Jonathan Broughton: The Russian White: A Victorian Thriller

She twisted to find a more comfortable sitting position, and her hand brushed across rough cloth; a blanket perhaps? She draped it around her shoulders to ward off the damp cold.

A terrible high pitched shriek pierced the darkness. Terrified, she jumped back, and the iron ring bit deep into her ankle. The scream intensified, and the blanket was snatched away

A second voice, babbling loud incomprehensible nonsense, joined the screaming. Another voice, further away, laughed, a constant jabbering yell that held no mirth or meaning.

And there were others, shrieking, yelling, crying, laughing, that filled the darkness with wild sound.

“Quiet!” A square of orange light burst like sunlight above her. One fear subsided, she wasn’t blind.

“Quiet! Or I’ll take the stick to yer.”

Keys jangled in a lock, followed by a loud scraping as wood scratched against stone. The screaming and the babbling and the laughing stopped as suddenly as they had started.

“I know you.” A huge ill-shaped man, haloed by orange torchlight, stood in the doorway. In his hand, a heavy cudgel. “Anymore an’ you’ll feel this over yer skull.” He hit the floor and the stones trembled from the blow.

All around her, people lay on the floor attached to lengths of chain, men and women, young and old. Their faces, greasy with dirt, gleamed with sweat and tears. Some attempted to cover their nakedness with bits of rag that might once have been clothes. One man, better dressed than the others, leaned up on his elbow.

“Peter!” She spoke his name from sheer surprise, and the guard took aim with his cudgel. She ducked as it whistled over her head.

“Lie yer’ down.”

The guard stamped his boot, and Peter obeyed and curled up into a ball. Satisfied that discipline was restored, the guard left, and slammed the door behind him.

Isobel stared into the darkness, scared that the guard might be listening. Then she whispered; “Peter?”

“Yes. It is me.”

“Oh thank goodness.” She crawled towards him, and the chain clanked against the stones. “Where are we?”

“I know not. James, he here too.”

“James? Where? Where is he?”

“He asleep. We attacked. I wake up and we here.”

“Attacked? Is he hurt?”

“Like me. Made to sleep.”

“Me too. My brother used a drug. Is James lying next to you? Try and wake him up.”

The straw rustled, followed by a moan, and then the sound of James’s voice, slurred and sleepy.

“I am awake. It’s just—my head.”

“Oh James.” She burst into tears.

“Sssh,” James hissed.

“I—I—” She stretched out to touch him.

“We were jumped.” James coughed. “They were waiting for us. Are you hurt?”

“No. I—James…”

“Where did they catch you?”

“James. The Russian White. I had it.”

“What?”

“My brother had the Russian White. I found it.”

“What?”

“That room upstairs—in the Club. My brother was there with—with The Brotherhood. William had the diamond—in our house. I found it. I was bringing it to you. But they were in your room. I—I—they took it.”

“The Russian White?” James’s voice quivered.

“Yes. I held it.”

“The diamond here?” Peter’s loud exclamation made her jump.

“Sssh!” James and Isobel hissed together.

“Whisper,” James urged. “Or the guard will come back.”

“William knows about us James.” Isobel strained her fingers into the darkness. “He knows about The Classical Beauties and he meant me to hear that meeting, I’m sure of it. He set a trap. To catch us, all of us. Oh James, what’s he going to do?”

“Don’t cry. Isobel—who were The Brotherhood? Can you remember?”

She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Yes—there was William, somebody called Doctor Hood. A man called Buffrey. He was a Judge I think. And The Chief. I didn’t hear his real name.”

The key clanked in the lock and she dropped to the floor and pretended to sleep. She peered through half-closed eyes.

The guard stood in the doorway. Instead of a cudgel, he now carried a lantern, which he held above his head. Behind him stood two men.

“That’s her.” The guard waved towards her.

She sat up, her heart thumping, and stared into William’s glaring eyes.

Her brother turned to his companion. “Who are the other two? I only saw them briefly.”

The man leant forward. The lamplight illuminated his long thin nose and one hollow cheek. “These two.” He pointed with a long crooked finger at Peter and James, who lay as if asleep.

She knew that voice. Doctor Hood, Principal of St. Bethlehem’s Hospital. Bedlam. The madhouse. Isobel pushed back, and the chain pulled tight and cut into her ankle.

“Bring the two men to the Operating Theatre,” instructed Doctor Hood.

On the 25th October 1853 a notice appeared in The Times newspaper;

A gas lamp flared. Doctor Hood’s shadow loomed up the wall of the operating theatre. Before him stood a large oak table marked with cuts gouged deep into its stained surface. Thick leather straps attached to iron buckles hung from its sides. Beside the table, on a wooden trolley, lay a box of surgical instruments arranged in neat rows, their blades gleaming. There were saws and knives and scissors, and hanging off a hook at the back, an axe.

The table dominated the operating theatre, standing in an open space that allowed access from all sides. Dark wooden benches rose in a steep rake of ever widening circles around the walls.

Doctor Hood liked this room best in all the Hospital. So many interesting experiments carried out in the name of science had illuminated the workings of the human mind and body. A soft knock at the door roused him from his reverie.

“Come.”

Peter and James shuffled in, their hands and feet shackled by short lengths of chain. A guard followed and shut the door behind them.

“Here.” Hood pointed to the table. His high voice echoed around the empty benches.

They moved slowly, like convicts, as they scraped up mounds of sawdust that lay an inch thick on the theatre floor. Dirty and unshaven, he smelt their stale stench from ten feet away.

“And then there were two. Now gentlemen, there are questions that I want answered and I expect your full co-operation as I ask them. Indeed it would be tantamount to treason if you refused to answer me. And you know how the Law deals with traitors, don’t you?”

They stared at the floor, and refused to look at him.

“Don’t you,” he barked.

James shuffled his feet and Peter copied.

“Perhaps your brains are muddled from lack of food.” He circled the table and stopped next to the tray of surgical instruments.

“Maybe a little-encouragement.” He picked out a long thin needle. “Let me explain the rules. Talk, and you leave unscathed. Refuse, and I put you on the operating table.” He approached James. “Are you James Turney?”