The Russian White, page 10
Hood shouted Buffrey down. “How do we know that civil unrest hasn’t erupted in Russia already? The Orthodox Church knows that the Russian White is within their grasp and is using it as a bargaining tool against the Tsar for a slice of the Holy Lands. Maybe Russia is already splitting apart because of it.”
The Chief grunted in exasperation. “That is useless speculation Hood. There is absolutely no evidence that this fight for the Holy Lands has flared up because of the diamond, quite the contrary. Turkey is weak, Constantinople is crumbling, and Russia sees the chance of opening the Straits of Constantinople to gain access to the Mediterranean. They are opportunists, nothing more.”
“But you can’t be sure of that Chief. We don’t know how important the diamond is to Orthodox Russians. How can we? The Russian White is a secret that is never spoken of, but always known.” Hood nudged William for clarification of this neat and acute observation. William smiled, and put down the fire tongs.
“What about that Russian?” The Chief barked. “The one in your hospital? What does he say?”
“He’s an ignorant peasant,” sighed Hood.
“You questioned him?”
“Of course.”
“What did he say then?”
“He didn’t speak English Chief.”
“Question him again.”
“I think this is the core of the problem.” William’s sudden statement silenced them, and he faced the room. “The Russians know nothing about the work that will be expected of them when they are shipped across to England.”
This idea had formed over several days. True, it was just another tactic to divert The Chief’s anger, but if this theory convinced, it might restore some of his tattered reputation.
“They contact a group, already established over here, and are given their orders when they arrive.” He had already discussed this with Hood, and felt confident of his support. “I’m convinced that they don’t know anything about the diamond until they land.”
Buffrey yawned. “Pesky Ruskies, bloody everywhere.”
William couldn’t decide if The Chief’s blank expression masked disbelief or fury.
“You’re saying,” The Chief chose his words with care. “That there’s a Russian organisation operating under our very noses, here in London, and that we don’t know anything about it?”
“Yes.”
The Chief shook his head. “Impossible. What proof do you have?”
William shrugged, “I don’t.”
“But it makes sense,” Hood countered. William silently thanked him.
“I think we’ve underestimated the Russians Chief.” Hood paced between the chairs. “We’ve played this game of cat and mouse for years. It was easy to catch a few stray Russians and question them. They told us nothing because they knew nothing. In fact, they may have been deliberately sent out to be caught. They were decoys, used to distract us from the real threat of a much larger organisation expanding right on our doorstep, which we’ve been too slow and too lazy to notice.”
The Chief looked grim. “Is this what you think too William?”
“Yes I do, because two of them found their way to Parklands.”
“Oh my goodness,” Buffrey sputtered. “They know where it is.”
The Chief’s frown deepened. “They followed you there?”
“No, they turned up looking for casual work during the summer, and my foreman took them on for six weeks.”
The Chief’s tone sharpened into accusation. “Didn’t you know they were there?”
“The estate covers many acres. I rely on the trust and integrity of my staff to run it efficiently. I don’t need to know every detail. And anyway, by the time I found out, they were gone.”
“Spying, I bet.” Buffrey’s red jowls wobbled.
The Chief persisted. “How did you find out?”
William rubbed his nose. He had prepared an answer for this question. “I was checking the monthly accounts when I noticed two men on the payroll called the Wolf Brothers. My Foreman informed me that they actually were brothers, foreign, the younger one a mute. The older one spoke passable English. They called themselves the Wolf Brothers because the staff had difficulty remembering their proper names. Good workers, but kept themselves apart. One morning they were gone. No notice, no explanation.”
“You can’t be sure that they were Russian,” The Chief cautioned.
“I would wager the Russian White they were,” gabbled Buffrey.
“Since their departure, I’ve instructed my Housekeeper and my Foreman to inform me of every new employee, however minor.”
“Shutting the stable door after the..”
Hood’s patience cracked. “Oh shut up Buffrey.”
“They were looking for the diamond, I’m sure of it.” William returned The Chief’s furrowed gaze with one of confident authority. “I can assure The Brotherhood that it was safe and secure at all times.”
“We should pass it amongst ourselves,” suggested Hood. “Throw them off the scent.”
“No!” The Chief’s harsh rebuttal cracked like a pistol shot.
“But..”
He flicked his hand to silence Hood. “Let William keep it-to trap them. Use it as bait.”
William’s anxiety evaporated. The Chief had spoken the words that he most wanted to hear. Now The Brotherhood would follow the plan that he had worked out, in secret, at Parklands.
“My thoughts too Chief,” he wished his voice didn’t flutter. “With The Brotherhood’s consent, I will keep it. This time I’ll be ready for them.” He thought he might burst with relief.
“Do you agree with this gentlemen?” The Chief glanced at Hood and then Buffrey, who nodded agreement in unison.
“If that is your wish.” Hood sat down with a sigh. “They appear so close to snatching it from under our noses. We have been fools not to have seen this sooner.”
“If what I have heard tonight is correct,” The Chief countered. “I am not convinced that some unknown Russian organisation is operating here in London without our knowledge. I need hard evidence. With war imminent, I will have few resources to spare. I will rely on you gentlemen, to supply me with information. And I need the assurance from you, from all three of you, that every piece of information acquired by any of you is passed on to us all. We are in this together.”
He picked up the diamond and rested it in his palm. “Maybe the Russian White does have some bearing on this crisis in the Holy Land. I refuse to believe it, but I am willing to accept the possibility. Gentlemen I need your absolute loyalty in this matter. Do I have it?”
They rose together, and murmured consent.
“Keep the diamond safe William.” He held it out for him to take.
William dried his sweaty hand on the sleeve of his jacket. His blood flowed like sweet honey through every vein in his body. He took the diamond, but it slipped from his fingers and hit the stone hearth.
It shattered with a loud crack, and splintered into a thousand pieces of sparkling glass.
Chapter Twenty One
The storm broke. Gregor pushed the barn doors shut. Rain leaked through the cracked tiles and dripped onto the cobbled floor. Lightning crossed and re-crossed the sky, flashing hard and blue. The horses whickered, alarmed by the thunder, as it smothered the clatter of falling rain with its shattering noise.
Isobel stroked their noses. Gregor filled a tin bucket from the dripping water. The horses drank, and he rubbed them down with handfuls of dry straw, using long smooth strokes as he passed from one to the other.
Isobel felt safe for the first time in two days. Parklands stood many leagues behind. This afternoons’ ride had been so tough, long and hard across rough ground. The London Road might be watched, warned Gregor. It was safer to travel across country.
Her whole body ached. Muscles hurt in places she didn’t know she had muscles. Loose straw lay in a mound against the barn wall, and she lowered her aching limbs into its rustling, dusty comfort. She needed a rest to recover her strength. She shut her eyes, thought of James, and blew him a kiss.
Strange, disjointed pictures erupted into her sleeping mind, and she opened her eyes to force herself awake. The storm’s intensity lessened. She groaned as she eased herself into a sitting position. Would her body ever recover?
Gregor hitched nose bags over the horses’ muzzles. He had bought fresh oats and barley from the market that morning, and the horses devoured them hungrily.
He removed his cloak and hung it to dry on a rusty nail, and then he opened his leather bag and lifted out a candle in a brass holder. He squatted on the floor and trimmed the wick with a short bladed knife.
“Shall we have a fire?” she suggested. The air felt chill with damp and she shivered.
“I think not safe. Somebody see.” Gregor lit the candle. “But we have light.”
The tiny flame didn’t illuminate anything beyond its immediate circumference, but it looked warm, and Isobel tried to imagine that it was cosy.
“We eat yes?” Gregor reached into the bag and pulled out bread and cheese and a selection of cold meats. Last of all, he lifted out a flagon of cider. He divided the food between them and left enough for one more meal.
Exhaustion made even chewing tiring. She wondered where Gregor’s money came from? He’d paid for everything, even the horses.
“Tomorrow we ride early,” he announced between mouthfuls. “At sun up.”
“I hope my body can stand it. I hurt all over.”
“One more day, and we arrive London.”
London. And then what? Rescue James from Bedlam, but she had no idea how. She had no money, and nowhere to live. Did Gregor have a plan? She washed her greasy fingers in a puddle.
“What will you do when we reach London?” she asked. “Look for your brother?”
Gregor quaffed a long draught of cider and passed the flagon across, but she shook her head.
“Is he waiting for you there?” She flicked water drops over the straw.
“No.” He hunched his head into his shoulders, and stroked his scar.
“Isn’t he in London? Has he-has he moved on?”
“He is dead Isobel.”
“Dead!” Surprise and shock made her disbelief sound like scorn. She scrambled for the right words to correct her mistake. “Oh Gregor, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”
He raised a hand to silence her, then reached under his shirt and drew out a silver chain. He held it next to the candle. The gloom made it difficult to see, and she peered hard.
A silver wolf, crouched low, its teeth bared, its tail tense, swung from side to side on the end of the chain.
“This all I have,” Gregor whispered. “This, my brother. He named Wolfman. Not real name, but one he like.” He flicked the chain under his shirt.
The wolf in her drugged dream had crouched like that, bared its teeth like that, ready to pounce.
Gregor returned to the horses and removed their nose bags. He folded them away. The flickering candle made the shadows jump.
Isobel felt helpless. She wanted to comfort him, offer soothing words, but his mixed look of anger and hurt warned her away. Silence added to the tension. Finally she asked; “How did he die?”
Gregor sat down and stared at the floor.
“Was he – killed?”
He nodded.
“An accident?” Then a terrible thought made her heart hammer. “Oh no-oh Gregor-not at Parklands? It wasn’t William?”
Gregor looked up and his eyes shone with tears. “My brother leave House with me. But we followed. We go different ways, but men catch my brother and kill him. They cut off his head.” His face contorted with grief. “Why they do that?”
“Oh my God.” She felt sick.
Gregor rocked backwards and forwards, like a weeping child. “I bury his body, but it wrong with no head.”
“Was it William? Did he do this?”
“I know not.”
She didn’t want to believe that her brother murdered people, but then, as she had discovered over the last few days, she didn’t know her brother very well at all.
“But why didn’t William question him?” she exclaimed. “The Brotherhood always questions the Russians. That’s what they said, I heard them. That’s why they take them to Bedlam.”
Gregor leapt up, braced his hands against the wall, and banged his head against the stones.
“No Gregor.” She grasped hold of his shoulders and pulled him away.
He broke free and fell to his knees. A terrible whimpering bubbled like boiling water from his open mouth. He grabbed handfuls of straw and flung them across the barn, exposing the worn cobbles underneath.
“I cannot know what to do sometimes. Always I think of my brother and make what he do, but I do not know if right. My brother clever, me stupid. I be dead, not him. We take care, like true brothers, but now I alone and thinking I am wrong all the time.” He gripped the hilt of his sword. “I find man who kill my brother. I look, all my life. See! See!”
Isobel snatched up the candle and aimed the flame to where he pointed. A dark brown stain smeared the worn cobbles.
“It blood. It is my brother’s blood.” Gregor pressed his lips to the stones. His shoulders heaved, and ragged sobs shook his body.
Cruel and vindictive, that was William, but a murderer? She didn’t dare believe it, but the thought stuck, and didn’t go away.
Gregor slumped sideways onto the floor. His face glistened, tears ran in rivulets down the lumpy scar. She wanted to hold him, comfort him, but his burning anger repelled her instinctive attempts to soothe.
Through clenched teeth, Gregor said; “They kill him. He has Russian White.”
Isobel frowned, confused. “He had the diamond?”
“We find it. At Parklands. We look at night, and find it.”
“But-.” She had found it in London.
“In summer I tell you. We work, casual labour. They kill my brother, but they not find diamond.” He stared straight ahead. “I find it.”
“You find it?”
“My brother show me, with his blood.”
“But William had it in London. I found it in his study.”
Gregor rolled onto his back. “You find something that look like diamond?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“My brother hide diamond, my brother smart. He not let men have it. He know I look for him, and he hide diamond so I find it.”
Gregor scrambled onto all fours and swept away the remaining straw to reveal, at the base of the barn wall, a large black hole. He took the candle from her and thrust it inside. “He bleed, and blood fall down straw and on diamond. It is here I look.”
Isobel squatted beside him, and peered into the hole. Spots of dark brown blood dotted the stones. “The diamond was here? This is where you found it? What did you do? Take it to London?”
Gregor slumped against the wall and wiped his face dry. “No. I cannot trust to let it go. Many people look. I make them look so they not find me.”
This was a strange explanation. Grief for his brother, she thought, had clouded his mind.
“So-you found it,” she persisted. “But-if you didn’t take it to London, where is it?”
“It is here.”
“What? Here?” She looked around the dark barn, almost as if she expected to see it suspended in the air.
Gregor crawled towards his leather bag. The sword in its rough patchwork scabbard lay underneath it. He picked it up and unsheathed the blade, drawing it out slowly. But the blade ended a foot from the hilt, in a line of jagged metal.
He dropped the broken sword onto the cobbles, and tipped up the scabbard. The Russian White slid down and landed in his palm. He passed it to her. “With you I trust.”
She cupped it in her hands. The same oblong shape as the one she had found in William’s study, the same uncut roughness, heavy and cold. Parts of its surface were clouded, as if, when it formed, stardust sprinkled across it, and trapped the light inside for eternity. Stars that told of ancient times and the passing of Ages, and as she peered deeper and deeper towards the diamond’s heart, the stone flashed with the dark blue of a winter sky.
Chapter Twenty Two
Terrington went straight to his Master’s house in Regents Park Terrace when he arrived in London. His wet clothes steamed as he walked through the muggy early morning streets.
The storm had washed away Isobel’s tracks and he had given up the pursuit. At the Farmers Market he bought a horse and headed for the capital. He would take her by surprise at Regents Park, and trap her. He left the horse at his Master’s stables at the top of Tottenham Court Road.
He arrived at the narrow alleyway at the back of the house, bordered on one side by the garden wall. He strode up to the steps that led down to the area. The iron gates were shut and bolted. No sign of any kitchen staff, the house looked deserted. Surprised by this unusual state of affairs, he walked with silent steps to the end of the alleyway, and emerged onto the crescent.
Two soldiers, one old, one young, kitted out in army scarlet, sat on the front door steps, smoking clay pipes. As he approached, they squinted through thick tobacco smoke. Their muskets, with fixed bayonets, stood propped against the iron railings.
“Can I help you sir?” The old soldier heaved himself upright. His thick sideburns gleamed white against the red of his cap.
Terrington resented his casual tone. “I work here.”
“I see.” The soldier spat at the pavement, and then held out his hand. “Papers please.”
“Papers?”
“No papers, no entry, by order.” He pointed to a bill tied to the railings.
Terrington glanced at it, but didn’t attempt to read. “I work for William Hunt.”
“And I work for Queen Victoria. And I’ve got a commission to prove it. Papers please, or I’m going to have to ask you to move along.”
Terrington’s anger simmered. “I am William Hunt’s personal servant. Let me through.”
The old soldier ambled down the steps and stood, legs apart, braced like a boxer. “I don’t want no trouble sir, but you are obstructing the pathway. Now, I’m asking you politely, to move along please.”
