Jonathan Broughton - The Russian White - A Victorian Thriller

“I need a horse old man.”

“Get out of ‘ere, or I’ll fetch a stick to you.”

“Orders from the Master.”

“Oh yeah? And I’m Queen Victoria.”

“I’ll show you.” She stepped in front of him to block the view from the kitchens. “He gave me this note.” She pulled out the dagger and thrust it towards his chest.

The old man lurched back, but Isobel clamped a hand onto his shoulder. “Into the stables—now. Any noise and I’ll slit your gizzard. Move!” The old man did as he was told.

The stables’ heavy air smelt of damp straw and horses.

“Stand there.” She pointed to a stout beam that supported a patchwork of rafters.

The old man pressed his back against it, and his fearful eyes never left the dagger. “Who are you? What do you want?” His hand shook and scattered ash from his pipe.

“I am Isobel Hunt,” she announced regally. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me?” She flashed him a brilliant smile.

“You’re a woman? But—” He stared, and his hand shook even more.

“Careful. We don’t want to start a fire now do we?”

“You—the Lady Isobel—but you’re mad. There’s a devil inside you. They cut you open and you had no heart. Is it your ghost I’m seeing? Why are you hauntin’ me? I’m just an old man who looks after the horses.”

“Oh for goodness sakes!” She grabbed a pair of reins from the tack board and looped them round the old man and the beam. “Is that what they’re saying?” She tied the reigns into a tight knot. “I don’t know, the stories people tell.” The old man groaned, but he didn’t attempt to escape.

Isobel flicked a soiled cloth off the hook where the leather polishes were stored, and leant towards him, her nose almost touching his cheek.

“Because you see, the truth is much much worse.” She opened her eyes wide and deepened her voice. “When they cut me open, my body was full of thick black hair covered in crawling maggots, and at the first cut the room filled with a thousand buzzing flies, and every person standing there was stung a hundred times.”

The old man screamed, and she pushed the cloth into his mouth.

“Guess what, I am The Devil!” The old man fainted.

She checked the stalls. There were six horses, watching her with ears pricked. Isobel chose the horse nearest the doors. “Mavis” announced the board painted in black letters over the stall; stupid name for a horse, she thought.

She slipped a head collar with a leading rein over Mavis’s head, and guided her out into the yard. She’d learnt to ride bareback as a child.

From the kitchens came the clang and bang of pots and pans. She shielded herself from view behind Mavis.

The mounting block stood just outside the stable doors. There was no one about and she stepped up and jumped onto Mavis’s back. A quick flick of the rope, and Mavis trotted under the stone arch that divided Parklands from the grounds.

A shingle path curved round to the front of the House, but she pulled Mavis onto the grass at the side, and with a kick of her heels, set off at a gallop.

She urged the horse on. Every window in the East Wing faced the grounds. She wouldn’t put it past William to call out the hounds.

The grassy bank dipped towards an ornamental pond and then rose again as they galloped through a grove of elm trees.

Before them, a dark blur in the distance, loomed the Old Forest. She slackened the rope to give Mavis her head. The horse leapt forward, and the cold air blew over them like the wind.

A cloud of thick smoke drifted over the forest trees. Black and heavy, it hung like a shroud in the still air, and smothered the treetops in darkness.

Isobel pulled Mavis to a steady trot, and then to a halt. Who was here, so far from Parklands? She dismounted. Fallen leaves deadened the sound of Mavis’s hooves.

Ahead, in a clearing, a man worked at making a bonfire. He heaped dead wood onto the flames until they roared, and the spindly twigs on the nearest trees singed in the heat. Sap spattered in heavy drops.

A horse stood tethered to a fallen bough on the far side of the clearing. It grazed on the few clumps of scattered grass that grew under the trees.

The man stepped back to wipe his brow, and Isobel’s heart jumped. Terrington. She ducked behind the nearest tree. If only the trunk were thick enough to hide herself and Mavis. She crouched on all fours, and peered over the roots.

Terrington walked across the clearing, braced his legs against the horse’s flank, and hoisted a heavy sack off the horse’s back and onto his shoulders. She heard him grunt with the effort as he staggered back to the bonfire.

Wood split and cracked, and flames spiralled into a glowing point of bright orange.

He bent, grasped the sack with both hands, and tipped it over his shoulder into the fire.

The burning branches collapsed under the sudden weight. A shower of red and orange sparks shot into the air, and the sack shrivelled away in a puff of black smoke.

A long slow hiss, like the sound of hot steam escaping from a boiling kettle, was accompanied by a rapid popping. The flames burned ruby red, and at their centre a human ribcage turned black, as the skin and muscle melted off the bones.

The smell of burning flesh filled the air, and Mavis reared, whinnying in panic.

“Mavis. Quiet, quiet!”

Isobel pulled on the rope to calm the horse, but too late. Terrington looked up and saw them, and he smiled a smile of terrible recognition. He held her gaze, drew his knife, and sprinted towards her.

“No!” She leapt for Mavis’s back as the horse galloped off. The leading rope slipped out of her hands and she twisted her fingers into the flowing mane, and gripped the coarse hair with all her strength. There was a whistle and a thump; a sting of pain in her right shoulder. Terrington’s knife embedded itself in a tree.

Low branches whipped across the top of her head. Mavis galloped out of the forest and back towards Parklands. The rope flapped and weaved in front of her legs. If she tripped, Terrington would be upon them.

Isobel squeezed her legs into a tight embrace, released one hand from the mane, and inched her way up the horse’s neck. She snatched at the rope. She caught it on her third attempt, and took control of the horse.

She tugged hard, and Mavis turned away from Parklands and galloped back towards the Old Forest. The smoke from the fire burned far away to their right. There was no sign of Terrington.

Isobel guided Mavis into the trees and slowed her to a trot. The ground rose in a steep slope, where, further up, the trees were thicker and the forest darker. She felt sick, and her shoulder stung.

Peggy brushed Sylvia Hunt’s long yellow hair. When had she last cut it? She couldn’t remember; so many years ago. It might have been in this bedroom. Before she covered the floor with white candles, and drew the curtains across the windows.

She parted a few strands, and drew the brush along their immense length.

“What a lucky girl,” she clucked. “To have so much lovely long hair.” She smiled at her Mistress’s sleeping face. “My little baby, what a refreshing sleep you’re having.”

Her little baby; it was true, in all but birth; such happy memories of those rosy pouting lips as she wet-nursed her. Her guiding hand as Mistress Sylvia took her first tentative steps. The care and love she had doted on her all these years.

Her own infant son had died after a week. She remembered the terrible uselessness of all her stored up love. She thought she would die. Then Sylvia had been given into her care to nurture and cuddle; a new baby, her baby, now and always.