The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte tsaocb-1

by Laura Joh Rowland

  London engulfed us in its overwhelming turmoil. Horse-drawn carriages manned by red-coated coachmen rattled through the crammed streets. Costermongers hawked fruits and vegetables; female peddlers sold matches and needles. Crude laborers trudged along every thoroughfare; ragged children armed with brooms begged to sweep our path clean for a penny. We walked rapidly, clutching our pocketbooks, fearful of thieves. Sharp London accents colored the voices around us. And everywhere was filth even worse than I remembered. We sidestepped garbage and horse droppings upon which flies swarmed; we forded streams of black, malodorous water in open gutters. A foul stench of decay emanated from the nearby Thames River. The air tasted of cholera.

  Breathless and perspiring in the heat, our clothes grimy with dust, we at last reached Cornhill, a broad avenue in London’s financial district. Around us towered the Royal Exchange, the Bank of England, and other examples of classical architecture. London is the world’s richest city, and we were in its mercantile heart. Foreign languages buzzed through the district. Wealthy traders congregated in coffeehouses and jostled humble black-coated clerks.

  Number 65 Cornhill turned out to be a large bookseller’s shop in an imposing row of four-story buildings. Above its display windows, the legend “Smith, Elder, amp; Company” was engraved in stone. I swallowed hard, looked at Anne, and said, “The sooner done, the better.”

  We entered the shop and found inside a spacious room with bookshelves lining the walls. Customers browsed while lads bustled about wrapping books in paper and string, hauling stacks in and out, calling remarks to one another. Everyone had an intimidating air of sophistication. After some hesitancy, Anne and I crept up to the counter.

  “May I help you?” said a clerk.

  He was a distinguished-looking gentleman with a brisk manner, and my nerve almost failed me. I cleared my throat and said, “May I see Mr. Smith?”

  “Is Mr. Smith expecting you?”

  “No,” I said. “But it’s quite important.”

  “Very well,” said the clerk. “Please wait a moment.”

  He went through a door at the rear of the shop. Anne and I huddled together. I regretted that we, in our simple country frocks, looked not at all like famous authors. I wished I resembled Isabel White, and I momentarily wondered what had become of her. Just as I experienced an overwhelming impulse to run, the clerk returned, followed by a tall man.

  “Did you wish to see me, ma’am?” the man said in a well bred, dubious tone.

  Stricken by terror, I peered up at him through my spectacles. He was lithe and clean shaven with smooth brown hair and sideburns; he wore a dark grey summer coat, pale trousers, a crisp white shirt, and blue silk stock. “Is it Mr. Smith?” I quavered.

  “It is.” A touch of impatience colored his polite manner.

  George Smith was younger than I had expected-not above twenty-five years of age-and quite handsome. He had dark, shrewd eyes, regular features, a dimple in his strong chin, and a fair complexion. I grew all the more flustered because I am uncomfortable in the presence of attractive men. That they care not for me was a painful lesson learned early in life. I fumbled in my handbag, took out the letter that had brought me to London, and handed it to Mr. Smith. He examined it, and I saw confusion on his face.

  “Where did you get this?” he said, regarding Anne and me with sharp suspicion.

  “You sent it to me,” I blurted, then lowered my voice so that no one else in the shop would hear. “I am Currer Bell.”

  George Smith’s jaw dropped. “You?” he exclaimed in amazement. “You are-”

  “Charlotte Bronte,” I said, suppressing a wild urge to laugh. “And this is my sister Anne Bronte, who writes under the name Acton Bell. We’ve come so that you might have ocular proof that there are at least two of us.”

  My forthrightness must have convinced Mr. Smith, because an incredulous smile lit up his face. “How wonderful to meet you at last!” He shook hands with me, then Anne. “This is an honor.”

  If he was disappointed by the sight of the notorious Bells in the flesh, it did not show. Light-headed with relief, I heard myself and Anne making polite replies. Mr. Smith escorted us to a small room. He entreated us to sit in chairs, while he perched on a desk cluttered with books, papers, pens, and inkwells. “You must have traveled here immediately upon receiving my letter,” he said, still beaming with excitement.

  “We-we left Haworth that very day and just arrived in London this morning.” Blushing violently, almost too agitated to speak, I said, “We apologize for coming uninvited and without warning, but we wished you to know at the earliest possible time that Anne is the author of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall and that I have not breached my contract with you.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, now that you both are here, the misunderstanding is resolved.” Mr. Smith added with sincere entreaty, “Please forgive me for doubting you, and let me express how splendid it is to make the acquaintance of a truly great author.”

  Wonderful praise, this-more recognition than I could have hoped for! Dazzled, I murmured, “Sir, you are too generous-I do thank you-yes, of course you’re forgiven-”

  “Tell me, Miss Bronte,” said Mr. Smith. “Is Ellis Bell another of your sisters?”

  Anne said in a nervous, strident tone, “Mr. Bell does not wish his identity revealed.”

  Mr. Smith’s eyebrows rose, and I feared that Anne had offended him. However, he proved himself capable of tact and sympathy, for he shrugged, smiled, and said, “Perhaps it’s best that some mystery remains. How long are you in town?”

  “I thought we might stay until Tuesday,” I replied.

  “Splendid! I shall host a dinner at my house to introduce Currer and Acton Bell to literary society!”

  I stared dumbstruck at him. Anne turned to me, face blanched, eyes terror-stricken.

  George Smith rushed on, happily oblivious to our reaction. “Oh, how I look forward to settling the question of whether Currer Bell is a man or a woman!”

  That question had been the subject of hot debate in the press. While my publisher named prospective guests, I had a dizzying sense of events carrying me further than I had intended to go. I yearned to meet distinguished persons I had admired from afar, but I was also terrified at the thought of exposure.

  “Sir,” I said, “you mustn’t trouble yourself on our account, or present us in public. Anne and I are as resolved as ever to remain incognito-we confessed ourselves to you only in order to do away with the inconveniences that have arisen from the mystery of our identities.”

  Enthusiasm flushed Mr. Smith’s face. “But this is a splendid opportunity for Currer Bell to increase her fame and astound the literary world.” His winning smile flashed.

  I saw Anne’s pleading gaze fixed on me, and I knew I must resist Mr. Smith for the sake of Emily, whose privacy would be lost if the authors Bell became connected with the Brontes of Haworth. “I’m sorry that I must disappoint you,” I said. “To the rest of the world we must remain the unseen Currer and Acton Bell.”

  George Smith looked chastened but said, “Of course I shall respect your wishes. I imagine this is all a bit overwhelming for you both, and you must be tired from traveling. Surely you would like a rest.”

  I thanked him for his solicitude. Too much excitement and too little sleep had rendered me faint and weak, and my head had begun to ache.

  “You must come and stay at my house, with my family,” Mr. Smith said.

  Oh, the dismaying prospect of living on intimate terms with strangers! While working as a governess or even visiting friends, I had suffered much embarrassment when people had closer observation of me than I wished. The human body is ever a potential source of disgust, and I lived in terror of offending. “We mustn’t impose on you, and besides, we’ve already engaged lodgings at the Chapter Coffee House.”

  “Well, at least allow me to bring my sisters to call on you.” Mr. Smith went on to suggest places he might take Anne and me during our stay.

  His wo
rds blurred together in my aching head. Flattered by his attention, yet feeling fainter by the moment, I agreed to everything he suggested. At last he ushered us outside, summoned a hackney coach, helped Anne and me climb inside, and paid the driver. As we rode away, he called, “I look forward to seeing you tonight!”

  The coach left us at the entrance to Paternoster Row, a narrow, flagged street. Paternoster Row had once contained shops where pilgrims and clergymen could buy rosaries and drink coffee, but now the street harbored the dingy warehouses and offices of printers, binders, and stationers. Above the roofs, the sun illuminated the vast dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, but the street lay in shadow. As Anne and I walked along the hot, deserted lane, our footsteps sounded loud against the muted roar of the city outside. The distant bellows of livestock emanated from the slaughterhouses at Newgate Street, and I could smell the odor of rotting flesh.

  “I am very glad that events transpired as happily as they did,” I said, “but oh, so glad they are past!”

  “I, too, am glad,” Anne said.

  “Thank you for coming with me,” I said belatedly, again regretting how I’d coerced Anne. Our felicitous reception at Smith, Elder amp; Company mattered much less to her than to me, and the event had been an unpleasant ordeal for her. “Tonight’s visit from Mr. Smith and his family should be far less unsettling than what we’ve already endured; and fortunately, we have time to refresh ourselves, because my head aches as if hammers are beating inside my skull.”

  We were on the verge of entering the Chapter Coffee House, an ancient inn, when a shriek rang out. “What was that?” I said, startled.

  More screams followed, alternating with cries of “Help! Help!”

  “Someone is in trouble,” I said. I started down the row, seeking to discern the source of the cries.

  “No, dear Charlotte!” Anne held me back. “It’s too dangerous. You don’t know what may happen.”

  However, I was a parson’s eldest daughter, accustomed to serving when someone was in need. “Go inside the Chapter Coffee House and fetch help,” I ordered Anne, ere I hurried away.

  The cries, now incoherent and desperate, issued from an alley between two warehouses. Halting at its entrance, I peered inside. There, in the dimness that exuded a loathsome stench of sewers, two figures struggled. Alarmed, I squinted at them, but they appeared mere shadows to me. One was a woman clad in a bonnet and full skirt; the other, a man in a brimmed hat. The man slammed the woman against a wall, muttering to her in low, angry tones. Her hands beat at him, and he grappled with her. She sobbed.

  “Let her go!” I cried.

  The man thrust himself hard against the woman. A scream of agony burst from her; then she was silent. He glanced towards me, and I glimpsed his face, pale and indistinct above his dark garments. He sprang away from the woman. As she crumpled to the ground, he dashed to the alley’s opposite end, where he vanished into a blur of sunshine.

  I hurried into the alley. The brick walls gave off a dank coolness; my shoes splashed in filthy puddles between the rough cobblestones. I bent over the woman. “Are you all right, madam?” I said, breathless from excitement and fear.

  She lay immobile. Blood in great, wet, crimson quantity stained the bodice of her grey frock, and a wooden-handled knife protruded from between her ribs. Gasping, I recoiled; I clasped my hand over my mouth and retched. My heart’s thudding reverberated inside my aching head as my horrified gaze traveled to the woman’s face. Framed by a bonnet and tousled blond hair, it was white as paper, the mouth open, the eyes staring sightlessly. The chill mask of death had fixed its terrified expression. Fresh shock assailed me as I recognized those features.

  The dead woman was Isabel White.

  5

  I stumbled out of the alley and into Anne’s embrace. She had brought servants from the Chapter Coffee House, and they fetched a constable, who told me to wait while he examined the corpse of Isabel White. The activity drew a noisy crowd that filled Paternoster Row, and they gawked at me as I sat outside the alley upon a chair someone had brought. Waves of nausea, trembling, and faintness besieged me. I had never seen anyone murdered, and the experience inflicted upon me a severe distress. Anne stood beside me, offering silent comfort. I closed my eyes, yet could not expunge from my memory the images of the blood, the knife, and worst of all, Isabel White’s lifeless stare. Desperately fighting the urge to vomit, I wished myself home in the peaceful isolation of Haworth.

  The constable emerged from the alley and stood before me. Clad in indigo trousers and a matching coat with shiny buttons down the front, he had sharp blue eyes in a face that reminded me of a fox. Rusty sideburns protruded from beneath his tall black hat.

  “I’m Police Constable Dixon,” he said.

  I’d had but one previous experience with the law, when a sheriff’s officer had come to the parsonage to order that Branwell either pay his debts or go to prison. I feared the power of the law, and the Metropolitan Police seemed as menacing a breed as the London thieves, swindlers, and cutthroats they were sworn to apprehend.

  “Your name and place of residence, please?” Constable Dixon penciled the information I gave him into a notebook. “Visitin’ town, then, Miss Bronte? A pity you should witness a crime.” His manner was sympathetic but businesslike. “Now I know as this’s been a terrible shock for you, but we need your help catchin’ the individual what killed that poor woman. Tell me everything as happened.”

  I nervously eyed the truncheon he wore at his waist. The crowd listened while I described what I’d seen, and the constable recorded it. He said, “Did you get a look at the perpetrator, miss?”

  Reliving the incident, I trembled as I shook my head. “The alley was dim, and I am nearsighted. But he wore dark clothes and a dark hat.” I suggested timidly, “Shouldn’t someone go looking for him?”

  “Well, now, miss, London’s a big city, and there’s plenty of men what fit that general description,” the constable said. “Can you recall anything else about ’im?”

  I exerted my memory, in vain. “No, sir. But I did know the murdered woman.” Interest stirred the crowd. “Her name was Isabel White.”

  “A friend o’ yours, then?” Constable Dixon said, writing.

  “Not exactly,” I said, although my sense of comradeship with Isabel made me feel that I had lost a friend. Tears and sour bile rose in my throat, and I gulped them down. “My sister and I rode on a train to London with her.” I described Isabel’s strange behavior, adding, “Perhaps the person she feared followed her here, then killed her.”

  “And would you know who that person might be?”

  “Miss White didn’t say.”

  “This is an interestin’ theory, miss,” Constable Dixon said, his polite tone laced with condescension. “But likely this was a robbery, and a thief killed the lady because she resisted when ’e tried to take ’er pocketbook. ’E must have got it anyway-there wasn’t nothin’ on ’er.”

  “But I cannot believe he was a common thief,” I protested. “He looked to be dressed like a gentleman.”

  “Ah.” Constable Dixon nodded sagely. “Then ’e must’ve been a swell mobsman.” Seeing my puzzled expression, he explained, “Swell mobsmen is criminals who get themselves up fancy and loiter about the banks. When they sees someone take out lots of money, they follows the person and robs ’im. Likely, that’s what happened to Miss White.” The constable closed his notebook.

  I was unconvinced. Although I knew nothing about solving crimes, and I recognized the audacity and danger of telling the law what to do, I felt compelled to say, “Miss White told me that she was governess in the house of a Mr. Joseph Lock of Birmingham. Perhaps he could help you identify her killer.”

  Irritation flushed Constable Dixon’s face. “Perhaps he could, miss; then again, perhaps not.” His expression deemed me a foolish, hysterical female. “The police ’ave enough to do without chasin’ all over England.”

  “Then you won’t investigate Miss White’s deat
h any further?” I said, alarmed by his apparent intention to dismiss the murder as the work of a stranger impossible to locate. Tremors wracked my body, Anne blotted perspiration from my forehead, and I feared I would be sick at any moment.

  “I shall refer the matter to my superiors,” Constable Dixon said pompously, “and if they think any investigatin’ is in order, it shall be done. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Bronte?” He touched the brim of his hat in farewell, adding, “You’d best get yourself to bed. You’re lookin’ a bit poorly.”

  I must interrupt my account of what happened to me after Isabel White’s death and direct attention towards another segment in the tapestry of my story. Reader, look away from poor Charlotte Bronte huddled on her chair, and focus your mind’s eye upon the crowd in Paternoster Row. Do you discern one man who observes the proceedings with particular interest? He is perhaps thirty-five years of age, his lean, strong figure clad in dark coat, trousers, and hat. The features of his lean, swarthy face have the proud sharpness of a falcon’s; they are framed by unruly black hair. Do you see his eyes-a brilliant, crystalline grey in hue-fixed hard upon me?

  I was too preoccupied to notice him and did not learn until later that he was there. His name is John Slade, although some people-including myself-knew him by various other names. Mr. Slade, having listened to the exchange, watched my sister lead me into the Chapter Coffee House. His countenance betrayed no reaction to what he had witnessed. He hurried from Paternoster Row, hailed a hansom cab, and rode along Fleet Street and the bustling Strand, through Covent Garden, and alit in Seven Dials. Along the narrow, tortuous cobbled streets, soot-blackened windows gazed like blind eyes from grimy, crumbling tenements. Deep open gutters reeked of excrement; rats and stray dogs foraged in rubbish tips. Seven Dials is a place of despair, and none live there but the desperate.

  Mr. Slade cast his brilliant grey glance around him. Toothless old women sat on stoops; waifish children swarmed; beggars and vagrants wandered, and a man wheeled a cart full of bones and rags. After ascertaining that no one was watching him, Mr. Slade walked up the steps of a tenement and through the open door. A dim hall stank of urine and cabbage. Rude speech, babies’ cries, and the clatter of crockery emanated from the many rooms. He climbed the rotting stairs to the attic and tried the door. When he found it locked, he took from his pocket a picklock, opened the door, and entered the room, shutting himself inside.