Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (8 page)

“That'll be a tuppence,” she said. George paid. “You've got five minutes.”

We stepped into the room. The landlady hovered inside the door, to make sure we didn't steal anything. The room was a tiny cell, its window so begrimed that little light came through, furnished with an iron bed and a washbasin on a stand. A travel-worn black valise stood in a corner. I breathed a scent that brought forth a flood of memories.

Scent is a time machine that can instantly transport one to places and people long lost. My surroundings faded. I lay in a forest with Slade, his arms around me, our mouths locked in a kiss. It was Slade's scent—masculine, faintly salty with sweat, but fresh despite the squalid conditions in which he apparently now lived. The sensations of nostalgia and yearning were so powerful that tears sprang to my eyes.

“There's not much here.” George Smith's voice snapped me back to the present.

He was examining clothes strewn upon the unmade bed. I surreptitiously wiped my eyes before I joined him. The clothes were such as a poor European immigrant might own—worn trousers, shirt, undergarments, coat, a pair of socks. I didn't think Slade would have left his possessions in such disorder. He had once stayed at my home for a while, and he'd been a tidy, self-contained guest.

George opened the valise. “This is empty.”

I eyed the landlady. She must have put all of Slade's things out, the better for curiosity seekers to gawk at. I wanted to snatch up the shirt, bury my face in it, and inhale the vestiges of Slade's presence, but I didn't want to betray my feelings. The washstand held a towel, comb, soap, cup, and shaving brush. I saw a black hair tangled in the comb. My hand made an involuntary movement toward it, but the landlady snapped, “Don't touch.” I snatched my hand back. She added, “The police took away his razor. They figured he used it on those women.”

I couldn't control the shudder that passed through me. George said, “Even if he isn't the killer, let us hope that your friend John Slade is not the same man as Josef Typinski. That he would use an alias is extremely shady.”

However, I could think of a legitimate reason why Slade would pose as an immigrant Pole. Maybe he was on a secret assignment for the Foreign Office, the branch of the British government that employed him. Maybe Slade hadn't contacted me because he could-n't risk breaking his disguise. But I couldn't tell this to George. Not only was I sworn to secrecy; he would never believe me.

“Time's up,” the landlady said.

“Not yet!” I couldn't bear to leave without the answers to my questions, and here I felt close to Slade. I cast a frantic gaze around the room and saw, under one leg of the washstand, a folded piece of paper. It must have been put there to prevent the washstand from rocking. I bent and picked up the paper. The landlady was instantly at my side.

“What's that?” she said.

I unfolded the paper. It was a handbill printed on cheap paper, which read, “The Royal Pavilion Theater Presents Katerina the Great in
The Wildwood Affair
.” A crude illustration showed a dark-haired woman with haunted eyes.

“Give me that.” The landlady snatched the handbill from me. She laid it on the bed with the clothing, for the next gawkers to view.

George shot me a look that said he knew what I was thinking. “No, Charlotte. I would do just about anything for you, but I am not taking you to see
The Wildwood Affair
.”

“That's quite all right,” I said. “You needn't.”

I had a better idea.

T
HAT EVENING, IN MY ROOM AT THE SMITHS' HOUSE, I PUT ON my best gown. My hands trembled as I smoothed the folds of gray satin that glowed with an emerald sheen. I supposed that other women all over London were preparing for a night out, but I felt none of the frivolous gaiety that they must have felt. I donned the gown as if it were armor for a battle.

I arranged my hair in a simple knot. The face in the mirror was as plain as ever. Once my plainness had caused me much grief, but these days I liked my visage better: it belonged to Currer Bell, the author who'd fulfilled my childhood dreams. And the dress brought back happy memories of the first time I'd worn it, three years ago, the first and only time John Slade and I had danced together. His admiration had made me feel beautiful. I saw my eyes shine with tears. Had I lost him forever? Or would I find him tonight?

I went downstairs and met Mr. Thackeray and two ladies, one buxom and willowy and fair, the other slight and dark, both dressed in silk gowns and glittering gems. “Good evening, Jane—er, Miss Brontë,” said Mr. Thackeray. “Please allow me to present two dear friends of mine.” He introduced the slight, dark lady. “This is Mrs. Crowe, your fellow authoress.”

Mrs. Crowe had huge, intense, unblinking eyes. She might have been pretty were she not so thin. “It's a privilege to meet you,” she said in a hushed voice. “I so admire your work. Perhaps you've heard of mine?”

“Yes.” I understood that she wrote about mediums, séances, and the spirits on the Other Side. I thought it utter claptrap, but I said, “I look forward to reading your books.”

“And this is Mrs. Brookfield,” Mr. Thackeray said.

Smiling, conspiratorial glances passed between him and the fair woman, a rich society hostess. Although not young, she was beautiful. She was also Mr. Thackeray's paramour. “I'm glad to make your acquaintance,” she said in a friendly fashion. I took an immediate dislike to her. Mr. Thackeray was himself a married man, and I could not condone adultery.

“You look splendid tonight,” Mr. Thackeray said to me with such sincere admiration that I forgave him his sins. “Are you ready for our expedition to the theater?”

Here I must describe other events that occurred outside my view. The details, based on facts I later learned, are as accurate as I can make them. Reader, you will see that when I went to the theater that night with Mr. Thackeray and his friends, I was in grave danger.

As our carriage rattled down the road, the street seemed deserted; the pools of light beneath the lamps were empty. A warm hush enveloped Hyde Park Gardens. I didn't notice the figure standing in the shadow under a tree near the house I'd just left. It was the foreigner I had seen in Bedlam, the Tsar's Prussian conspirator. He had followed George and me from the asylum to Whitechapel, and from Whitechapel to the Smith house. Now he watched the house until a maid stepped out the front door, on her way home for the night.

“Excuse me,” he said.

She gasped and paused. “Lord, you gave me a scare.”

“Who is the master of this house?”

“Mr. George Smith,” the maid blurted.

“Who was the lady that left in the carriage?”

“Which lady?” The maid stepped back from him, wary of strangers, sensing that he was more dangerous than most.

“The small, plain one.”

“None of your business, I'm sure.” Offended by his impertinence, she was haughty as well as frightened.

He took a sovereign from his pocket and offered it to her. Her eyes bulged with greed. She accepted the coin. “The lady's Charlotte Brontë, also known as Currer Bell. The famous authoress.”

“Does she reside in the house?”

“No. She's just visiting.”

“Where does she reside?”

“Haworth. In Yorkshire.” The maid slid a nervous glance toward the house. “I can't talk anymore. The mistress doesn't like us to gossip.” She hurried away.

The Prussian walked around the corner, to a waiting carriage. He climbed in and sat opposite the two men already inside. Their names were Friedrich and Wagner. They sat rigidly upright, foreign soldiers in British civilian garb. Friedrich was a fine specimen of strong manhood; Wagner his lanky, puffy-faced, distorted reflection.

“Did you find out what you wanted to know, sir?” Friedrich asked.

“Yes.” The Prussian relayed the intelligence gleaned from the maid.

Wagner said, “Sir, is this Charlotte Brontë a problem?”

“Obviously. She witnessed our operation in Bedlam. If she tells the police what she saw, they may investigate because she is a woman of position. And we do not want the police snooping in our business.”

Wagner frowned. “She could make trouble for us in Bedlam.”

“Also in more important spheres,” the Prussian said grimly. “She is acquainted with John Slade. Maybe they spoke before we got to him. Maybe he told her something.”

“What should we do, sir?” Friedrich asked.

“For now we'll watch her,” the Prussian said. “If she appears to know too much—” He removed from his pocket a long, slender knife and slid it out of its leather sheath. The sharp blade reflected his pale eyes, which were devoid of mercy. “We follow standard procedure.”

As we rode through Hyde Park Gardens, Mr. Thackeray said, “Which play have you chosen for our enjoyment, Miss Brontë?”

“
The Wildwood Affair
,” I said.

“I've not heard of that one,” Mrs. Brookfield said.

“At which theater is it playing?” Mrs. Crowe asked.

“The Royal Pavilion,” I said.

Mrs. Brookfield said, “Where, pray tell, is that?”

“In Whitechapel.” I could tell that neither Mrs. Brookfield nor Mrs. Crowe wanted to attend a play not endorsed by the critics, in a poor part of town. I confess that I was a little amused by their discomfiture. They turned entreatingly to Mr. Thackeray.

Mr. Thackeray said, “I told Miss Brontë that she could choose the play, and a man must keep his promises.”

The ladies conceded with good grace. They chatted politely with me until we reached Whitechapel. The bright Saturday afternoon bustle was gone. Harlots posed under the flickering gas lamps along the high street and called to passing men. Drunkards filled gin palaces, from which spilled rowdy laughter and discordant music. The crowds were still thick around the stalls, but new attractions had sprung up, like plants that only bloom at night. Curtained enclosures housed a freak show, whose signs advertised hairy men and hairless dogs, gorillas and giants, Aztecs and bearded women. Excitement and danger laced the foul, smoky air. The back streets were dark, fearsome tunnels.

It wasn't hard to believe that a murderer had stabbed and mutilated his victims there.

Mrs. Brookfield murmured, “My heavens.” Mrs. Crowe's huge eyes grew huger with fright. Even Mr. Thackeray looked uncertain. The carriage stopped outside the Royal Pavilion Theater. With its Grecian columns and dingy white plaster façade, it resembled a ruined classical temple. The people who poured in through the door hailed from the lower classes, the men in laborers' clothes, the women in cheap finery. When we alit from the carriage, a crowd gathered to watch. We were ridiculously overdressed. Boys jeered and whistled at us. We walked toward the theater, surrounded by coarse, staring faces, jostled by the other patrons. Mr. Thackeray nodded, smiled, and bowed as if making an appearance at Buckingham Palace. Mrs. Brookfield and Mrs. Crowe cringed. I searched the crowd for Slade, but in vain.