Jonathan Broughton: The Russian White: A Victorian Thriller

And deviousness wouldn’t stop him from being poisoned. He hoped that one of The Brotherhood might take that fatal chalice, but the Russian’s death guaranteed Isobel’s fate.

The Russian smacked his lips with satisfaction, and downed a second glass. His eyes sparkled. He hugged the empty wardrobe with his brawny arms and, with a loud grunt, lifted it off the ground. He staggered under its unwieldy bulk, braced himself, and then ran at the door and rammed it with a resounding crack.

The force of the blow knocked him backwards. He dropped the wardrobe which tipped sideways and fell against the wall. He rubbed his shoulder, and scowled.

Isobel rattled the door handle. The lock held and the door stayed shut.

“Give me a moment,” the Russian panted. “I try again.”

“William, you’ve got to help him.” Isobel grabbed his jacket sleeve and pulled him towards the wardrobe. He resisted, and her wide eyes, that implored with such compassion, clouded, first with desperation, and then with anger. “William, don’t just stand there, we’ve got to get out.”

She let go of his arm and gripped the door handle. She wrenched it sideways in violent jerks. Still the mechanism held.

William stepped away out of her reach. How, he mused, had it come to this; all this terrible mess and confusion? For years he had kept the Russian White safe, only to be betrayed by his wicked sister. She spied on him, exposed the diamond’s hiding place to the Russians, and revealed him to The Brotherhood as a deceitful liar.

Burning was too easy a death. She needed to feel his anger before she died. His hand closed over the ivory box in his pocket, and the last capsule of Prussic Acid.

The Russian approached the wardrobe and took hold of it in a bear hug. He braced his legs, grunted, and then his grip slackened, and he slithered to the floor, his face contorted with apprehension and disbelief.

The ceiling split with a loud crack, and a lump of plaster landed at William’s feet and shattered into tiny fragments.

The Russian groaned and rolled sideways, his arms entwined around his stomach, as if he might squeeze his body inside out.

Isobel dropped beside him, her arm on his shoulder. “What’s happened?” Her brow furrowed with concern. “Are you hurt?” She ran her hands over his back, as if she might find the pain. “What have you done?”

The Russian curled up, his eyes squeezed shut, his teeth gritted through open lips.

“What’s the matter?” Isobel fumbled with his shirt buttons to loosen his collar. “What can I do? William, help me.”

The Russian gasped snatches of smoky air. William lifted the ivory box out of his pocket, and flicked the lid open.

Saliva foamed around the Russian’s mouth, and then his eyes snapped open and stared straight into his, though they saw nothing. He was dead.

Isobel pulled him over onto his back, slotted her arms under his shoulders and attempted to lift him. “William, help me get him up.”

He stepped behind her, and tipped the brass capsule into his hand.

“Hurry up,” she gasped. “He’s had a fit or something. We’ve got to get him onto the bed.” She knelt and pulled.

The fire roared overhead. The ceiling creaked. At any moment it might tumble down, there was little time left.

“William, don’t just stand there.”

With deliberate slowness, he slid the glass capsule out of its brass sheath, and held it up for her to see.

She let go of the Russian and her hands shook as she covered her mouth. She pushed her feet against the floor to slide away, but he was too close and there wasn’t enough space to escape, and she gave up and whimpered like a wounded dog.

William revelled in her panic. Now she understood what he had done to the Russian, and what he was about to do to her. She was powerless to help herself or anyone else.

She was his, and he smiled as he watched her pitiful shaking. He savoured the moment, this just reward for everything that she had put him through. Killing his sister was going to be a joy.

He bent over her. She slammed her hands over her mouth. He grabbed her neck and squeezed, and the force of his grip forced her to look up into his face. He stepped on her shin, pushed down with all his weight to hold her still, then slipped his hand round to her jaw and tightened his fingers, and the tips dug into her cheeks, and with a cry of pain she opened her mouth. He snapped the glass capsule, and tipped it up.

She lashed out, and her sudden strength surprised him. Her arm knocked his hand away, and he released his hold and lost his balance. She rolled across the floor out of reach.

Hate and frustration filled him with a furious temper. Prussic acid dripped off his fingers. The bed stood between them. He dived across it, but she was up, and side-stepped his clumsy hands as he grasped at the air. She was swifter, and darted to the other side of the room. He stood on the bed. Height gave him a greater reach, and he towered above her.

He had her covered whichever way she ran, and she pressed against the wall as if she might break through and escape. He sprang at her, and she dropped to the floor and scuttled away, like a monkey. He twisted in mid-air and lunged at her back, but as he landed his ankle bent inwards, and pain ripped along the length of his leg. He stumbled, fell, and tore his forehead on the edge of the wardrobe.

The glass in the window exploded with a bang, and showered him with broken fragments. Flames curled around the frame, and fire burned in the room. Plaster dropped from the ceiling and shattered as it hit the floor.

The walls cracked, forced apart by the heat, and the room turned black with soot. Smoke billowed over him. He covered his nose, and his eyes blurred with tears.

He crawled towards the door, though Isobel was there already. She took hold of the handle in both hands, and with a loud cry, leapt up and wrenched it down, and to both their surprise, the door sprang open.

Smoke streamed through the room, drawn out by the draught. It cleared, and in the doorway stood Terrington, in his hand a large brass key.

William clawed at Isobel’s ankle but she escaped, darted out, and sprinted down the corridor. “Stop her.”

Terrington covered his face against the smoke, and Isobel was past him and out of sight before he realised.

“Help me,” William implored. Hot cinders burned his head and hands. His ankle stung and his foot dragged along the floor. Terrington squatted beside him and helped him up.

“Get me out of here.” He gripped Terrington’s arm for support. “I’ve got to live. I’ve got to kill her.”

Sylvia flapped her arms. Smoke stung her eyes and choked her throat.

The floorboards under the bed cracked and splintered, and the bed dropped with a jolt, and tipped towards her. It stopped with a bump, wedged between wooden joists. The silver bowls clanged, as they whirled in wild circles.

Her hips were level with the top of the mattress. She might manage to roll onto it, and if she did, she would shut her eyes and the “vision,” that was bound to happen, would take her away from this terrible danger and frightening destruction.

She just needed to roll. The fire raged, and blotches of red appeared on her skin. Hot cinders landed in her hair and smouldered, and she flicked them away, though they stung her fingers.

The fire must be underneath her too, because her bottom throbbed with soreness. She flapped her arms, bounced on her hips, and willed her body to roll. There was a loud crack, and she gave a cry, as the floorboards beneath her snapped. A cloud of black smoke billowed over her.

She retched and heaved. Her body shook and wobbled, and through streaming eyes, she watched the rolls of fat ripple like heavy waves that refused to settle. Up and down, and side to side, her enormous body sagged and shuddered, and the sudden fluctuations in weight broke the floor joist, and she tilted towards the bed.