Jonathan Broughton: The Russian White: A Victorian Thriller

Buffrey poured out three generous measures and handed The Chief two glasses.

Hood rubbed his stomach and nodded at Konstantin. “What about him?” He took his glass from The Chief.

“Useless. Just shakes his head and nods. Like a marionette at a fair.”

Isobel sat up. The dark lines around Konstantin’s eyes and mouth had deepened and darkened against his pale face. He avoided Isobel’s gaze, but his eyes glittered under their bushy brows.

Hood sipped his brandy. “Then we need to intensify our questioning.”

“Yes—” The Chief’s reply lacked conviction. Isobel suspected Hood’s intensive questioning meant torture. Did The Chief fear incriminating evidence left by his victim’s scars?

“You may be right,” he added.

The tread of heavy boots marching towards the door made them all turn. William fell into the room, pushed by a soldier, who stood to attention when he saw The Chief.

“What is the meaning of this?” The Chief glowered. “How dare you move the prisoners without my permission. Get out this minute.”

William looked a mess. His tailored suit was torn and stained, a weeks’ stubble on his greasy blotched face, and his feet, filthy and bare.

“Sir. There’s something wrong sir,” announced the guard.

“What do you mean wrong?”

“It’s singing sir.”

The Chief grimaced. “William is singing?”

“Not the prisoner. No sir.”

“Get back to your room.” The Chief flicked his hand to dismiss him.

“It’s the walls sir,” gabbled the soldier. “The walls are singing. I thought we were going to be attacked sir, and mindful of the prisoner’s safety, I brought him here sir.”

“What? What is this preposterous nonsense? Get out this minute.”

“With respect sir, it’s not safe.”

The Chief grabbed the soldier’s tunic, pushed him against the wall, and pinned him there. “I’ll have you thrown out of the army man. How dare you disobey my orders.”

“I’m not going back in there sir.” His voice tightened into a whine as The Chief’s hands constricted his throat. “It’s not natural. The walls are singing sir. Listen yourself if you don’t believe me.”

“The man’s mad,” announced Hood. “Voices in the head are a symptom of insanity.”

The Chief released his grip and rounded on William. “What’s this about singing?”

“I don’t know what he’s talking about,” came the mumbled reply.

“It’s the wind.” Buffrey stood at the window and gazed out, his brandy glass clutched in both hands. “It’s blowing a gale out there.”

“Of course,” The Chief snapped at the soldier. “You see? This is an old house. It makes strange noises when it’s windy. Now get back to your room and take him with you.”

“No sir,” the soldier looked straight ahead. “It was singing and it’s not natural.”

Isobel watched as this strange drama unfolded. The pain in her arms and back diminished, and she wiped the tears from her face. Something odd had occurred. She noticed it when William appeared; a tangy unnatural odour that she associated with her brother’s unkempt appearance. But the smell intensified. A dry dusty scent that she didn’t think was coming from William. It caught the back of her throat. The air too appeared unclear, as if a fine mist had seeped into the House and drifted upstairs to her bedroom. She coughed and choked, and sat up, alarmed. “I can smell smoke.”

“Quiet.” The Chief downed his brandy, and held out his glass for a refill. “I told you to get out,” he bellowed at the guard.

Buffrey filled the proffered glass, though his hand shook and most of it missed and splashed on the floor.

“Give it here.” Hood snatched the decanter, and poured. “This is hopeless.” He slammed the decanter onto the table under the window. “We’ll have to question them together Chief.”

“No.” The Chief shook his head. “I don’t want to do that. How do we know that they haven’t concocted some story between them?”

Hood picked up his leather pouch from the floor, and extracted a knife with a serrated blade and hooked tip. “We don’t,” he conceded. “With pain comes truth. Who’s first?”

A deep trembling boom shook the room. Far away, glass shattered.

“What the hell was that?” The Chief glared at Isobel as if she was to blame, but receiving no explanation, he spun round and strode to the window.

The glass glowed dark orange. Isobel clambered off the bed. She released the clasp, opened the window and leant out.

The roof of the West Wing blazed. Flames whipped the air, where they coiled and flared in the wild wind. Showers of sparks scattered across the Park. The Brotherhood, the soldiers and Konstantin Raevsky, pressed round to see.

William reached into the concealed pocket of his jacket and took out the ivory box containing the two brass capsules of Prussic Acid. He flicked the lid open and dropped one of the capsules into his hand. He joined the others by the window, though he chose his spot in front of the table and the three full brandy glasses.

He pretended to look outside as he slid the glass capsule out of its brass sheath, snapped it with his finger and thumb, and tipped the acid into the nearest glass. The poison sank to the bottom, where it lay unseen.

The Chief pushed past him. “Hood, Buffrey, come with me.”

The three men strode to the door. Isobel followed, but the soldier grasped her shoulders. The smoke-smell sharpened. Buffrey pulled out a handkerchief and covered his nose. Now she saw the mist, thin and white, under the ceiling, where it rolled and swayed in the changing air currents.

“Get downstairs,” The Chief commanded Hood and Buffrey. “Organize the staff to tackle the blaze. Guards, lock the prisoners in here then come with me.”

Isobel’s heart thumped. “You can’t lock us in.” The soldier picked her up and threw her on the bed, and before she could scramble off, he had joined The Chief and the other soldiers.

The door slammed, and the lock clicked as the key turned.

William watched the thick black smoke roll past the window. Parklands burned, but he didn’t care; pointless to mourn over a pile of bricks and stones. Familiarity with places and things bored him; let others, more compassionate than him, feel sympathy for its loss. Sentimentality equalled weakness.

Flames flicked around the edge of the window frame. The fire cracked and roared in the ceiling, and a white haze filled the room.

Isobel pushed past him and slammed the window shut. Her every movement looked frantic. She feared death, he guessed, and concern too for her wretched lover. He smiled, they were all going to die.

Isobel’s death promised sweet revenge. Her wilful behaviour had resulted in his downfall. Irrelevant that he was about to die too. He preferred life, but wishing his sister a slow and painful death gave him the satisfaction that his demise would not be in vain.

Isobel interrupted his reverie with a sudden shout. “Can you lift that wardrobe?”

However, the question wasn’t to him, but to the Russian. Why? That great bear of a man didn’t speak English. He had been surprised at The Chief’s delight at his capture; to William, most Russians looked dull and stupid, and this one was no exception.

His dismissal turned to surprise when he heard Konstantin’s reply. His English was slow, with a heavy accent, but he understood Isobel’s request, and his reply was clear.

“I can. But first—”

The man had fooled The Brotherhood with his pretended ignorance. Cunning, the Russians; their deviousness was to be admired, though deviousness wouldn’t stop him from burning.

He stepped aside as the Russian approached the table and downed the brandy with the Prussic Acid.