The Russian White, page 19
The door slammed, and the lock clicked as the key turned.
Chapter Thirty Four
William watched the thick black smoke roll past the window. Parklands burned, but he didn’t care; pointless to mourn over a pile of bricks and stones. Familiarity with places and things bored him; let others, more compassionate than him, feel sympathy for its loss. Sentimentality equalled weakness.
Flames flicked around the edge of the window frame. The fire cracked and roared in the ceiling, and a white haze filled the room.
Isobel pushed past him and slammed the window shut. Her every movement looked frantic. She feared death, he guessed, and concern too for her wretched lover. He smiled, they were all going to die.
Isobel’s death promised sweet revenge. Her wilful behaviour had resulted in his downfall. Irrelevant that he was about to die too. He preferred life, but wishing his sister a slow and painful death gave him the satisfaction that his demise would not be in vain.
Isobel interrupted his reverie with a sudden shout. “Can you lift that wardrobe?”
However, the question wasn’t to him, but to the Russian. Why? That great bear of a man didn’t speak English. He had been surprised at The Chief’s delight at his capture; to William, most Russians looked dull and stupid, and this one was no exception.
His dismissal turned to surprise when he heard Konstantin’s reply. His English was slow, with a heavy accent, but he understood Isobel’s request, and his reply was clear.
“I can. But first-.”
The man had fooled The Brotherhood with his pretended ignorance. Cunning, the Russians; their deviousness was to be admired, though deviousness wouldn’t stop him from burning.
He stepped aside as the Russian approached the table and downed the brandy with the Prussic Acid.
And deviousness wouldn’t stop him from being poisoned. He hoped that one of The Brotherhood might take that fatal chalice, but the Russian’s death guaranteed Isobel’s fate.
The Russian smacked his lips with satisfaction, and downed a second glass. His eyes sparkled. He hugged the empty wardrobe with his brawny arms and, with a loud grunt, lifted it off the ground. He staggered under its unwieldy bulk, braced himself, and then ran at the door and rammed it with a resounding crack.
The force of the blow knocked him backwards. He dropped the wardrobe which tipped sideways and fell against the wall. He rubbed his shoulder, and scowled.
Isobel rattled the door handle. The lock held and the door stayed shut.
“Give me a moment,” the Russian panted. “I try again.”
“William, you’ve got to help him.” Isobel grabbed his jacket sleeve and pulled him towards the wardrobe. He resisted, and her wide eyes, that implored with such compassion, clouded, first with desperation, and then with anger. “William, don’t just stand there, we’ve got to get out.”
She let go of his arm and gripped the door handle. She wrenched it sideways in violent jerks. Still the mechanism held.
William stepped away out of her reach. How, he mused, had it come to this; all this terrible mess and confusion? For years he had kept the Russian White safe, only to be betrayed by his wicked sister. She spied on him, exposed the diamond’s hiding place to the Russians, and revealed him to The Brotherhood as a deceitful liar.
Burning was too easy a death. She needed to feel his anger before she died. His hand closed over the ivory box in his pocket, and the last capsule of Prussic Acid.
The Russian approached the wardrobe and took hold of it in a bear hug. He braced his legs, grunted, and then his grip slackened, and he slithered to the floor, his face contorted with apprehension and disbelief.
The ceiling split with a loud crack, and a lump of plaster landed at William’s feet and shattered into tiny fragments.
The Russian groaned and rolled sideways, his arms entwined around his stomach, as if he might squeeze his body inside out.
Isobel dropped beside him, her arm on his shoulder. “What’s happened?” Her brow furrowed with concern. “Are you hurt?” She ran her hands over his back, as if she might find the pain. “What have you done?”
The Russian curled up, his eyes squeezed shut, his teeth gritted through open lips.
“What’s the matter?” Isobel fumbled with his shirt buttons to loosen his collar. “What can I do? William, help me.”
The Russian gasped snatches of smoky air. William lifted the ivory box out of his pocket, and flicked the lid open.
Saliva foamed around the Russian’s mouth, and then his eyes snapped open and stared straight into his, though they saw nothing. He was dead.
Isobel pulled him over onto his back, slotted her arms under his shoulders and attempted to lift him. “William, help me get him up.”
He stepped behind her, and tipped the brass capsule into his hand.
“Hurry up,” she gasped. “He’s had a fit or something. We’ve got to get him onto the bed.” She knelt and pulled.
The fire roared overhead. The ceiling creaked. At any moment it might tumble down, there was little time left.
“William, don’t just stand there.”
With deliberate slowness, he slid the glass capsule out of its brass sheath, and held it up for her to see.
She let go of the Russian and her hands shook as she covered her mouth. She pushed her feet against the floor to slide away, but he was too close and there wasn’t enough space to escape, and she gave up and whimpered like a wounded dog.
William revelled in her panic. Now she understood what he had done to the Russian, and what he was about to do to her. She was powerless to help herself or anyone else.
She was his, and he smiled as he watched her pitiful shaking. He savoured the moment, this just reward for everything that she had put him through. Killing his sister was going to be a joy.
He bent over her. She slammed her hands over her mouth. He grabbed her neck and squeezed, and the force of his grip forced her to look up into his face. He stepped on her shin, pushed down with all his weight to hold her still, then slipped his hand round to her jaw and tightened his fingers, and the tips dug into her cheeks, and with a cry of pain she opened her mouth. He snapped the glass capsule, and tipped it up.
She lashed out, and her sudden strength surprised him. Her arm knocked his hand away, and he released his hold and lost his balance. She rolled across the floor out of reach.
Hate and frustration filled him with a furious temper. Prussic acid dripped off his fingers. The bed stood between them. He dived across it, but she was up, and side-stepped his clumsy hands as he grasped at the air. She was swifter, and darted to the other side of the room. He stood on the bed. Height gave him a greater reach, and he towered above her.
He had her covered whichever way she ran, and she pressed against the wall as if she might break through and escape. He sprang at her, and she dropped to the floor and scuttled away, like a monkey. He twisted in mid-air and lunged at her back, but as he landed his ankle bent inwards, and pain ripped along the length of his leg. He stumbled, fell, and tore his forehead on the edge of the wardrobe.
The glass in the window exploded with a bang, and showered him with broken fragments. Flames curled around the frame, and fire burned in the room. Plaster dropped from the ceiling and shattered as it hit the floor.
The walls cracked, forced apart by the heat, and the room turned black with soot. Smoke billowed over him. He covered his nose, and his eyes blurred with tears.
He crawled towards the door, though Isobel was there already. She took hold of the handle in both hands, and with a loud cry, leapt up and wrenched it down, and to both their surprise, the door sprang open.
Smoke streamed through the room, drawn out by the draught. It cleared, and in the doorway stood Terrington, in his hand a large brass key.
William clawed at Isobel’s ankle but she escaped, darted out, and sprinted down the corridor. “Stop her.”
Terrington covered his face against the smoke, and Isobel was past him and out of sight before he realised.
“Help me,” William implored. Hot cinders burned his head and hands. His ankle stung and his foot dragged along the floor. Terrington squatted beside him and helped him up.
“Get me out of here.” He gripped Terrington’s arm for support. “I’ve got to live. I’ve got to kill her.”
Chapter Thirty Five
Sylvia flapped her arms. Smoke stung her eyes and choked her throat.
The floorboards under the bed cracked and splintered, and the bed dropped with a jolt, and tipped towards her. It stopped with a bump, wedged between wooden joists. The silver bowls clanged, as they whirled in wild circles.
Her hips were level with the top of the mattress. She might manage to roll onto it, and if she did, she would shut her eyes and the “vision,” that was bound to happen, would take her away from this terrible danger and frightening destruction.
She just needed to roll. The fire raged, and blotches of red appeared on her skin. Hot cinders landed in her hair and smouldered, and she flicked them away, though they stung her fingers.
The fire must be underneath her too, because her bottom throbbed with soreness. She flapped her arms, bounced on her hips, and willed her body to roll. There was a loud crack, and she gave a cry, as the floorboards beneath her snapped. A cloud of black smoke billowed over her.
She retched and heaved. Her body shook and wobbled, and through streaming eyes, she watched the rolls of fat ripple like heavy waves that refused to settle. Up and down, and side to side, her enormous body sagged and shuddered, and the sudden fluctuations in weight broke the floor joist, and she tilted towards the bed.
That she moved at all wasn’t apparent at first. An imperceptible change of position that built in momentum, and as she gathered speed, her weight shifted from the centre of her body. She experienced the sensation of falling sideways, and once it began, it didn’t stop.
She crashed onto her pillows, and the impact broke the floor. The bed dropped into the room below, and smashed through the burning remains of what had once been a guest bedroom.
The speed of her descent increased. Ancient floorboards and plaster ceilings crumbled under the sudden onslaught from this unexpected blow, and as the bed and Sylvia crashed through one room after another, they left behind them a gaping hole that passed right through the centre of the House.
At every blow, bits of the bed disintegrated. Sylvia clung to the mattress. The dropping sensation tingled inside her stomach. It might have been pleasurable, if it hadn’t been so frightening.
Plaster shattered, wood cracked and flames roared. She wanted the horrible sounds to stop, and she shut her eyes and held on tight.
The bed lurched to a stop with a sickening jerk that almost threw her off. With a loud snap, the remains of the tapestry enveloped her in its dusty folds.
The bed stood at an angle, tilted down at her feet, and it slid, over bumps, and as it increased in speed, each bump hit the bed like a fist. She wailed at the impact of every blow, and the bed creaked, and she feared it might break apart.
And now there were voices, people shouting and screaming. Panic filled the air, and she slid and bumped towards an ending that she didn’t want to think about.
The bumping stopped and the bed levelled, though the sliding continued, over a floor that squealed and squeaked as she passed across it.
Then crunch, and with a sudden swerve that made her scream, she came to an abrupt halt.
She lay still. She didn’t dare look. In the distance, shouting, the words unclear. The fire too, sounded far away; and her body, something strange that she remembered from long ago, like being stroked or washed. It soothed her with its gentle caress.
She opened her eyes, and the wind blew in her face.
Chapter Thirty Six
The door opened. “Oh thank God.”
Isobel’s relief was checked in an instant by Terrington’s sudden appearance. Black smoke engulfed him, and he covered his face, and Isobel seized her chance and ran.
“Stop her,” William yelled, but she darted out and sprinted down the corridor.
She turned once. Terrington didn’t give chase; he was in her bedroom, kneeling beside her brother. She rounded the corner and stumbled over the dead body of one of the soldiers. On his back, his throat cut, his eyes open. Terrington’s work, and she rushed past.
A thin layer of white ash covered the floor. The ceiling blazed at the far end of the corridor, and as she watched, the curtains caught light and a ball of flame dropped to the floor and ignited the carpet. The smoke thickened.
She pinched her nose and cupped her hand over her mouth. Her eyes stung; no soldiers in sight. James must be somewhere on this floor. There were four doors, all shut.
She yelled; “James.”
She ran to the first door and flung it open. An empty room. She tried the next, empty again. Each door brought her closer to the fire, which crackled, and the heat fanned her face.
“James, James! Where are you?”
The third door squeaked as she pushed it, the brass handle warm to the touch; another empty room. She hated Terrington, but she thanked him, for he must have unlocked the doors as he looked for William.
“Can you hear me James?”
Wood splintered, and the flames scorched the walls black, and as she ran towards the fire, hot tears of frustration blurred her eyes. She mustn’t be too late! Not now!
She had her hand on the handle of the fourth door, when a terrible crash from the room beyond shook the floor. She stepped back. There was a roar, and what sounded like an explosion. Had the ceiling caved in? She turned the handle and pushed the door open.
A cloud of dust and smoke billowed out, and she turned her back, as embers of burning plaster spattered against her and dropped to the floor, where they smouldered.
She covered her eyes, and peered through her fingers.
The ceiling had collapsed, and so had the floor. The windows had been blown out of their frames, and the wind blew the dust in frantic eddies.
Something heavy must have fallen off the roof; one of the stone gargoyles perhaps? It had left jagged edges of broken plaster and split wood around two gaping holes, one in the ceiling, and one in the floor. The dust swirled, thick as fog.
“James?” Her dry throat stung. She waved away the dust, and her heart quickened. No one had a chance if they were stood under the ceiling when it caved in.
She slumped against the door, exhausted with worry and fear. If James wasn’t here, she didn’t where to look. “James?”
Was that-she cocked her head-a moan or a cry? Too weak to make out, though she thought it came from the other side of the room, across the hole in the floor. Impossible to see in the murky air.
She coughed and swallowed to clear her throat. “James? James? Is that you?”
The crackling fire made too much noise. Its’ strange sounds tricked her. Then she heard it again, more distinct this time. A groan, that might be human, might be animal.
“James? James? Can you hear me?”
“Isobel.”
“James! Oh my god, James! Where are you? Wait. Wait there. I’m coming to get you.”
His voice came from the far side of the room. She tip-toed towards the hole, and the boards creaked under her weight. She didn’t dare approach the edge, though when she looked down, she saw, far below, the gleaming marble of the Grand Staircase.
The distance across was too hard to gauge in the dark, and she didn’t trust the floor to hold her weight if she jumped. She stepped back, and clambered over broken beams.
The floor sagged, and broken plaster tipped down the hole. She pressed her back against the wall, and inched her way round; one tiny step at a time, as she tested each board with her foot before she stepped onto it. Her breath came in tiny gasps, and she wished she was brave enough to move faster.
“I’m nearly there,” she panted. “I’m nearly there. Try and speak. I can’t see you.”
“I’m stuck-my legs.”
She reached the far corner. Slabs of broken plaster lay piled in a jumbled heap, and she lifted them aside with care, so as not to make any sudden movements.
And then she saw him, covered in wood fragments and dust. “I’m here now. It’s all right my love, it’s all right.” She dropped to her knees and embraced him, and he lifted his arms and hugged her. “Oh James, I’m here now. I’ve got you. I’ve got you now.”
She held him tight, and buried her face against his neck, and kissed him over and over again.
A straggling beard framed his hollow cheeks, and his pale lips were cracked with dryness. His threadbare jacket stank of mould, and his feet were bare. What had they done to him in Bedlam? She held his face and looked into his sunken eyes, and kissed him again. “We have to get out.” She didn’t want to alarm him, and she didn’t want to let go of him. “Can you stand?”
“I think so, if I can just get this-.” A heavy lead pipe lay across his legs. “It fell through the ceiling and knocked me over.”
“Stay still.” She stroked his hair. “Can you crawl if I lift it?”
“Yes-at least I hope so, if my legs still work.”
She took hold of the pipe and eased it up, a bit at a time. She didn’t want to hurt him. He shuffled backwards, bent his legs, and scrambled free.
She lowered it, and as she let go, dust and debris tipped down the hole like a torrent of water.
James rubbed his legs and flexed them. “I feel a bit wobbly. Is that guard still here?”
“No. How do your legs feel?”
"Sore, but I think I can walk."
“I can help you.” She slotted her arms across his chest, and braced her legs to take his weight. “I’ve got you.” She lifted him, and he twined his arms around her, and held her, still and gentle. She noticed, with alarm, that such a simple movement had left him fighting for breath.
“We have to go back this way.” She shuffled him round away from the hole. He leant against her, and clung on tight, as a frightened child might with its mother.
