“How?” I set down my spoon, abandoning any pretense of eating.
“You must describe for me the events in your life that shaped you into the woman who has traveled across land and ocean in search of me,” he said. “Where shall we begin?” There was a suspenseful, anticipatory pause. “Tell me about the death of your mother.”
My mother’s death was a wound that still caused pain. My defenses bristled that this arrogant stranger would dare to probe that wound. “I would rather not,” I said coldly.
His shadow stirred behind his screen; I heard the silken rustle of his garments. “Come now, Miss Brontë. Your honorable mother deserves a better tribute than your silence.” His tone was reproachful. “And I wish to hear the story.”
I realized that if Mr. Slade were able to save me, he would have by now. I was alone, and I must obey my host or risk provoking his wrath. And strangely, I felt a need to talk: It was as if he had unlocked some door inside me. I recalled a passage from Isabel White’s book: His voice was like velvet and steel, probing the recesses of my mind. Many questions did He ask me, and many secrets did He elicit.
“She took ill when I was five,” I said, halting and nervous. “She went to her bed and was unable to get up. Papa insisted that my sisters and brother and I play outside because she couldn’t bear our noise.”
Memory showed me Papa’s careworn face, the closed door behind which Mama lay wasting, and Maria, Elizabeth, Emily, Anne, Branwell, and myself walking the moors together. My childhood feelings of woe and confusion now returned “When we went home in the evening, we could hear her moaning. Papa sat and prayed by her all night.” I remembered his prayers rising above the terrible sounds of Mama’s anguish, and experienced anew the fear I had felt. “She grew weaker, until one day Papa called us into her room.”
The image of my mother, so thin, pale, and still, rose up before me. Papa sat beside her while we children stood at the foot of the bed. “We stayed with her until she died.”
As Mama drew her last breath, Branwell slipped his hand into mine. I had forgotten that, and telling the story had restored this lost detail of Mama’s passing. Tears streamed down my cheeks.
“How sad that the untimely death of your mother was not your only childhood misfortune,” said my host. “Did you not also lose your two elder sisters?”
Though his voice exuded sympathy, his words compounded my pain. I could not bear to think of Maria and Elizabeth now, let alone submit to interrogation about them.
“Did you stand by their deathbeds?” my host pressed. “Did you pray for their spirits as they departed this world?”
“I did for Elizabeth,” I said, compelled to answer in spite of myself. From Him I could hide nothing, Isabel had written. “But I didn’t know Maria was dying until it was too late. She and Elizabeth took ill at our boarding school. They were sent home, while I stayed at school. Papa brought me home in time to see Elizabeth again.” The candle flames quivered and reflected in my tears. “But I never got to say goodbye to Maria.”
“Your story causes me sorrow beyond words,” my host said. Indeed, he sounded sincerely grieved. As I wept, his compassion soothed me, and I quite forgot that it was he who had dredged up my worst memories. After my tears subsided, he said, “We shall dwell no longer upon tragedy. Let us next discuss your experiences in the noble profession of teaching. How admirable that you once attempted to found your own school.”
Alas, the school was another painful episode of my life that his spies had uncovered. “I obtained a Continental education so that I could offer lessons in French,” I said. “I sent prospectuses to everyone I knew, but not a single pupil could I get. Haworth is too remote and dreary a location.”
“The school was doomed despite all your effort,” said my host. “It is not your fault that you were unable to assure independent means for your sisters and yourself.”
This I believed; but there persisted a nagging suspicion that my dislike of teaching, and a secret wish to fail, had undone my best efforts. And though my host’s voice conveyed no criticism, I thought I deserved the blame. I felt like a pathetic wretch, despite my literary success, which he seemed unaware of; at the time, even I could almost believe it had never happened.
“A woman in your position can secure her future by marrying,” my host said. “Why did you not?”
He seemed to know my every sensitive spot, and now he had touched the sorest. “I didn’t want to marry either of the two men who wanted to marry me,” I answered, driven to justify myself. “They were as ill suited to me as I to them.”
“Perhaps your unique character has destined you for solitude.”
He spoke this as a compliment, yet with a ring of prophecy that discouraged my lingering hope that I would find love. That Mr. Slade did not come to my rescue seemed incontrovertible proof that he was not meant for me.
“But do not despair, Miss Brontë,” my host said. His voice breathed comfort through his screen towards me. “I appreciate you as other men cannot. You have in me a friend who values the rare qualities that everyone else overlooks. I shall reward you for your many hardships and failures.”
I felt so lost, hopeless, and alone that I could almost believe him to be the only person in the world who cared for me. I dimly realized that he had worked this same spell on Isabel White. He seemed the one person in the world who knew me and accepted me with all my faults. Every piece of myself that I gave Him purchased His favor in some inexplicable way, and I desired His favor above all else. He must have shown her the futility of her life, then drawn her to into his treacherous web.
“Now has come the time to discuss the proposal that I mentioned in my letter,” he said. “I offer you a position in my employ.”
How he worked his spell had been amply demonstrated to me; his motives concerning myself remained obscure. I said, “Why would you wish to employ me? Why go to such lengths to bring me here?”
With sly amusement he replied, “Perhaps you have heard the saying, ‘An intelligent enemy is preferable to a stupid friend.’ However, I believe that an intelligent friend is most desirable.”
He thought he could turn me into a confederate and use my cleverness to his advantage. Then he needn’t fear that I would report him to the authorities. He was clearly trying to master me by demolishing my self-pride.
“What is the position you are offering?” I asked.
“I can only tell you that should you accept it, you will be a rich woman,” he said. “Your every desire will be satisfied. You will live in luxury, assure yourself a better future than you could imagine, and fulfill your destiny.”
He had judged my character based on what his spies had learned about me and what he’d elicited from me tonight. He thought me a woman who was clever yet luckless, who was daring yet had failed at every venture she’d attempted heretofore, and who could thus be bought with a vague promise of financial security and a renewed sense of purpose in life. But he had misjudged me. He was unaware that I was the author of a famous novel, and that I was in league with a spy for the Crown. Mr. Slade had kept his identity as secret as I had mine; the villain had yet to detect that Mr. Slade was after him. He, like so many others, had underestimated me. Now, if I wanted to remain safe, I must play along with him.
“Your kindness is much appreciated,” I stammered, “but—”
Even in my addled condition, I perceived that here was the devil incarnate, offering to purchase my soul. If I accepted, he would force me into immoral acts as he had done Isabel. If ever I disobeyed him, I would meet a similar violent end. The price I would pay for wealth and gratification was my soul’s eternal damnation. Yet an impulse to leap at his offer vied with my distrust and natural caution, so alluring was he. He had shaken my self-confidence, and what better could I expect from life? And although I wanted never again to endure his company or his ruthless examination of me, I feared what he would do if I refused.
“But you need time to consider my proposal,” he said
smoothly. “I do not expect you to decide in such haste. After you return to England, you will place an advertisement in the Times stating that Miss Brontë does or does not accept the position offered her in Belgium. Now the carriage will return you to your hotel. I bid you farewell, and thank you for a most delightful evening. Please put on your blindfold, Miss Brontë.”
When the carriage left me at the hotel, I fled inside—and collided so violently with Mr. Slade that he put his arms around me to steady us. I clung to him as shudders convulsed me.
“Thank God you’re all right,” he exclaimed in relief.
“I was so afraid,” I cried. “Why did you not come?”
“Your driver managed to elude us.”
This was exactly as I had feared. Now I quaked harder at the realization that I had been utterly alone and defenseless.
“I came back to wait for you,” Mr. Slade said. “The police are still out searching.”
Belatedly I realized that we held each other in too intimate an embrace. I stepped away from Mr. Slade. He seated me on a divan and summoned a maid to bring me tea. The cup and saucer were placed in my hands, which trembled so much that the china rattled, but the strong, bitter brew invigorated me.
Mr. Slade sat by my side. “Where did you go?”
“I don’t know,” I said, then explained why. “But it seemed to be a large house in the country.”
“What did the house look like?”
Alas, I had to tell him that the blindfold had prevented me from seeing anything except the dining room, which I described in detail.
“Tell me about the man you met,” Mr. Slade said.
“He would not tell me his name. And I never saw his face. He sat behind a screen. But I know he is a foreigner.” I tried to imitate his accent, but I am hopeless at mimicry. Mr. Slade could no more identify the villain’s land of origin than I could. When Mr. Slade asked what we had talked about, I related the proposal the man had made me.
“Is that all?” Mr. Slade said. “You were gone for quite some time. What else happened?”
“Nothing.” I averted my eyes, too ashamed to confess the man’s strange effect upon me.
“Perhaps the police can find the house,” Mr. Slade said.
The next afternoon, while riding along the country roads where my driver had shaken them off his tail, the police stumbled upon the house in the Forêt de Soignes, a tract of woods southeast of Brussels. They took Mr. Slade and me to the ancient, ruined brick chateau. Its walls were crumbling and mossy, the window-panes shattered, the gardens overgrown by weeds; the turrets and gables had collapsed in places. Mr. Slade and I walked through corridors hung with peeling wallpaper, and vacant chambers stripped of furniture, into the dining room.
“This is the place,” I said.
The candles had burned out. My meal lay cold on the table, and a rat nibbled the food. No one sat behind the screen, but the exotic perfume lingered on the air. As I shivered at disturbing memories, the police inspector joined us.
“This house is the ancestral estate of an impoverished noble family,” he said. “Last year they rented the house to a Mr. Smith from England. They communicate with him only by letter and have never met him. Neither have the local people, for he keeps to himself. We’ve searched the property, but found no trace of the tenants.”
“‘Mr. Smith’ is apparently gone and not to return,” Mr. Slade said, his expression grim.
“We cannot catch him if we don’t know who he is,” said the police inspector.
Mr. Slade met my gaze, and we shared a thought that caused me tremors of dread. “It seems that the only possible means of locating the criminal is for me to accept his offer,” I said.
27
A LAS, MR. SLADE AND I WERE NOT THE ONLY ONES DISAPPOINTED by our misadventure in Brussels. We traveled posthaste to London and there presented ourselves to Mr. Slade’s superiors in the Foreign Office. Again we sat with Lord Unwin and his officials at the long table in the smoky chamber on Downing Street. After Mr. Slade described my rendezvous with the villain and his own thwarted pursuit, Lord Unwin regarded him with contempt.
“You had this man within your reach and allowed him to elude you.” Indignation elevated Lord Unwin’s reedy, affected voice. “Your ineptitude appalls me.”
Yet the sparkle in his pale eyes attested to how much he relished Mr. Slade’s failure. Mr. Slade endured the reprimand with clenched jaws. I knew he excoriated himself no less than did Lord Unwin. I sat silent and mournful to hear Mr. Slade abused.
“The trip was not a complete loss,” Mr. Slade said. “Communication was established between the villain and Miss Brontë. Should she place the advertisement in the Times and accept his offer of employment, he’ll contact her again. That will give me another chance at him.”
“Another chance, perhaps, but not for you,” Lord Unwin said. “We cannot afford the risk that you might blunder again. As of this moment, I am removing you from this inquiry.”
“You can’t!” Mr. Slade was outraged. “Not after I’ve handled the investigation this far, and it has produced what information we have about the villain. Not after one unfortunate mishap!”
“Indeed I can.” Lord Unwin’s cruel, haughty smile deepened. “And it’s not just one mistake you’ve made.” He lifted a paper that lay in front of him and passed it to Mr. Slade. “This letter came for you while you were in Belgium. I took the liberty of reading it.”
As Mr. Slade scanned the letter, a frown darkened his brow. He silently handed the paper to me. On it I read the words written in a hasty black scrawl: “No luck yet identifying the owner of the ship used by Isaiah Fearon to smuggle weapons out of Britain. No further contact with the person responsible.” There was no signature, but I deduced that the author must be the prime minister. My heart sank; our hopes of learning anything from him had been dashed.
“It seems that your other inquiries have also proved fruitless,” Lord Unwin said, clearly gratified at the second blow he’d delivered Mr. Slade. “You will go back to France and resume spying on the secret societies. Other agents will be dispatched to Belgium to trace the villain’s movements from there, and to Haworth to guard Miss Brontë. After she places the advertisement, they will report to me any communication she receives from the villain.”
Mr. Slade and I looked at each other in extreme dismay. I knew he didn’t want to return to the place where he had lost his wife. I also knew how loath he was to quit our mission after we had come this far.
“You’ll not disrupt the pursuit of a killer and traitor because of your personal grievances with me!” Mr. Slade rose so abruptly that his chair crashed to the floor.
Lord Unwin sneered. “You’ll obey my orders, or face punishment for insubordination.”
Belatedly, my mind absorbed what he proposed regarding me. Not only must my family tolerate strangers in our home; I would lose Mr. Slade and our friendship. Such heartache filled me that I blurted, “I won’t have anyone but Mr. Slade!”
The men all turned to stare at me, surprised by my outburst. “My dear Miss Brontë, I’m afraid you have no say in the matter,” Lord Unwin said in a tone of polite disdain.
“If your agents come near my house, I won’t let them in.” I knew I sounded rude, and even childish; but I cared for nothing except to bind Mr. Slade to me. “If I receive a communication from the villain, I’ll not tell them.”
Before Lord Unwin could reply, one of his associates said to him, “A lack of cooperation from Miss Brontë could jeopardize our mission. Under these circumstances, I advise against replacing Mr. Slade.”
Lord Unwin pondered, frowning as he looked from me to Mr. Slade. Then he nodded grudgingly. “Very well.”
My heart rejoiced. Mr. Slade gave me a look that was as quizzical as grateful. Did he guess why I had so vehemently taken his side? I averted my gaze from him.
“Lest you think I’ve conceded because of your protests or Miss Brontë’s threats, I must disabuse you of the notion,”
Lord Unwin said to Mr. Slade. “The search for this criminal has gained a level of urgency such that we cannot afford the slightest disadvantage. Last night there was a fire at the Paradise Club.”
I recognized the name of the den of iniquity where girls from the Charity School were sent to work and where Isabel White had brought the prime minister under the villain’s influence.
“The blaze was extinguished before it did much damage. You’ve had agents watching the club since you discovered its connection with our criminal, and they summoned help,” Lord Unwin continued, sounding reluctant to give Mr. Slade credit for anything. “Most of the patrons escaped without injury, but three women, and the men with them, were found strangled upstairs in private rooms.”
Horror chilled me. Mr. Slade’s gaze darkened with consternation. “The criminal has eliminated more people who had connections to him,” Mr. Slade deduced. “Could the fire have been set to cover up the murders?”
“It seems likely. There was a strong smell of kerosene near the rooms where the victims died.” Lord Unwin added, “Two of them were Jane Fell and Abigail Weston, former pupils at the Reverend Grimshaw’s Charity School.”
They had died because we had not yet caught the killer. Guilt lowered upon me.
“The men came from noble families, who have besieged the government with demands that the killer be brought to justice,” Lord Unwin said. “We now need Miss Brontë’s cooperation more than ever.” He shot me an ireful glance. “Miss Brontë shall place her advertisement tomorrow morning. Immediately thereafter, you and she shall return to Haworth to wait for a response.” Lord Unwin pushed back his chair; his subordinates followed suit. The gaze he bent on Mr. Slade turned colder. “This is your one chance to make amends for your Belgian escapade. Disappoint me again, and you’ll be out of Her Majesty’s service despite your illustrious career.”
It suddenly occurred to me that Emily had saved the day for Mr. Slade and me. Had she not gone to the Charity School and linked the villain to the Club Paradise, Lord Unwin would never have connected the murders to the villain, and nothing would have swayed him in our favor. We owed Emily a great debt indeed. How strange that she who had been least interested in our business should have the responsibility for its continuation.
The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë Page 22
