Hood’s fury erupted. “Right, I’ve had enough!” He flung the door open, grabbed Buffrey’s coat collar, and hauled him out of the carriage and onto the pavement. “Get out! Just get out!”
Buffrey stumbled down the steps. His handkerchief flapped like erratic semaphore as he attempted to keep his balance. “What are you doing?” he yelled. His eyes bulged, fit to pop. “Let me go.” His raised fist jabbed the air.
Hood let go, leapt back into the carriage, slammed the door, locked it, and pulled the window blind down. He flopped down with a relieved sigh. At last, the quivering lump was out of sight.
Buffrey’s fists pounded on the window. “Let me in.” The pounding ceased, followed by a muffled “ooh!”
Hood guessed he’d scraped his knuckles and made them bleed. He sat back and recovered his breath; hard work, pushing the Judge around.
Then the pounding began again, followed by a bellow. “Let me in!”
What the hell was the fool thinking? The whole neighbourhood would be up in arms if he went on shouting. He reached for the window to open it and smack the Judge in the face, when he heard the Sergeant’s voice.
“Beg pardon sir. No offence, but we need to stay quiet.”
“Shut up! Hood let me in.” Bang, bang, bang! Hood covered his ears.
The Sergeant persisted. “Don’t want to give our positions away do we sir?”
“Get out of my way!” yelled Buffrey. Then, the sounds of a scuffle.
“No need for that sir,” remonstrated the Sergeant.
Bang, bang, bang! “Let me in Hood.”
More scuffles. Buffrey huffed and puffed and emitted a strange gurgle. Had the Sergeant strangled him?
He released the blind and peered out. The Sergeant and three soldiers had the Judge in a variety of arm locks. On such a big man, finding a good grip proved hard. They attempted to pull him away from the carriage. In a burst of ferocious energy, Buffrey broke free, and waddled with surprising speed towards Belgrave Square.
“Stop him!” ordered the Sergeant, and the soldiers broke rank and gave chase.
“Dam and blast him!” Hood unlocked the door and leapt out.
The soldiers caught Buffrey at the corner. They surrounded him, but Buffrey, like a caged animal, panicked, and ran at the circle, and sent two soldiers tumbling into the road.
He pushed and shoved until he reached the lamp post, which he hugged, like a shipwrecked sailor, his arms and legs twined around it for a better grip. The soldiers grabbed hold of his coat tails and pulled, but limpet like, he held on.
Hood dashed down the street, grabbed Buffrey’s shoulders and added his strength to the soldiers’. With one violent tug they pulled him loose, and the Judge lurched backwards, lost his balance, and landed on his back with his legs kicking the air.
“Grab him!” Hood ordered, and the soldiers jumped on top of him and pinned him to the ground.
Buffrey rolled and bucked, but he didn’t escape. His red face flitted from a look of surprise, to angry outrage. Dribble sputtered from his gaping mouth.
Hood restrained the urge to give him a good kicking, and bending down, hissed; “You stupid idiot. Stop this nonsense now, or I’ll stamp your brains out.”
Buffrey gulped an exclamation that made no sense and attempted to stand, but the soldiers held firm.
Hood turned to the Sergeant. “Take him to the carriage and lock him inside.”
“Very well sir.” He leant over the writhing bodies. “You heard the gentleman, back to the carriage with him.”
Hood stepped away as the men hoisted Buffrey to his feet, pinned his arms to his side, and bundled him off. Silence restored, he glanced across the Square towards the Russian Embassy.
The Chief’s carriage stood silhouetted against the white Regency house. The driver sat slumped over the reins, dozing.
A short flight of steps led up to the large black front door, lit by two lamps, one on either side, which glowed like white moons. Above the door, a crescent window shone with light from the clear beams of a crystal chandelier that sparkled in the hallway. The curve of an ornate staircase swept up to the higher floors.
Windows, overlooking the square, lined the first floor, and a white flagpole jutted at right angles to the wall from underneath the central one. The ropes hung loose and slack. The Russian flag removed, no doubt, for fear of inciting public anger.
Something moved on the pavement, close to the railings, to the right of the front door. He squinted, trying to pinpoint the spot in the dark.
Then he saw a wisp of white smoke, and his jaw clenched; the soldier, the young lad’s friend, who pretended to be on duty. A glow of red, embers from a clay pipe, and the smoke increased; a flogging, he vowed, for that young soldier tomorrow.
Then another, more worrying thought, occurred to him. Where was the dead Russian? Impossible to conceal a corpse in this crowded part of town; aggravated hostility, or whatever Buffrey called it, and murder. If The Chief’s plan failed, The Brotherhood hanged. He shuddered at the thought, then dismissed it as idle speculation. Why should they fail, discounting Buffrey’s non co-operation?
Then the Embassy door jerked open, and The Chief swept out and ran down the steps.
“Driver?” His voice echoed round the Square. The driver jumped awake and tightened the reins. The Embassy door shut with a bang, and The Chief slammed his carriage door as if in angry reply.
The horse’s hooves beat out an irregular rhythm as the carriage turned, and then set off across the Square. As it came round the corner, The Chief opened the door and leapt out.
“Hood? Where are you?”
He stepped out of the shadows. “Here Chief.”
“We need to move. Now.”
“Sergeant?” The Doctor ran up Grosvenor Crescent.
“Sir?” The Sergeant’s strained reply evidence of Buffrey’s resistance at being pushed into the carriage.
Hood barked; “Take the Embassy.”
“Sir.” The Sergeant stepped out of the scrum, and snatched up his musket where it stood propped against the wall.
“Company,” he ordered. “Operation Ruskie.”
The soldiers leapt into formation, two abreast. Buffrey, freed from being pushed and shoved, lost his balance, fell backwards and landed for a second time that evening on his back with his legs in the air.
The Sergeant led the soldiers in a controlled run into the Square, and halted them in front of the Embassy. Hood followed, with The Chief beside him.
“Your men are not to shoot,” The Chief instructed. His drawn face gleamed white and haggard in the feeble lamplight. “Is that clear Sergeant? There are civilians in there and two British prisoners.”
“Are there soldiers sir?” asked the Sergeant.
“I didn’t see any armed personnel. Some of them may have weapons, but don’t use force unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Yes sir.”
The steady stamp of boots on stone hammered through the dark from across the Square, and Hood watched as the second company emerged from a side road.
“Very well Sergeant.” The Chief tensed, still as iron. “Move.”
“Men forward.”
The soldiers raced up the steps and battered the door with their musket butts. The second company filed down an alleyway beside the Embassy to cut off the escape route from the back.
Lights flickered at the first floor windows, and heads and shoulders, outlined in black, pressed against the glass.
The door splintered and then shattered. It twisted off its hinges and crashed to the floor. The soldiers stormed through, yelling for everybody to lie down and stay still. Screams and shouts echoed through the building. The people at the windows moved back.
Then a shot rang out.
“Blast!” The Chief leapt up the steps and, in one bound, cleared the door’s jagged remains.