Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (41 page)

“Fair enough,” Slade said, and I nodded.

Our adventure had taken a turn that I could not have predicted: we were now in league with the devil.

“T
HE KEY IS OVER THERE,” SLADE SAID, POINTING AT THE FLOOR where it had fallen.

Stieber turned to the handsome soldier. “Get it, Friedrich.”

Friedrich fetched the key. Stieber ordered Slade and me to move away from the lock. “Wagner, cover them,” he said to the ugly soldier.

Wagner trained his pistol on us while Friedrich opened the cage. “Mrs. Slade, you' ll come out first,” Stieber said. “Stand over there.” He pointed at a spot some ten feet from the cage. I complied. “Wagner, guard Mrs. Slade. Friedrich, cover Mr. Slade.”

Wagner shambled up to me. He stood too close, his gun almost touching my bosom.

“Behave yourself, or your wife dies,” Stieber told Slade. “Put your hands up and walk out of the cage. Slowly.”

Slade raised his hands and moved toward the door. As he crossed the threshold, Stieber said, “Stop.” Slade obeyed, his face set in wary lines. “Friedrich, search him.”

Friedrich ran his hand over Slade. He discovered the file that had found its way inside Slade's coat. Stieber said, “We'd better search Mrs. Slade for hidden weapons, too. Wagner, you may do the honors.”

Wagner's hands touched every part of my body and lingered upon the most intimate places. I cringed. A lewd smile curved his thick lips. Slade seethed, but there was nothing else he could do. When Wagner finished, I felt as dirty as if I'd been smeared with excrement.

“We are ready now.” Stieber took up the lantern. “Friedrich, you escort Mr. Slade and go first. Keep your hands up, Mr. Slade. Wagner, you'll follow me, with Mrs. Slade.” He glanced at me and added, “I will give you the same warning I gave your husband: Be on your best behavior, or I will have him shot.”

Friedrich marched Slade across the dungeon. Stieber went next, lighting the way. Wagner poked the gun against my back as he and I followed the others along a passage that had stone walls and a low, arched stone ceiling. When we ascended an uneven stone staircase, I felt as if I were Eurydice climbing up from the depths of hell. When we emerged into daylight at the top of the stairs, I was overcome by relief and gratitude. I exulted in the sun shining in a corridor with a tiled floor and tapestries hanging on the walls. I had been resurrected, by Hades incarnate. Stieber moved toward a door at the end of the corridor, but Slade said, “Wait.”

“Why?” Stieber said, brusque with impatience. “We must hurry to catch up with Dr. Kavanagh.”

“That will be difficult without knowing his destination,” Slade said. “He's been gone more than twenty-four hours. He'll have traveled quite far already.”

“You said he'd just left.”

Slade shrugged. “I lied.”

“Do not lie to me again,” Stieber said. “Locate Dr. Kavanagh.”

Although I had faith in Slade, he was not a magician who could pull a rabbit out of a hat that contained no rabbit. How could he locate Kavanagh, who'd breathed not a word of his destination to us?

“I will,” Slade said, “if you'll let Charlotte and me search this house.”

“We have already searched it,” Friedrich said. It was the first time I'd heard him speak. His English was stilted, his voice reedy for a man of such masculine appearance.

“We found nothing.” Wagner's voice had a guttural, growling quality.

“We may recognize a clue that you missed,” Slade said.

“Very well,” Stieber said, “but be quick about it.”

Guarded by the soldiers, Slade and I explored the château. The first-floor rooms contained furniture covered with dust sheets. The ancient kitchen was cluttered with dirty dishes and stank of rotten food. I feared that Dr. Kavanagh had left traces of his cultures and we would be infected; but we found none, and no scientific equipment. We proceeded upstairs.

“The only room he used up here is that one,” Stieber said, pointing to a door.

Slade and I stepped into a rat's nest similar to the one in Tonbridge. Here, too, were the unmade bed, the liquor bottles, and the soiled chamber pot. Kavanagh had left his clothes strewn around the room; with only a few days to live, he didn't need them. He'd also left canisters of different shapes and sizes, rolled twine, wire, and copper tubing, and jars dusted with chemicals.

“You mentioned that Dr. Kavanagh's invention is a bomb,” Stieber said as Slade opened the drawers of the dresser and I looked in the cupboard for papers. “What kind of new bomb can kill more people than the bombs already in use?”

Slade had no choice but to share Kavanagh's dangerous secrets with Stieber. The cupboard was empty; I turned to the desk. My fingers trembled with urgency. We couldn't afford to vex Stieber by taking too long at our task, and we must catch Dr. Kavanagh before he staged his demonstration. I desperately hoped that whatever I found would give us some advantage over Stieber, some idea of how to keep him from Kavanagh and the weapon.

“
Ach, mein Gott!
” Stieber exclaimed in response to what Slade had said about woolsorter's disease, animalcules, and cultures. “Kavanagh is right. Whoever possesses his knowledge and his cultures will rule the world!” He sounded gratified by the news, rather than horror-stricken as Slade and I had been. “The Tsar will be very pleased.”

The desk drawers contained crumpled scraps of paper that bore Niall Kavanagh's familiar, incomprehensible scribblings. Then I came upon a neat ink drawing of a thick, crooked, elongated cross with one arm shorter than the other. The space inside it was filled with lines, squares, and illegible notations. Arrows and X's marked various spots. Kavanagh had drawn a little picture—a tapered column arising from an oval, with lines flowing down like hair from the top—at the center of the cross. A strange sense of familiarity gripped me. This drawing represented no figment of Kavanagh's fevered imagination, but something real, a place I knew. But where?

A shadow fell across the page. Stieber looked over my shoulder. “What is that?”

“I think it's a map,” I said.

Slade joined me. “A map of what?”

“I don't know.” But I was suddenly certain that Kavanagh had fantasized about demonstrating his weapon long before he'd sprung the idea on us. This map was proof, and a clue to his destination.

Studying my face, Slade read my thoughts. His eyes sharpened. “You do know.” He tapped his finger against the paper. “What is this?”

The shock of meeting Niall Kavanagh, the fatigue from my ordeal in the dungeon, and my terror of Wilhelm Stieber all impaired my mental faculties. “I can't remember!” I said in frustration.

“Think!” Slade pleaded.

I let my vision blur; the map went hazy before my eyes. From deep in my memory came the roar of voices, the tinkle of water falling, and George Smith's voice:
The transept was offset to accommodate the trees that were on the site. The building isn't completely symmetrical.
As I refocused my gaze on the lopsided cross drawn on the paper, I saw the lines turn into corridors and the squares into fantastic displays of art and machinery surrounded by chattering crowds. The column set on an oval became a glass fountain that weighed four tons.

“It's the Crystal Palace!” I cried. “The Great Exhibition. In London. That's where Niall Kavanagh plans to demonstrate his weapon!”

“T
HE GREAT EXHIBITION IS THE IDEAL SITE FOR KAVANAGH'S demonstration,” Slade said.

“Thousands of people attend every day,” I said, “and many prominent citizens.”

“Politicians, courtiers, foreign royalty and dignitaries. Kavanagh couldn't hope to find a bigger or more illustrious audience anywhere else.”

I felt sick as I contemplated the scope of the impending disaster. “They'll scatter to their homes all over England, Europe, and America. They'll spread the disease everywhere.”

“Kavanagh must have visited the Great Exhibition before he left England,” Slade said. “These spots he marked on the floor plan must be the places he's decided to plant his bombs.”

Stieber snatched the map of the Crystal Palace from my hand, folded it, and tucked it in his pocket. “We must hurry to London. Friedrich, escort our prisoners outside.”

Friedrich hesitated. “What if they are wrong? What if the Great Exhibition is not where Dr. Kavanagh is going?”

“It has to be,” Slade said. I nodded, convinced by my intuition as well as by the fact that we'd found no evidence to indicate otherwise.

We hastened out of the château in single file, Slade leading, Friedrich close behind with the pistol aimed at his back, Stieber next, and Wagner guarding me. Outside the gates, a carriage, horses, and driver waited. Stieber said, “Take us to the ferry dock as fast as you can.”

The journey back to England was frightful, the ocean rough. Despite my state of starvation, I ate and drank little because I was seasick. The next morning we reached Portsmouth. As Friedrich and Wagner walked Slade and me down the gangplank, my sickness abated, but I trembled with anxiety. If we found Niall Kavanagh before he staged his demonstration, what further purpose would we serve for Stieber? If we didn't, the Crystal Palace would become the starting point of the worst catastrophe in history. Either way, Slade and I hadn't long to live.

At the railway station, we found a huge, noisy crowd in the waiting area. Trains stood motionless by the platforms. People sat on benches, trunks, bundles, and boxes. Women rocked crying babies and scolded fractious children. Men flocked around the ticket booths; they shouted questions, argued, and threw up their hands in vexation. Stieber elbowed his way toward a ticket booth while his men watched Slade and me. A railway guard stood near us, and Slade called to him, “Excuse me—what's the problem?”

“There's been a wreck on the track,” the guard said. “There won't be any trains moving from here toward London until it's cleared.”

A little boy ran about the room, spinning a toy top. He bumped into Friedrich's leg. Friedrich lost his balance and staggered, away from Slade. Wagner turned from me to catch his comrade. While the two Prussians were distracted, Slade grabbed my hand and we ran.

Friedrich and Wagner yelled, “Stop!”

Slade towed me through the station, pushing people aside. I heard Friedrich and Wagner calling Stieber. I saw Stieber among the crowd, fighting his way toward us. We reached the front door, but a group of travelers entering the station blocked our exit. We turned. Friedrich, Wagner, and Stieber came charging after us as Slade and I raced for the rear door. We burst out the door onto the platform. More people waited there. We wove between them to a train and rushed up its steps. In the empty compartment, Slade flung open the door on the other side. We jumped down to the tracks. As we ran across them, a spike caught my hem. Before Slade and I could tear my skirt free, our pursuers arrived. Friedrich and Wagner pointed their pistols at us. Stieber demanded, “Where do you think you are going?”

He'd deduced what I hadn't realized until now—that Slade had fled for another reason besides escaping Stieber. Slade had a destination in mind, a plan for getting us to London. Stieber had read Slade's thoughts even though I hadn't. Perhaps enemies were even more attuned to one another than lovers were.

Slade hesitated, torn between his reluctance to tip his hand and the knowledge that Stieber wouldn't let us get away again and we could go nowhere without the man. He said reluctantly, “I've a friend who can take us to London. He lives nearby.”

Friedrich and Wagner looked skeptical. Stieber considered: he suspected a trick, but he had a choice between cooling his heels in Portsmouth or gambling on Slade. He said, “Take us there.”