Jonathan Broughton: The Russian White: A Victorian Thriller

That final meeting in her bedroom, that look of hatred in his eyes as he attempted to poison her, his obsessive desire to have his own way regardless of the consequences, that lack of filial love, to forgive all that would be hard. Perhaps she never would, perhaps it didn’t matter. Perhaps it was for others to feel sympathy, and for her to concur, knowing that deep inside, her thoughts and feelings would always be different. If it meant living a lie for the rest of her life, well that was the price she paid for being alive.

She crouched over a pile of broken porcelain that had once been an enormous jardinière, and shifted the jagged pieces to approximate the shape it had once displayed so proudly.

She had lied to The Chief last night. She hadn’t told him Gregor’s name. Somehow, somewhere, she thought she might meet the Russian again. She didn’t know why she thought this, and deep down, hoped it wouldn’t happen. He had betrayed her and led her into a trap, and yet it wasn’t entirely his fault. He had looked after her too, and she owed him that for keeping her silence. He didn’t deserve to be caught. Did he still have the diamond? Or did Dunyasha, or Konstantin? Had it perished in the fire? She didn’t think so. She suspected the Russians had it hidden, though of course she would never know; unless by chance she met Gregor again, and was able to ask.

“Excuse me, ma’m.” A boy stood before her, red faced and puffing. “I’ve been sent to tell you that the young man is awake, and that a carriage has been prepared for you.”

“Thank you. I’ll be there directly.”

There was nothing more to be done. She covered the broken porcelain with black ash. Bury it, hide it, cover it as if it never existed. Like the Russian White, hiding in dark places and concealed by lies and deceit. The diamond’s appearance provoked nothing but fear and turmoil. Though its’ possible whereabouts intrigued her, it was no longer her concern. No longer important to her life, she decided. She stood up and walked round to the stables. She had James, and she didn’t wish for anything more.

He was standing by the stable doors, and she embraced him with a strength that made him stagger under its intensity.

“Let’s go home,” she whispered.

She helped him into the carriage, and wrapped a blanket around them both, and they snuggled underneath to keep warm. She closed her eyes and held him.

The carriage swept down the drive and out through the Park gates onto the London Road. And she didn’t look back once.

An hour later the cart arrived from the village, and Mistress Paignton and her women fed Sylvia. She wanted every morsel, large and small, that filled the baskets, but Mistress Paignton kept strict control of the rations.

“You want to save some for later, m’lady.”

Sylvia didn’t understand, and grunted and huffed when the food stopped coming.

The men attached ropes to the bed and hoisted Sylvia onto the cart. Two huge shire horses needed all their strength to move her down the drive. The procession moved slowly; it would be many days before Sylvia reached London.

The few staff left in Parklands hunted for anything that might be salvageable. Without a job, and some of them without a home, they contemplated the need to rely on friends and relatives to take them in and give them shelter. The odd item might fetch a bit, though there was precious little to find. The older staff found it very hard to leave the place they had called “home” for so many years. The last couple left at mid-day, and pulled the iron gates shut at the end of the drive.

The afternoon light faded to dusk and the clouds released their downpour. The remaining pockets of fire hissed in a mist of white smoke, and the rain cascaded down the marble steps, and the charred timbers dripped with black water.

One beam that leant against the Grand Staircase, slipped sideways and crashed onto a pile of broken plaster. A hand emerged and groped for support. Broken bricks clattered and a man, black with burns and soot, staggered out from underneath the stairs.

Terrington leant against the marble steps and breathed in the cold air. The rain stung his burnt skin, and his scorched clothes turned sodden in a moment. He tipped his head back, opened his mouth and let it fill with rainwater, which he swallowed in one long draught. Its coolness soothed his parched throat, and he stood for a long time and drank the rain.

Dusk turned to darkness, and he stumbled through the debris, but snagged his foot on something sharp that pierced his skin. He scraped away the ash-sludge, and found a knife. Neither fire nor rubble had damaged its long narrow blade, and its edge cut sharp, the hilt bound in green leather. An ideal weapon for a hunter, or an assassin.

He climbed through the Park, and the rain eased as he reached the first trees that bordered the forest. He passed under their boughs, and disappeared into the darkness.

Dunyasha staggered to her feet. “Take them to the Embassy.”

Winded by Isobel’s blow, she gulped for breath, and though in pain, she didn’t think she was seriously injured. Konstantin handed her back the cloth bag with the Russian White secure in its velvet pouch. He guided her to the chair and she sat down.

“Fetch Gregor,” she instructed. “And Marsha too.”

She sat straight and eased her breathing back to normal, as the men bundled Isobel and Terrington out of the room. She had expected the meeting to be difficult, but not so violent. Still, she glowed with pride at having caught Isobel. Valuable answers about The Brotherhood and the diamond would soon be supplied. She was less sure about Terrington; he possessed a lot of useful information too, she suspected, but torture might be required to reveal it.

Konstantin appeared followed by Gregor. Behind him came a young woman carrying a child wrapped in a blanket. Dunyasha reached into her bag and extracted a leather envelope.

“Gregor, you will leave this evening with the diamond, when the tide turns.” She handed him the envelope. “These are your papers, and this—” she clicked her fingers and the young woman stepped forward. “Is Marsha. You are man and wife returning to the continent with your young boy.”

She beckoned Marsha round. “He is called Dimitri.” She pulled back a corner of the blanket and smiled at the sleeping face. “Marsha found him in the alley by the river. The mother was dead and the little boy was close to starving. Marsha has a big heart and took care of him. It is luck that has brought him to us, for now you are a family, and the authorities will not bother you with tiresome questions.”

She lifted the diamond out of her bag. “Konstantin and I will make a diversion by negotiating with the British Government, and use Isobel and the servant as bait, to give you time to escape.”

She stood, and placed the diamond in Gregor’s hands. “Keep it secret, keep it safe. Do not fail the Motherland. Amongst the papers is one that will grant you access to my rooms in Moscow. They will take the diamond, and you will have completed your task.”

Konstantin draped his arm around Gregor’s shoulders. “You will be well rewarded for your services.”

Dunyasha placed a hand on her stomach; it still ached, though the pain had lessened. “This place will be closed tomorrow. Our presence here will be obliterated. The staff will crew the ship. Any questions?”

Gregor shook his head.

“Very well.” She tucked the empty bag under her arm. “The tide turns at six this evening. Go now and prepare for your journey.”

That evening, as the waters in the Thames receded, The Lady Mary raised anchor from her berth in the Lower Pool of London, and drifted downriver with the tide.