Jonathan Broughton: The Russian White: A Victorian Thriller

They turned the corner, and James halted, and his eyes widened. She glanced round, and her heart jumped.

Halfway down the corridor stood William; Terrington too, and Dunyasha, the Russian Ambassador’s wife. Isobel froze, and James fell against her as he lost his balance.

Terrington had Dunyasha in an armlock, her head pulled back, her long thin neck exposed. William stood before her, the edge of a blade resting against the white skin under her chin. Dunyasha stared straight up, her eyes avoiding William’s, her lips thin and tight, her face hard and grim.

“Why do you care so much about the diamond?” William concealed his menace with a tone of controlled calm. “Your life is over. Your work will be forgotten. No one will know what happened to you.”

He stroked her chin with the tip of the knife, and bunched up a fold of skin, which he nicked with a twist of his wrist. Dunyasha’s breathing sharpened.

“So tell me,” William drawled. “Where to find the diamond, and your passing will be swift and painless. Or,” He drew the knife across her throat in a long lingering sweep. “Slow and painful. The choice is yours.”

Flakes of white ash floated down and settled on the boards.

Isobel took a step back, and her grip on James tightened. She didn’t dare breathe. She wished she’d followed her instincts and taken The Servants Stairs. It might still be possible, if their movements didn’t alert her brother.

William pressed the knife harder against Dunyasha’s throat. “The diamond serves no useful purpose anymore. It is a forgotten relic, something from a bygone age. It has no relevance today.” He pushed harder, and Dunyasha’s eyes flared.

“Peter the Great knew it was obsolete,” William continued. “Yes, even then. But he didn’t trust the Church not to use it against him. That’s why he gave the diamond to our King. And now you’ve stolen it, and I want it back.”

James leant into Isobel’s arms, and she took another step back.

William cut Dunyasha’s skin, and a drop of blood ran down her neck and settled in the hollow at the base of her throat. She gasped, and Terrington tightened his grip.

“Where is the diamond?” William pressed. “Tell me, and the pain will stop.”

From above, a loud crack, as the ceiling buckled, and plaster dropped, hit the floor, and smashed. Distracted, William turned, and saw them.

“Get them,” he yelled. He grabbed Dunyasha’s arm from Terrington. She bent double with a loud cry as he wrenched it into a half-nelson.

Isobel screamed. “Run!”

She wrapped her arms round James and dragged him towards the curtained door. He moaned at the unexpected force of her demand, and his legs juddered, and he slumped to his knees. Terrington leapt upon them and pulled him out of her arms.

“Let go!” Isobel punched Terrington in the stomach. It made weak contact, and he didn’t flinch. “Get away James!” She grabbed Terrington’s arm to pull him off, and he swung round and punched her in the face.

Dazed, she stumbled against the wall and collapsed. Her sight blurred, and blood dripped from her nose into her lap. She saw double. Unable to do anything, she cried.

Terrington yanked James up by the shoulders.

“Bring him here,” William shouted.

She tried to stand, and her stomach heaved with the dizziness in her head, and she slithered and jerked and thought she might vomit. Everything wavered out of focus, and she rubbed her head to clear her eyes.

Terrington hauled James in front of William.

“Leave him alone,” she croaked. Her arms and legs melted, weak as water, and blackness flickered at the edges of her sight, but she refused to lose consciousness. “Don’t touch him. Don’t you dare touch him!”

James crawled towards her, and Terrington grabbed his hair and pulled, so that he had to stand or risk losing his scalp. Then he yanked his head round with a violent shove, and forced him to look at his Master.

William glared, and his breathing rasped as he raised the knife. “Where’s the diamond?” and he plunged the tip into James’s chest.

Isobel sprawled across the floor. “No!”

The tiles on the roof of the East Wing cracked in the heat, and the russet-bricked chimney stacks blackened. Thick smoke, filled with red hot sparks, belched and pumped and then blew away in the wind.

The fire in the attic rooms roared, and the flames turned white as Old Mister Bartholomew, the rocking horse, burned.

His paintwork evaporated in a froth of bubbles and a sharp hiss of steam. The hair on his mane and tail ignited into red slivers of fire that shot into the air and disintegrated in puffs of white ash. The flames forced open cracks between his carved features, which widened like red cuts, and consumed his body in a ball of fire.

The roof collapsed; the chimney stacks tumbled down, and the attic floor gave way. Old Mister Bartholomew tipped into the void, and the fiery conflagration burned like a falling comet

Faster and faster he fell, and brighter and brighter he burned. His flared nostrils streamed with fire, and his eyes shone with a terrible white light.

William heard the rush of sound, looked up, and Old Mister Bartholomew slammed into his face and burned his brains out in an instant.

The impact flung James and Terrington out of the path of the falling debris, but a rafter hit Terrington’s head, and he crumpled under the blow.

The floor exploded and collapsed in a cloud of white dust and black smoke, and Dunyasha fell into the hole, screamed once, and disappeared into the falling flames.

Isobel covered her head as thick smoke billowed over her. Her nose stung, and she curled over as bricks and plaster crashed down. “James!” Her voice cracked and she retched, suffocated by smoke. “James!”

She pressed her face against the floor and crawled towards the spot where she had seen him last. Smoke stung her eyes, she squinted; he was lying, face down, next to the burning hole. His jacket smouldered and sparks bounced and flared all around him.

“James!”

He turned, and she raised a hand to stop him moving. “I’m coming to get you.” She wriggled forward, but the smoke forced her back. “Can you crawl?” she yelled.

The boards underneath her bent, and one of them snapped. She didn’t move. The floor wouldn’t support both their weights. She inched backwards. “Roll towards me. I can’t reach from here. I’ll catch you, but I can’t come closer.”

James pushed himself onto his elbows, coughed, and covered his head with his hands.

“Press your face into the floor,” she instructed. “Take a deep breath.” She shook with fear and panic. “Come on, you can do it.”

James flopped onto his side, his back towards her, his head turned, his face against the floor. He rocked from side to side, and with each roll increased his momentum.

A thick ball of black smoke pumped through the hole, and she flung her arms over her head and held her breath. When she dared to look she saw nothing but swirling dust and smoke.

“James!”

With a flurry of arms and legs he barrelled into her, and she wrapped herself around him and pushed her feet against the creaking boards, and they rolled over and over away from the fire and the gaping hole.

They rolled into the wall at the end of the corridor and lay still, panting for clean air, holding each other close. Heat scorched her face and smoke filled the corridor.

She lifted his exhausted body and pushed him onto his hands and knees. His head lolled and swung as if his neck had broken, though he followed her instructions as she guided him towards The Servants Stairs.

The heavy curtain that covered the door smoked, and the brass door handle burnt her palm so that she had to use the curtain to turn it. The door opened, and she dragged James after her. Cool air fanned their faces. She glanced back. William’s hand, burnt black, shimmered in the heat, and was raised as if in farewell. She slammed the door against the fire’s building fury.