“He helped me during the shows.” She spat the words out. “He handed me my wigs. Is that the Russian you mean?”
Hood’s eyes narrowed, his voice sharpened, as contempt for her deepened. “I am not a tolerant man Isobel Hunt. You will regret playing games with me.”
The guard’s grip slackened and she broke free and hit the bed with her fist. “Where’s James? Tell me where he is. I want to see him.”
“When you have answered my questions.”
“No. Now.”
“I do not bargain with traitors.”
She sprang at him and spat in his face. “I will never tell you where the diamond is.”
“Filthy cat.” Hood recoiled and wiped his eyes. The guard pinned her arms behind her, and she cried with pain.
Hood stepped back. “Stand her up.”
She struggled. “Let go of me.” The guard dragged her off the bed and stood her to face the Doctor. She whimpered at the agony in her arms and shoulders.
Hood approached her. His hot breath reeked of brandy. “I’ll make you talk. Gutter rats. You and that pimp boyfriend of yours.” He reached into his pocket.
She pushed against the guard, and he pulled her arms up, and a sharp pain crossed her chest and she stopped struggling, and went limp.
Hood held up a pouch of black leather which he unfolded. A row of gleaming knives, some long and thin, others curved and serrated, lay in individual folds of leather. “I’m going to re-arrange your face, my pretty little darling. No more acting for you.”
He slid a short knife with a wide blade out of its leather fold, and advanced on her. His fingers gripped her face as he raised the knife to her forehead.
“No!” She flung her body against the guard, jack-knifed her legs into a ferocious kick, and slammed her feet into the Doctor’s stomach.
Hood dropped to the floor, doubled over, and groaned.
“Good lord!” Buffrey flustered. “Are you all right Hood?”
She squirmed to break free, and the guard’s grip tightened. She kicked, and bit, but he wrenched her arms higher, and she screamed, as pain shot like lightening through her body. Her mind darkened, and black shadows flickered at the edges of her sight. She gave up the fight, fearful that she might faint.
Then the door swung open and hit the wall with a bang. The guard’s grip slackened.
The Chief stormed in, followed by Konstantin Raevsky escorted by two soldiers. “I’ve brought the Russian in here. I can’t get anything out… What on earth are you doing down there Hood?”
“She kicked him.” Buffrey waved the brandy decanter in Isobel’s direction. “But I don’t think he’s hurt.”
“Put her on the bed,” The Chief commanded. “And see that she stays there.”
The guard picked her up, spun her round, and her threw her onto the soft mattress.
“Where’s James?” she yelled through hot tears. “Tell me where he is.” She hugged her body to wish the pain away. The bedroom door, she noticed, was still open.
“Give him a brandy, and pour me one too.” The Chief handed Buffrey his empty glass, and then helped Hood to his feet. “The Ambassador’s wife is speaking in Russian,” he continued. “I don’t understand a word she’s saying.”
Buffrey poured out three generous measures and handed The Chief two glasses.
Hood rubbed his stomach and nodded at Konstantin. “What about him?” He took his glass from The Chief.
“Useless. Just shakes his head and nods. Like a marionette at a fair.”
Isobel sat up. The dark lines around Konstantin’s eyes and mouth had deepened and darkened against his pale face. He avoided Isobel’s gaze, but his eyes glittered under their bushy brows.
Hood sipped his brandy. “Then we need to intensify our questioning.”
“Yes—” The Chief’s reply lacked conviction. Isobel suspected Hood’s intensive questioning meant torture. Did The Chief fear incriminating evidence left by his victim’s scars?
“You may be right,” he added.
The tread of heavy boots marching towards the door made them all turn. William fell into the room, pushed by a soldier, who stood to attention when he saw The Chief.
“What is the meaning of this?” The Chief glowered. “How dare you move the prisoners without my permission. Get out this minute.”
William looked a mess. His tailored suit was torn and stained, a weeks’ stubble on his greasy blotched face, and his feet, filthy and bare.
“Sir. There’s something wrong sir,” announced the guard.
“What do you mean wrong?”
“It’s singing sir.”
The Chief grimaced. “William is singing?”
“Not the prisoner. No sir.”
“Get back to your room.” The Chief flicked his hand to dismiss him.
“It’s the walls sir,” gabbled the soldier. “The walls are singing. I thought we were going to be attacked sir, and mindful of the prisoner’s safety, I brought him here sir.”
“What? What is this preposterous nonsense? Get out this minute.”
“With respect sir, it’s not safe.”
The Chief grabbed the soldier’s tunic, pushed him against the wall, and pinned him there. “I’ll have you thrown out of the army man. How dare you disobey my orders.”
“I’m not going back in there sir.” His voice tightened into a whine as The Chief’s hands constricted his throat. “It’s not natural. The walls are singing sir. Listen yourself if you don’t believe me.”
“The man’s mad,” announced Hood. “Voices in the head are a symptom of insanity.”
The Chief released his grip and rounded on William. “What’s this about singing?”
“I don’t know what he’s talking about,” came the mumbled reply.
“It’s the wind.” Buffrey stood at the window and gazed out, his brandy glass clutched in both hands. “It’s blowing a gale out there.”
“Of course,” The Chief snapped at the soldier. “You see? This is an old house. It makes strange noises when it’s windy. Now get back to your room and take him with you.”
“No sir,” the soldier looked straight ahead. “It was singing and it’s not natural.”
Isobel watched as this strange drama unfolded. The pain in her arms and back diminished, and she wiped the tears from her face. Something odd had occurred. She noticed it when William appeared; a tangy unnatural odour that she associated with her brother’s unkempt appearance. But the smell intensified. A dry dusty scent that she didn’t think was coming from William. It caught the back of her throat. The air too appeared unclear, as if a fine mist had seeped into the House and drifted upstairs to her bedroom. She coughed and choked, and sat up, alarmed. “I can smell smoke.”
“Quiet.” The Chief downed his brandy, and held out his glass for a refill. “I told you to get out,” he bellowed at the guard.
Buffrey filled the proffered glass, though his hand shook and most of it missed and splashed on the floor.
“Give it here.” Hood snatched the decanter, and poured. “This is hopeless.” He slammed the decanter onto the table under the window. “We’ll have to question them together Chief.”
“No.” The Chief shook his head. “I don’t want to do that. How do we know that they haven’t concocted some story between them?”
Hood picked up his leather pouch from the floor, and extracted a knife with a serrated blade and hooked tip. “We don’t,” he conceded. “With pain comes truth. Who’s first?”
A deep trembling boom shook the room. Far away, glass shattered.
“What the hell was that?” The Chief glared at Isobel as if she was to blame, but receiving no explanation, he spun round and strode to the window.
The glass glowed dark orange. Isobel clambered off the bed. She released the clasp, opened the window and leant out.