Jonathan Broughton: The Russian White: A Victorian Thriller

James sighed. “Very well. Three shillings?”

Jessica clapped her hands. “Of course I’ll do it.”

“Do you remember what to do?”

Jessica pretended to think hard. “I’m behind that box, looking like I’m swimming, and I get really bored, and I stand up and I’m not wearing any clothes.”

“Shakespeare’s wasted on you girl.”

The “handmaidens” slipped out of their white shawls and twined garlands of silk flowers around their bodies. Wax fruit, piled high on wooden platters, represented the fruits of the forest, and two furry toy animals, a lion and a donkey, the wild beasts.

Isobel waited, desperate to leave.

The girls found their places and James slowly opened the curtains. The scene underway, he led Isobel through a side door and out into a narrow dim hallway. A short dark man with a black beard sat on a stool smoking a pipe.

“Peter?” James spoke each word with slow clear care. “Show this lady upstairs. To the big room with wide window, where we stored the clothes. You know?”

“I know. Yes, I take she.” He pointed his pipe at the ceiling.

James twined his arms around Isobel and pulled her close. “Where will you go?”

“Home. I don’t think he saw me.” She kissed his open mouth.

He kissed her back. “Be careful.”

“As always.” She kissed him again.

She followed Peter to the end of the hallway and then up a narrow flight of wooden stairs to the very top of the building.

The chill in the attic room made her shiver. The only light came from the spill of the gas lamp from the alleyway outside. Peter strode across the room to a door on the opposite wall, and pulled it open to reveal a large walk-in closet with the girls’ clothes hanging from a wooden rail.

“Here is,” he indicated.

“Thank you Peter.” She stepped into the closet and prepared to change. Peter stood behind her, watching.

“You’d better go back downstairs,” she prompted. “To guard the door. Yes?”

“Guarding—yes, I go. Goodbye now? Yes?”

“That’s right Peter. Goodbye.”

Peter clomped across the floor and descended the stairs. She closed the closet door and removed her shawl.

A floorboard creaked. Was that naughty Peter creeping back to have a peep through the keyhole? She jerked the door open, hoping to take him by surprise, but no one was there. Then she heard voices on the stairs, and the heavy tread of approaching feet. Too late to run, she stepped back into the closet, and left the door ajar.

“Here we are gentlemen. Not comfortable, but cheap, which is what you asked for.”

She recognised the voice of Bernard Hopper, the proprietor of the Club.

“This will be fine.”

She gasped, and covered her mouth. William, her brother. Her heart beat quickened. Had he seen her and followed her upstairs?

“Can I fetch any of you gentlemen a drink?”

More people entered the room and the ancient floorboards creaked under their weight.

“We have everything we need,” replied William. “I will settle with you later.”

“In your own time sir.”

“Oh Landlord?”

“Sir?”

“We are not to be disturbed. Is that clear?”

William used that phrase when he conducted business. She’d didn’t like its cruel cold authority.

“Of course sir—um—”

“Yes?”

“The evenings’ entertainment—downstairs sir.” Bernard Hopper gave a nervous laugh.

“What about it?”

“The ladies’ clothes sir, there in that closet. They’ll be coming up here to change later, but the show don’t finish for another hour. Will that be time enough for you gentlemen?”

Isobel backed into the dresses and drew them around her. She wished, with all her heart, for the floorboards not to squeak.

“Plenty.”

“Very good gentlemen, I will leave you in peace.”

“Well Doctor Hood,” laughed William, after Bernard Hopper had left. “Congratulations. Our first meeting in a bawdy house.”

“Makes a change from all those stuffy old clubs in Pall Mall,” sniggered the man called Doctor Hood. Isobel shuddered. His high creaky voice reminded her of fingernails drawn down slate.

She pushed the dresses aside and tip-toed behind the door to peer through the gap between the door and the frame.

“Bit unusual though, I must say.”

This man’s voice was deep and gruff. He struck a match and lit two candles that stood in brass holders on the mantelpiece. The weak flames flickered, then flared, and produced a wavering glow of yellow light. They also lit the man’s fat red face.

“Oh come on Buffrey,” William laughed. “You’re not telling me you didn’t know such establishments existed?”

“I’ve never been in one before if that’s what you’re saying,” grumbled Buffrey. “Have you Chief?”

The fourth man had his back to her. He wore a long black overcoat that reached to the floor.

“Gentlemen, time to get down to business, then those of us who care for such pleasures can join the throng downstairs.” His voice carried authority and demanded attention.

He stepped in front of the fireplace and turned to face the room. The left side of his face glowed in the candlelight. His pale skin, creased and sagging, and etched with dark lines around his eyes and mouth, looked the same colour as the candle wax. Here was a man weary with care and thought. His eyes glittered in the flickering light, bright and alert, and betrayed no hint of tiredness or worry. He stood, with his hands clasped behind his back, and addressed the room with the confidence of many years practice.

“William Hunt?”

“Chief?”

“Do you have the diamond?”

“Yes.”

“Is it safe?”

“Yes.”

“Is it secret?”

“It is known only to The Brotherhood.”

“Name them.”

“Their names are listed but not written down.”

The Chief glanced across the room. “We are all present.”

“I thank The Brotherhood for attending.” William bowed with a quick nod.

The Chief continued. “Does the diamond have a name?”

“Yes.”

“Name it.”

“The Russian White.”

Isobel stopped breathing. She wished she didn’t have to breathe ever again for fear that one of the men might hear. She opened her mouth and sucked in air very slowly. The Russian White? But—her BROTHER? She willed herself to stay quiet and listen.

“That concludes the formalities,” The Chief sighed. “Now gentlemen, I regret to inform you that we have received fresh reports of Russian activity within the capital, suggesting that despite our best endeavours, there has been another influx of agents.”

Buffrey groaned.

“Increased tension in the Holy Lands has no doubt contributed to this situation?” suggested William.

“Yes. It is unfortunate,” replied The Chief.

“At the last meeting you said that you had caught them all.” Buffrey’s note of outrage suggested that he might have been misled.

“I said that we had caught two of them,” countered The Chief.

“Did you torture them?” asked Doctor Hood. She couldn’t see him, though he sounded very close to the door.

“We questioned them—yes. But they died.”

“Can’t take their medicine,” snorted Buffrey.

The Chief ignored the interruption. “Our intelligence suggests that there are many more of them out there.”

“What’s being done about it?” William’s petulance hinted at rising anger.

“Our agents, as you would expect, are in the field, but at the moment that is all that I can tell you.”

“This is worrying,” mumbled Hood. “I thought the new port laws stopped illegal immigrants from entering the country.”