“We there now,” Gregor shouted.
He led them past the warehouse and then left into a busy lane lined with shops, where wooden boards hung above the doorways, and, painted in bright colours, displayed the name of the establishment and a picture of the wares on offer inside. The boards swayed in the breeze and creaked.
Gregor stopped outside one of the shops. The door was shut, and the glass fronted bow window revealed empty display stands. Dark green curtains hid the shop’s interior from the casual glances of passers-by. A torn piece of paper, pinned to one of the stands read; “Under New Management,” scrawled in large black letters. A crude white cross on a yellow background adorned the board above the door.
Gregor knocked three times. After a moment, the door squeaked open. The dark interior looked empty. They stepped inside, and the door closed behind them, and a key turned in the lock. Complete darkness. Isobel told herself not to be frightened. She trusted Gregor.
The floorboards cracked as somebody walked past. Another door, somewhere in front of her, shut with a soft thud.
Then light, from an uncovered oil lamp, and its yellow glow revealed a circle of faces. The light went out and a deep male voice with a thick Russian accent spoke out of the darkness.
“There are three of you.”
“I sorry,” Gregor replied. “This man, he find us. He know Isobel. He is looking for her when I return.”
“Who are you?” asked the voice.
Terrington coughed, and his reply was husky. “My name is Terrington.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I was looking for Isobel.”
“Why?”
“I have a message from her brother.” The words wavered and shook. Isobel had never heard him nervous before.
“What is that message?”
“It is private.”
Then a woman’s voice, cultured, the accent lighter. “What is her brother’s name?”
“William—William Hunt. I am his personal servant.”
Voices whispered, like wind blowing through leaves, but Isobel didn’t catch any of the words.
“William Hunt is known to us,” spoke the man with the deep voice. “He is one of The Brotherhood.”
Then silence. Beside her, Terrington’s laboured breathing intensified.
“Am I right?”
Something brushed against her arm, and she recoiled, fearing an attack from an unknown assailant. The whispering increased, and then the female voice cut above it. “The Brotherhood that keeps the Russian White?”
“I cannot answer that,” replied Terrington.
“Why not?” Her accent thickened, its tone sharper.
“I cannot answer that because—I do not know who you are.”
“But you know about the diamond?”
“I need to speak to Isobel.”
“Answer me or you will die.”
Isobel’s heart raced, and its beat pounded in her ears.
“The Russian White is known only to The Brotherhood.” The man’s deep voice boomed, and Isobel jumped, frightened by its savagery. “You are not one of The Brotherhood, so how do you know about it?”
“My Master told me.”
The whispering intensified, like a swarm of angry wasps. Isobel’s mouth went dry. The light suddenly reappeared and she saw men and women, some young, some old, and all dressed in black, surrounding her.
“You are a spy,” intoned the man with the deep voice. Taller than the others, with long black hair, his dark eyes watched from under thick black bushy eyebrows. Deep set lines scored his brown face. His gaze fixed on Terrington.
“I am not a spy,” asserted Terrington. “I was looking for Isobel.”
“She is here,” the man pointed at her.
“I—I need to speak with her.”
“Tell her what you have to say.”
Isobel took a deep breath and faced Terrington. His clenched jaw and jutted chin exposed his wariness. And fear, she wondered, too? Trapped, like her, because escape was impossible.
“William,” he muttered. “He’s in Bedlam.”
“What?” William in Bedlam with Doctor Hood, why was that news? She stared, aware that her look of blank incomprehension unsettled him.
Terrington’s cheeks flushed. “The others,” he faltered. “The Brotherhood—they found out about the glass diamond. They kept Master prisoner in Regents Terrace.” His voice trailed into silence.
Had The Brotherhood unmasked William’s conceit? Is that what he meant? How? But the man with the deep voice spoke first.
“Yes. We heard about this other diamond.” He chuckled and nodded at Gregor. Then he told Terrington; “Go on.”
Terrington swallowed. His eyes shifted behind their hooded lids. She enjoyed watching him squirm, though she tempered her pleasure with a desire to know more.
“They,” Terrington stuttered. “The Brotherhood, said that William gave the diamond to you. And—they told me to find you and bring you back.”
She shivered. Her-collaborating with William, is that what Terrington implied? That swapping the Russian White with the fake diamond had something to do with her? Then she understood the darker meaning behind his words.
“They sent you to kill me?” Her scornful outburst hid her fear of a very real threat. “Well.” She turned her scorn to sarcastic indifference. “That won’t be a first will it?”
“No.” Terrington’s fists bunched and relaxed. “That wasn’t going to happen.”
“Really?” Her fear boiled into anger. “So what were you going to do? Keep me prisoner? Bargain with The Brotherhood to release William? Was that your plan?” She growled out the words. “I don’t have the diamond.” Her voice trembled with fear and anger.
“Isobel does not have the Russian White,” the big Russian confirmed.
“No. I know,” replied Terrington. “It was stolen, from Parklands.”
“So what were you going to do with me?” She felt tears, but forced them back.
“I wanted to warn you.”
“Liar!” she shouted. He frightened her, even here, but she refused to show it.
“It does not matter what he was going to do.” The Russian stepped between them. “Not now.”
Her legs shook. She wanted to tear Terrington’s face apart. Hurt him, like he wanted to hurt her. Repay him for all the fear he caused. But she focused her thoughts on staying strong. She didn’t want to collapse and reveal her weakness.
“Come here.” The Russian beckoned Gregor to him, and placed an arm around his shoulders.
“Do you know who stole the diamond?” he asked Terrington. “Gregor and his brother, Wolfman. Eh Gregor? Show him the pendant.”
Gregor reached under his shirt, and slid out the silver wolf charm hanging from its chain. It revolved in the soft light, and its snarling face appeared and disappeared, like passing shadows.
The Russian man cupped it in his huge hand. “Wolfman died bringing the diamond back into Russian hands. It is a sad day for Gregor, and a great day for the Motherland.”
Gregor’s short swarthy figure tensed. One shining eye glared from under his black brows. His husky voice cracked. “You kill my brother!”
He dived head first at Terrington, and knocked him into the circle of spectators. A flash of metal as he drew his knife, but the big Russian grabbed Gregor’s hand and pulled him away, and Gregor slumped into his embrace and sobbed great gulps of snatched breath.
Terrington writhed on the floor, his hands clasped to his side. Had the knife found its mark? Isobel couldn’t see any blood. The circle of people widened around him.
“I did not murder him,” he gasped. “I have never killed a Russian.” He pushed himself onto his knees.