The Russian White, page 8
Above her, the strange fog hung against the twilight sky. Its lowest edges thinned into ragged tendrils of mist. Flourishing gorse bushes circled the few trees that grew in the thin soil. They spread out and up in a tangle of sharp branches.
Gregor knelt beside the nearest one. “Follow now.” He lay flat on his stomach and wriggled underneath the bush, and his trailing cape disappeared from sight.
Isobel hesitated. If she was going to run, do it now. She shivered. She would freeze, alone on the hillside.
She crouched on all fours, scrunched up her shoulders, and forced herself against the scratching branches. They scraped across her back and pressed her body into the cold earth. Her feet scrabbled in the dry soil as she pushed forwards on her stomach. The ground sloped down. How deep was this hole?
Then a match hissed, and in its flare, Gregor’s terrible face loomed out of the shadows. He sat, facing her, an oil lamp in his hand, which he lit with the burning match.
She had reached a small underground cave. Tree roots looped and curled to form a natural roof. Rough woollen blankets covered the floor, and slumped against the side of the cave stood a large sack. She emerged from the tunnel and sat up.
“Goodness. What is this? Some poachers den I suppose.”
Gregor tapped his nose. ‘My brother, he dig this.” He turned up the wick, and the flame brightened.
“I see.”
The cave smelt of fresh earth. It was almost cosy in the soft yellow light. Gregor looped the lamp handle over a tree root. “You safe here.”
Isobel shifted round. Branches and roots blocked the narrow tunnel. It would be hard to find this place in the dark. “I’m safer in here than out there.”
“That is good. Tonight rest. Tomorrow, we walk. Do you want food?”
“I’m ravenous. The last time I ate was yesterday, and my brother drugged the food so that it put me to sleep and gave me bad dreams.”
The left side of Gregor’s mouth lifted in what she presumed was a smile. Then he pulled the sack towards him, and reached inside.
Later that night she dreamt about Terrington. He found their hiding place, and dragged dead wood up to the gorse bush to make a bonfire. As he struck a match, a branch snapped, and he spun round.
Something, a beast, a man, prowled through the trees, its breathing low and deep. It approached, and its orange eyes gleamed. Trails of hot breath steamed in the cold air. Terrington turned and fled.
The wolf chased him, snapping at his receding back. It let him go, satisfied that he would not return. Then it lay down beside the gorse bush and waited for the night to pass.
The dream faded, and Isobel shifted in her sleep and sighed.
The day dawned cold and clear. The mist evaporated in the rising sun, and Isobel and Gregor emerged from their hiding place and climbed the steep slope together. At the top, she turned to look back at Parklands.
One of the windows reflected the sun with a flash of light. The House looked so small from up here, and the fear and danger that she had experienced the day before diminished like the disappearing mist, until their memory no longer held any power over her.
She thought of James and of her longing to be with him again. Her thoughts darkened when she remembered Bedlam. She would get him out, she would save him, like he had saved her, when she ran away from home.
She turned her back on Parklands, and followed Gregor over the top of the hill and down the slope on the other side.
Part Two. The Diamond Lost and Found
Chapter Seventeen
“Sir.” The doorman raised his top hat as The Chief climbed the short flight of steps into the warm interior of the Socrates Club in Pall Mall. Inside, he removed his coat and scarf and handed them to an attendant.
“I am expected.”
“Indeed sir. Follow me please.”
Five minutes to midnight and the Club was almost empty. One or two elderly gentlemen snoozed before the log fire or sat, gazing bleary eyed into the middle distance, brandy glasses cradled in their laps.
The steady beat of the Grandfather clock accompanied his ascent to the first floor lounge.
“This way sir.” The attendant opened a pair of mahogany doors and stepped aside.
“Thank you.” The Chief slipped him half a crown. “Leave us now, and see that we are not disturbed.”
“Of course sir.”
The doors closed behind him with a dull thud. He walked towards the fire on the far side of the lounge, his head bent, his shoulders hunched. The swirling patterns on the carpet slid past his feet in a blur of colour. He stood before the stone hearth and stared into the fire, his hands clasped behind his back, his fingers rubbing against each other with anxious little strokes.
William Hunt, Doctor Hood and Judge Buffrey sat watching him from the comfort of their high backed leather chairs, their reflected images visible in the mirror that hung above the mantlepiece.
“Well gentlemen.” He spoke slowly, his voice low and deep. “It is upon us.” Their eyes bored into the back of his head. “Great Britain is at war with Russia.”
Buffrey leant forward, and the chair’s shiny leather squeaked, but Hood laid a hand on his arm to silence him.
The Chief stared at the glowing embers as the heat pulsated with a steady rhythm. “Three weeks ago Russian warships attacked an Ottoman flotilla in the Turkish port of Sinope on the Black Sea. They destroyed the boats and most of the port town, and caused hundreds of casualties. As a result of this attack, diplomatic negotiations with Russia have broken down. This outrage is clear evidence of a declaration of war, and I shall announce the outbreak of hostilities to the House tomorrow.” He faced them. “As a result of this news, I think that our little meeting tonight is rather irrelevant, don’t you?”
Hood cleared his throat. “This is-unfortunate Chief. War with Russia will be bloody. The one-advantage-as I see it, is that it is not happening on our doorstep. And with France as our allies, I would say that victory is assured.”
The Chief shook his head. “Russia is mighty. Its’ armies may number hundreds of thousands. Turkey is beyond our immediate control. War waged at a distance is always muddled.”
Buffrey’s chair leather squealed as he sat up. “We have fine Generals Chief. Some of them fought at Waterloo. And look at our armies, very disciplined. The Russians are just peasants.”
The Chief grunted. “In times of war even peasants are trained as fighters.” He paced before the fire, and marshalled his thoughts into some sort of coherent order. “We have no idea of their preparations. Russia is impenetrable, a darkness that we cannot see into.”
“It’s a very big country.” Buffrey leant back with care.
“Then all the more reason to safeguard what we do know,” suggested Hood.
The Chief dismissed the suggestion with a flick of his hand. “Our concerns with the Russian White are obsolete at a time like this.”
“But not perhaps to the Russian Orthodox Church,” persisted Hood. “They will welcome this upheaval, don’t you think?”
The Chief stared at the carpet. “Its presence will be forgotten in wartime.”
“On the contrary.” Hood jabbed a finger to emphasise his point. “One of the foundation stones of Russia’s religious faith? It will unify the nation.”
The carpet’s bright swirling pattern made him dizzy. “The Orthodox Church no longer has the power to take state control of Russia.”
“But with the Russian White in their hands they can challenge that power,” Hood argued. “That’s why Peter the Great gave it to William of Orange in the first place. A gift he called it, but in truth he was giving away the right of the Church to rule jointly with the Tsar, a right that had been established at the very founding of the Russian nation. William of Orange knew that. That’s why he set up The Brotherhood, to keep the diamond secret in case the Russians came back looking for it. It was a bargaining tool that he didn’t want to lose. And sure enough, the loss of the diamond weakened the Church’s hold, weakened their hold on Russia. Now the Tsar rules supreme because the Church does not have the Russian White.”
The Chief sighed. He didn’t feel fit to argue. “Its return to Russia would be for monetary gain only, nothing more.”
“The Russians entering the country are Church spies, not mercenaries.”
Hood’s emphatic statement surprised him. “How do you know that?”
Hood glanced at William. “Just a guess Chief.”
“Have you caught any recently?” Buffrey sat very still in his chair.
“No.” He paced backwards and forwards. “And they’ll run to ground.”
“Done a pretty good job of that already,” Buffrey snorted.
“They won’t operate now that we are at war.”
“I wouldn’t count on that.”
“Oh for goodness sakes Buffrey,” snapped Hood. “Anyone speaking with a Russian accent will be lynched. They won’t dare show themselves.”
“They might disguise their voices.” The leather squeaked as Buffrey shuffled sideways.
“Anyway, aren’t we forgetting something gentlemen?” Hood glared at The Chief, his eyes narrow and hard. “Discussions concerning the Russian White should not be entered into until the formalities have been observed. Chief?”
He shook his head, dismissing the subject. “I know. But in the current situation..”
“The diamond’s care should be given even greater consideration.”
“It is irrelevant Hood.”
“The correct procedures must be respected. It’s in the Constitution.”
His mounting anger burned like the fire. “We are at war. I don’t care about protocol.”
Hood leapt from his chair and pointed at William. “William, back me up on this.”
“You’re being very quiet tonight William.” Buffrey’s chair squeaked long and loud as he heaved himself out of it. “Oh-er by the way, sorry to hear about your sister. Saw it in The Times, very sad.”
William bowed his head to acknowledge his concern. “Thank you.”
Buffrey’s face creased into a look of mock worry. “Is she getting better?”
“I don’t know Buffrey. She escaped from Parklands and I’ve absolutely no idea where she’s gone.”
“Goodness.” Buffrey glanced at Hood in shocked surprise. “That’s the second time she’s done that. She must be mad.”
“When did this happen?” asked Hood.
“Two days ago.”
“So she might have gone-anywhere?”
“Well, yes. I should imagine so.”
Hood’s anxiety quickened. “Has she taken-the diamond William? Is it safe?”
William raised his hand to silence their fears. “It is quite safe.”
The Chief frowned. “Why would your sister take the diamond William?” He didn’t understand Hood’s concern.
William reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black velvet bag secured by a gold drawstring. He untied the string and tipped the bag upside down. The Russian White dropped into his lap. He picked it up and handed it to The Chief.
“You’ve brought it back to London William, is that wise?” He took the diamond; its weight always surprised him, and he placed it on the mantelpiece. Its cut surface reflected the lamplight with flashes of white light, and its heart burned with a deep golden glow. “Why have you brought it back? And why is Hood worried about your sister?”
William tucked the velvet bag into his pocket, and leant back in his chair. “Chief, I have something to tell you.”
Chapter Eighteen
Terrington shielded his eyes against the sun. Six rooks, black shapes against the blue sky, spiralled in slow lazy circles towards a point on the far side of the hill, where, he guessed, they had spotted the two fugitives. The rooks circled, waiting to scavenge an easy meal.
He studied the human tracks at his feet; two pairs. The larger, a man’s, judging by the heavy imprint, led up the slope to the summit of the hill. Beside the tracks lay a gorse branch, its twigs bent and broken, the dry soil around it scratched and turned. They had used this to wipe away their marks. But, he guessed, in their hurry to be gone, their attempt at concealment had been rushed.
He could only guess at the path Isobel would take, but now he had a lead, and his pursuit would be swift. He marked the tracks with the branch, pointing the tapered end towards the summit. Then he sprinted back into the forest to fetch his horse.
Isobel’s tracks had been easy to trail the day before. He had followed her on foot. When night fell, he planned to creep up on her and take her by surprise. But then he lost her in a confused pattern of hoof prints and boot marks halfway through the forest, and when he picked them up again, they took him back towards Parklands.
He found her horse grazing the grass at the edge of the forest, but as he approached, she cantered away. Of Isobel there was no sign. Confused, he retraced his path, but the fading light made tracking impossible. She had tricked him, this time, but he would find her, and when he did, she would feel the pain and pleasure of his anger.
He darted through the trees, and the downward slope increased his speed. So-Isobel had an accomplice. Who was he? Had he helped her escape? Why was nobody looking for them? No one had come searching from Parklands.
He leapt over a fallen branch into the clearing where the heap of black and white ashes hid the charred remains of Mister Ridley’s bones, and where he had left his horse tethered to a tree.
Disbelief turned to anger. The horse was gone. Its bridle dangled from the branch, the reins torn and frayed, as if they had been snapped. Poachers?
Then he saw the blood, the dark red smear drying on the tree bark, and the glistening spots spattering the grass at his feet. His horse’s bloody remains lay scattered across the clearing covered in clouds of black flies.
He drew his knife, and spun first one way, then the other, studying the shadows, watching for movement between the trees. Last night he heard a wolf howl, and had hidden amongst the roots of a large tree, waiting and watching until dawn. Wolves didn’t roam the wild anymore. He thought it might be a pet that escaped, and made its lair in the forest. His tethered horse would be easy prey.
Nothing moved and, satisfied, he contemplated what to do next. The walk back to Parklands would take two hours; Isobel’s tracks might fade if the weather changed. He had no choice, and ran back into the forest.
He reached the broken gorse branch and climbed to the top of the hill. The rooks were still airborne, but tiny black dots far away. She was well ahead of him, but he had the advantage of pursuit. He was already gaining on her.
Chapter Nineteen
Isobel followed Gregor over a low stone wall, then up a short steep bank onto a compacted dirt track that snaked through the fields.
“This is London Road, this way we go.” Gregor pointed westwards. “Village very close. Where horses for hire.”
Isobel wanted to rest. The long walk over rough ground had left her panting, but Gregor strode away. Rain clouds gathered away to the east, casting their huge grey shadows across the hills.
She ran after him. “How long will it take to reach the village?”
“One hour perhaps. You want stop?”
“No. It looks like it’s going to rain.” She glanced behind her. “And we’re so exposed out here, I don’t feel safe.”
“Yes-easy for seeing. Maybe-I have apple. You eat it?”
“Thank you. I would like that very much.”
The sweet juice quenched her thirst and renewed her energy. She gulped it down in hungry chunks and tossed the core down the side of the bank. Two rooks dived out of the sky, squawking with fury in their determination to claim this meal as their own. Their squabbling snapped the apple core in half and silenced their cries.
After about a mile of silent trudging, they reached a crossroads. One track led off to the right, one to the left. No sign indicated the destinations of where the tracks might take them, but coming down the right track was a man leading a horse and cart.
“Let’s get a ride,” she suggested eagerly. “He must be going to the village.”
“You talk.”
“What’s the name of this place?”
“I know not.”
“Excuse me.” She smiled, in what she hoped was a pretty and winning way. “Are you going to the village?”
The man stopped and stared. A large ginger beard obscured most of his red face and he wore a patched leather apron and a heavy pair of muddy boots with no laces. His huge cart horse took this unexpected opportunity of a stop to munch the grass beside the track. The man stared at Isobel, seeming to expect someone else to answer her question.
She tried again. “We have been climbing in the hills you see, and didn’t know how tiring it was. And I think it’s going to rain.”
The man’s eyes twinkled behind the mass of ginger curls, and he opened his mouth, and grinned. And he went on grinning, until his whole face bunched up into one big grin and his eyes were just tiny glittering slits.
Isobel blushed. This wasn’t going well. “No-you see, we are from London. Not used to such long walks. Is the village this way?” She pointed down the left track. “Are you going in that direction?”
The man’s open mouth appeared devoid of a single visible tooth, and still he went on grinning.
She smiled back and gave a little wave. This was hopeless. “Let’s start walking.” She pulled Gregor after her.
They took the western track, but after walking just a few yards, she heard the heavy rumble of cartwheels rolling over rough ground and glanced back.
The grinning man urged his horse forward, and she and Gregor stepped aside to let him pass.
Isobel called out; “Can we have a ride please?”
Not waiting for an answer, Gregor leapt onto the cart and, holding on with one hand, reached down to help her. “Come.”
She clambered up and dropped down onto the rough planking floor littered with dirty straw. Gregor stumbled to the tail-board at the back, and waved to her to join him. They sat down together, with their legs dangling over the edge.
