River Horse Tsar

Brenda Clough

Description

A desperate father hides a little slip of solid gold in the back of an artist's canvas.It is a token, the clue to a vast international conspiracy to assassinate a world leader and change the course of the 19th century. A train crash puts it into the hands of Marian Halcombe Camlet and Walter Hartright. They unravel its secrets in a breakneck chase that takes them across Europe, through kidnappings, catacombs and nunneries, a major project to domesticate the hippopotamus for the British Army and, at the last, deep into the depths of the cruel dilemmas of women. Even the most dangerous woman in Europe can do only so much, when every law in Victoria's Britain is weighted in favor of men.

Sujets

• Historical fiction
• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Book View Cafe
• Date de parution: 22 juin 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781611389579
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

The River Horse Tsar
Brenda W. Clough

www.bookviewcafe.com
Book View Café edition July 20, 2021 ISBN: 78-1-61138-957-9 Copyright © 2021 Brenda W. Clough
Table of Contents
Book 1
From the papers of Marian Halcombe Camlet
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Book 2
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
From Marian Halcombe Camlet to Mrs. Helena Knyvett
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Book 3
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
From the personal correspondence of Theophilus Camlet
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
From the correspondence archive of Mrs. Charles Dickens, now at the British Museum
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Book 4
From the papers of Marian Halcombe Camlet
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
From the archive of the letters of Mrs. Charles Dickens
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
From letters in the possession of Marian Halcombe Camlet
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Extracted from a letter sent by M. Louis-Joseph Larressingle to his brother Emile in Toulouse:
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
A letter in the possession of Mme. Marie-Aurelie Borne, in Annecy, from her sister Zéphette:
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
From the personal correspondence of Theophilus Camlet
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Book 5
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
From the archive of the letters of Mrs. Charles Dickens, now at the British Museum
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Cranmorden, in Gloucestershire
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Book 6
From the correspondence files of Marian Halcombe Camlet
From the archive of the letters of Mrs. Charles Dickens, now at the British Museum
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
St. Lutgardis
From Marian Halcombe Camlet’s correspondence
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Book 7
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
From Marian Halcombe Camlet’s correspondence
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
From the correspondence of Laura Fairlie Hartright
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Book 8
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
From the letters of Sarah, Lady Skyllington
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Read a sample from The Nautilus Knight
Acknowledgments
Also by Brenda Clough
Copyrights & Credits
About Book View Café
Book 1
From the papers of Marian Halcombe Camlet
The Times of London
5 April 1866
A dastardly attempt was made yesterday upon thelife of His Imperial Highness Alexander II, Tsar of all the Russias. The tsarwas assailed as he was leaving the Summer Gardens in St. Petersburg. Anattacker armed with a pistol fired upon him as he was departing in hiscarriage, but the imperial coachman was able to lash the horses into a gallopand thus saved the monarch’s life. The perpetrator was immediately dragged downby outraged bystanders and arrested. A wider conspiracy is being laid bare bythe energies of the Imperial Ministry of Internal Affairs…
Walter Hartright’s narrative
My artist friend Albert Moore was determined tosecure me a fair shake. “Tcha, Dunsfold,” he said. “Was not your late lamentedfather my favourite colourman? And Hartright here’s been a member of theMahlstick Club since Hector was a pup. Certainly he should get the professionaldiscount.”
Harassed, the boyish shopkeeper said, “Of course,sir, of course. Your pardon, Mr. Hartright. Shall it be these paints, then?”
“My condolences on your bereavement,” I saidkindly. “A shocking thing. I read of the crime in the papers.” The elder Dunsfoldhad been murdered in the street a fortnight ago, and the lad wore a bit ofcrape around his arm. “No apology is called for. I haven’t paintedprofessionally in years.” I mulled upon my selection of a dozen or so oil-painttubes on the shop counter. “A canvas. A large one.”
“By all means, sir. Shall our largest standardsize be sufficient? It measures 45 inches by 39.”
The shop was an old-fashioned warren of artists’materials. There were brushes in racks or tied in bundles, cabinets of wideshallow drawers to hold expensive imported drawing papers, ranks of cubbyholesfrom which the ends of pencils peeped, jugs of linseed oil, boxes of crayon,tins of turpentine, colourants in jars and drawers: the ten thousand thrilling toolsof my former trade. I looked up at the rack of prepared canvases. “Too small. Acustom job then. I need it to be at least sixty inches.”
“Ambitious, Hartright.” Moore came only up to myshoulder, but at this period was sufficiently prosperous with his portraitpainting to have grown a comfortable double chin. “Landscape?”
“No, I’m poaching on your territory. It began as aportrait of my sister-in-law.”
“Mmm.” Moore nodded. “Mrs. Marian Halcombe Camlet,I remember. Fascinating woman.”
“No beauty, but I agree her face is interesting.”
Moore’s plaint was from the heart. “You can’tconceive how many pudding-faced men and cow-like women there are in London.I’ve painted them all. And children like piglets. It was a distinct relief toportray Mrs. Camlet. Turned out quite well, too. Fuchsia silk’s always amusingto render. Mr. Camlet has it in his office. Is yours to be full-length?”
“You might call it that. I began by sketching herwhile she was asleep in bed. The drama of the pose, her loosened hair fallingover the edge to form a great black pool on the floor – it was irresistible.”
“Women abed.” Moore approved. “Always popular withbuyers.”
“But like a fool I titled it Sleeping Beauty .”
“Not so dusty, in my humble opinion,” Moore said.“Makes the viewer look twice. She’s not your conventional stunner, with thatsquare jaw and swarthy complexion, but even more attractive.”
“She vehemently disagreed. Scolded me up one sideand down the other, denouncing it as false advertising and sharp practice. Ifobbed her off by telling her it was a sketch for a larger conception. Mynotion now is to turn the figure into a sleeping German warrior maiden, andperhaps add another figure, a Siegfried, to her Brunhild.”
“Ah! Mythological matters, the coming thing.”
“The bed curtains can become walls of flame, andthere’ll be armor, gems, and such. A technical challenge shall be good for me.”
Moore grunted. “Splash out and show what you cando.”
“But to get all the gubbins in, I need elbow room.How long shall a custom panel take?” I added to the youthful shopkeeper.
“Wouldn’t take our artificer but a fortnight,sir.”
“Too long.” Laura had come up to town to consult adentist, and incidentally attend Parents’ Day at Marlborough, where our sonWally was a pupil. In a day or so Marian was to take her two younger childrenand return with Laura to Limmeridge for a visit. The ladies would carry allthese supplies back to Cumberland for me. My London rooms had neither the lightnor space for a studio, and my time in town was solely dedicated to my dutiesas a member of Parliament. “Perhaps I can find one elsewhere,” I mused.
Young Dunsfold’s boyish treble warbled in hishaste. “My mother the manager is not in, sir. But I happen to know of a canvas,ordered but never paid for, in the back. I’m confident she would approve of itssale to you. It’s 65 by 50, somewhat larger than you require, sir. But if youwould care to inspect it?”
“Bring it out, by all means.”
Moore was stern. “It had better be solidlymorticed and braced. None of your patchwork! And the canvas without any flaws.Don’t want a defective reject foisted off on you,” he added to me.
The panel was carried out by two of the smallest shopboys I had ever seen, probably more Dunsfold sons. They set it on the floor,leaning it against the counter so that the light trickling in from therain-wrinkled bow window could fall full upon the fabric surface. It appeared quitepristine. The canvas was smoothly woven, awaiting its primer coat of base colour– white? Perhaps primrose yellow would be better, to lend punch to the flames.
The fabric was tautly and evenly fastened on allfour edges. I tipped the chest-high canvas forward so that I could inspect theback. At the beginning of Victoria’s reign when my father was a drawing master,oil paintings were executed upon actual wooden boards, and occasionally smallerones still are. Venetian artists invented the canvas tacked over sturdy woodenstretcher bars, lighter, cheaper, and easier to construct.
Because of its size this frame was notably sturdy,the four sides braced by three crossing horizontal timbers and one verticalone. At every morticed joint and at all four corners, triangles of wood werenailed to keep the angles true and the entire framework rigid. As is customary,a square label was gummed over one of the central junctions. This proclaimedthe name of the firm in curly letters: “Dunsfold & Son, Artists’ Colourmensince 1839.” When I leaned on it the frame betrayed no wobble or give. Theentire thing was not heavy, but surpassingly awkward to handle, like a kite aslarge as a tabletop.
I gazed into the blank white surface again, and myfingers itched for the pencil or charcoal. The hero of Nordic legend, the greatVolsung himself, seemed to hover on the verge of existence, with perhaps asweeping cloak, leaning back in astonishment from the supine figure on the bed.A stormy Northern sky, to make the flames show up well…
“It’s a monster, though,” Moore said. “We can’tpossibly take it with us.”
“Can you have it crated for rail shipment, anddelivered to my rooms? Safely, mind.” And when the young shopkeeper promised itshould be carefully boxed and