This young industrialist, at the heart of British affairs, had unlimited access to the plans for the mobilisation of forces in the Holy Lands; plans, it appears, that he passed on to the Russians. Yes, this might work.
A clandestine meeting at Parklands had gone horribly wrong, when fire broke out and, unable to escape, they had perished, along with other collaborators. Plausible, and the shattered remains of Parklands, clear evidence.
It secured The Brotherhood’s anonymity, and his parliamentary position. Even if the Russians went public with the diamond, he might still bluff his way out.
But Isobel; for the second time that night, murder flickered at the edges of his mind. She caused scandals, and the public had an insatiable appetite for such thrills. If you make enough noise, people take notice. And with James by her side who, he guessed, like most actors, craved publicity, their noise might be as loud as trumpets.
To hope for her silence was a dangerous risk. It left too much to chance. Her reunion with James needed sweetening, and a special present might do it, but with demands that he wanted honoured.
He approached them, and they hugged each other close. He reached into the inside pocket of his frock coat and extracted a sheaf of parchments tied with blue ribbon. He held them up for her to see.
“These are acquisition papers,” he began. “I confiscated William’s factories when he betrayed The Brotherhood. I don’t suppose I shall ever find out if he was a traitor or not, because the Russians have the diamond and he is dead. I cannot hold onto these as ransom anymore. So, I am going to destroy them. William’s assets will be put into your name, Isobel.”
He thought she might thank him, or at least acknowledge her gratitude, but she said nothing.
“You will be a very wealthy young woman,” he conceded.
Didn’t she care? Did James mean more to her than wealth? Such innocence might be touching, if it wasn’t so naive. No matter, what he was about to say next was more important.
“Such largesse comes at a price.” Her breathing quickened; now he had her attention.
“I want to make this clear. By destroying these documents, I expect you, both of you, to stay silent about the events that have happened here tonight. You will never talk about the history, or the recent fate of the Russian White.” He wanted no misunderstanding. “If the story of the Russian White becomes public, I shall hold you and James responsible. I will expose both of you as liars and traitors, and see to it that you are dealt with by the full weight of the law. I mean this. Do you understand?”
It was done. Whether they understood or not was irrelevant. He had made the position clear and the warning had been given. They heard what he would do, and they would find it hard to forget, even in their weakened state. The matter was closed.
He ripped up the documents and scattered the torn pages across the stable floor. He unhitched the lantern, and then faced them one last time. “I hope, for all our sakes that we never meet again.”
Chapter Forty
The night ended and the eastern sky brightened as the wind died. Heavy clouds threatened rain. The fire burned with diminished fury, and the staff sifted through the charred remains for anything that might be salvaged.
The Chief passed from group to group as he searched for familiar faces. Isobel’s story, he concluded, had been correct; William and the Russians were dead. He climbed into his carriage, where Hood and Buffrey waited in silence, and at his signal, they began the journey back to London.
Isobel awoke feeling refreshed. Two hours of untroubled sleep had relieved the fears of the night. James slept beside her, his face peaceful, the tired lines around his eyes smooth and less troubled. His lips formed the beginnings of a smile. He needed sleep, and she crept away without disturbing him.
Outside, the acrid smell of burnt wood persisted. The kitchen staff huddled round a hole in the wall where a door had once stood. Twisted, broken timbers, blackened by smoke, and piles of bricks tumbled into a heap, revealed the remains of the kitchens.
They stepped back as she approached, and watched her with anxious looks.
“It is a terrible thing m’lady.” A large woman, one of the cooks she thought, spoke first. “There is nothing here. It has all perished.”
“Yes.” What could she say? The House levelled; the walls fallen, the stones broken. Only the marble steps of the Grand Staircase still stood. The top of the Staircase had shattered, but the bottom half was still intact, and swept up in a wide curve that went nowhere.
Somewhere in all this ash lay William’s body. Or what remained of it. His charred bones perhaps, but even if she spent days looking, and even if, by chance, she found them, how could she possibly prove that they were William’s? The Russians were dead too, and Terrington, and one of the guards. A pile of bones might be anyone’s. Even – Sylvia’s?
What of her elder sister? Unseen for the last ten years, consumed by paranoia and low spirits and secluded in her room at the top of the House, might there be any chance that she had escaped? She spoke aloud, but to no one in particular.
“Sylvia? Have you seen Sylvia?”
“Yes m’am,” replied the cook. “She’s out the front? She—” The woman faltered, and her hands twisted in nervous agitation. “She’s—on her bed.”
Alive—but, on her bed? Was she hurt? Excited by the news she wanted to run and greet her, but James needed taking care of first. “There’s a friend of mine, in the stables. He’s asleep and I don’t want him disturbed, but I would be grateful if one of you could watch over him until he wakes up.”
“I will see to it, m’am,” the woman bobbed.
“Thank you. Thank you so much. Please come and find me when he’s awake.”
She ran out of the yard and hurried along the path towards the gravel drive. Off to the side, on the grass, a group of men worked on building scaffolding out of splintered timbers and lengths of rope. They stopped working when they saw her looking.
“What is this?” she asked.
One of the men stepped forward and removed his cap. “We’re building a crane, m’am.”
“A crane? Whatever for?”
The man looked uneasy. “For the Lady Sylvia, m’am. To lift—her up.”
She didn’t understand. Why did her sister need such a contraption? “Is she badly hurt?” she asked.
“Not as I noticed, ma’m. It is to lift her onto the cart.”
Confused by this strange observation, she frowned, and waited for an explanation.
“Please, m’am, the Lady Sylvia is just over there.” He pointed towards a group of women, who shielded what she thought might be the broken remains of some furniture. He nodded, as if that confirmed his odd reasoning.
She left the men and walked towards the women. “Excuse me,” she called. “I’m looking for Sylvia.”
The women stepped aside to reveal what they had been hiding.
Before her stood an enormous bed. Its feet sank into the grass, and its shattered canopy suggested that once it had been a four poster. Now it resembled some mad ornament left behind by an experimental gardener.
She gasped with surprise, for on top of the bed and covered in patterned curtains and old blankets, sprawled the biggest woman she had ever seen in her life.
The bed trembled as she moved her gargantuan body. Long blond hair cascaded over the mattress onto the grass, where it concertinaed into folds of luxuriant yellow. Her eyes, dark and tiny, glittered in a face ringed with fat, and her arms rolled and wobbled as she pushed herself up to look. Long curved fingernails curled in the air.