Jonathan Broughton - The Russian White - A Victorian Thriller

Attached to the inside of the trap was a thick metal chain which hung down into the attic room below. She didn’t think the drop looked that far, but it was hard to judge. She lowered the trap onto the tiles, and then sat down on the edge of the hole. The dim interior was full of shadows. If she jumped, she might hurt her ankles, or worse. She rolled onto her stomach and wriggled backwards until she was balanced, half-in and half-out of the hole. Then, she swung he legs forwards and pushed back at the same time, and her body dropped through the hole.

Her feet hit the wooden boards just as her head cleared the trap. She whirled her arms to stop herself from tumbling over. Thick dust swirled around her, and her nose tickled.

A long narrow corridor disappeared into the distance. Thin beams of light pierced the gaps in the tiles. She took hold of the silver chain and pulled, and the trapdoor banged shut with a loud clang.

She waited as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Against the wall stood a large misshapen object covered in a dust sheet.

She lifted a corner, and her heart skipped a beat as a shiny painted face smiled back at her. White teeth gleamed below painted crimson lips, and strands of grey hair fell over one staring blue eye. She couldn’t help but laugh. It was Old Mister Bartholomew, the rocking horse that had once stood in pride of the place in the children’s nursery.

She stroked the shiny paint work, and traced her fingers over the carved surface. So many happy childhood days rocking away on his back, pretending to escape from fire-breathing dragons or the hot pursuit of evil Princes as her imagination transported her into a wild fantasy world.

“I need you now,” she whispered into his wooden ear.” So that I can escape from my brother.” She dropped the dust sheet and patted his round wooden rump. Poor Old Mister Bartholomew, left again to the silence of the attic.

She tip-toed to the end of the corridor, where a short flight of stairs took her down to the next floor. At the bottom of the stairs, another corridor stretched before her with doors set off to the right and left. A worn rug covered the floorboards and an oil lamp on a small table cast a dull yellow light. This, she guessed, must be the servants’ attic. She crossed her fingers, and wished that none of them were ill and in bed.

She knocked on the first door to her left. There was no reply and she went in. The dingy room contained a worn chest of drawers and a single bed pushed against the wall. Its white sheet was turned back and tucked under a thin mattress. Under the bed, placed neatly together, were a pair of tartan house shoes, and hanging from a hook on the back of the door, a maid’s uniform. The white name tag read: “Annabel McCoist,” in red letters.

“Thank you Annabel and I hope that you don’t get into too much trouble when you come to report it missing.”

She pulled the uniform over her nightdress, the cut was generous and the fit loose, though the cap for her head was tight, and she pulled it down so that it concealed her eyes. The tartan slippers happened, by luck, to be just the right size.

She crept out into the corridor. A white laundry bag leant against the opposite door, and she picked it up and set off with a determined stride. She didn’t know if it contained dirty washing or clean laundry, but it didn’t matter, it gave her the appearance of being on an errand.

At the end of the corridor, another short flight of steps led down to a curtained archway, but as she approached she heard voices from the other side. She held her breath, ready to run back and hide in Annabel McCoist’s room.

“Search the West Wing,” called a man. “The Master says she might be there.”

Footsteps hurried by, and the curtain swayed as they passed. The chase was on. They had been to her room and found her gone. She imagined her brother’s fury when he discovered her missing, his face turning dark red, that protruding vein throbbing in his neck.

The footsteps faded into the distance and she ran down the steps, pulled back the curtain and bumped straight into a chambermaid.

“Ere!” The chambermaid bounced off her and almost fell over. “Look where yer’ going!”

Isobel dropped the laundry bag. The washing spilled over the patterned rug and she knelt down to retrieve it, hiding her face from the girl standing over her. She affected a high pitched whining voice.

“Now look what you made me do!”

The chambermaid planted her feet firmly apart. “You got eyes aint’ yer? What yer doing? Sleepwalking was it?”

Isobel bundled the linen into the bag. “I ain’t got time to talk, as if I didn’t have enough to do already—and what with all of this going on and all.”

“Say sorry then.”

“What for?”

“What do you mean what for? You only just gone and winded me, that’s what for.”

“You ain’t winded. You’d be flat on your back if you was winded. Now get out of my way. I’ve got work to do.” She stood up and wiped imaginary sweat off her brow, but the chambermaid blocked her path.

“You ain’t going nowhere ‘till you says sorry.”

Isobel tried to push past, but the girl grabbed her arm and forced her back. “Let go of me.” Her voice slipped into more cultured tones and the chambermaid’s grip tightened.

“Who are yer? I ain’t seen you before.”

“Cos you haven’t. I’m new ain’t I.” She knew she was trying too hard. “Only arrived yesterday. Mistress Paignton, in the kitchens, hired me from the village.”

“Oh I see, country girl are we?” She loosened her grip. “That explains it. They must be desperate hiring a great gormless lump like you.”

“Yes that’s right. Mistress Paignton says they need all the help they can get nowadays.”

The chambermaid let go of her arm. “What’s yer name?”

“Miss Partridge—miss.” She bobbed a clumsy curtsey. “What’s yours?”

“It don’t matter. But I’m reporting you to Mistress Paignton. First thing she has to teach you, Miss. Partridge, is some manners. Now skit!”

Isobel hurried down the hallway, the laundry bag clutched against her stomach.

The hallway ended in a wide shallow staircase that brought her down to the next floor. At the bottom, she hesitated. Right or left? Which was the quickest way to the Servants’ Staircase? She heard footsteps coming down the stairs behind her. She turned left, and ran. An ancient threadbare tapestry covered part of the wall and, because she couldn’t think of anything better to do, she slid behind it. The dusty folds disguised the possibility that anyone might be concealed there. She peeped around its tattered edge.

The chambermaid appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She looked left, then right. Then more footsteps, these heavy, with an accompanying clink of spurs. The chambermaid dropped into a low curtsey and Isobel eased herself behind the tapestry as she heard a voice she knew only too well.

“What are you doing here?”

“Excuse me Mister Hunt, I was returning to my room.”

“This is no time for idleness. There’s an emergency on.”

“Yes sir.”

“My sister is missing. She is not safe to be left alone.”

“Sir?”

“She is mad you see, very dangerous. I hate to think what she might do if she found you up here alone. I have medicines that will cure her, but we have to find her first.”

“Sir—sir, I think I saw her upstairs. She knocked me over she was running so fast. I’m sure it was her sir. She was wearing a uniform, but I ain’t never seen a maid looking like her before, and she didn’t like me looking in her face.”

Isobel held her breath. More footsteps pounded down the hallway.

“Wait,” commanded William. The footsteps halted and she heard the panting of runners catching their breath.