“It is here.”
“What? Here?” She looked around the dark barn, almost as if she expected to see it suspended in the air.
Gregor crawled towards his leather bag. The sword in its rough patchwork scabbard lay underneath it. He picked it up and unsheathed the blade, drawing it out slowly. But the blade ended a foot from the hilt, in a line of jagged metal.
He dropped the broken sword onto the cobbles, and tipped up the scabbard. The Russian White slid down and landed in his palm. He passed it to her. “With you I trust.”
She cupped it in her hands. The same oblong shape as the one she had found in William’s study, the same uncut roughness, heavy and cold. Parts of its surface were clouded, as if, when it formed, stardust sprinkled across it, and trapped the light inside for eternity. Stars that told of ancient times and the passing of Ages, and as she peered deeper and deeper towards the diamond’s heart, the stone flashed with the dark blue of a winter sky.
Chapter Twenty Two
Terrington went straight to his Master’s house in Regents Park Terrace when he arrived in London. His wet clothes steamed as he walked through the muggy early morning streets.
The storm had washed away Isobel’s tracks and he had given up the pursuit. At the Farmers Market he bought a horse and headed for the capital. He would take her by surprise at Regents Park, and trap her. He left the horse at his Master’s stables at the top of Tottenham Court Road.
He arrived at the narrow alleyway at the back of the house, bordered on one side by the garden wall. He strode up to the steps that led down to the area. The iron gates were shut and bolted. No sign of any kitchen staff, the house looked deserted. Surprised by this unusual state of affairs, he walked with silent steps to the end of the alleyway, and emerged onto the crescent.
Two soldiers, one old, one young, kitted out in army scarlet, sat on the front door steps, smoking clay pipes. As he approached, they squinted through thick tobacco smoke. Their muskets, with fixed bayonets, stood propped against the iron railings.
“Can I help you sir?” The old soldier heaved himself upright. His thick sideburns gleamed white against the red of his cap.
Terrington resented his casual tone. “I work here.”
“I see.” The soldier spat at the pavement, and then held out his hand. “Papers please.”
“Papers?”
“No papers, no entry, by order.” He pointed to a bill tied to the railings.
Terrington glanced at it, but didn’t attempt to read. “I work for William Hunt.”
“And I work for Queen Victoria. And I’ve got a commission to prove it. Papers please, or I’m going to have to ask you to move along.”
Terrington’s anger simmered. “I am William Hunt’s personal servant. Let me through.”
The old soldier ambled down the steps and stood, legs apart, braced like a boxer. “I don’t want no trouble sir, but you are obstructing the pathway. Now, I’m asking you politely, to move along please.”
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.