The roof of the West Wing blazed. Flames whipped the air, where they coiled and flared in the wild wind. Showers of sparks scattered across the Park. The Brotherhood, the soldiers and Konstantin Raevsky, pressed round to see.
William reached into the concealed pocket of his jacket and took out the ivory box containing the two brass capsules of Prussic Acid. He flicked the lid open and dropped one of the capsules into his hand. He joined the others by the window, though he chose his spot in front of the table and the three full brandy glasses.
He pretended to look outside as he slid the glass capsule out of its brass sheath, snapped it with his finger and thumb, and tipped the acid into the nearest glass. The poison sank to the bottom, where it lay unseen.
The Chief pushed past him. “Hood, Buffrey, come with me.”
The three men strode to the door. Isobel followed, but the soldier grasped her shoulders. The smoke-smell sharpened. Buffrey pulled out a handkerchief and covered his nose. Now she saw the mist, thin and white, under the ceiling, where it rolled and swayed in the changing air currents.
“Get downstairs,” The Chief commanded Hood and Buffrey. “Organize the staff to tackle the blaze. Guards, lock the prisoners in here then come with me.”
Isobel’s heart thumped. “You can’t lock us in.” The soldier picked her up and threw her on the bed, and before she could scramble off, he had joined The Chief and the other soldiers.
The door slammed, and the lock clicked as the key turned.
Chapter Thirty Four
William watched the thick black smoke roll past the window. Parklands burned, but he didn’t care; pointless to mourn over a pile of bricks and stones. Familiarity with places and things bored him; let others, more compassionate than him, feel sympathy for its loss. Sentimentality equalled weakness.
Flames flicked around the edge of the window frame. The fire cracked and roared in the ceiling, and a white haze filled the room.
Isobel pushed past him and slammed the window shut. Her every movement looked frantic. She feared death, he guessed, and concern too for her wretched lover. He smiled, they were all going to die.
Isobel’s death promised sweet revenge. Her wilful behaviour had resulted in his downfall. Irrelevant that he was about to die too. He preferred life, but wishing his sister a slow and painful death gave him the satisfaction that his demise would not be in vain.
Isobel interrupted his reverie with a sudden shout. “Can you lift that wardrobe?”
However, the question wasn’t to him, but to the Russian. Why? That great bear of a man didn’t speak English. He had been surprised at The Chief’s delight at his capture; to William, most Russians looked dull and stupid, and this one was no exception.
His dismissal turned to surprise when he heard Konstantin’s reply. His English was slow, with a heavy accent, but he understood Isobel’s request, and his reply was clear.
“I can. But first—”
The man had fooled The Brotherhood with his pretended ignorance. Cunning, the Russians; their deviousness was to be admired, though deviousness wouldn’t stop him from burning.
He stepped aside as the Russian approached the table and downed the brandy with the Prussic Acid.
And deviousness wouldn’t stop him from being poisoned. He hoped that one of The Brotherhood might take that fatal chalice, but the Russian’s death guaranteed Isobel’s fate.
The Russian smacked his lips with satisfaction, and downed a second glass. His eyes sparkled. He hugged the empty wardrobe with his brawny arms and, with a loud grunt, lifted it off the ground. He staggered under its unwieldy bulk, braced himself, and then ran at the door and rammed it with a resounding crack.
The force of the blow knocked him backwards. He dropped the wardrobe which tipped sideways and fell against the wall. He rubbed his shoulder, and scowled.
Isobel rattled the door handle. The lock held and the door stayed shut.
“Give me a moment,” the Russian panted. “I try again.”
“William, you’ve got to help him.” Isobel grabbed his jacket sleeve and pulled him towards the wardrobe. He resisted, and her wide eyes, that implored with such compassion, clouded, first with desperation, and then with anger. “William, don’t just stand there, we’ve got to get out.”
She let go of his arm and gripped the door handle. She wrenched it sideways in violent jerks. Still the mechanism held.
William stepped away out of her reach. How, he mused, had it come to this; all this terrible mess and confusion? For years he had kept the Russian White safe, only to be betrayed by his wicked sister. She spied on him, exposed the diamond’s hiding place to the Russians, and revealed him to The Brotherhood as a deceitful liar.
Burning was too easy a death. She needed to feel his anger before she died. His hand closed over the ivory box in his pocket, and the last capsule of Prussic Acid.
The Russian approached the wardrobe and took hold of it in a bear hug. He braced his legs, grunted, and then his grip slackened, and he slithered to the floor, his face contorted with apprehension and disbelief.
The ceiling split with a loud crack, and a lump of plaster landed at William’s feet and shattered into tiny fragments.
The Russian groaned and rolled sideways, his arms entwined around his stomach, as if he might squeeze his body inside out.
Isobel dropped beside him, her arm on his shoulder. “What’s happened?” Her brow furrowed with concern. “Are you hurt?” She ran her hands over his back, as if she might find the pain. “What have you done?”
The Russian curled up, his eyes squeezed shut, his teeth gritted through open lips.
“What’s the matter?” Isobel fumbled with his shirt buttons to loosen his collar. “What can I do? William, help me.”
The Russian gasped snatches of smoky air. William lifted the ivory box out of his pocket, and flicked the lid open.
Saliva foamed around the Russian’s mouth, and then his eyes snapped open and stared straight into his, though they saw nothing. He was dead.
Isobel pulled him over onto his back, slotted her arms under his shoulders and attempted to lift him. “William, help me get him up.”
He stepped behind her, and tipped the brass capsule into his hand.
“Hurry up,” she gasped. “He’s had a fit or something. We’ve got to get him onto the bed.” She knelt and pulled.
The fire roared overhead. The ceiling creaked. At any moment it might tumble down, there was little time left.
“William, don’t just stand there.”
With deliberate slowness, he slid the glass capsule out of its brass sheath, and held it up for her to see.
She let go of the Russian and her hands shook as she covered her mouth. She pushed her feet against the floor to slide away, but he was too close and there wasn’t enough space to escape, and she gave up and whimpered like a wounded dog.
William revelled in her panic. Now she understood what he had done to the Russian, and what he was about to do to her. She was powerless to help herself or anyone else.
She was his, and he smiled as he watched her pitiful shaking. He savoured the moment, this just reward for everything that she had put him through. Killing his sister was going to be a joy.
He bent over her. She slammed her hands over her mouth. He grabbed her neck and squeezed, and the force of his grip forced her to look up into his face. He stepped on her shin, pushed down with all his weight to hold her still, then slipped his hand round to her jaw and tightened his fingers, and the tips dug into her cheeks, and with a cry of pain she opened her mouth. He snapped the glass capsule, and tipped it up.
She lashed out, and her sudden strength surprised him. Her arm knocked his hand away, and he released his hold and lost his balance. She rolled across the floor out of reach.