Jonathan Broughton - The Russian White - A Victorian Thriller

Few people walked the London streets at night. Men she passed stared with hard looks. Somebody whistled from the darkness of a shop doorway, but she didn’t lose her nerve.

She pressed her arm against The Russian White. Her soft skin yielded to its hard edges. It reminded her, as if she needed reminding, of why she was out so late at night. Her cheeks burned with excitement. She wanted to run and laugh and yell at the top of her voice; “I’ve found The Russian White.” It took all her control to stay calm.

She gripped the front door key in her fingers and crossed Oxford Street into Wardour Street where the entrance to the apartments stood at the top of a short flight of stone steps.

She glanced up at his window. A soft yellow glow burned around the edges and her heart beat with excitement. She hurried up the steps and to her surprise found the front door open. How careless. She stepped into the hallway and shut it behind her, but when she turned the key, the lock failed to catch. She pushed it too, and hoped the wind didn’t blow it open during the night.

She ran up the stairs to the second floor landing. The lamp at the top of the stairs glowed pale cream. She knocked on James’s door, but there was no reply. She knocked again and tried the handle, and the door opened. The room was dark now.

“James?” Slow steady breathing came from the bed. Was he asleep already? “James, wake up.”

He muttered and turned over. He still wore his clothes, for they stank of smoke from the Club.

“James you’ve got to wake up.” She shook him, then recoiled. His shoulder didn’t feel right. She stepped back, alarmed. A floorboard creaked and she spun round, and the door shut with a bang.

The sheets on the bed rustled, and Isobel screamed. A cloth smothered her face and stifled her cries.

She smelt lavender, and something sour that made her sick, and the cloth pressed harder and harder over her nose and mouth. Her knees buckled as her legs turned to water, and the last thing she remembered was her brother’s voice whispering in her ear.

“Got you!”

Doctor Hood sipped his port, closed his eyes and swallowed. “Well, well, William. What a risky business.”

Opposite him, William smiled, his own glass of port untouched. “Nobody saw us.”

“And—?” Hood gestured with a twist of his hand, aware that Terrington stood just by the door.

“It is quite safe.” William pressed his palm against his chest.

“Thank goodness for that.” Hood sipped his port. “So, two mad sisters eh?”

“It seems so.”

“How tragic that insanity is so prevalent in your family. Your mother too?”

William sighed, but Hood persisted. “I’m sorry it must be painful for you.”

“I feel that the present time is inappropriate for a discussion concerning my family’s health.”

“Of course, but Isobel?”

Hood determined not to move until his port was finished. William owed him this moment of indulgence. After all, he had secured the room in the Club where The Classical Beauties performed. William instructed him, true, suspecting his sister, but he had made all the arrangements.

William sat so prim and neat in his bespoke suit. Sharp creases, boot leather shining, the smooth young face betraying no signs of advancing years. The comfortable look of privileged upbringing. Underneath that pampered exterior he was the same as any man, subject to the whims of human frailty. Scratch just a little, and that well-bred decency might turn to black despair. He had seen it many times before, when men under pressure buckled. No sign of the mask cracking yet though. His control was admirable.

William began; “I found out about her acting with The Classical Beauties—”

Hood interrupted. “It’s all so juicy. How did she meet them?”

“By chance I think.”

“She wasn’t informed?”

“Suggesting that she knew about the Russian White already?”

“Sssh!” Had he forgotten Terrington? “No,” Hood whispered. “But perhaps she found out.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Luck?”

“She didn’t know anything about it until she ran away.”

“Oh good.”

William’s mouth tightened into a sharp thin line. “I dislike your suggestion that I was careless about the diamond’s security.”

“Don’t mistake me William. I’m not blaming you. But she’s a crafty one. Look at the merry dance she’s led you.”

“Indeed.” His lips relaxed and the tension passed. “I think James Turney told her about the diamond when they became lovers. In fact I’m sure of it.”

“Really?”

A vein throbbed in William’s neck. Hood had noticed it before during moments of anxiety, and it was being very active at the moment. This was a very dangerous situation. Neither The Chief nor Judge Buffrey knew anything about this clandestine meeting, and according to the terms of the Constitution regarding the safe keeping of the diamond, that was illegal. Mind you, The Chief’s cavalier approach earlier that evening towards that ancient document proved that nobody was prepared to be guided by its strict principles any longer.

William sipped his port and placed his glass with studied precision onto the small table beside him.

“The Classical Beauties,” Hood sniggered. “Who would have thought it? A simple, but effective front for smuggling Russian agents into the country, and to think that Isobel knows all about it. It’s an amazing stroke of good luck.”

He waited for William’s confirmation of this spectacular statement, but he sat in silence, his eyes downcast. Hood tried again. “Extraordinary.”

William failed to meet his gaze.

Hood leant forward, his voice conspiratorial. “But tell me, after everything she’s been up to, why on earth did she return home?”

“Remorse I think,” William sighed. “She was upset over father’s death, and quite right too. She hastened his untimely demise.”

“Why didn’t you throw her out?”

“Think of the scandal in the newspapers if I did that.”

“Yes, I see and what with the—” He winked at William’s chest.

“Precisely. I could watch her at home, and now that I have seen proof of her activities, I must find out how much she knows.”

“Quite a bit I’d say, considering.”

“And the sooner I talk to her the better.” William rose, his port unfinished.

Hood gulped his down in one mouthful. A short moment of indulgence, but sweet, and the rest of the story would soon be told if William allowed him his special ways of questioning.

“Of course.” He jumped up. “Follow me.”

Isobel opened her eyes. Pitch dark. Had she gone blind? She shut them, squeezed tight, and opened them again. Nothing.

She patted the cold stone floor. Wet straw in bunches of sodden clumps reeked of human waste, and when she lifted her head, stale sweat and unwashed bodies stank in the heavy air. She covered her nose and breathed in tiny gasps.

She shivered and touched bare skin where her dress was torn. Her heart jumped and she reached inside her bodice. The Russian White was gone.

She stifled a muffled gasp. Her brother must have taken it. What would he do now? Did he know about James? What was this place? The straw rustled, and she recoiled, alarmed at her blindness.

“Who’s that?” she called.

“Who you?” a voice answered.

Something hard and cold and smooth attached to her right ankle, rattled. She ran her fingers along it. An iron ring, then a heavy chain. She followed its length until she came to a huge clamp bolted into the stones. She was manacled to the floor.

The terrible smell, and her rising panic heralded the beginnings of a faint, and she dug her nails into her palms and willed herself to stay calm. Was she in prison? Had her brother’s vindictiveness manifested itself into such a terrible act of retribution for his sister? What was he going to do to her?