Jonathan Broughton: The Russian White: A Victorian Thriller

That she moved at all wasn’t apparent at first. An imperceptible change of position that built in momentum, and as she gathered speed, her weight shifted from the centre of her body. She experienced the sensation of falling sideways, and once it began, it didn’t stop.

She crashed onto her pillows, and the impact broke the floor. The bed dropped into the room below, and smashed through the burning remains of what had once been a guest bedroom.

The speed of her descent increased. Ancient floorboards and plaster ceilings crumbled under the sudden onslaught from this unexpected blow, and as the bed and Sylvia crashed through one room after another, they left behind them a gaping hole that passed right through the centre of the House.

At every blow, bits of the bed disintegrated. Sylvia clung to the mattress. The dropping sensation tingled inside her stomach. It might have been pleasurable, if it hadn’t been so frightening.

Plaster shattered, wood cracked and flames roared. She wanted the horrible sounds to stop, and she shut her eyes and held on tight.

The bed lurched to a stop with a sickening jerk that almost threw her off. With a loud snap, the remains of the tapestry enveloped her in its dusty folds.

The bed stood at an angle, tilted down at her feet, and it slid, over bumps, and as it increased in speed, each bump hit the bed like a fist. She wailed at the impact of every blow, and the bed creaked, and she feared it might break apart.

And now there were voices, people shouting and screaming. Panic filled the air, and she slid and bumped towards an ending that she didn’t want to think about.

The bumping stopped and the bed levelled, though the sliding continued, over a floor that squealed and squeaked as she passed across it.

Then crunch, and with a sudden swerve that made her scream, she came to an abrupt halt.

She lay still. She didn’t dare look. In the distance, shouting, the words unclear. The fire too, sounded far away; and her body, something strange that she remembered from long ago, like being stroked or washed. It soothed her with its gentle caress.

She opened her eyes, and the wind blew in her face.

The door opened. “Oh thank God.”

Isobel’s relief was checked in an instant by Terrington’s sudden appearance. Black smoke engulfed him, and he covered his face, and Isobel seized her chance and ran.

“Stop her,” William yelled, but she darted out and sprinted down the corridor.

She turned once. Terrington didn’t give chase; he was in her bedroom, kneeling beside her brother. She rounded the corner and stumbled over the dead body of one of the soldiers. On his back, his throat cut, his eyes open. Terrington’s work, and she rushed past.

A thin layer of white ash covered the floor. The ceiling blazed at the far end of the corridor, and as she watched, the curtains caught light and a ball of flame dropped to the floor and ignited the carpet. The smoke thickened.

She pinched her nose and cupped her hand over her mouth. Her eyes stung; no soldiers in sight. James must be somewhere on this floor. There were four doors, all shut.

She yelled; “James.”

She ran to the first door and flung it open. An empty room. She tried the next, empty again. Each door brought her closer to the fire, which crackled, and the heat fanned her face.

“James, James! Where are you?”

The third door squeaked as she pushed it, the brass handle warm to the touch; another empty room. She hated Terrington, but she thanked him, for he must have unlocked the doors as he looked for William.

“Can you hear me James?”

Wood splintered, and the flames scorched the walls black, and as she ran towards the fire, hot tears of frustration blurred her eyes. She mustn’t be too late! Not now!

She had her hand on the handle of the fourth door, when a terrible crash from the room beyond shook the floor. She stepped back. There was a roar, and what sounded like an explosion. Had the ceiling caved in? She turned the handle and pushed the door open.

A cloud of dust and smoke billowed out, and she turned her back, as embers of burning plaster spattered against her and dropped to the floor, where they smouldered.

She covered her eyes, and peered through her fingers.

The ceiling had collapsed, and so had the floor. The windows had been blown out of their frames, and the wind blew the dust in frantic eddies.

Something heavy must have fallen off the roof; one of the stone gargoyles perhaps? It had left jagged edges of broken plaster and split wood around two gaping holes, one in the ceiling, and one in the floor. The dust swirled, thick as fog.

“James?” Her dry throat stung. She waved away the dust, and her heart quickened. No one had a chance if they were stood under the ceiling when it caved in.

She slumped against the door, exhausted with worry and fear. If James wasn’t here, she didn’t where to look. “James?”

Was that—she cocked her head—a moan or a cry? Too weak to make out, though she thought it came from the other side of the room, across the hole in the floor. Impossible to see in the murky air.

She coughed and swallowed to clear her throat. “James? James? Is that you?”

The crackling fire made too much noise. Its’ strange sounds tricked her. Then she heard it again, more distinct this time. A groan, that might be human, might be animal.

“James? James? Can you hear me?”

“Isobel.”

“James! Oh my god, James! Where are you? Wait. Wait there. I’m coming to get you.”

His voice came from the far side of the room. She tip-toed towards the hole, and the boards creaked under her weight. She didn’t dare approach the edge, though when she looked down, she saw, far below, the gleaming marble of the Grand Staircase.

The distance across was too hard to gauge in the dark, and she didn’t trust the floor to hold her weight if she jumped. She stepped back, and clambered over broken beams.

The floor sagged, and broken plaster tipped down the hole. She pressed her back against the wall, and inched her way round; one tiny step at a time, as she tested each board with her foot before she stepped onto it. Her breath came in tiny gasps, and she wished she was brave enough to move faster.

“I’m nearly there,” she panted. “I’m nearly there. Try and speak. I can’t see you.”

“I’m stuck—my legs.”

She reached the far corner. Slabs of broken plaster lay piled in a jumbled heap, and she lifted them aside with care, so as not to make any sudden movements.

And then she saw him, covered in wood fragments and dust. “I’m here now. It’s all right my love, it’s all right.” She dropped to her knees and embraced him, and he lifted his arms and hugged her. “Oh James, I’m here now. I’ve got you. I’ve got you now.”

She held him tight, and buried her face against his neck, and kissed him over and over again.

A straggling beard framed his hollow cheeks, and his pale lips were cracked with dryness. His threadbare jacket stank of mould, and his feet were bare. What had they done to him in Bedlam? She held his face and looked into his sunken eyes, and kissed him again. “We have to get out.” She didn’t want to alarm him, and she didn’t want to let go of him. “Can you stand?”

“I think so, if I can just get this—” A heavy lead pipe lay across his legs. “It fell through the ceiling and knocked me over.”

“Stay still.” She stroked his hair. “Can you crawl if I lift it?”

“Yes—at least I hope so, if my legs still work.”

She took hold of the pipe and eased it up, a bit at a time. She didn’t want to hurt him. He shuffled backwards, bent his legs, and scrambled free.