Jonathan Broughton - The Russian White - A Victorian Thriller

“She’s not up there anymore,” the chambermaid continued excitedly. “She came down this way, but I don’t know which way she went.”

“What did she look like?”

“She had a uniform on, just like mine, but it was tight, like it didn’t fit right, and her cap was on all wrong, like she was trying to hide her face. She was carrying laundry. She said she was a village girl called Miss. Partridge, but I don’t remember Mistress Paignton sayin’ she was hiring no one new.”

“No she isn’t, on my instruction.” William’s voice boomed out orders. “Find more men to search this floor—go!”

Running footsteps pounded away and out of earshot, harder and more urgent than before.

“How long ago since you saw her?” asked William.

“No longer than it took me to walk down these stairs, sir.”

“All right. Stay here.”

“Yes sir.”

“If you see her, scream. Can you scream?”

The chambermaid giggled. “I don’t know sir. I’ve never had reason to try.”

“Then try now.”

There was a moments’ silence, and then the girl burst out laughing.

“Oh for goodness sakes,” William huffed, exasperated.

“I don’t think I can sir, not without some meaning.”

“There will be meaning enough if you see my sister, right?”

“Of course sir, I’ll scream if I see her. I know I will.”

William’s heavy tread approached the tapestry. Isobel willed every muscle in her body to stay still. He was level with her hiding place, and when he shouted, she almost yelled in shock.

“Stay there and don’t move.”

All right, she thought. I won’t.

The chambermaid called back; “Very good sir.”

William muttered something under his breath. The clink of spurs receded as he moved off.

Isobel counted to twenty, and then dared to peep round the edge of the tapestry.

William was nowhere to be seen. The chambermaid stood at the foot of the stairs, peering down the opposite hallway. Isobel slipped out from behind the tapestry and crept up behind her.

“I bet I can scream louder than you,” she growled.

The chambermaid jumped forward and span round at the same time.

Isobel affected her most dreadful grimace. Wide staring eyes, open mouth, bared teeth, and she snarled like a wild animal.

The chambermaid toppled backwards in a dead faint. Isobel dropped the laundry bag on top of her, and ran.

At the bottom of the next staircase she turned right and raced along the carpeted hallway. She gave up the idea of reaching the Servants’ Staircase. Now that her disguise was known, that would be the first place to be searched. The hallway ended in front of a large pair of double doors inlaid with shining mirrors; The Silver Ballroom.

She tried the brass handle and the doors clicked open. She sneaked through and secured the doors behind her.

The high-vaulted room blazed with sunlight. The beeswax-polished floor scented the air with its sticky aroma, and the mirror-lined walls reflected the sunlight in shafts of brightness.

Around the edge of the Ballroom, grouped against the walls stood ornate chairs and chaise-longues in informal arrangements, and placed between them, faceless mannequins dressed in the latest fashions. The display portrayed the splendour of the balls held at Parklands.

“Just what I need,” thought Isobel; a new disguise. She hurried from mannequin to mannequin. The fashions on display were mostly of women’s attire, but too ornate for day wear. Then she found a purple gown overlaid with gold embroidery, and decorated with cream lace at the cuffs and neck. Tortoiseshell glasses adorned the featureless face and the creation was completed by a golden wig with curled and bouncing ringlets. She considered; she might just get away with it, if the wearer were aristocratic and eccentric.

Then, another problem. The gown, like all the gowns on display, laced up at the back. The cords that pulled the gown tight needed the services of a maid, unless, and she lifted the hem of the purple outer skirt to have a look, she could slip it over her head and climb into it after the cords were tied. The gown would look baggy, but perhaps that didn’t matter if she was supposed to be eccentric.

She untied the cords, tried to guess how loose to leave them, and then tied them up again. Then she lifted the gown off the mannequin and threw the skirts over her head. She extended her arms and felt her way into the sleeves, and then she wriggled like a beached fish until the gown slid over her shoulders and then over her hips. The fit was tight, but the gown fell into place.

Off to the side of the Ballroom, and reached by a short passage, was a retiring room. Here she found a box of cosmetics. She applied black pencil to her eyebrows, blue eye shadow to her lids, and rouge to her lips and cheeks. She dusted herself with white powder and picked up a hand mirror to study the effect. Dreadful, just what she wanted.

She stuffed the housemaids’ cap under a chaise-longues.

She pulled on the golden wig, and arranged the ringlets to cover as much of her face as possible. She secured the tortoiseshell glasses by bending the wires over her ears and poking the ends into the wig. It stopped them slipping off her nose.

None of the mannequins had shoes, so she kept the tartan slippers. She dragged the naked mannequin into the retiring room and laid it on the floor.

She picked up a crystal glass from a silver tray and walked to the other end of the Ballroom. A second pair of doors opened onto a picture-lined hallway where a marble balustrade lined the open well that looked down onto the Grand Staircase and the Main Hall, two flights below. She approached the top of the stairs and began her descent.

She kept to the centre of the stairs, as a lady would, but weaved from side to side as if tipsy. At the same time, she attempted to maintain an upright and dignified appearance. She smiled a tight little smile. That was how grand ladies always smiled, especially at the staff.

And pounding up the stairs came three servants in a terrible hurry.

“At last.” She squinted at them through her glasses. “I’ve been ringing and ringing for hours. What is the matter with you all?”

The young men stared at the gruesome apparition that loomed over them. One remembered his manners and his duties, stepped forward, and bowed with a quick nod. The other two pretended to be very interested in their feet.

“I do apologise m’am. There is an emergency on and we neglected to hear your bell. May I ask from which room your ladyship rang?”

“Yes—that room over there.” She gestured with a wide sweep of her hand in no particular direction, lost her balance, and sat down with a bump. She was up again before any of them could come to her assistance, and pretending that nothing had happened.

“I need refreshment. All the bottles in my room are empty. Do you understand? Empty. What sort of a House is this that allows its guests to die of thirst? Now, I know what I want. Brandy. I’ve had a shock. Ringing that bell has hurt my wrist. I need a brandy to recover. Fetch me a brandy.”

“Ma’m—”

“I am Lady Penelope Smith—a widow.” She stifled a sob. “My husband—Lord Penelope Smith. No—Algernon Smith, such a good man. He’s dead you know. I wanted for nothing. I had it all, wealth, happiness, friends, dogs—all sorts of dogs—I don’t know what they were—they had names too—like ‘thingy’ something—where are they now? Where are my dogs? I want my dogs.”

“Ma’m—”

She wiped away imaginary tears with the back of her hand and smeared her make-up. “Do you know what the most important thing in the world is? Do you? Do you know? I’ll tell you—puddles.”