The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (19 page)

I thought of the book of sermons, which lay in the upstairs study at the parsonage. How would Mr. Slade know that Isabel wrote messages in books unless he was indeed an agent of the Crown and had done what he said? But Isabel’s writing made no mention of secret societies, and if she had intended that book for Slade, why had she sent it to me? Still, his mention of messages in books weakened my suspicions.

He paused, scrutinizing me in an apparent effort to know my thoughts; then he proceeded: “Miss White gave me names of French radicals and Chartist agitators, as well as their plans for acts of violence, but she refused to tell me who was employing her to work for them. From hints she dropped, I deduced that she feared him too much to expose him.”

A chill ran through me. This unidentified employer could be the man Isabel had called Master in her confession.

“In February of this year,” said Mr. Slade, “Miss White said she had an especially important message for me. We agreed to meet at Notre Dame Cathedral, where she would give me a book containing the message. I arrived at the appointed time, but she never came. She had vanished from Paris. I feared that her employer had discovered she was giving away his secrets.”

Mr. Slade regarded me closely as he continued. “I traced her to England, and I learned that she was a governess in the house of Joseph Lock, a Birmingham gunmaker. I kept secret watch upon Lock. At first I thought him to be directing subversive activities in England and abroad. My suspicions grew when I discovered that he was smuggling guns out of England through an intermediary, a China trader named Isaiah Fearon. But Lock shot himself dead the day before Isabel’s murder. I later found Isaiah Fearon strangled in his warehouse. I now believe that all three were players in a conspiracy devised by a leader whose identity remains unknown. I believe Lock killed himself because he wanted to get out, and he saw suicide as the only way. This leader had Isabel White and Isaiah Fearon killed because he suspected them of disloyalty. It’s my wish to capture him, because I’m certain he’ll commit other, far worse, crimes unless I do. And it’s in your interest to help me, Miss Brontë.”

I could only gaze at him in alarm at learning of the string of violent deaths.

“Isabel White knew this leader, and she could have exposed him.” Mr. Slade moved closer to me, until Keeper’s growl halted his steps. “So, perhaps, could Fearon. They were weaknesses in the barrier he created to protect himself. He has eliminated those weaknesses—but one remains.”

Distant thunder rumbled; the wind keened as the sky turned greenish grey. I was stricken by Mr. Slade’s suggestion that I could be the next to die. My sense of adventure had blinded me to the danger I had stumbled into.

“I must find the leader of the conspiracy,” he said, his voice edged with determination. “You can draw him into the open. What say you, Miss Brontë? Will you help me trap him?”

He had observed that the villain was after me, and he wanted to use me as bait to catch his quarry. He clearly expected me to agree; but I said, “When you rescued me in Leeds, you were not on your way to visit your mother. Why were you on that train?”

“I was going to Bradford. I wanted to learn what Mrs. White knew about her daughter’s associates. But I was also following you, because I suspected that Isabel’s enemy would make some move against you, and I wanted to protect you.”

This was a reasonable explanation; yet Mr. Slade’s glibness perturbed me. I did not like that he thought me so gullible as to trust him again. “Did you also stay by me in Leeds and on the train home because you wanted to protect me?” I said, sounding more hopeful and less challenging than I intended.

“Yes,” Mr. Slade said, “but I also enjoyed your company. I beg you to forgive me, and I hope we can be friends again.”

When Mr. Slade extended his hand to me, when he flashed his rare, dazzling smile, fury consumed my heart. He might have won me by logic, but not by calculated charm. Wounded pride swayed my judgment.

“Should I believe you came by all this information as innocently as you say you did?” I flared, backing away from Mr. Slade.

Withdrawing his hand, Mr. Slade frowned at my belligerence. “It’s the truth.”

“So you say!” I laughed in derision as the wind dashed rain-drops at us. “But
I
think you know those things about Isabel because
you
were her master. You discovered she was betraying you, and you killed her. Now you pose as a spy so I will reveal the content of Isabel’s package. Well, I’ll have nothing to do with you!”

I turned and clambered up the bank; Keeper followed me. Mr. Slade hurried after us, saying, “Wait, Miss Brontë.”

“Leave me alone!” I screamed in panic.

I thrashed through the trees, tripping on my skirts. If I didn’t escape, he would kill me, hide my body on the moors, and no one would ever know what had become of me.

“Please forgive me if it seems I’ve trifled with you, but my feelings of friendship towards you are genuine,” he called after me urgently. “I am an agent of the Crown. If you want proof of that—or of my good character—we’ve a mutual connection who can provide it. Do you know Dr. Nicholas Dury? He’s a friend of your father’s. He’ll vouch for me. Just ask him.”

I had heard Papa speak of Dury; but Mr. Slade’s mention of him inspired terror rather than trust in me. If Mr. Slade had discovered Dury, his spying upon my family was extensive indeed. That he thought I would accept his reference without bothering to verify it enraged me all the more.

“I’ll hear no more lies!” I shouted.

Now we were racing across open land, beneath turbulent dark clouds. The howling wind swept the grasses into waves like the sea, and rain lashed me in torrents. Mr. Slade caught my cloak, and I cried out. A brilliant vein of lightning split the heavens; thunder quaked the earth.

“Keeper!” I called. “Save me!”

I heard the bulldog barking. Mr. Slade turned me towards him and grasped my shoulders. “I’m not the one you should fear.” His face, streaming with rain and afire with intent, was close to mine. “I can help you if you’ll help me.”

I screamed, but the storm drowned my voice. I writhed and flailed. His hands restrained mine and I clawed his wrists. Drenched from the rain, scourged by the wind, we struggled together. Mr. Slade shouted words that I ignored. I tore my hand loose and struck his face. Blood spurted from his lip, and horrifying impulses leapt in me. I wanted to press my mouth to Mr. Slade’s, to taste his blood. I wanted to surrender to him so that I might feel pleasure beyond my experience. Though fury blazed in his eyes and his grip on my arms was cruel, at that moment I feared myself more than I did Mr. Slade. With all my strength I twisted free of him. I stumbled backward, so shaken I could barely stand. Mr. Slade advanced on me as lightning seared the sky and thunder boomed. He was breathing hard, his white collar stained with blood, his expression ominous.

“Keeper!” I screamed. “Attack!”

Barking and growling, the dog launched himself at Mr. Slade’s throat. Mr. Slade flung up his arms to ward off the assault. Keeper’s paws struck against Mr. Slade’s chest, and he fell backward. Savage delight filled me. I turned and ran for home.

K
EEPER AND I ARRIVED HOME DRENCHED AND SHIVERING. MY family was sitting at tea, and my appearance provoked alarmed questions about what had happened. I described meeting John Slade, his bizarre tale of espionage, and how Keeper had defended me—though I did not confess those feelings I preferred to keep secret.

Emily hurried to embrace her dog. “Did that man hurt you?” she cried, clearly more concerned about him than me.

“Where is John Slade now?” Anne asked.

I said I didn’t know.

“Well, let us hope he is gone, and there will be no more trouble,” Papa said.

That seemed a rather insufficient response to what had just occurred, but there was nothing else to be done at the moment. All through the evening, I waited in dread. For what, I did not know.

That night, while we were asleep, Branwell came home. I never learned where he had been. But my brother unwittingly influenced the course of events.

A thunderous commotion awakened me. I heard, from downstairs, someone screaming, “Help! Help!”

“Branwell?” I cried, glad that he had returned home at last.

I hurried from my room. Emily, Anne, and Papa joined me on the landing. My sisters looked frightened. Papa clutched his pistol. Peering down the stairs, we all exclaimed in horror. Branwell thrashed on the hall floor, wrapped in flames.

“I’m burning in the fires of hell!” he shrieked.

We rushed down the stairs. Emily ran to the kitchen, fetched a bucket of water, and hurled it at Branwell. The splash doused the flames. He sat up, sputtering and dripping, clad in the charred remains of his clothes, his thin body shivering.

Papa crouched beside him, asking querulously, “Where have you been? What have you done to yourself?”

“He’s been drinking. I can smell it on him.” Emily gazed at Branwell in disgust. “He obviously sneaked into the house, went to sleep, and left a candle lit and set himself on fire again. Then he panicked and tumbled downstairs.”

Some two years ago, Branwell had nearly burned to death in his bed. I said, “Let’s take him upstairs. He doesn’t seem to have broken anything. The burns on his arms and legs don’t look serious, but still, the doctor ought to examine him.”

When Papa and I moved to raise Branwell to his feet, he batted our hands away. “No!” he cried, his eyes wild. “This was no accident. There was an intruder in the study. He attacked me!”

“What did this intruder look like?” I asked, skeptical.

“He was tall and dressed in dark clothing,” Branwell said. “That’s all I could see.”

“Drunken delusions,” was Emily’s scornful pronouncement.

“There really was an intruder,” Branwell insisted. “He almost killed me!”

Just then there came a loud crash from the rear of the house. Clattering noises and rapid footsteps were followed by the sound of the back door opening. Papa, my sisters, and I hurried through the kitchen and down the passage to the door, which stood open. We saw, running up the hill behind the parsonage, the dark figure of a man.

“Stop!” Papa shouted.

Aiming his pistol out the door, he fired. The shot boomed. The intruder raced onward and vanished over the hill. We exchanged glances of wordless bewilderment, while in the hall, Branwell burst into hysterical laughter.

“Either you believe me now,” he called, “or Father is shooting at phantoms of my imagination!”

We helped Branwell upstairs. Papa dressed him in a nightshirt and put him to bed, then fetched the doctor and the constable. The doctor salved and bandaged Branwell’s burns. The constable deduced that the intruder had come in through the front door, which Branwell must have forgotten to lock, and left no trace of his presence other than a broken plate in the kitchen. When at last the men had departed, Papa, Emily, Anne, and I gathered in the parlor.

“Do you think this was related to the series of attacks on you, Charlotte?” asked Papa.

Emily spoke in a barely audible voice: “We’ve never had a burglar before.” Huddled in the corner of the sofa, she was so pale that her lips had gone white.

“This can’t have been an ordinary burglar,” Anne said. “Nothing was taken.”

A thought struck me. I ran upstairs to the study and looked on the desk. I searched through the books and papers atop it, then went back to the parlor. “Isabel White’s book is gone. The intruder must have stolen it.”

My family absorbed the news with the air of people already numbed by too many shocks. The intrusion was clearly another episode arising from Isabel’s murder, exactly the sort of event I had been anticipating since John Slade accosted me on the moor.

“They were in this house,” Emily said. “They handled our things.” Panic tinged her voice. “Maybe they even came into our rooms while we were sleeping.”