Jonathan Broughton - The Russian White - A Victorian Thriller

She told William that she had been in Paris, true enough. Though she hadn’t told him about her chance meeting with The Classical Beauties on the boat to Dieppe, or that she had fallen in love with their manager, James Turney. Or that she still worked with the troupe. She wished though that she had sent a note to her father, just to reassure him that she was safe and well. It might have saved his life.

The portrait of her mother stood apart from the others and she picked it up to take a closer look. William had always been her favourite. The artist had given her rosy cheeks and a bright cheerful smile. No hint of the temper she unleashed when her low moods dominated. The picture shifted in its frame. One of the little brass clips that kept it in place at the back was missing. She eased aside the remaining clips and the wooden board fell away and exposed the back of the canvas. A small square-shaped hole was carved into the side of the frame, and in that hole nestled a brass key.

She tipped it into her hand and knelt down to try it in the lock on the box. It fitted, and when she turned it, the wooden lid sprang up and made her jump. She took a deep breath and reached inside.

Her fingers brushed across smooth plump velvet, then, underneath its soft folds, they scraped against something hard and angular. She pushed the velvet aside, and her hand closed over cold sharp stone. She needed both hands to lift it out, and gripped her fingers around it like a claw, anxious not to drop it. Its weight was more than she imagined. She leant against the desk, and opened her hands.

The Russian White sparkled with a pale yellow light.

She expected its shape to be more like a tear, but it resembled an oblong lump. It might, she thought, be described as ugly, and the surface, criss-crossed with uneven sharp-edged lines, had never been cut. Its size though filled her with wonder.

She cupped it in both hands, cradled it in her fingers, rocked it backwards and forwards, fascinated by the light that flashed across its surface. She had found it, and she couldn’t believe her luck. This was no time to celebrate, and she wrapped the diamond in its velvet, and tucked it under her bodice, where it pressed against her skin.

She locked the box, closed the drawer and replaced the key in the picture frame. The oil lamp sputtered, and the flame danced as it faded.

She opened the study door and listened. Not a sound; and she ran down the stairs to the basement.

She released the catch on the larder window, and climbed out. The rain eased to a steady drizzle. She pulled the window up and secured the hook; then half-ran, half-walked down the alleyway to the crescent.

She hoped a hackney cab might be passing, but no luck; and she walked with brisk steps towards town.

William Hunt climbed into his carriage outside the Soho Club and waited. After a minute there came a gentle tap at the door.

“Yes?”

The door opened, and the drunk from the alley climbed in and sat down.

“Well Terrington?” asked William.

Terrington wiped his sleeve across his face to soak up the rain. “It was her sir.”

“As I thought.”

“She headed for Piccadilly and took a hack.”

William nodded. “Excellent. I wonder if she will find it?”

“She’s a clever one sir.”

“Too clever.”

Terrington jerked his thumb at the door. “I’ll wait outside. Do you have the—?”

“Here.” William reached under his seat and slid out a wooden box with a hinged lid. He unclipped the brass clasp that held it secure, and prised it open to reveal a row of glass bottles, each one standing in an individual compartment of padded red velvet. He picked out a small green bottle, and drew his handkerchief out of his coat pocket.

He uncorked the bottle, scrunched up the handkerchief, and tipped the bottle upside down.

“This is liquid chloral hydrate with an infusion of lavender. Hold it over Mister Turney’s nose. He will lose consciousness in seconds. Bring him to the carriage.” Drips from the sodden handkerchief spattered onto the carriage floor. “That should do it.”

He handed the handkerchief to Terrington. “I’ll bring the carriage closer. Go now.”

As Terrington climbed down, William leant out and called up to the coachman. “I want you to be ready to help my man. We are here to catch a villain. Draw up to the entrance of that alley.”

“Yes sir.”

The carriage moved forward a few feet and then stopped. William motioned the man to jump down, and together they peered into the narrow passage.

Terrington returned to his place by the wall opposite the back of the Club. The gas lamp over the door flickered with a feeble yellow light. The rain poured down, and puddles spread on the cobbles.

The girls came out first, laughing and giggling as they ran towards Piccadilly. Then a young man with black floppy hair, and wearing a bright red frock coat. Then an older man with bristling sideburns. He was followed by shorter stockier man, pulling a large wooden trunk.

“Thank you James, most successful.” The man with the sideburns shook James’s hand. “Is there the possibility of a return visit? Perhaps in the not too distant future?”

“Of course. I suggest a couple of months from now. The authorities—you know—bit uncertain about our work.”

“Yes, yes—I see. Well, let me know won’t you?” They shook hands again, and the man with the sideburns went back inside. A key rattled as the door was locked.

Terrington assessed the situation. The short stocky man followed James. It meant taking two of them out.

Terrington waited until they were out of the light then sprinted after them. He reached the short man first and kicked his legs out from under him. The man shrieked and fell, and the heavy trunk pinned him to the ground.

Then running footsteps as James ran back, and Terrington leapt up, knocked him backwards and smothered his face with the handkerchief.

James struggled to escape, but Terrington held him with a tightening grip, until the chloral hydrate took effect and James’s legs buckled and his body went limp.

The stocky man struggled to free himself from under the trunk, and Terrington grabbed his hair, pulled his face up, and pressed the handkerchief over his nose. The man sighed and lay still.

Then more running steps. His Master’s carriage stood at the end of the alley, a black outline against the lights from the street lamps.

“Is that you sir?” It was the coachman.

“Over here.”

The man shuffled towards him.

“Quick!” Terrington grabbed James’s legs and dragged him towards the carriage. “Take his arms.”

They carried James between them, and William opened the carriage door as they approached.

“There’s two of them sir.” Terrington pushed James into the carriage and left him on the floor.

“Who’s the other one?” queried William.

“His servant I think. I couldn’t take one without the other.”

“Fetch him then.”

Terrington ran back, and the coachman followed. They heaved the trunk aside and left it propped against the wall, then dragged Peter back to the carriage and threw him in on top of James.

William pressed a guinea into the coachman’s hand. “Take them to St. Bethlehem’s Hospital. Ask for Doctor Hood. He is waiting for them. Quickly now.”

Isobel reached the corner of Berners Street and Oxford Street and the boarding house where James lodged. She couldn’t believe it! A hack stood outside the apartments. Wasn’t that typical! She had walked all the way from Regents Park Crescent, through Portland Place and down into Oxford Street, and she hadn’t seen a single one.