The fire in the attic rooms roared, and the flames turned white as Old Mister Bartholomew, the rocking horse, burned.
His paintwork evaporated in a froth of bubbles and a sharp hiss of steam. The hair on his mane and tail ignited into red slivers of fire that shot into the air and disintegrated in puffs of white ash. The flames forced open cracks between his carved features, which widened like red cuts, and consumed his body in a ball of fire.
The roof collapsed; the chimney stacks tumbled down, and the attic floor gave way. Old Mister Bartholomew tipped into the void, and the fiery conflagration burned like a falling comet
Faster and faster he fell, and brighter and brighter he burned. His flared nostrils streamed with fire, and his eyes shone with a terrible white light.
William heard the rush of sound, looked up, and Old Mister Bartholomew slammed into his face and burned his brains out in an instant.
The impact flung James and Terrington out of the path of the falling debris, but a rafter hit Terrington’s head, and he crumpled under the blow.
The floor exploded and collapsed in a cloud of white dust and black smoke, and Dunyasha fell into the hole, screamed once, and disappeared into the falling flames.
Isobel covered her head as thick smoke billowed over her. Her nose stung, and she curled over as bricks and plaster crashed down. “James!” Her voice cracked and she retched, suffocated by smoke. “James!”
She pressed her face against the floor and crawled towards the spot where she had seen him last. Smoke stung her eyes, she squinted; he was lying, face down, next to the burning hole. His jacket smouldered and sparks bounced and flared all around him.
“James!”
He turned, and she raised a hand to stop him moving. “I’m coming to get you.” She wriggled forward, but the smoke forced her back. “Can you crawl?” she yelled.
The boards underneath her bent, and one of them snapped. She didn’t move. The floor wouldn’t support both their weights. She inched backwards. “Roll towards me. I can’t reach from here. I’ll catch you, but I can’t come closer.”
James pushed himself onto his elbows, coughed, and covered his head with his hands.
“Press your face into the floor,” she instructed. “Take a deep breath.” She shook with fear and panic. “Come on, you can do it.”
James flopped onto his side, his back towards her, his head turned, his face against the floor. He rocked from side to side, and with each roll increased his momentum.
A thick ball of black smoke pumped through the hole, and she flung her arms over her head and held her breath. When she dared to look she saw nothing but swirling dust and smoke.
“James!”
With a flurry of arms and legs he barrelled into her, and she wrapped herself around him and pushed her feet against the creaking boards, and they rolled over and over away from the fire and the gaping hole.
They rolled into the wall at the end of the corridor and lay still, panting for clean air, holding each other close. Heat scorched her face and smoke filled the corridor.
She lifted his exhausted body and pushed him onto his hands and knees. His head lolled and swung as if his neck had broken, though he followed her instructions as she guided him towards The Servants Stairs.
The heavy curtain that covered the door smoked, and the brass door handle burnt her palm so that she had to use the curtain to turn it. The door opened, and she dragged James after her. Cool air fanned their faces. She glanced back. William’s hand, burnt black, shimmered in the heat, and was raised as if in farewell. She slammed the door against the fire’s building fury.
“Did he hurt you?” She pulled his shirt open to find the wound left by William’s knife. A small cut and the blood slight. “Thank goodness. It’s just a scratch.” She kissed his cheek and helped him to his feet. “I’m going to get you out of this house if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
Chapter Thirty Eight
The household staff huddled in scattered groups on the gravel drive. Their buckets and saucepans and bowls of water lay discarded on the grass; the fire had beaten them. They watched in shock, as sheets of flame spiralled skywards and the House disintegrated.
The Chief, Doctor Hood and Judge Buffrey stood apart. Their eyes reflected the red and orange firelight, their minds numbed by the spectacle before them.
Sylvia lay on her broken bed, and the women of the House covered her nakedness with curtains and sheets. She smiled her baby smile and waited to be fed. Why did it take so long?
At the back of the House, the old stableman released the horses and let them loose in the Park, where they scattered in panic. He puffed on his pipe and trudged round to join the rest of the staff. He imagined the Devil had set fire to the House, and that Devil was called Isobel.
After he left, an iron grille next to the kitchen window began shaking and rattling. Two tiny hands gripped the metal latticework and worked it free until it broke loose from the wall, and fell with a clatter onto the cobbles. It opened up a dark hole, an air shaft, and out of its black interior crawled Peggy. She jumped out and sat down to catch her breath.
Masonry crashed and rumbled, and she jumped, terrified that Sylvia was in pursuit, and scared of being caught and punished for deserting her Mistress, she ran out of the stable yard and disappeared into the night.
Isobel and James staggered out of the kitchens, and the clean cold air blew away the heat, and they sank to the ground and held each other tight. James stroked her hair and kissed her hands, and she pressed her face into his shoulder and sobbed.
Parklands disintegrated into smoke and dust. The walls fell down, and the flames snapped at the sky. A fireball shot out of the wreckage and streamed high into the air where it exploded with an ear-splitting crash. Orange firelight illuminated the Park, and the staff cowered, frightened by the fury of this final act of sudden violence.
The flames dimmed, and the wind blew away the smoke, and Parklands existed no more.
Chapter Thirty Nine
The Chief found Isobel and James in the stables, fast asleep in the straw. He hitched his lantern onto a nail and flexed his fingers.
Such peace, such innocence, though only a fool might be deceived. The Brotherhood’s constitution demanded revenge on anyone who threatened the safety and security of the Russian White, and these two, between them, had threatened to expose it to the world.
To strangle them might give him satisfaction. However, it would leave too many questions unanswered.
He shook Isobel’s shoulder, and she moaned and opened sleepy eyes, but when she saw him she covered James with her body. “What do you want?”
He backed away. He didn’t want to frighten her, and he didn’t want a fight. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he promised. “I want to ask some questions.” To demonstrate his sincerity, he sat on a hay bale several paces away, and at the edge of the lamplight.
James stirred, woken by Isobel’s voice, and sat up with a rush when he saw him. “What’s he doing here?”
His legs kicked, as if they might strike him, though his feeble attack suggested he lacked the strength even to walk. He collapsed into the straw. Doctor Hood’s thoroughness left so many of his patients incapacitated.
“Don’t touch her,” he threatened.
The Chief sighed and opened his arms, palms upwards, to signify his peaceful intentions. “I’m not going to touch either of you.”
“He says he wants to talk.” Isobel stroked James’s hair.
“Talk?” grunted James. “Bit late for that.” He flopped back into her arms, and his chest heaved as he panted for breath. “What’s he got to talk about?”