The Russian White, page 7
Chapter Fifteen
Peggy brushed Sylvia Hunt’s long yellow hair. When had she last cut it? She couldn’t remember; so many years ago. It might have been in this bedroom. Before she covered the floor with white candles, and drew the curtains across the windows.
She parted a few strands, and drew the brush along their immense length.
“What a lucky girl,” she clucked. “To have so much lovely long hair.” She smiled at her Mistress’s sleeping face. “My little baby, what a refreshing sleep you’re having.”
Her little baby; it was true, in all but birth; such happy memories of those rosy pouting lips as she wet-nursed her. Her guiding hand as Mistress Sylvia took her first tentative steps. The care and love she had doted on her all these years.
Her own infant son had died after a week. She remembered the terrible uselessness of all her stored up love. She thought she would die. Then Sylvia had been given into her care to nurture and cuddle; a new baby, her baby, now and always.
Peggy stopped brushing and sat down on a small wooden stool beside the four poster bed. She needed a rest.
“I’m not as young as I was,” she grumbled.
The dancing candle flames flickered. Such pretty lights, and they made funny shadows that weaved across the walls and ceiling. They might almost be alive, if she had a fancy to believe. She tried to turn them into recognisable shapes; a horse, perhaps, with its long galloping legs; a beautiful maiden running away into the distance.
“Like my naughty little girly used to do,” she laughed gleefully. “Before we shared secrets.”
Wax dripped onto the carpet. “Tut, tut,” she admonished, but she let them drip. Nobody was there to see, nobody came to this room. And if they did, they couldn’t get in, because the door was locked and she had thrown the key out of the window. They were not to be disturbed, not her and her baby.
Her reverie was broken by the rattle and clank of the dumb waiter coming up from the kitchens. She yawned, stood up, and stretched. “Ooh, lovely food for my baby. What have they made for us today?”
She stepped across to the hole in the wall, pushing aside the soiled bed sheets that lay in a heap ready to be laundered.
Three platters with silver covers rose into view. Hot steam curled over the lip of the lift. Peggy sniffed. Savoury and sweet, just what her baby liked, and she lifted each lid to look; Casserole of Pheasant, Penny Royal Dumplings with Cabbage and Bacon, and Savoury Bread and Butter Pudding.
She lifted the platters out, one by one, and put them on the floor by the bed. Then she bundled up the sheets, pushed them onto the tiny lift, and pressed the brass button to alert the kitchens that the lift was ready to descend. It juddered and wobbled as it slid out of view.
She went back to her stool and took up her brush. Sylvia moaned and her eyelids flickered as she slept.
“What is it my lovely?” Peggy bent towards her mistress’s face. “Is it the “visions?” Sylvia rolled her head on the pillow.
“Where are you today? Tell your Peggy what’s happening?” Sylvia grunted and made snuffling noises.
Peggy cooed; “You want the magic smells, is that what you want? Which ones will it be today Mistress? Show Peggy the ones you want.”
Sylvia lifted one voluptuous arm, and balled her puffy fingers into an approximation of a fist. She pointed towards the silver bowls that hung on chains around the bed, and tapped three bowls with her long twisted fingernails.
“All right Mistress. Let Peggy heat them up for you.”
She scrabbled through the unwashed cutlery and dirty rags that littered the floor, and found a long white taper. She poked the end into one of the candles until it burned with a steady flame. Where was the oil lamp? She bent down and peered into the shadows under the bed. It was lying on its side.
“Tut tut,” she muttered. It must have got kicked over. That was how the glass cover broke so many years ago. Glass shards still glittered amongst the lumps of dust.
She shook the lamp and heard the oil sloshing around inside. Still plenty in there, that was good. The blackened wick ignited immediately and she turned up the flame.
“Let Peggy help you with the visions.” She angled the flame under the first pewter bowl. “Fish heads, for clearing the thoughts.” They were old, but as they warmed, the decayed stench confirmed that they were still potent.
“Now this one.” She held the flame under the second bowl. “Blood and chicken entrails, for proper understanding.”
The blood steamed, and a bubble burst and dribbled over the lip. Peggy scooped it up and wiped it on her dress.
“Then cinnamon for a safe return.” She heated up the third bowl, and the spicy aroma mingled with the smells of warm blood and decayed fish.
She blew out the lamp and sat down. “What are you seeing my lovely?”
Sylvia’s naked body shook and jolted, and the rolls of flesh trembled and heaved, like water sloshing up and down in a bath.
“Where are you my sweet? Tell your Peggy.” She perched on the edge of the stool, anxious with expectation. Sylvia’s mouth opened and closed as a fish does when it gulps for air. But the sounds that emerged had no meaning. Grunts and sighs and a clicking that she made with her tongue.
Peggy’s excitement evaporated. This was how it was now, strange noises that she couldn’t understand. Not like it used to be. Not the way that established their relationship.
One day, when Sylvia was eighteen, Peggy found her lying on the floor in a quivering heap. The gush of words exploded out of her.
“I’ve killed my cousin,” she whimpered. “I’ve killed Simon. I know I have.”
“Don’t talk nonsense my darling. How could you have? Cousin Simon left Parklands almost an hour ago. He’s far away now.”
“No-I was by the window, and I felt strange, and the next thing I knew, I was outside the window. Everything moved, as if the fiercest wind was blowing, and then I saw Simon and his father on horseback, and I was right beside them, but they couldn’t see me. Simon spoke, he said my name, and he laughed. It made me angry and I felt sick. My tummy turned over and I retched, and the air turned black, and a terrible bang of thunder made his horse rear. It panicked and threw him and Simon was trampled. I’ve killed him Peggy, I know I have.”
Her poor Mistress had been in such a terrible state, and Peggy’s soothing words had done nothing to console her. “Just a bad dream my lovely, that’s all.”
Then Simon’s father arrived back at Parklands, his dead son in his arms, and they both wondered at what had happened.
“Don’t tell a soul,” Peggy counselled. “It must be our secret. No one must know.”
Their bond deepened, because Simon’s death wasn’t the only incident. One morning, going to wake her, she found her Mistress sitting up in bed bubbling with excitement.
“It happened again Peggy,” she gushed. “With William.”
Peggy’s heart went cold. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t kill him, silly. You know his bedroom in the North Wing, and the narrow corridor that leads to it? Well I was nearly asleep, when suddenly I had that rushing feeling again, and I was floating above the corridor, and William was coming towards me carrying a candle. I swooped down and blew the candle out. You should have seen his face! He ran into his bedroom, slammed the door and locked it. It was so funny!”
And the “visions” kept coming. They happened most often when Sylvia was in bed. Peggy ruminated; this gift of her Mistress’s must be God-given. She possessed it for a reason. Time would make that reason clear. Why waste such a precious ability by conforming to the mundane affairs of everyday life; much better to concentrate on indulging her Mistress and helping her to understand and use her special powers.
So Sylvia took to her bed, and Peggy looked after her. She fed her, washed her, and combed her hair. Their world narrowed to the confines of the bedroom, but Peggy knew that Sylvia’s mind roamed with more freedom than she had ever enjoyed before; though the purpose of the “visions” remained elusive.
Peggy sighed as she came back to reality. She had done the best she could for her Mistress. If only Sylvia would speak. What had happened to her voice? She bent low over the cherubic face. “Tell Peggy what you see?”
Sylvia’s nostrils widened and narrowed and she snorted like a pig.
“Oh well,” she muttered. It troubled her that her Mistress had lost the power of speech, but not to worry, it was sure to come back. Perhaps the revelation of the “visions’” meanings were about to be understood, and this was a passing-through stage that Sylvia needed to complete before she was able to speak again and make everything clear.
Peggy watched the flickering candle flames. The shadows around them changed. It looked like mist, floating above the tiny lights; a cool evening mist.
Sylvia’s body stiffened, her eyes opened, she bellowed a ferocious grunt, and soiled the bed. Then she relaxed, and beamed a baby smile.
“My little angel’s awake,” chortled Peggy. “Has she had a lovely time? I know you want to tell Peggy all about it, but first, a hungry girl needs to eat.”
She lifted the cover off the first platter. “What scrummy goodness have I got for you today? Open wide, my lovely.” She spooned a generous helping of pheasant casserole into Sylvia’s gaping mouth.
Chapter Sixteen
Isobel rubbed her shoulder. The wound stung, but it wasn’t deep. Her fingertips revealed the faintest smear of blood, nothing to worry about.
She slipped down from Mavis’s back and wound the rope around a branch. She had neglected her riding practice in the last few months, and her legs ached with a banging throb.
She lowered herself against a broken tree stump and stared into the forest. Fewer trees grew this far up the hillside, the sandy earth was too dry and thin, and places to hide were scarce.
Behind her, a steep slope climbed towards a bare crest. Her plan had been to ride over the crest and find the London Road that she knew must be close, but a heavy mist rolled across the empty ground, and she feared that she might lose her way.
It was odd, such a heavy mist for a bright day. The setting sun slanted through the branches and the sky gave no hint of bad weather, but if she took a wrong turning, if she retraced her steps by mistake, well that wasn’t a risk worth taking.
Somewhere in the forest, Terrington hunted her.
She felt hungry now, and suddenly very tired. Her eyelids drooped. She pinched her arm and forced herself awake. But sleeping and waking muddled her head. Was she watching the trees, or dreaming of watching the trees? Dark shadows slid through the gloom. A branch snapped, and she jumped awake.
A little way down the slope stood a man.
Isobel leapt up and fumbled for the dagger in her pocket. She released it from its scabbard, drew it, and thrust it forwards.
The man stepped back, hands outstretched, his body relaxed. She peered hard, her ears thumping with rushing blood.
Most of the man’s face was hidden by the folds of a long black travelling cape. It draped over his shoulder and trailed to the ground. A sword hung at his waist in a bulky and patched leather scabbard. Isobel inched backwards towards Mavis.
“Get away from me!” Her voice cracked into a high pitched treble.
The man stepped forwards, but she thrust the dagger out, and he halted. The cape swamped his short stature. This wasn’t Terrington, an accomplice?
“I know how to use this,” she threatened. “Don’t come one step closer.” Her back brushed against Mavis’s flank.
“Please. I mean no harm.”
Isobel’s heart jumped at the sound of the man’s heavy Russian accent, and she faltered. “This is-is, private property.”
“Yes.”
What was a Russian doing in Parklands? “You shouldn’t be here.”
“That is true.”
“Then leave-now.” She jabbed the dagger towards the dark forest below.
“I cannot leave. I am looking for you. And now I find you, Isobel.”
She gasped and raised the dagger as if to run at him and plunge it into his chest. “How do you know my name?”
“I am here for helping you.” His soothing voice sounded like an adult’s quietening a frightened child.
Could she lose him in the trees? “Helping me?” She felt exhausted.
“I am here for helping you escape; but I late. You escape already.”
He unhitched the cape from his shoulder to reveal his face.
“My name is Gregor. I am friend of James Turney.”
She blushed when she heard James’s name, and her look of surprise made Gregor smile, even when her surprise turned to astonishment at the sight of his face.
A scar stretched from the side of his mouth to the corner of his eye. His cheek contorted into folds and lumps of new-grown puffy skin. When he smiled, he looked like a hellish demon in a picture plate from the Bible.
Bewildered, she lowered the dagger. “You’re a-you’re a friend of James?” she stuttered. She had never heard the name Gregor before. He nodded.
“Have you seen him?” How did this Russian know to find her at Parklands?
“No. But I see girls. They worried. No work, and he missing.”
Her stomach tightened at the remembered fear of Bedlam, and James’s incarceration in that terrible place. Did Gregor really know The Classical Beauties, or did he repeat what somebody taught him, to catch her?
“The girls?”
“Yes-Classical Beauties.”
“You’ve seen the girls?”
“Yes. They ask for you too.”
Of course they did. They must be wondering what had happened? She had just vanished with James after their date at that Soho Club. It must have looked very suspicious. She felt reassured, Gregor knew these facts.
“Girls tell me to look,” Gregor continued. “They say you run off with James, and they have no money.”
She pulled the scabbard out of her pocket and sheathed the dagger. She needed to trust Gregor, or they would be standing talking all night. It was too dangerous to stay in one place for long, exposed and alone in the forest. She dropped the dagger into her pocket. “Well Gregor-James isn’t here.”
Now Gregor looked surprised. His eyebrows shot up and his left eye opened wide, but the scarred side of his face remained unchanged. It seemed as if he was doing one thing but thinking another.
“James not here? The girls say he is with you.”
“Well they are wrong.”
She glanced over Gregor’s shoulder into the darkening forest. “How did you find me?”
“Notice in newspaper. Said you in Parklands for nerves.”
She studied his strange face. “You can read English?”
“My brother showed me a little.”
She glanced behind her. “Is your brother here?”
“No. Only me.”
She stood no chance against two men. “A notice in the newspaper?”
“Yes.”
Well, well, clever William, lock her up as bait, and watch to see who came calling. “How long have you been following me?”
“You sit on hillside, further up. I think you climb to top but you come back.”
“How did you know that I was Isobel?”
“I hide and watch. You look like boy, but you move like girl. And you running away.” He waved his hand over the forest towards Parklands. “I see that in your eyes. I know that look. And I think it must be you. You do not want to be here. You not mad.”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t think I am. Gregor-did you see anyone else following me?”
Gregor shrugged; “I hear branch falling, but I see nothing.”
She unwound Mavis’s leading rope and took hold of it with a firm grip. “There’s a dangerous man after me. I’ve got to get away.”
“Where is James?”
“James isn’t here. He’s still in London.”
“I told that you together.”
“I know where he is and I’ll tell you, but not now. Jump up. Mavis can carry us both.”
Gregor looked at the sky. “Soon be dark.”
“I know. So hurry.” She stepped onto the tree stump.
“I have hiding place.”
She frowned. “I can’t stay here.” She feared walking into a trap.
“But we cannot travel in dark,” Gregor replied.
“I don’t care. I have to get away.”
“Your brother cannot see in dark.”
She plunged her hand into her pocket and closed her fingers around the hilt of the dagger. “How do you know that my brother is after me?”
“I guess. His name in newspaper, and sister too. Saliv..? Slavia..?”
“Sylvia?”
“Is she for thinking you “delicate nerves” too?”
“No.” The pretence of William’s concern made her sick. “It’s not just my brother who is after me. There’s a man down there who is even worse than him.”
“He need light to find you, and we see him in dark.”
“He is very cunning.”
“Gregor’s hide place is safe. He not find it.”
Isobel loosened her grip on the dagger. The autumn night would soon be upon them. To travel safely in the dark would be difficult, but dare she trust Gregor? She risked being caught whichever choice she made. Gregor looked frightening, but his concern appeared genuine, and she was so tired and very hungry. She stepped down from the stump.
“Very well, show me this hiding place.”
“That is good. But, the horse go. Man find horse, man find Gregor.”
“But we shall need her tomorrow.”
“No. Easy to hide on foot.” He pulled the rope out of Isobel’s hands and wound it round Mavis’s neck. Then he gave her rump a smack, and she trotted away into the trees and was gone.
“She find own way home. Now come, this way.”
Gregor led the way up the slope. Isobel followed, her hand in her pocket, her fingers stroking the dagger’s leather scabbard. Could she find the strength to escape if it came to a fight?
