Gregor whistled. “It is bad to have so much hate.”
The kindness in his voice surprised her. Tears welled, and she squeezed her eyes to stop them falling. She cleared her throat and hoped that her voice didn’t crack. “Did you meet James in Europe?”
“Yes. We meet France.”
“With The Classical Beauties?” she persisted.
“Yes.”
“So—you’ve been in England a long time?”
“Many months—yes.”
“And you meet with James in London too?”
“Many times—yes.”
She couldn’t ask the next most immediate question. The chances were that Gregor had seen her perform. She gazed into the wide expanse of open land. The eastern sky had filled with thick grey clouds, and the sunlight dimmed to a milky haze.
“It’s strange.” She took a deep breath, she had to know. “That we haven’t met before.”
The cart jolted sideways and she grabbed the edge of the tailboard to stop herself from falling. Gregor gripped her shoulders and steadied her.
“Thank you.”
“You must not have any more hurt.” Her balance restored, he released his grip. “You want water?”
“Thank you.”
She took the skin, and drank. The warm water tasted stale, with a lingering aftertaste of leather.
The fields and hedgerows slid past. Sheep grazed on a hillside. Isobel squinted into the distance. No sign of any pursuers, she couldn’t believe her luck. They had got away. She handed the skin back to Gregor. “What were you going to do?”
“Sorry—I have—no meaning.”
“I mean, you were hiding in that den, in the forest, and then—what? Break into Parklands to rescue me?”
“I am thinking that.”
“But the House is enormous. You wouldn’t have known where to look.”
“I guess. I know House.”
“You had a plan?” He looked blank. “I mean a map? Of the House?”
He clicked his fingers and smiled, and his scarred cheek bunched into a fleshy mass. “No map. I work at House in summer. I know how it is made.”
She frowned, had she heard right? “You worked there?”
“Yes, with my brother.”
“William gave you work?”
“No, foreman, Mister Jennings. Wants help in summer. Lots of work.”
This was hard to believe. “And didn’t he mind that you were Russian?”
“He not know.”
“But he must have heard you accent.”
“I not speak. My speaking bad. My brother, speaking good. I—no speaking.”
She found this explanation incredible. “And is your brother still at Parklands?”
“We leave.”
“Why?”
“No work, say Mister Jennnings.”
It sounded extraordinary; two Russians working right under William’s nose. Did Gregor and his brother know that the Russian White was at Parklands? Had William become suspicious and moved it to London? It would explain how she had found it in his study. But then she remembered The Brotherhood’s rule that it should never leave London. It seemed strange that William had it at Parklands already. Her mouth went dry as she asked the next question.
“Were you looking—for the Russian White?” She stared straight ahead and waited for his reply. Perhaps he hadn’t heard. “Were you…”
“Yes.”
“I knew it.” She grabbed his shoulders and hugged him, and her sudden burst of affection surprised him into muttered embarrassment. She didn’t care. Now she knew she could trust him. “You were lucky not to be caught. William’s searching for Russian spies more than ever at the moment. Well not just him, The Brotherhood too. Have you heard of them?”
“Yes.”
“I found the diamond in William’s study in our house in Regents Park. I found it.” She laughed at the unlikely occurrence. “All that time and it was right under my nose; of course I would never have known about it if I hadn’t met James. He made me see how wrong it was that something as precious as the diamond was being denied the people who need it most. That it was right that devout Russians should have it back. After all, the founding stone of the Russian Orthodox Church, consecrated at the birth of the Russian Nation, of course it should be in Russia, not in the hands of a bunch of aristocrats in London.” She squeezed his arm with excitement. “I couldn’t believe it.”
Then her excitement dulled as she remembered what happened next. “But it was a trick. William was onto me. He found out about The Classical Beauties and caught me. He caught James too. He threw us into Bedlam, Gregor, the mad house.” She hugged his arm, seeking reassurance.
“That place—evil. But James not mad.”
“DoctorHood works there. He’s one of The Brotherhood. He uses the hospital to torture prisoners.”
“You know this?”
“I heard him say it. That’s why I have to get back to London, to rescue James—and Peter too.”
“Peter?”
“Pietor. Pietor Vishny? Do you know him?”
“Only name.”
“He came to London with the troupe. He was waiting to—move on.”
Her stomach tightened. What had happened to James and Peter? How many weeks had they been in Bedlam? Everything had gone wrong and it was all her fault, and she covered her face and burst into tears. “Oh Gregor, we were caught because of me, because I’m William’s sister.”
How many times had she told herself that everything would be all right? That she would find James safe and well? That somehow, they would escape together from this terrible mess? This was the first time she had spoken her thoughts aloud, and they sounded hollow. The happiness, nurtured deep inside her, evaporated, and in its place trickled the dread of deep uncertainty.
Through her sobs she heard Gregor speaking softly. “You cannot take blame. The Russian White makes people do bad.”
“I had it Gregor.” She showed him her open palm, as if that might prove her honesty.
The farmer’s voice boomed out a loud greeting, which made them jump. A young boy passed the cart herding a flock of honking geese. Ahead, built on a rise of land, stood a village made of stone cottages, all huddled around a squat Norman church. Barrows and stalls lined the track, and village folk bustled from one to another. The air hummed with vendor’s shouts.
“It must be Market Day.” She sniffed, and wiped away her tears.
They trundled past a stall covered with cheeses, and the foetid smell replaced the sharp tang of damp manure. Vegetables spilled over the sides of barrows and boxes. A butcher beheaded a chicken.
Ducks quacked in a make-shift pen made of willow, and a herd of pink pigs burrowed in the dirt for food, and caked their noses in mud.
The cart jolted to a sudden stop. Gregor jumped to the ground, and reached up to help her down.
The grinning farmer pointed to a low-roofed building next to the Church. Above the door hung a wooden sign which read; “The Rising Sun.” Underneath the lettering, a picture, painted in gaudy colours, of a young lady sitting up in bed and stretching after a good nights’ sleep. A cockerel perched on her window sill; its head thrown back, as if crowing at the bright yellow sun rising above the orange horizon.
The farmer jerked his thumb towards the Inn and mimed going to sleep. He pointed at Isobel, and mimed going to sleep again.
Isobel pretended not to understand and waved back. She clasped hold of Gregor’s arm and whispered; “Time to move on I think.” Then she called back; “Thank you so much for the ride.”
The farmer scratched his beard, and grinned.
Chapter Twenty
The Brotherhood sat in silence in the upstairs room of the Socrates Club in Pall Mall.