Jonathan Broughton - The Russian White - A Victorian Thriller

James stared at the floor.

“Answer me.”

James nodded.

“I can’t hear you.”

“I am James Turney.”

“Louder.”

“I am James Turney.”

“And this person—” He flicked the needle towards Peter. “Your servant? Is he a Russian?”

“I don’t know.”

He stabbed the needle into James’s thigh. “Is he a Russian?”

James yelled in shock and slumped against the operating table. Blood trickled down his leg and soaked into the sawdust. “Yes—yes he is.”

Hood paced with slow menace. “I have always maintained that inflicting pain is the one sure method of achieving answers.” He faced Peter. The Chief thought the Russians tough and resilient. Now was the time to find out. “Are you a Russian?”

“I—I have no English,” Peter stuttered.

“That wasn’t the answer to the question.”

A foreigner, and ignorant, as expected. Or was he insolent? If so, was it cultural, or the result of indoctrination? He traced the needle tip under Peter’s right eye. “I asked if you were a Russian?”

“It’s true.” James pushed himself upright. “He can’t speak English.”

“Quiet.” He flicked his fingers and the guard grabbed Peter and threw him onto the table. Hood secured the leather straps across Peter’s writhing body and pulled the buckles tight.

James lurched towards him. “Stop. What are you doing?” The guard pushed him back. “He can’t help you.”

Hood smirked. “We’ll soon see about that.”

Peter lay immobile, his eyes wide and fearful. Hood reasoned that he might break sooner than expected. It was never wise to trust to rumours about the apparent strengths or weaknesses of individuals but, to produce the necessary results, he selected, after a moments deliberation, a pair of pliers used for crushing small bones. He took hold of Peter’s left foot, and inserted his small toe into its steel jaws.

“Where are you from?”

‘’He’s from Moscow,” James gabbled. “Moscow.”

“Who are you working for?”

“I am traveller,’ Peter gasped. “Actor with James Turney. I leave Russia—no good, no work, there no money.”

Hood squeezed, the toe cracked, and Peter screamed.

“Stop, stop!” Sweat poured down James’s face. “I’ll tell you.”

Hood inserted Peter’s second toe into the pliers. “Who is he working for?”

“The Russian Orthodox Church.” James swallowed and coughed, his hands clasped around his bleeding thigh.

“Is he a spy?”

“No, an observer, a cultural observer.”

Hood squeezed, and Peter shrieked again.

James yelled; “Yes. He’s a spy.”

“Looking for the Russian White?” Hood inserted a third toe into the pliers.

“Yes.”

“Are you helping him?”

James shook his head. “No. We met by chance.”

Peter’s third toe cracked, and the table bounced as his body arched in pain. Hood took hold of the fourth toe.

“Yes, yes. I’m helping him.” Tears coursed down James’s cheeks.

“Are you working for the Russians too?”

“Yes.”

“Do they pay you to smuggle spies in and out of the country?”

“Yes.”

“You are a traitor. For which the punishment is death.”

“Yes—I know.”

Satisfied, Hood released Peter’s toe. “Take him away.” He gestured the guard towards James. “I’ll question him later.”

“I’m not leaving Peter.” James wriggled free of the guard’s grip, but the man caught him and clasped him in a head-lock. “You can’t do this,” he shouted. “This is a criminal act. Let him go.”

“Bit late to talk about criminal acts now I would have thought.” Hood chuckled and dropped the pliers into the tray. He unhooked the small saw from the back of the trolley. “I imagine the Russian brain is far less developed that the European.” He smoothed Peter’s lank brown hair from off his filthy forehead. “Much like their character, interesting research.”

“No. Stop, stop!” screamed James. His words bounced off the high walls.

The guard yanked the door open and threw him out. James sprawled across the floor. The door slammed, and the lock clicked.

The bell in the clock tower at Parklands House in Sussex struck one in the morning. A light flickered in an upstairs window.

William Hunt sat at his study table and leafed through his Scientific Compendium. Torn and greasy pages covered in diagrams and instructions, and the occasional coloured plate detailing experiments.

On the desk in front of him stood a wooden rack stacked with glass phials and bottles. Beside it, four pewter beakers lined up in a row. Each one contained a different coloured liquid. Behind him, on a shelf, two brown mice sniffed the air and huddled together for comfort in their wooden cage.

William studied the liquids in the beakers; green and black and purple and blue.

He poured a small quantity of black liquid into one of the phials and swirled it round and round. Once it settled, he sniffed. The bitter smell made his eyes water. He wiped away his tears, returned the phial to the rack, and studied his book. There was a knock at the door.

“Come.” He didn’t look up, he knew it was Terrington.

“He is here sir.”

“Good. Send him up will you.”

“Sir.”

William closed the book and crossed to the drinks cabinet. He loaded up a silver tray with glass tumblers and a bottle of whiskey. Back at his desk, he poured a generous measure of whiskey into one of the tumblers.

He sat down, and added a few drops from the blue beaker to the black. The phial warmed in his hand, and the combined liquids turned translucent. He sniffed; no smell.

He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and lifted out a small box covered in red velvet. Inside lay a syringe with a silver plunger and a six inch long needle.

He drew the liquid out of the phial with the syringe. Then he opened the flap of the mouse cage. The mice tried to escape, but he caught one by the tail. It wriggled and squirmed, upside down and helpless. He picked up the syringe and injected a tiny amount of liquid into its bottom. It squealed, but survived. There was a knock at the door.

“One moment.”

William dropped the mouse back into the cage and squirted the remaining liquid into the whiskey bottle. He returned the syringe to its box, closed the lid, and shut the box in the drawer.

“Come.”

The door opened to reveal Terrington. “The gentleman for you sir.”

“Thank you. Show him in will you. And Terrington?”

“Sir?”

“Wait outside will you.”

“Sir.”

William walked to the front of the desk as Terrington showed in his visitor.

“Ah, Mister Ridley. Welcome. Do come in. Please, sit down.” William guided his guest towards a comfortable armchair beside the fire. He sat opposite Mister Ridley on a wooden straight-backed chair.

The door closed behind Terrington and William asked; “I trust that you have told no one about our meeting tonight?”

“I give my word already. That should be enough.”

Mister Ridley was a thin man, dressed from head to toe in black. Mud stained his clothes, and there was a strong smell of horse about his person. He carried a large sack, tied with rope, which he placed on the floor beside him. Something heavy rolled around inside.

Mister Ridley’s insolence annoyed William, though he made no show of it. “Of course, I never doubted it for a moment. So, do you have it?”

His abruptness had the desired result. Mister Ridley looked very uncomfortable and shifted in his chair. “No sir.”

William’s chest tightened. An iron fist, cold as ice, thumped into his stomach, but he didn’t betray these feelings. He sat very still and upright. “You do not have it?”