The Russian White, page 11
The young soldier stood, and reached for his musket.
Terrington crossed his arms in a deliberate act of defiant confrontation. His fingers closed over the knife hilt, concealed under his jacket. “Where do I get these-papers?”
“Read the notice,” grumbled the soldier.
Terrington dared to stare the old man out. “William Hunt is my Master. He is expecting me.”
The soldier thrust his grizzled face into Terrington’s. His foetid breath stank of rotten smoke. “Get out of it.” His mockingly polite tone switched to harsh anger. “Or Bill here will stick you one.”
The young soldier levelled his musket, and the steel bayonet caught the light with a flash of silver.
Terrington tightened his grip on the knife. “I’m reporting you soldier.”
“Move it!” Bill jabbed the bayonet at Terrington’s chest. He leapt back and brandished the knife, poised, ready to strike.
“What’s going on here?” Doctor Hood’s loud exclamation halted the fight. He stood on the opposite pavement, his angry glare fixed on Terrington. “What do you think you are doing?”
Terrington concealed the knife behind his back, and bowed to the Doctor. “Sir, I’ve come to my Master’s house with important news.”
Hood’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You’re Terrington-aren’t you?”
“Yes sir.”
“Where are your papers?”
“I don’t know anything about any papers sir.”
“Nonsense. Have you lost them?”
“I’ve never had no papers sir.”
Hood grunted, his dissatisfaction with this reply obvious. “You’d better come with me.” He faced the soldiers. “I’ll take care of this. Open up please.”
Bill handed the musket to his companion, and pulled a large key out of his trouser pocket. He ran up the steps and unlocked the front door.
A carriage clattered into the crescent and drew up at the pavement next to them. A gloved hand lowered the window, and The Chief thrust his head out. “Here already Doctor?” He glared at Terrington. “Who’s this?”
“William’s personal servant Chief,” replied Hood.
The Chief’s frown deepened, and then incomprehension turned to interest. “The man Terrington?”
Buffrey’s red face emerged from underneath The Chief’s arm, but there wasn’t room for two of them at the window, and The Chief pushed him back inside.
“That is correct,” Hood acknowledged. “I thought you might want to speak with him.”
The uniformed driver jumped down from his box, and opened the carriage door.
“Indeed,” agreed The Chief. He stepped down to the pavement. “Come with us.”
Buffrey clambered out of the carriage. He blinked his bloodshot eyes as they focused in the bright sunlight. “This is a stroke of luck,” he chortled.
“Follow,” Hood commanded.
Terrington stood aside to let The Brotherhood go before him. As the Judge waddled by, he bowed, and slipped the knife back into his pocket.
The soldiers stood to attention on either side of the door. The old one spat at Terrington’s feet as he passed.
Chapter Twenty Three
William sat at his desk and idly slid a sheet of blank paper backwards and forwards across its polished top. A lump of charcoal, sharpened into a crude point, lay unused on his blotter. His empty mind flitted from one half formed thought to another, but nothing stuck.
The Brotherhood had placed him under house arrest, and demanded his confession. Unmasked as a liar and a fraud, they accused him of handing the diamond to the Russians. This accusation, if proved, carried the charge of treason, for which he would hang. If he admitted the facts of his actions, then execution might be deferred to life imprisonment. That was his choice, a fast death, or a slow death. He crumpled the paper into a tight ball, and threw it at the window. Such a choice was no choice.
His study was stripped bare of everything The Brotherhood considered a possible means to self-harm; such an obvious thing to do, typical of their shallow thinking. They didn’t find his chemical box hidden in the desk’s secret compartment.
He toyed with the possibilities of this third choice; an overdose, laudanum perhaps, and a drift from easy sleep into nothingness? Would The Brotherhood rejoice in his decision, or feel cheated at being denied revenge? It would satisfy their suspicions of his guilt, his death admittance of his wrong doing, but he didn’t want to hand them that safe and easy pleasure. He wanted to fight. He had no third choice.
Far more satisfying to kill them, a lethal brew, like Mister Ridley’s, but pointless to fantasise, because he had nothing to administer the poison. No decanters, no glasses, no cups.
They had left the miniature portraits on his desk, clustered at one corner.
“A constant reminder of your treacherous family,” Hood sneered. He believed all of them to be involved in the deception.
William reached across and picked up his mother’s picture in its silver frame. Her rosy smile tinged his weariness with melancholy. A year had passed since his last visit to the nunnery, and his attempts at conversation had been halted by her mad screams. She didn’t even recognise him. Any filial love had been wiped out by religious fervour, which consumed her mind, and dominated her every waking moment.
He remembered that winter morning when she had been found wandering the streets of Southwark, and the Nuns of Bermondsey had taken her in and given her shelter. His arrival to fetch her home had only exacerbated her distress. She called him, “the Devil,” and her home a, “hole of Hell.”
She refused to leave. The Reverend Mother settled that she could stay there, until such time as she thought fit for her to resume normal life, in return for generous donations to their Holy Order. William considered it a fair solution. His mother’s return to peace seemed doubtful, despite her apparent devotion to God.
His thoughts darkened. He blamed Isobel for her illness. Her unexpected disappearance, followed by the shock of father’s death, had been more than his mother could bear. Why, she asked, had she been singled out for such harsh treatment? She turned to The Bible, but the stories and their strange twists of fate, that seemed a prelude to salvation, confused and tormented her. She dismissed them, and indulged in her personal search for redemption by screaming at the sky and running wildly through the streets of London, day and night. Her seclusion in the Nunnery seemed preferable to the cells of Bedlam.
He unclipped the back of the portrait, and tipped the brass key into his hand. He opened the right hand drawer of his desk and swivelled the base over to expose the secret compartment beneath. He fitted the key into the lock and the wooden lid sprang open, to reveal his poison case inside.
He lifted it out and placed it on the desk. The bottles trembled as the case opened, each one cocooned in its separate compartment of thick red velvet.
He pulled on a leather tag in the case’s cross bar, and slid out a small drawer concealed underneath. Inside the drawer, lay an ivory pill box, its carved lid depicting the leering face of Satan.
He opened the box with a flick of his finger. Two brass capsules rested on pads of cotton wool. Each capsule contained a glass phial of Prussic Acid. He slid the carved box into his waistcoat pocket. Then he closed the case and returned it to the drawer.
Voices, raised in confrontation, came from the street below. He recognised Doctor Hood’s sharp angry tone. He returned the key to the back of the frame, and fastened the clips.
The Brotherhood had come for his confession, but he had told them the truth, and he would tell them again. The Wolf brothers at Parklands had stolen the Russian White. He pursued them, but failed to catch them. He hadn’t given up the chase. The fake diamond had been a means of giving him time to spring a trap.
The Brotherhood didn’t believe him. They insisted on his treachery. He had sold the diamond back to the Russians for profit and personal glory. He had deceived The Brotherhood with the fake diamond, and his ridiculous story about the Wolf brothers was just deception.
The lock on the study door rattled. He pulled his chair round. He would present them with his back.
Their boots shuffled across the wooden floor as the door closed with a soft click.
Tension permeated the room as each second passed. William revelled at his ability to keep them waiting, and experienced a return to his accustomed confidence.
So watch me. Size me up like some exotic wild animal trapped in a cage. Gloat over the beast’s emasculation. You want to break me? You want me to beg for clemency? Well hope is all you have, because I’m not going to give you that satisfaction.
The silence continued. Every breath and rustle magnified the tension, and his building confidence wavered. What were they doing? Had they come to murder him? Panicked, he leapt up, and faced them.
Terrington stood in front of the desk and William gasped, unable to control his surprise.
The Chief nodded to Hood and Buffrey, who flanked him at the study door. “This is him. We’ve got the right man.”
Terrington bowed, but The Chief marched forward and pushed him aside. “Expecting him were you?”
William scowled and sat down. The relief at Terrington’s appearance was coupled with disappointment that he was with The Brotherhood. It was clear that his servant was unaware of his predicament, and even worse, that he was in no position to help him.
“Just need to catch that filthy sister of his and we’ll have a full set.” Hood’s snide remark produced a grunt of pleasure from Buffrey.
“Where is she William?” Hood continued. “Still hiding in Parklands, or has she run back to Moscow?”
“Not without her precious lover surely,” conceded Buffrey.
“Just another story to throw us off the scent,” concluded Hood.
“Well William? Is it?” The Chief paced round the desk, and faced him.
“We saw the Classical Beauties Chief,” pointed out Buffrey. “Don’t you remember? In that..”
“Ask him about his other sister,” interrupted Hood. “Nobody’s seen her for years. I wager she’s in Russia too. Whole bloody family are traitors.”
The Chief placed his hands on the arm rests and leant down. His face closed to within inches, and the stink of spicy cologne revolted William, and he averted his head.
“Where is Isobel?” demanded The Chief. “Where is the diamond?”
William met his gaze, and spat in his face.
The Chief recoiled. “How dare you!” He wiped his lips with his sleeve, and then grabbed the lapels of William’s jacket and yanked him upright.
“Traitor! Tell me where she is, or by God, I’ll have you flailed within an inch of your life!”
William spat again, splattering his forehead. Someone seized his arm from behind and bent it into a half-nelson. He grunted with pain as he doubled over.
“I’ve got him,” Hood panted in his ear. The Chief stepped back, bunched his huge hand into a fist, and punched him in the stomach.
Pain rocketed like exploding fireworks from front to back and from chest to groin. His sight blurred and his legs buckled. Hood released him as he fell, and his nose smashed into the floor. A terrible tingling enveloped his head, and he didn’t know if he was going to faint or be sick. He curled up, like a baby, and gasped for breath.
“Kick him in the face,” yelled Buffrey.
“Sir?” Terrington’s distant voice might have been coming from another room.
“What?” The Chief retorted.
“I have news about Mistress Isobel sir.”
“What?” Hood’s voice echoed in his ear as the Doctor’s arm gripped his neck.
“She is in England sir.”
“How do you know?” Hood’s knee jammed into his back, and forced him to kneel.
“I followed her sir.”
“What do you mean followed her?” The Chief pushed the chair back to give himself space.
“She escaped sir.”
“He’s lying,” yelled Buffrey.
“With due respect sir, it is the truth. I saw her.”
William tasted blood. Black specks whirled at the edges of his sight. He didn’t have the strength to kneel, and flopped against the Doctor’s legs.
“Don’t trust him Chief,” snarled Hood. “They’re all in it together. Go on, I’ve got him.”
The Chief’s fist smashed into his jaw. “Where’s the diamond?”
Waves of black night clouded William’s mind. His jaw went numb. Was his mouth open or shut? His ears hummed, and voices boomed and receded like the shifting tides of the sea.
“Filthy little liar.” Hood’s knee crunched into his back. He released his grip, and William crashed to the floor again. Mucus and blood and tears smeared the wooden boards in slowly expanding puddles.
“Subtle techniques, that’s what we need to make him talk,” intoned The Chief. “Something to prolong the pain. Or we start on his servant. How much to make you squeal?”
“It’s the truth I’m telling you sir.”
William battled to stay conscious. He imagined Terrington as a piece of wreckage in a stormy sea, which he grasped with all his might to stay afloat.
“Isobel escaped from Parklands.”
Why did Terrington sound so far away?
“She headed for London. Someone’s with her. I lost their tracks in the storm. That’s why I came here sir, to tell Master.”
William prayed not to sink into darkness.
“He’s like a parrot,” shrieked Buffrey. “Repeating everything he’s told. Give him a nut!”
“The Master kept her at Parklands.”
Terrington’s persistence was praiseworthy. Keep talking, just keep talking.
“He wanted questions answered, but she escaped. She rode away and she saw me and hid in the forest.”
Hood’s snarl cut short Terrington’s measured narration. “And since you seem to know so much about it, what “questions” did William want answered? Do you know that? Eh? Eh?”
“Where she ran away to that first time, sir.”
“Liar!” Hood’s violence erupted with a shout, and William’s ears ached with pain.
“You know about the diamond don’t you?” Hood hammered.
“Yes sir, I do.”
“William gave it to Isobel to give to the Russians, didn’t he?”
“Begging your pardon sir, but the diamond was stolen.”
“Who’s a pretty boy then?” Buffrey mimicked a parrot’s high-pitched squeak.
“Two labourers, working at Parklands, took it from Master’s study.”
William eased his head up. The black waves that raced around him receded. His sight pulsed in and out of focus, but he didn’t think he was going to faint. Hood’s black leather patent boots gleamed, as if lit by moonlight, inches from his face. Their strange beauty contrasted oddly with their wearer’s anger.
“Didn’t you catch them? Too smart for the likes of you were they? Some servant!”
William forced his jaw to work. “We-caught one.” His tongue flopped like some unknown limb in his mouth. “But he didn’t-have the diamond.” He clutched hold of his burning stomach.
“You expect us to believe that?” The Chief’s brown brogues replaced Hood’s boots.
William twisted his body in an attempt to sit up, but the pain was too great. “The other,” he spluttered. “Had it, but escaped.”
“Same old story.” Hood’s boots were suddenly very close to his face. “I’ll make you talk.”
The Chief’s brogues stepped in front of Hood’s boots. “Terrington, you say that Isobel escaped from Parklands with someone’s help?”
“Yes sir. I found their marks.”
“And might this be the other brother, this Wolf person, or whatever he’s called?”
“Isobel has the diamond, I’m sure of it,” Buffrey stated.
“It is possible.” Terrington’s wary reply suggested caution. “One set of marks was bigger. I thought it was a man’s sir.”
The Chief asked; “How long ago did you see these marks?”
“Yesterday sir. I tracked them to the London Road outside Parklands, but the rain washed them away.”
“So, Isobel and this man might be on the road still?”
“It is possible sir. If they sheltered from the storm.”
“Well she won’t come here.” Hood walked towards the window. “She’ll head straight for Bedlam to look for James.”
William stretched out a hand to reach for his chair, but The Chief knocked it aside and flopped into the soft leather upholstery. “Doctor Hood tells me that you followed Isobel once before, when William found out about The Classical Beauties. Is that right?”
“Yes sir,” replied Terrington.
“So you know where she went, and saw the people she met?”
“I only saw her with the girls, and that James Turney sir.”
“If I sent you out to look for her now, would you be able to find her do you think?”
“Let him go?” Hood accompanied his incredulity with a stamp of his boot. “He’ll go straight to the Russians.”
“I think we may have a better chance of catching her with him on her tail, don’t you?” The Chief suggested.
“It’s too risky,” Buffrey shouted. “He might expose us all.”
“If you want me to go and look for her sir, I will.” Terrington delivered this declaration with quiet authority.
“Shut up!” Hood’s patience cracked.
“How do I know that I can trust you Terrington?” The Chief’s brusque question dared him to lie.
“I don’t know any Russians sir.”
“Likely story,” guffawed Buffrey.
The Chief persisted; “Would you do this for me?”
“If I find Isobel sir, you won’t hurt Master?”
“What?” Hood exploded. “That’s blackmail, the downright nerve of the man. How dare you suggest such a thing?”
“I give you my word that I only work for you.”
Terrington lied, William knew that. Perhaps he had a plan? He trusted his servant, respected his loyalty, desperately hoped for his help. He pushed himself upright, so that he was half-lying, half-sitting. His stomach cramps subsided into a dull ache. His view of the study became clearer.
