Lord Unwin peered down his sharp nose at the lines Mr. Slade had marked. “How fantastic! It is beyond belief that Lord John Russell should be involved in these affairs.”
“The matter merits consideration,” Mr. Slade said.
A leery, indecisive look crossed Lord Unwin’s features. “Isabel White was a woman of base morals. She could have lied about the prime minister.”
“Granted,” Mr. Slade said, “but if her message tells the truth, then the prime minister represents another connection to the criminal. We cannot afford to overlook that possibility.”
Lord Unwin propped his chin on his hand and regarded Mr. Slade through hooded eyes. “What do you propose doing?”
“I propose an audience with the prime minister for Miss Brontë and myself, in order that we can tell him what we’ve learned and find out what he knows.”
Incredulity was Lord Unwin’s response. “You would confront the prime minister and accuse him of consorting with a trollop? You would claim to his face that he has fallen under the sway of a man who plans an attack on the kingdom?”
“We wouldn’t accuse him,” Mr. Slade said. “We would discreetly question him, then ask his help in apprehending the criminal.”
“Discretion would not make Isabel White’s story less insulting to Lord John Russell.” Lord Unwin smacked his palms down on the table. “Permission is denied.”
Although Mr. Slade maintained his composure, I sensed his anxiety. “But the prime minister may possess information that could advance our investigation,” he said. “He may even know the criminal by name, or have learned what his scheme is.”
“Maybe; maybe not,” Lord Unwin said with a reedy chuckle. “We’ve only Isabel White’s dubious claim to support your conjecture.”
“It is imperative that Lord John Russell be questioned.” The set of Mr. Slade’s jaw betrayed his anger at Lord Unwin’s opposition.
“Provoking his wrath could bring worse disaster than whatever the criminal intends,” Lord Unwin said waspishly. “If you offend the prime minister, the repercussions will be farreaching.”
I realized that Lord Unwin cared more to safeguard himself than to protect England from further violence, and he was more concerned that the prime minister would punish him for Mr. Slade’s actions than about the success of the investigation.
“We must take the risk.” Leaning towards his superior, Mr. Slade entreated, “Please reconsider.”
Lord Unwin folded his arms resentfully. “My decision is final. Stay away from the prime minister.”
“You can’t close off an entire avenue of inquiry!” Mr. Slade protested, leaping from his seat.
“Indeed I can,” Lord Unwin sneered. “You’d best hope that your amateur spies can elicit the facts we need. I now adjourn this meeting.” Chairs scraped as Lord Unwin and his men rose; he bowed to me. “Good evening, Miss Brontë.”
“Lord Unwin fears to risk his own neck,” Mr. Slade said with bitter ire as we rode away in our carriage. “That a man like him should have charge over the nation’s affairs! God save us all from cowards!”
I confess that I savored the feeling of comradeship that stemmed from our siding together against Lord Unwin. “Why does Lord Unwin dislike you so much?”
“For common reasons as old as history.” Mr. Slade gave a humorless laugh. “Lord Unwin belongs to a proud, noble family that lost its land and wealth. He was forced to go to work instead of enjoying the life of an idle aristocrat. Family connections got him a post in the Foreign Office, and he’s been promoted to a high rank merely because of his name. I, on the other hand, am an upstart son of a nobody. My achievements rankle Lord Unwin because they, not birthright, have won me a place in the world. He would like to see me fail, disgrace myself, and prove his superiority.” Mr. Slade mused, “Lord Unwin’s kind are fast losing their domination over England, and he has chosen to punish me for that.”
How well I understood. While a governess, I had been abused by rich employers who resented my education, as if I had insulted them by possessing what they lacked. My sense of camaraderie with Mr. Slade increased. “What shall we do?”
Mr. Slade’s teeth flashed white in a brief, cunning smile. He said, “I have ways to circumvent Lord Unwin’s orders.”
My hopes buoyed me yet again, with their sudden resurgence.
19
DURING THE NEXT FEW DAYS, MR. SLADE LEFT HIS SISTER’S HOUSE early every morning, before I awakened, to pursue inquiries whose nature he did not elucidate to me. In his absence he stationed two Foreign Office agents in the foyer to guard me. I kept to my room, where I endeavored to finish writing Shirley, waited for news from Mr. Slade, and grew ever more anxious. At night I lay awake and heard him come home very late. Our previous sense of partnership had vanished, to my vexation and disappointment.
My solitary wait was enlivened by letters from Anne and Emily. Here I reproduce Anne’s:
My dear Charlotte,
I am glad to report that I arrived safely in Birmingham and am now ensconced as governess at the Lock house. My role as secret observer is one for which I am much less qualified, and I hope I shall perform creditably.
The family consists of Mrs. Caroline Lock, who is the widow of Joseph Lock, her two sons—Harry and Matthew, aged seven and six—and Mr. Henry Lock, her brother-in-law. Mrs. Lock is a pale, haggard wraith. Her blue eyes are sunken and the effort of conversation seems to pain her. When we met, I caught the odor of spirits on her person. She spends all her time in her chamber, tended by her maid, who carries in trays of food and glasses of wine. The trays come out barely touched, the glasses empty.
My two pupils are both fair, sturdy, handsome lads; but oh, how obstreperous Master Harry is! During our first lesson he chattered constantly. When I told him to be quiet, he hurled his books out the window. Young Matthew never speaks at all, and his eyes are solemn. He wets his bed, as if he were a much younger child. But I suspect that he is more sad then feebleminded, and Harry more confused than evil. Their father’s death seems to haunt the entire household, and not the least of all Mr. Henry Lock.
Mr. Lock is a fair, slender man with a perpetually worried face. He manages the family gunworks and spends long days there. While the nursemaid gives the boys their supper, Henry Lock and I dine alone together (Mrs. Lock never joins us). We sit at opposite ends of the table in the elegant candlelit dining room. He always greets me politely, then retreats into his private thoughts. We nibble at the food, for which neither of us has much appetite; then he excuses himself and withdraws to the study on the top floor. I know he works very late, because the study is directly above my room, and I can hear him moving about.
A more troubled family I have seldom seen. The Locks’ melancholy might have depleted my own spirits, had I not a purpose to accomplish. With that purpose in mind, I ventured to the kitchen on the afternoon of my second day, on the pretext of begging some water to drink. The cook and the scullery maid were quite willing to gossip about Mrs. Lock’s grief and about her husband’s suicide. But before I could hear more than I already knew, the housekeeper came into the kitchen and scolded us for idle talk.
My subsequent attempts to obtain information from the servants met with evasion. I began to fear I would never learn why Mr. Lock took his own life, nor what was his connection to the murder of Isabel White. I doubted that I would ever glimpse her “master” or anyone associated with him—until tonight.
The hall clock chiming midnight roused me from a fitful doze. Then came a knock at the front door. As I wondered who called so late, I heard the door open, and Henry Lock say, his voice shrill with alarm, “What are you doing here?”
A man replied in menacing words that I could not discern. I crept from my room onto the landing and peered over the banister. Henry Lock stood at the open door. Beyond the threshold stood a man with a beaked nose, jutting chin, and ominous expression.
“I won’t,” Henry Lock said. “We’ve done enough for you. Go away and leave me alone!�
��
The man seized him by the collar. Henry Lock lurched and cried out, his hands splayed. The visitor murmured threats that were indistinguishable to me, yet struck fear into my heart.
“No!” I heard Henry Lock say; then: “Yes! Whatever you wish. Just please don’t—”
The visitor released him. He staggered backward. There was a last mutter from the visitor, whose shadowy figure withdrew. Henry Lock slammed the door, secured the bolt, and sagged against the wall, gasping. What had transpired between him and his caller? Does my wishful imagination convince me that the caller is an emissary of Isabel White’s evil master? I feel certain that dire peril threatens this house. I shall wait and watch for the opportunity to solve the mystery.
I hope you and Emily are well, and that your own inquiries are progressing.
With love,
Anne
Her letter engendered in me both fear and, at the same time, the hope that Anne had found a path that would lead to the truth. I know how much she craved independence and wanted to prove her worth, but how I regretted allowing her to go to Birmingham! Yet my anxiety concerning Anne was far less than that I felt for Emily.
Emily was never a fulsome correspondent; her letter was brief. She merely said that she had arrived at the Charity School and been taken in as a teacher. I didn’t discover what happened during her time there until after her death, when I read the following passages in her journal:
The Journal of Emily Brontë
Skipton, 10 August 1848.
The train carried me northwest, like a coffin speeding towards doom. The passengers in the carriage numbered more strangers than I had seen in years. With every passing mile, my heart yearned more desperately for home.
A thunderstorm coincided with my arrival at the Charity School, which was as forbidding as a ruined castle. I stood, wet and shivering, for some time at the door, my heart pounding while I fought an urge to flee. At worst there were evil criminals inside; at best, strangers to face. I summoned all my courage and knocked. When a maid answered, I forced myself to say, “I am in need of work. Might you need a teacher?”
My appearance must have convinced her that I was the correct sort of destitute gentlewoman, for she admitted me into the building. “Wait here. I’ll fetch the mistress.”
The blood coursing wildly through me blurred my vision of the place in which I found myself. I heard the voices of teachers lecturing and students reciting lessons. The frightening cacophony shrank my soul into a kernel of terror as a small, buxom, brassy-haired woman approached me.
The woman, Mrs. Grimshaw, introduced herself and scrutinized me with her sharp hazel eyes. Her figure was tightly corseted into a green paisley frock. The unnatural shade of her hair suggested henna dye. By her accent, she was clearly of common birth, pretending to a higher social station. “And you are?”
“Miss Emily Smith,” I whispered, remembering to give my false surname.
“What brings you ’ere?”
I stammered out my preconceived tale of having been a teacher at a distant school that had closed, leaving me with nowhere to go, as I had neither family nor friends. I thought Mrs. Grimshaw would surely notice that I lied, so unconvincing did I sound to myself. But she nodded and said, “What subjects did you teach?”
“Music,” I said.
She led me into a room with a piano. “Let me ’ear you play,” she ordered.
As I sat at the instrument, I felt all my terror of making a show of myself. For one panic-stricken moment, my mind could not recall a single bar of music. But somehow my hands played a hymn.
Either Mrs. Grimshaw didn’t notice my mistakes, or she cared not about them, for when I finished, she said, “You can begin giving lessons tomorrow.”
That I had gained a position at the school seemed more a grief than a triumph. A teacher named Miss Rathburn took me into the teachers’ residence, a low stone building divided into cells. Miss Rathburn is about forty years of age, willowy and tall; she has a queer habit of fondling her large bosom.
“You’ll share this room with me,” she said.
She then told me the hours for lessons, meals, prayer, and rest, but I scarcely listened. The tiny room appalled me; I could not bear to live in such close proximity with a stranger.
“Teachers have free run of the school,” Miss Rathburn said. “The only places off limits to everyone are the Grimshaws’ quarters and the old windmill.”
Then we went to supper. Some seventy girls occupied tables in the refectory, but they could have been hundreds, so loud were their shrill voices. I sat with the Reverend and Mrs. Grimshaw and the four other teachers. After the Reverend Grimshaw led a prayer, his wife introduced me to the school.
“Girls, this is Miss Smith, your new music teacher,” she said.
As I rose and all eyes fixed upon me, I almost fainted from embarrassment. When the meal commenced, every bite nauseated me. The teachers attempted to engage me in conversation, and I made brief, awkward replies. The girls glanced in my direction, whispering and giggling: Already I was an object of mockery, as I had been at other schools. At bedtime I lay awake while my chamber mate slept. Her breath filled the room; I heard the other teachers stirring in adjacent chambers. How I wept for the parsonage and the moors! In my sad state, how could I accomplish here what I had sworn to do?
At last I fell into exhausted slumber. I dreamed I was suffocating. I awoke to find myself screaming and thrashing and the other teachers gathered around me, staring in fright. They now treat me with the wary reserve accorded to people of questionable sanity, but my pupils display no such caution.
The leaders of the school are Abigail Weston and Jane Fell, both handsome, insolent girls of sixteen. They expend no effort at learning the piano, and when I correct their mistakes, they laugh at me. The other girls follow their example, but for one Frances Cullen. She is a plain, shy little thing, thirteen years old, the object of much teasing. With her I feel a sad kinship.
On my second evening at the school I craved solitude so much that I thought I would die of the need. I waited until everyone else was asleep, then slipped outside. It was a hot, windless night. A swollen moon spread a hazy glow over the school. Deep shadows cloaked the garden. Crickets chirped, and the perfume from flowers hung heavy in the air. I inhaled invigorating breaths of freedom as my beleaguered soul drew comfort from nature . . .
. . . until the Reverend Grimshaw emerged from his quarters. I hid behind an oak tree. He hurried past me and disappeared between the birches at the end of the garden. Jane Fell came out of the house and followed Grimshaw. The round stone tower of the windmill rose beyond the birches. Jane and the Reverend Grimshaw must have gone there, but what were they doing in that forbidden place? I wondered how Jane could roam about when all the other girls were locked in their rooms, and what business she had with the Reverend Grimshaw.
Perhaps their business concerned the matter I had come to investigate. I decided I must see what went on in the windmill, but then I heard the clatter of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels, nearing the school. Suddenly Mrs. Grimshaw appeared in the courtyard. Her sharp eyes glinted in the moonlight, surveying the school, as though in search of trespassers. Fearing she would discover me, I crept back to my bed, certain there is something amiss here.
The next day Jane Fell was vanished from the school. When I asked where she had gone, Miss Rathburn said she’d taken ill in the night and her parents had fetched her home. Yet I had seen her looking in perfect health, and I could not help but wonder if whatever happened to Jane has any connection to the life or death of Isabel White. And perhaps I shall soon find out.
That afternoon, Mrs. Grimshaw called me into her office. She asked me, “Does your work suit you?”
I replied that it did, and I thanked her for her charity.
Mrs. Grimshaw preened. “Many women ’ave reason to thank us,” she said. “An’ some expresses their gratitude with donations.” She showed me an envelope that contained ten pounds
. “We’ve just got this from a former pupil.”
She carelessly dropped the envelope on her desk, then bustled from the room, leaving me behind. I had the peculiar feeling that she wanted to see if I would take advantage of the opportunity to steal the money. At first I had no wish to steal, and no doubt that I must prove my good character or be expelled. But my thinking suddenly altered. Under ordinary circumstances I should leave the money where it was and show my virtue; yet this was not an ordinary school, and I was no ordinary teacher. Divining that Mrs. Grimshaw wanted something other than virtue from me, I slipped the envelope into my pocket.
Fearful anticipation gnawed at me all day. Had I passed her test? What was to come? Then, after evening prayers, Mrs. Grimshaw appeared at my side. “May I ’ave a word with you, Miss Smith?”
We went again to her office, she severe, I cowed and cringing. “This afternoon I showed you some money,” Mrs. Grimshaw said. “It was there when I left the room.” She pointed at the desk. “Do you see it?”
“No, ma’am,” I whispered, quaking as would any thief who feared punishment. My fear was real; I didn’t need to pretend.
“Nor do I,” Mrs. Grimshaw said. Her eyes gleamed, and a cruel smile curved her moist, full lips. “Whatever could ’ave become of the ten pounds?”
“I don’t know,” I said, though guilt at the lie undermined my show of innocence.
“Oh, but I think you do know.” Mrs. Grimshaw prowled around me, her footsteps trapping me in a circle. “I left you alone in this room with the money. Now it’s missing. An’ you’re the only person besides me that’s been ’ere all day.” She halted like a cat ready to pounce. “Empty your pockets,” she ordered.
Quailing from the menace in her eyes, I obeyed. Out came the envelope of money.
“Aha!” Mrs. Grimshaw exclaimed, snatching it from my hand. “Wretched thief! After we’ve fed an’ sheltered you and given you employment, you betray our trust!” Righteous indignation swelled her countenance; yet I perceived that my guilt gratified her. “I should throw you out!”
The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë Page 16
