Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (12 page)

I fled the aviary and mingled with a crowd gathered around a lemonade stand. Here I was safe among numbers, but I could not shed the certainty that someone was following me, someone with malice in mind. As to who, I knew not. As to why, I could only speculate that the reason must involve Slade and our past relationship.

“Miss Brontë,” said a voice startlingly close to me.

I yelped and almost jumped out of my shoes. I whirled to face the young man who'd spoken. He smiled an earnest smile, his protuberant brown eyes shining. His pink, boyish face was familiar, although I couldn't place him. He said, “It's Oliver Heald.”

He was the man who had made me so uncomfortable at the Great Exhibition with his questions about my marital status. I said, “You frightened me half to death!”

His smile faltered; he tilted his head, a habit I recognized. “I'm terribly sorry.”

“What are you doing here?” I said, forgetting that he had as much right to be at the zoo as I did.

“I—I was hoping you would inscribe your book for me,” he said, disconcerted by my harsh manner. He held out a copy of
Jane Eyre
.

I stared at the book, then at his nervous, blushing face. How odd that Mr. Heald should happen to have the book with him at the same moment we ran into each other! It seemed too much of a coincidence. “Have you been following me?” I demanded.

“Well, yes,” he admitted sheepishly. “I saw you, and I remembered how gracious you were the last time we met, and I thought, ‘Here's a once-in-a-lifetime chance to get my favorite author's signature.'”

I ignored his compliments. My temper, already strained by the events of the past two days, found in him a handy target. “How dare you intrude on my privacy?”

“I'm sorry,” Mr. Heald said, alarmed by his own breach of manners, hurt by my reaction. “Will you please forgive me?”

“Go away.” I shooed him as if he were a buzzing fly. “Leave me alone!”

“Yes, Miss Brontë. I'm sorry.” Mr. Heald turned and ran, holding
Jane Eyre
against his heart.

I belatedly felt relieved that my pursuer had turned out to be the innocuous Mr. Heald. I also calmed down enough to regret how cruelly I'd treated him. “Wait, Mr. Heald,” I called, “I would be honored to sign your book.”

He'd gone into a wooded area that bordered the zoo. So guilty did I feel toward him, and so eager to make amends, that I didn't stop to think about the possible danger of following a man I barely knew into what looked to be an isolated area. Instead, I did what every witless heroine in every second-rate romance novel would have done: I hastened after Mr. Heald, following a trail under a canopy of trees. Their leaves filtered the sunlight into a cool, green shade. The voices, the children's laughter, and the animals' cries sounded far away. I saw no one. Pausing, I called, “Mr. Heald?”

There was no answer. Leafy branches rustled behind me. I turned, glimpsed movement among the trees. Mr. Heald didn't appear. Another rustle came, then soft footsteps. I felt a spurt of irritation. Was he teasing me? “Come out. Don't play games,” I ordered.

A figure materialized behind a screen of foliage. That it belonged to a man was all I could discern, but his silhouette radiated menace. Fear shot through me. I began to run. I tried to steer a course toward the open, populated area of the zoo, but every time I turned in that direction, I saw the man's shadow moving through the trees, between me and safety.

“Help!” I cried.

If he was Mr. Heald, would he hurt me? If he wasn't, then who was he? A criminal who preyed on women he happened to meet? I thought of the women killed in Whitechapel. Fighting my way past low branches, I felt like a deer stalked by a tiger in a jungle. I panicked as I heard his footsteps moving faster, coming closer. I grew certain that this was no random encounter.

Somehow I had once again stumbled into bad business that involved John Slade. I acknowledged the terrifying possibility that it was he—lunatic, traitor, and murderer—who pursued me. If he caught me, what would he do?

I came abruptly upon a brick wall. From its other side I heard carriage wheels racketing and horses' hooves plodding. This was the wall that separated the zoo from the street. It was too high for me to climb. I sought but found no gate. My back pressed against the wall, I watched with terror as swaying branches and rustling leaves heralded the arrival of my stalker.

I
HEARD A SUDDEN CRASH. A WILD THRASHING AND SCUFFLING ensued. It was the sound of men fighting. They flailed behind the bushes. Grunts punctuated thuds as blows landed. I could have taken the opportunity to escape, but I had to see who the men were. I crept toward them, but before I could gain a clear view, one jumped up and ran away. The other clambered to his feet. I tore through dangling vines and burst upon him. It was Slade.

He stood, brushed dirt off his black coat and trousers, and faced me. I realized that I did not know who had stalked me and who had rescued me, Slade or the other man. My heart drummed a cadence of fear and desire.

His expression was as distant as when I'd confronted him outside the Royal Pavilion Theater. “Go home, madam,” he said in the same Russian accent he'd used then. “From now on, do not wander by yourself. It is dangerous.”

He turned to leave. I was suddenly furious. Whether he remembered me or not, I had gone to much trouble to help him whether he deserved it or not. And I knew this was Slade, no matter what he or anyone else said. His were the eyes that had once looked deep into mine; his the lips I had kissed; his the hands that had caressed me in places touched by no other man. The least I deserved from him was an explanation.

“Don't you walk away!” I shouted.

I seized his arm. He stared at me, surprised by my temerity. He looked at my hand that clutched him, and I felt his tough, strong muscles stiffen in resistance. I also felt the warmth of his skin through his coat sleeve. A torrent of emotion weakened me. For three years I'd longed to touch Slade. Now I was touching him, but this was not how I'd wanted it to be. I'd yearned to have his arms around me, our bodies united in love. But he wrenched free of my grasp, as callously as if throwing off a stranger who'd begged him for a penny. Anger overrode my hurt feelings and restored my strength.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“I see you go in woods and man follow.” Slade's face had an impassivity that was as foreign as his accent. “I think he mean to hurt you. So I catch him, chase him away.”

“Stop pretending!” I was so incensed that I didn't care whether what he'd said was true. “You're not Russian.” My voice rose. “You're as British as I, Mr. John Slade!”

The sound of his name uttered so loudly alarmed him. “For God's sake, keep your voice down!” he said in a furious whisper. The Russian accent was gone.

“Aha!” I said. “You admit you are John Slade. What took you so long?”

He made shushing motions while he looked around to see if anyone was listening. “Be quiet! You don't know what you've gotten yourself into!”

“You're right, John Slade, I don't. Until I do, I won't be quiet. Now tell me, why were you in Bedlam? Did you murder the nurses? Or those women in Whitechapel? Why did you come back to England? Do you remember who I am?”

When he frowned and didn't reply, I shouted, “Tell me, John Slade!”

Repeating his name was like chanting a magic spell that gave me power over him. Annoyed resignation settled over his features. I'd seen that same look in the past, whenever I'd determined upon doing things he thought I shouldn't. “All right,” he said, but in a manner so cold that it was like an icicle driven into my heart. “Yes, I remember you, Miss Charlotte Brontë.” He spoke my name as formally as if we were little more than strangers. “I'll tell you everything, on one condition—that you never breathe a word of it to anyone.”

I glared and kept silent, letting him think I agreed to his bargain; later, I would decide whether to renege. Eyeing me cautiously, he began his story: “The Foreign Office sent me to Russia. My mission was to aid and abet Russian intellectuals who are trying to bring about a revolution, and to discover what actions the Tsar plans to take against Britain.”

That corresponded to what Lord Eastbourne had told me. “Go on.” Although I began to relax because I could believe Slade so far, I warned myself against taking him at his word: deception was his trade, and I had good reason for doubt.

“While I was there, I infiltrated the Tsar's court. The Tsar anticipates a war with Britain in the near future,” Slade said. “He's been searching for a way to ensure his victory, and he thinks he's found it at last.”

Here, Slade's story departed from Lord Eastbourne's. I listened with suspicion.

“His spies abroad learned of a scientist named Niall Kavanagh, a British citizen, Irish by birth. Dr. Kavanagh has apparently invented a device that could give its possessor a crucial advantage in a war. He is currently building a model of his device for the British government, which is keeping him hidden. The Tsar means to have the device.”

“How do you know this?” I asked.

“From eavesdropping on the Tsar's private conversations in the Kremlin,” Slade said. “The Tsar has sent his favorite spy to fetch Dr. Kavanagh to Moscow. The spy is a man named Wilhelm Stieber.” Darkness pooled in the depths of Slade's crystalline gray eyes. “Wilhelm Stieber also serves as chief spy to the King of Prussia. He is an expert at espionage, with his own agents all over Europe.” His tone indicated a strong personal dislike for Stieber, and perhaps a rivalry between two expert spies pitted against each other in a deadly game. “I came back to England to find Kavanagh before Stieber does and keep him out of the Tsar's hands.”

I wished to believe Slade. How I wished it with all my heart! But his story about the scientist and the secret device seemed fantastic, and I had no corroboration for it. “How does this explain why you were arrested for murder and committed to Bedlam?”

“Stieber employs agents among the staff at Bedlam. He has turned the asylum to his own purposes. He kidnaps political refugees, smuggles them into Bedlam, and tortures them to extract information about anti-Tsarist plots among the immigrant community. He has begun using the same tactics on British officials, trying to learn where Niall Kavanagh is.”

Such audacious behavior by a foreign mastermind was credible to me. I'd gained intimate knowledge of another foreign mastermind, in 1848. But my distrust of Slade deepened: perhaps he'd invented the story because he thought I would believe it based on our past experiences. “You didn't answer my question.”

Slade narrowed his eyes; he knew I suspected he was lying. “I'm getting to that. When I arrived in England, I searched for Kavanagh. I tapped all my usual sources, but it was as if he'd dropped off the earth. I wondered if Stieber had already spirited him out of England. I went to Whitechapel to get news of Stieber from the European refugees there. They pass around news about their homelands and the authorities who drove them out. I posed as Josef Typinski, a Polish immigrant. I heard that Stieber had been seen at Bedlam. I obtained a position as a janitor there. I watched for Stieber, and when he showed up, I spied on him.”

“You weren't spying or working as a janitor when I saw you,” I said. “You were an inmate in the criminal lunatics' ward. Explain that.”

Memory and anger suffused Slade's expression, all the while he watched me, trying to predict what I might do next. “Stieber found me out. I don't know how. He must have tipped the police onto me. One minute I was asleep in bed; the next, I was locked up in Bedlam for the murders of three women I'd never heard of, that I didn't commit. Two nurses in the criminal lunatics' ward were in Stieber's pay. So was the doctor. He and Stieber tortured me in an attempt to learn what I was up to and what I knew about Niall Kavanagh.”

This was the scene I had witnessed. Wilhelm Stieber was the sinister, foreign-looking man who'd presided over Slade's torture. Or so Slade said. “Did you kill the nurses?”

“I had to.” Slade spoke with a combination of guilt and defiance. “Stieber was going to kill me. It was the only way I could escape.”

He'd explained everything logically, but not to my satisfaction. “I don't believe you.” I was all the angrier because he'd tried to dupe me.

“Why not? It's the truth.” His gaze steadfastly held mine.

I fired the shot that would pierce his tissue of lies: “Because you're not on a mission for the Foreign Office. You're no longer in their employ. You're a traitor!”