered, and then William would hunt her like he hunted wild animals.

A little way up the roof stood a brick chimney stack. Set into the roof beside it was a metal trapdoor. She had seen labourers climb out of it when repairs needed doing. She crawled up the roof on all fours. The trapdoor sat flush with the tiles. In its centre protruded an iron ring, dark red with rust.

She stood up slowly, taking care not to overbalance on the sloping roof.

She placed one hand on the chimney for support, bent down, and took hold of the ring. The hinges squealed as the trap opened.