Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (16 page)

Skepticism crossed Lord Eastbourne's face. “Then why did he torture her?”

“She said she had crossed him.”

“How?”

“I don't know,” I said, compelled by my instinct to conceal the details and protect Slade. If Lord Eastbourne learned that Katerina had named Slade as a party involved in her death, it might convince him that Slade was alive, even though my sightings of Slade had not. Lord Eastbourne already thought Slade was a traitor; he surely wouldn't hesitate to deem him a murderer as well. I imagined Lord Eastbourne launching a manhunt for Slade, and myself forced to participate. I didn't want Slade persecuted for yet another crime—at least not until I discovered whether he was guilty. “Katerina was dying, she was growing incoherent, babbling in Russian.” I decided to test Slade's story. “But she did say that Stieber was looking for someone. A scientist named Kavanagh. She said he'd invented a device that the Tsar wants.”

Lord Eastbourne listened without visible emotion, but I sensed excitement rising in him. “What kind of device?”

“A new kind of gun. She indicated that the Tsar wants to use it against England.” Here I blended Katerina's statement with Slade's. “Stieber thought she knew where to find the scientist. That's the other reason he tortured Katerina.”

“Well.” Lord Eastbourne pondered, then said in an offhand manner, “Anything that has to do with Russia is of interest to the Foreign Office. Did Katerina tell you Niall Kavanagh's whereabouts?”

My heart beat faster. I hadn't mentioned Kavanagh's Christian name. Lord Eastbourne knew it, and he'd let the fact slip.

“No,” I said. “She died.”

Kavanagh existed, and so, presumably, did his invention. What Slade had said was true—but perhaps only in part. I didn't yet know which side Slade was on—England's or Russia's—or whether he was guilty of murder. Perhaps he'd mixed truth with lies. Still, I was glad I hadn't spilled everything to Lord Eastbourne. He'd deceived me by concealing the fact that he knew about Wilhelm Stieber, Niall Kavanagh, and the secret invention. Maybe he'd done so to protect state secrets, but maybe he had other, baser motives. If my experiences during the summer of 1848 had taught me anything, it was that men in positions of authority weren't always honorable.

Another thought occurred to me. Slade had told me that the British government had Kavanagh hidden, but Lord Eastbourne had asked where Niall Kavanagh was. Did that mean the government didn't know? If Stieber didn't have him, then who did?

“Have you had any further contact with the man you thought was John Slade?” Lord Eastbourne asked.

I experienced a cold, sick sensation of dismay, for I could tell that Lord Eastbourne had revised his opinion concerning Slade: he was no longer certain Slade was dead. I had tried so hard to convince him that Slade was alive that I had gone too far toward succeeding. Probably he would send more agents to hunt down Slade, execute him, and make sure he was really dead this time. And I could not forsake my loyalty to Slade, even though he'd treated me badly.

“No,” I said, “I haven't.”

Although I trembled with nerves, I looked Lord Eastbourne straight in the eye. I watched him try to discern whether I was lying. I saw that he was undecided, but I could tell he knew I'd withheld information.

“I must go now, Miss Brontë,” he said.

Panic struck. “Please don't leave me here!” I thrust my hand through the bars of the cage to prevent him from going.

Lord Eastbourne patted my fingers, barely touching them, and smiled. “Don't worry. I'll pull some strings and have you free in no time.”

“Are you ready to be good?” the warder asked me.

Eager to avoid another stint in the dark cell, I said I was. He took me to the dayroom where I'd had my altercation with Poll. The women pretended I wasn't there, except for Maisie. She sidled up to me during dinner, which was greasy mutton stew.

“When Poll gets out of the dark cell, she'll have your hide,” she whispered.

I prayed that I would be gone before then. In the evening, the warders marched us to our cells. These measured some thirteen feet by seven; each had iron bars and an iron gate across the front, a barred window, and a stone floor. Amenities consisted of a table and some stools, a copper basin with a water tap, shelves of bedding, and a water closet. A gas lamp with a tin shade burned dimly on the wall. My cellmates were three streetwalkers, two drunks who reeked of liquor, and two pickpockets. Our beds were mats that we spread on the floor. I wanted to lie down and drift into the blessed oblivion of sleep, but sleep proved to be impossible.

The other prisoners regaled one another with stories about the crimes for which they'd been arrested, the men who'd done them wrong, and their hard lives. The galleries rang with chatter and laughter. Even after the lights went out, the noise continued. My cellmates said to me, “It's your turn. Tell us a story!”

Fearing what they would do to me if I refused, I began to recite an abridged version of
Jane Eyre
. None of them had heard of the book, let alone read it. They loved the tale of Jane's suffering at the hands of the Reed family, her imprisonment in the Red Room, and her experiences at the dreadful Lowood School. They hung on every word. Women in nearby cells quieted down to listen. Those farther away shouted for me to speak up.

Everyone wept when Jane's friend, Helen Burns, died.

I remembered my childhood, when the pupils at the Clergy Daughters' School had thought me the best storyteller among them. Now my audience of criminals wouldn't let me stop, even though my voice grew hoarse. I told my tale until what must have been midnight, when a warder appeared outside my cell and unlocked its gate. Two men were with her, dressed in white coats, their faces in shadow.

“Charlotte Brontë, get up,” she said. “You're leaving.”

An outcry arose from the prisoners: “She can't leave! We want to know what happens to Jane Eyre!”

Gladness filled me as I sprang up from my mat. I didn't know that I was bound for somewhere much worse than Newgate Prison.

T
HE SECRET ADVENTURES OF JOHN SLADE

Easter 1849. After midnight mass, a huge crowd filled Red Square, a vast open expanse within the walls that enclosed the Kremlin. Domes glittered in the damp, fecund spring air. St. Basil's Cathedral loomed above the crowd, as brightly colored and patterned as Christmas candy. Everyone carried candles. Thousands of faces lit by the flames glowed like medieval icons. The doors of all the churches in the Kremlin opened. Light from within flooded the square. Out marched parades of priests wearing golden vestments and swinging censers, followed by congregations bearing banners and lit tapers. Singing from choirs rose to heaven.

John Slade stood among the crowd. He saw a familiar figure—the Third Section agent who'd been watching him for four months. The agent was a common Russian type, a slim man with a pale, melancholy face and a dark mustache. Slade noticed something different about his shadow tonight. The man hovered closer than usual. For the first time he met Slade's gaze. Slade sensed that the opportunity he'd been waiting for was at hand. He moved slowly out of the crowd, allowing his shadow to keep up with him. When he reached the bank of the river, he stopped. It was dark beneath the trees, and quiet. The lights in Red Square shimmered in the distance. Slade didn't have long to wait. His shadow joined him and said, “Happy Easter, Mr. Ivan Zubov.”

“The same to you, Mr. Andrei Plekhanov. And to your colleagues in the Third Section.”

The man's dark eyes widened. “How do you know who I am?”

Slade had done a little spying on his spy. He had followed Plekhanov to his lodgings and obtained the information from another tenant. Plekhanov hadn't noticed that Slade had turned the tables on him. Now Slade said, “I borrowed a leaf from your book.”

Plekhanov smiled tensely. “You're an unusual dissident, Mr. Zubov. Your friends—Peter, Alexander, and Fyodor—would never have spotted me, let alone managed to discover my name. But they are too preoccupied with plotting against the government, aren't they?”

Slade knew he was supposed to be upset by the news that the Third Section knew who and what his friends were. He arranged his features into the proper expression of alarm and fright. Plekhanov's smile relaxed.

“So you see, we know what you are up to,” Plekhanov said.

“I'm not up to anything,” Slade said, deliberately speaking with a tremor in his voice, avoiding the other man's gaze, and signaling a lie. “I'm not a dissident.”

“Oh? What about the articles you write for the radical journals?”

“I write for anybody who will pay me. I'm just a poor author trying to make a living.”

Plekhanov laughed. “You are poor, that's true enough. Your landlord says you're behind on your rent. You also owe money at all the shops and taverns in the neighborhood.” Slade had deliberately created his reputation as a debtor, and Plekhanov had swallowed the bait. “But never fear. I have a proposition to make you. Should you accept, it will solve your financial problems.”

Slade combined hope with wariness in his expression. “What sort of proposition?”

“You work for me as an informant. You report on your friends, and I pay you enough to cover your debts and put vodka in your cup.”

“I can't betray my friends,” Slade said, aghast.

Plekhanov's melancholy face turned cruel. “If you refuse my proposition, I will have you sent back to St. Petersburg. I happen to know you're wanted by the police there.”

Slade himself had spread the rumor that he'd committed petty crimes in St. Petersburg and he was a fugitive from the law. That story had led Plekhanov to believe he had power over Slade, just as Slade had intended. Slade let his shoulders sag in defeat. He nodded.

“You're a wise man.” Plekhanov clapped Slade on the back. “Now that we've settled our bargain—are your friends up to anything the Third Section would like to know about?”

Slade thought of their conspiracy to assassinate its chief. They'd been spying on Prince Orlov, and their plans were almost set. Slade felt guilt descend upon him like the blade of a guillotine. Duty required him to deliver his friends to their enemies.

“Yes,” he said with genuine reluctance, “there is.”

I
WALKED OUT A FREE WOMAN, ALBEIT STILL DRESSED IN PRISON clothes. Incredulous and joyful, I offered my fervent thanks to the two white-coated men who had procured my release. They didn't speak. Escorting me down the gallery, they looked straight ahead; they walked in step, as if in a military parade. Both were tall, both some thirty years old; but the man on my right had the strong musculature and carved features of a Greek athlete, while his comrade on my left was thin and lanky, with puffy lips and eyes that bespoke sensuality and dissipation.