Isobel longed to kick him, and her face burned with hatred. “That is a lie! I saw you, in the forest.”
Terrington held his side as he whispered breathless words. “I did not kill that man. Master poisoned him.”
She recoiled. Her mouth opened, but no words emerged. Terrington admitted what she dreaded hearing. Revulsion crystallised into certainty; William, a murderer. Her mind whirled, and clear rational thought eluded her.
“That man I burned was a thief.” Terrington’s voice floated high above her, and the words sounded hollow, and meaningless.
“His name was Mister Ridley. Master thinks he stole the diamond from—Wolfman, so that he can blackmail Master.”
A flurry of movement erupted behind her, and Gregor sprang at Terrington again, his bunched fists raised, but the Russian caught him again, and restrained his flailing arms.
Images flicked, like scenes in a magic lantern show, through her confused mind; one of The Brotherhood in the Soho club. She clung to it, as if it was solid. It anchored her thoughts amongst the wild events unfolding with such frightening swiftness.
“But why did William kill him?” she didn’t address Terrington, but stared at the dusty floorboards. “Why didn’t he question him? He wanted the diamond back, so what was the point in poisoning him?”
Terrington replied with a barely audible mutter; “Mister Ridley killed Wolfman, but didn’t find the diamond; Master wants Mister Ridley dead, so that he cannot talk.”
She felt sick. Her fingers closed around the dagger’s hilt in her coat pocket. She might slice him open, if she was quick, like carving meat from a carcass, and expose the truth; and expose the lies, but her fingers trembled, and slipped off the hilt’s worn leather.
Two women stepped from the circle and led Gregor through a door at the back of the room. The big Russian clicked his fingers and the others filed out after them.
He pulled up a table and chairs from inside the old fireplace, and set them in the middle of the room. He sat down, and beckoned to the other chairs.
Isobel slumped into the nearest one, relieved to relax her shaking legs. She stared at the cracks in the table’s wooden top, as her thoughts tumbled into mindless mush. When she looked up, she saw the Russian gazing at her with a deep penetrating stare. She looked away. Those searching eyes pried deep inside her, and she lacked the strength to resist; easier to avoid them.
Terrington sat in the other chair, his chin on his chest, his arms folded across his stomach. She hadn’t heard him sit down. She glanced at the Russian, and this time he smiled back.
“My name is Konstantin Raevsky.” His deep voice echoed around the empty room. “I am the Commander of the Russians here in London. This shop is the Russian Headquarters of the Third Section. We are the Secret Police of Russia.”
Chapter Twenty Six
Later that night the tide turned in the River Thames. The current rushed upstream, and water flooded back into London.
It slipped over the mud in the swamps and gullies, and climbed the dock walls that lined the banks of the City. It drove the rats back from the filthy shore, and forced them into the drains that ran beneath the roads and pavements. They scrambled one over another to escape the rising waters.
One rat emerged from a hole in a broken pavement. It sniffed the air as it tested for danger, and, sensing none, it climbed out, and began to hunt.
Old, wily and cunning, with many moons experience of the advantages to be taken from the careless habits of human kind. And huge, twice the size of its fellows. Its arched back rose in a jagged line that stretched the length of its body. Fur and skin stretched tight over the hollows and curves of its ribs.
Other rats followed, taking courage from this old master. They spilled out of the hole and gathered round him, writhing and squirming in eager anticipation.
The old rat dashed into the darkness, and the pack followed, moving as one. They scampered through the passageways and alleys, keeping to the shadows, scurrying over the sleeping forms that never felt their passing. Unafraid and silent, they hunted together.
The old rat saw the child first. Watched, as the thin infant leaned against a woman’s thigh, and traced imaginary lines in the air with its stick, as if trying to join up the stars, one by one.
The old rat approached, and sniffed at the sweet sickly scent that surrounded the child. The woman was dead. It came closer, the pack followed. Noses and whiskers twitched; an easy kill, but—something, hiding in the darkness, sensed but not seen, made them wary. They inched nearer, ready for the final dash.
The child emerged from its dream, and gazed at the dark shadow that swirled across the wet cobbles at its feet. It stared, wondering, but too tired and too weak to cry out.
The old rat attacked. It darted forward and bit the child’s toe.
The child squealed, surprised by the sudden pain, but the pack surged forwards and smothered it.
Fear, and an instinctive desire to survive, fuelled the strength needed to scream, and the child’s high-pitched shriek filled the night.
A guttural snarling howl answered its cry, and a wolf sprang out of the shadows, bounded towards the child, and pounced on the vermin.
Its leap broke the old rat’s back, and the pack scurried away, squeaking in terror, and dived into the gutters and drains.
The old rat squirmed, and the wolf tore its throat out, and ended its pain.
The child whimpered, and reached up with tiny hands to grab the wolf’s warm fur.
The clouds passed across the stars, and when they cleared, and the starlight shone once more, the wolf was gone.
Isobel woke with a start. Lamplight dazzled her. She squinted through her fingers and saw an old lady beckoning her to get up.
She groaned and turned over. She didn’t want to leave the warm straw mattress.
A firm but insistent hand shook her shoulder. She turned back and opened her eyes. The lady pointed towards the open door, and encouraged her to hurry with tongue clicks and trills.
Isobel stretched and rolled off the mattress. She shivered in the freezing air of the dark attic room. She bundled herself into the thick overcoat, and stepped into the over-large boots. The cold leather made her teeth chatter. Why did she have to get up so early?
She shuffled after the old lady, and followed her down three flights of wooden stairs to the shop on the ground floor.
Konstantin Raevsky sat at the table in the place that he had occupied the previous day. Candles, stuck onto a wide plate, flickered with a steady glow. Terrington sat beside him, and sipped a hot drink from a pewter tankard.
“Ah please.” Konstantin pointed to a chair at the end of the table. “You sleep well?”
Isobel yawned. “Yes—didn’t want to wake up.”
“Have some tea, that will revive you.”
The old lady left the room.
“I have not slept at all.” Konstantin affected a look of exaggerated sadness. He reminded Isobel of a clown at a fair. “We talk about you and him,” he went on. “And decide what must be done.”
Who had he been talking to? She looked at Terrington, but he covered his face with the tankard and drank.
Four chairs stood around the table; a guest, at this time of the morning? Who and why, but sleepiness made it too difficult to think or ask. They sat in silence, and she gazed at the candles and rubbed her eyes.
The old lady returned and set a tankard of tea in front of her. The black surface steamed and shimmered, but its warmth was a comfort, and she cupped the tankard in her cold hands.
Konstantin smiled. “Many things we need to say, and all—ah!” He rose, and Isobel turned to see the new arrival.