“I’d like to see Lord Eastbourne.”
That gentleman was Slade’s immediate superior. For three years I’d searched the newspapers for items relating to Slade, and I’d spotted a notice to the effect that Lord Eastbourne had taken the place vacated by Slade’s former superior, Lord Unwin. The sly, selfish, and incompetent Lord Unwin had sabotaged Slade’s efforts, and mine, to save the Royal Family from a madman. The Foreign Secretary had punished Lord Unwin by assigning him to a post in India. He’d died there, of cholera, six months ago; I’d seen his obituary. Now I hoped that Lord Eastbourne was in, and that he could shed some light on Slade’s current situation.
“Lord Eastbourne can’t be disturbed,” the official said. “Come back another time.”
“Tell him it is Charlotte Bronte. Tell him I must speak with him about John Slade.”
I didn’t know which name had changed his attitude, but the official said, “One moment.” He left, then soon returned. “Follow me.”
He escorted me through a series of ill-lit passages and left me in an office. Lord Eastbourne rose from his chair. He was a tall, robust man who had the appearance of a country solicitor. Ruddy skin complemented features that were blunt and strong. He would have looked as much at ease walking the moors as he did behind his massive desk, which was covered with letters and documents written in a bold, slanted, masculine hand. On first glance he was a big improvement over Lord Unwin, but I cautioned myself that appearances were often deceiving.
“Miss Bronte,” he said, coming out from behind his desk to shake my hand. “It’s an honor to meet you. I’ve been briefed on the good work you did for us.”
I was glad he knew who I was. It saved me the trouble of convincing him that I’d helped Slade save the British Empire.
Lord Eastbourne seated me on a divan and himself in an armchair opposite me. “Whatever I can I do for you, just ask.”
His brown eyes were shrewd and intelligent but not unkind. I poured out the story of how I’d come upon Slade in Bedlam and everything that had happened since. Lord Eastbourne listened with close attention. When I’d finished, I said, “I need to know what has happened to Slade. I came to you because I had nowhere else to turn.”
Concern appeared in Lord Eastbourne’s expression. “You’ve posed me a bit of a dilemma. Information about our agents is strictly confidential.”
My heart sank.
“But I have a certain amount of discretion. And considering the fact that you risked your life for the sake of our kingdom, I owe you an explanation.”
Hope resurged. I eagerly leaned forward. “Where is Slade?”
“Before we discuss John Slade, I should give you a little background on the assignment he undertook for us three years ago,” Lord Eastbourne said.
I tried to quell my fear that he was postponing bad news.
“Slade was posted to Russia,” Lord Eastbourne began.
“I’m aware of that. He told me before he left.”
“What do you know about Russia?”
“I know that Russia is a land where Europe blends with Asia.” Since Slade had left for Russia, I had read up on it. “It covers millions of square miles, and its population includes Mongols, Slavs, Turks, and Tatars. Their written language is the Cyrillic alphabet. The state religion is the Orthodox Christian Church, which I understand combines Roman Catholicism with pagan rituals.”
“Those are some basic facts,” Lord Eastbourne said in the condescending tone that a schoolmaster uses toward a clever little girl. “Allow me to tell you a little more. Russia began, during the ninth century, as a handful of principalities in the Ukraine, controlled by tribal chiefs. It was invaded in the thirteenth century by Mongols. Russia was united under Prince Ivan the Great, who drove out the Mongols in the fifteenth century. He arrested, imprisoned, tortured, and executed anyone who opposed his rule. When he died, there ensued a period of uprisings and civil wars that lasted into the seventeenth century. A new dynasty, the Romanov, took over, and still reigns today.”
“I know. I have studied Russia’s recent history.” My habit of pride in my education compelled me to demonstrate my knowledge to Lord Eastbourne, and I hoped I could speed up this lesson on Russia so we could proceed to the matter of John Slade. “During the last two centuries, Russia has won multiple wars against Turkey and Persia. The result is that Russia captured the Crimea and gained other territory, along the Black Sea coast, the Bosporus, and the mouth of the Danube. It has incorporated Georgia and Finland, part of Armenia, and expanded westward into Poland and Lithuania. When Napoleon invaded it in 1812, Russia fought back so fiercely that he was forced to retreat. Russia became a major world power, an empire that extends from Poland to the Pacific Ocean, and the Arctic Ocean to the Persian Gulf. Today, Russia is Britain’s rival for control of the Middle Eastern territories. Its influence in those parts is a threat to Britain’s Indian Empire.”
“You are well informed,” Lord Eastbourne said, surprised into respect. “But please allow me to broaden your understanding. Russia is a backward, primitive country controlled by the present Tsar, Nicholas Pavlovich. He is a tyrant who has absolute power over his subjects. They have none of the rights or freedoms that make our own country great.”
He swelled with patriotic pride; then he turned grim. “Our relationship with Tsar Nicholas is complicated. On one hand, we are thankful to him for maintaining order in Europe. He has vigorously acted to crush revolutions and preserve the ruling monarchies. In 1849, for example, when Polish citizens of the Austrian Empire rose up in support of Hungarian rebels, he sent Russian troops to help Emperor Franz Josef put down the insurrection. On the other hand, we consider Russia a threat because the Tsar is bent on enlarging his domain. His army is almost a million men strong. India is a sitting target, its wealth ripe for plunder. Britain must prevent Russia from invading India and maintain her own influence in the Middle East.”
I knew all this, but I forced myself to listen politely. “Fortunately for us, the Tsar has problems at home, which have checked his ambitions. There is much civil unrest. The Russian leaders fear that subversive ideas from the West will bring about a cataclysmic revolution within Russia’s own borders. In order to control their own people, they created a secret police force known as the Third Section. The Third Section maintains surveillance on Russian citizens suspected of revolutionary activity. Its agents censor material printed in the press. They investigate crimes against the state, such as sabotage and political assassinations. They often provoke revolutionaries to commit those crimes, then imprison them or exile them without a trial.”
“This is all very interesting,” I said, “but how does it concern Slade?”
“Slade’s purpose in Russia was twofold,” Lord Eastbourne said. “He went there to establish contact with Russian revolutionaries, supply them with money, and do whatever he could to further their cause and weaken the Tsar’s regime. That he did, while posing as a Russian scholar and journalist. Second, he was supposed to put himself in a position to learn what the Tsar’s plans are regarding action against Britain. He achieved both purposes, although the details as to how are unclear.”
For three years I’d wondered what Slade was doing in Russia; now I knew, but I had yet to learn anything that pertained to the present.
“Slade managed to infiltrate the Kremlin-the Tsar’s palace,” Lord Eastbourne said. “He was our best agent in Moscow. He smuggled messages to us, reporting secrets from the highest echelon of the Russian government. But in January of this year, his messages stopped. So did the flow of all other intelligence from Moscow. We heard nothing until February, when one of our Russian informants showed up in London. He told us that Slade had turned traitor.”
My mouth dropped. Shock delivered after too many previous shocks rendered me speechless.
“Apparently, Slade had given the Third Section the names of his three fellow British agents,” Lord Eastbourne said. “The Third Section arrested and murdered all of them. Our in
formant said that Slade had begun working for the Tsar, as an expert on British espionage, foreign policy, and military strategy.”
I found my voice. “That can’t be! Slade would never betray his country or his comrades!”
“Our source is reliable,” Lord Eastbourne countered, “and his statement was corroborated by the team of agents we sent to investigate.”
“I refuse to believe it!” My whole body was shaking, so agitated was I. “Where is Slade? I must hear his side of the story!”
Lord Eastbourne regarded me with a sympathy that I found more ominous than reassuring. He took my hand and held it between his own, which were warm, dry, and strong. The intimate gesture filled me with dread, for I had often seen clergymen extend it to the newly bereaved. “Miss Bronte, I know you think highly of John Slade. I regret to inform you that Slade was executed for treason. Our team of agents ambushed him in Moscow and shot him.”
Even as I went faint with horror, disbelief and anger flooded me. I wrenched my hand out of Lord Eastbourne’s. “Slade is alive! I saw him last night! I just told you so!”
The sympathy in Lord Eastbourne’s eyes turned to pity. “Whoever you saw, it couldn’t have been him. Whether or not you believe he was a traitor, you must face this fact: John Slade has been dead for four months now.”
10
When I returned to Gloucester terrace, all I wanted to do was avoid everyone, shut myself in my room, think on what I’d learned at the Foreign Office, and try to recover from my shock. But George Smith met me at the foot of the stairs. “Where have you been?” He was clearly relieved to see me, but vexed by my absence.
“I had business to attend to.” I couldn’t tell him what business.
Mrs. Smith joined us, happy that I’d displeased George. “Miss Bronte might have told us she was going out. But she is a secretive, stealthy sort of houseguest.”
“Our appointment with Dr. Browne, the phrenologist, is at nine o’clock,” George said. “I was worried that you wouldn’t come back in time. Had you forgotten?”
“Oh, dear. I am sorry.” I had indeed forgotten that we’d arranged to meet with Dr. Browne, who examined the skulls of his clients in order to assess their characters. Phrenology was all the rage, and Dr. Browne so popular that this Sunday morning was the only time during my stay in London that he could see us.
“You evidently don’t appreciate the trouble my son takes to entertain you.” Mrs. Smith addressed me but caught George’s eye.
“Well, no matter, Charlotte,” he said, looking uncomfortable. I could see he’d begun to sense that his mother didn’t care for me. “You’re here now. Shall we be on our way? I thought we could visit the zoo afterward.”
“Yes, but first I must go up to my room.” I desperately needed some time alone before facing the rest of the day.
As I ran up the stairs, I heard Mrs. Smith say, “Miss Bronte looks ill. Her constitution is delicate.” Too delicate for her to make you a good wife, her tone implied. “Perhaps she should go home.”
I wouldn’t give Mrs. Smith the satisfaction; and I couldn’t leave London now, when momentous events were happening one after another with no resolution in sight. In my room I drew deep breaths to calm myself, then splashed cold water on my face. Soon I was in a carriage with George, riding along Bayswater Road.
“How was the play last night?” he asked.
“Good enough,” I said in a tone meant to discourage further questions.
“Oh.” He felt snubbed, I could tell. But George is so good-natured that he seldom takes offense for long. He began to point out interesting sights and talk about them, although I barely listened. My mind dwelled on my conversation with Lord Eastbourne. He had kindly but firmly insisted that I must accept the truth and forget John Slade, for my own good. I’d left the Foreign Office upset because the authorities would not help me find Slade. They believed he was dead. They would not change their minds on the word of a hysterical woman. Perhaps that was for the best, since they were no longer his friends. But now I began to question my own credibility. Maybe the man I’d seen really wasn’t Slade. Maybe my nearsightedness was getting worse.
Dr. Browne had his consultancy in a row of townhouses near the Strand, that great thoroughfare that skirts the bank of the Thames from the West End to the city proper. When George rang the bell, a butler answered and said, “Mr. and Miss Fraser, I presume?”
Those were the names under which George had booked our appointment. We’d decided to pose as brother and sister and not reveal our true names, in case Dr. Browne had heard of us-foreknowledge might compromise his analysis. The butler sat George in the waiting room and ushered me to Dr. Browne’s office.
A slender man of perhaps fifty years, Dr. Browne had a long face with drooping jowls and pink cheeks. He was so clean that he smelled of soap and everything about him shone-his rimless spectacles, his long white coat, the gray hair combed over his bald pate, and his toothy, ingratiating smile. On the wall hung a phrenology chart-drawings of a head in front, back, top, and side views, with areas divided by dotted lines and labeled. He seated me by the window, in a chair with a cushioned seat and low back. I noticed a display of framed portraits of well-known people.
“Those are clients,” Dr. Browne said proudly.
I thought it a good thing that I’d used an alias. I wouldn’t care to have my portrait hung in his office and the results of his examination of Currer Bell publicized.
“Please allow me to explain the theory of phrenology,” Dr. Browne said. “The mind has different mental faculties, which reside in different organs within the brain. Bumps on the skull reflect the size of the underlying organs. I can therefore measure a person’s capacity for a particular mental faculty by measuring that bump.”
He took up a set of calipers. “First, I shall take some overall measurements of your skull. Hold still, please.” I obeyed while he fitted the calipers to my head, front to back, then sideways, and read off the numbers. “Ah! Your head is quite large.”
I wondered if the numerous folks who thought phrenology was quackery were right. I hardly needed Dr. Browne to tell me what anyone could see-that my head was too big for my body. “Is it?” I said, ever self-conscious about my awkward proportions.
“Indeed. It’s remarkable for its intellectual development. You have a large forehead, which signifies deep thoughtfulness and comprehensive understanding.”
That consoled me somewhat. Dr. Browne set aside his calipers, worked his fingertips gently but firmly over my scalp, and felt the bumps and indentations. “You have a fine organ of language. I deduce that you can express your sentiments with clearness, precision, and force.”
Perhaps there was merit to phrenology.
“You are very sensitive, with a nervous temperament, an exalted sense of the beautiful and ideal, and a gloomy view of the world. Although you are anxious to succeed in your undertakings, you are not so sanguine as to the probability of success.”
I winced, for he’d hit the target smack in the bull’s-eye.
His fingers expertly probed my skull. “You form strong, enduring attachments.”
I thought of Monsieur Constantin Heger, the Belgian professor I’d loved unrequitedly for three years. I realized that I had loved Slade for the same length of time. I blinked away tears.
“You also have a very strong sense of justice,” Dr. Browne said.
Even though Slade had repudiated me, I didn’t want him labeled a murder and traitor if he was not.
“I also detect a dedication to the truth,” Dr. Browne said.
And I still wanted to know whether Slade was guilty as charged.
“That concludes my examination.” Dr. Browne stepped back, clasped his hands, and smiled. “Have you any questions?”
“Yes,” I said. “Is it possible for the organs in a man’s brain to change? Can that turn him into someone else, even a criminal?”
“It’s entirely possible, and not uncommon. I’ve examined convicted murder
ers, and quite a few of them had suffered injuries to their heads. I remember one case-a boxer. He’d been knocked out many times, and he’d changed from a nice chap to a violent brute.”
I wondered if something similar had befallen Slade in Russia. Maybe his organ of memory had been so damaged that he’d forgotten me. But there occurred to me another, even more disturbing idea. Maybe Slade wasn’t the person whose mental faculties were impaired.
“Doctor, may I ask-” I had to swallow fear before I could continue. “Did you detect any damage to the organs in my brain?”
My brother Branwell had been a lunatic. Seeing things that did-n’t exist was a symptom of his madness, and perhaps madness ran in our family.
“None at all,” Dr. Browne said reassuringly. “In my opinion, you’re completely sane.”
I thanked Dr. Browne and sat in the waiting room while George Smith had his consultation. I occupied myself with wondering about Slade.
George returned, unusually pensive. As we rode away in our carriage, I asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Dr. Browne said I have an affectionate, friendly disposition. I am strongly attached to my home and family, and I am an admirer of the fair sex. I am active and practical, but not hustling or contentious.”
I laughed despite my worried mood. “But that’s not unflattering. And it’s you exactly! Why don’t you like it?”
He looked annoyed by my mirth and stung because I agreed with Dr. Browne. “It makes me sound so shallow. What did he say about you?”
When I told him, it was his turn to laugh at the justice of Dr. Browne’s observations. Cross with each other, we traveled in silence to the London Zoo.
The zoo occupied a spacious green park on the north side of Regent’s Park. The animals were housed in fanciful Gothic palaces. The many visitors included a preponderance of children. The sun had come out, brightening the colorful scene. Roars from the lions and screeches from monkeys and exotic birds made the zoo seem a tropical outpost of the British Empire. George and I marched along without speaking. He was still out of sorts. He darted glances at me, and I feared he would ask questions that I would rather not answer. When we reached the pond in which ducks, geese, egrets, and flamingos were gathered, I said, “I would like to walk by myself awhile. Shall we meet here in an hour?”
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