The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (26 page)

Kate ordered the carriage, while I hurried to pack. Mr. Slade and I boarded the train to Birmingham that very morning.

W
E ALL EXPERIENCE EMOTIONS THAT WE WOULD RATHER DIE than confess, and sensations we experience with shame and guilt. To relish what is deplorable seems a sin; that evil can inspire such pleasure shows how wayward is the human flesh. The spectacle of human violence should repel me; yet under some circumstances, I instead feel the same exhilarating passion as when I watch storms rage or the ocean’s waves crash. This I learned, to my disgrace, on my trip with Mr. Slade to Birmingham.

When we arrived there, he deposited Anne and me in a lodging house owned by a respectable married couple he knew—the man was a retired East India Company sergeant with whom Mr. Slade had served. Anne and I were given a comfortable room upstairs, where we rejoiced to be together again and talked over our experiences. Our hosts had two sons who worked as police constables. That night, they and Mr. Slade went out to seek the man who had extorted guns from Henry Lock. Anne retired to bed, but I sat up, too restless for sleep. I mused upon how my relations with Mr. Slade had evolved. Although my feelings towards him had gained power, I felt easier with him than any other man I’d ever met. It seemed we had reached some unspoken accord, the paths of our lives had converged, and we traveled side by side towards some unknown destiny. But who was John Slade? I could now count many hours we had spent together; yet all I knew beyond doubt was that he was a man inclined to disappear and leave me waiting.

At dawn, Mr. Slade returned. I hastened to meet him. “What has happened?” I said.

“We arrested three men at the Barrel and Shot,” said Mr. Slade. His hair and clothes were disheveled. “One of them may be familiar to you. Another fits Miss Anne’s description of the man she followed there. I must ask you both to come to the prison and identify the men.”

Mr. Slade escorted us in a hackney cab to the Birmingham prison, a forbidding, brick-built dungeon in Moor Street. Through its barred windows, inmates shouted rude remarks at passersby. Sharp spikes topped the surrounding wall. Outside, constables unloaded shackled men from a horse-drawn van. A warden unlocked the massive, ironclad gate for us. In the lodge, he sent Anne and me into a cubbyhole where a hatchet-faced woman groped over our bodies and under our clothes, seeking hidden weapons or other contraband. While Mr. Slade and the warden escorted us through a maze of gloomy passages lit by guttering gas lamps, I experienced increasing trepidation.

Through rusty window gratings I spied male prisoners marching around the yard. A stench of urine, excrement, and misery grew worse as we proceeded deeper into the prison. The walls and floor of the passage were slick with fetid moisture. Yells, groans, and raucous babble echoed from the prison galleries. Guards dressed in blue uniforms patrolled the corridors, the keys on their belts jangling. Chained prisoners leered at Anne and me as they were marched by. Mr. Slade halted us outside a door that had a small glass pane set at eye level.

“Look inside,” Mr. Slade told Anne. “Do you recognize the man you described in your letter?”

Anne peered through the glass; I looked over her shoulder into a room with a scarred plank floor, whitewashed walls, and exposed gas pipes. The two constables stood guard over three men seated on benches at a table. One man had a craggy, beak-nosed face. His right eye was blackened, his clothing stained with blood. Mr. Slade must have fought a strenuous battle to capture the prisoners.

“That is the man who threatened Henry Lock,” said Anne.

My attention was caught by another prisoner, seated opposite the one Anne had identified. He wore a black suit, and his head was wrapped in a bandage; he had ginger hair and a cruel, coarse face I would never forget.

“The bandaged man is one of the pair that attacked us on the train and came to the Charity School,” I exclaimed.

Mr. Slade flashed a brief, triumphant smile. “I thought I recognized him from your drawing. It seems our hunt was doubly successful. What about the third prisoner?”

This was a fellow whose thin figure, sleek hair, and pointed features gave him the appearance of a greyhound. His narrow eyes shifted and his foot tapped nervously. His suit boasted scuff marks and torn sleeves. Neither Anne nor I had ever seen him before.

Mr. Slade thanked us for our help, then said, “The cab will take you to your lodgings while I interrogate the captives.”

Though Anne readily acquiesced, I said, “I want to watch and hear what those men reveal.”

Mr. Slade moved between the door and myself, his expression disapproving. “This is not what a lady should witness.”

“It can’t be worse than the murder I saw,” I retorted.

He frowned, clearly impatient to begin the business at hand and loath to argue. “If you insist.”

The warden ushered Anne away. Mr. Slade led me into an adjacent room. A window, covered by an iron grate, gave a view into the room which held the prisoners. Mr. Slade drew a chair up to the window for me. “Look all you wish, but be quiet,” he said, then departed.

Eagerly I sat. A moment later I saw Mr. Slade enter the other room. The constables stood alert; the prisoners tensed, eyeing Mr. Slade with hostile wariness. I must confess that I felt much sympathy towards the Chartist cause—in spite of the riots perpetrated in its name—for I believed that its demands for a voice in the government were reasonable and its proponents well intentioned. But these men seemed the despicable sort that takes advantage of social unrest as an opportunity to cause trouble

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” my ginger-haired attacker said haughtily, in the voice of a man educated above low-class origins. “Why am I under arrest?”

“I’ll ask the questions,” Mr. Slade said.

“You might as well let me go,” came the reply, “because I’ve nothing to tell you.” The other captives nodded defiantly.

“Oh, but you do,” Mr. Slade said. His manner was calm, though edged with determination. “First, you’ll tell me your names.”

“Joe Blow,” my attacker said sardonically.

“Peter Piper,” the gun thief and blackmailer said in a rough Northern accent.

“John Jones,” said the greyhound. His voice was London Cockney.

Mr. Slade and the constables seized the prisoners, twisted their arms behind them, and slammed them against the wall. The men struggled and shouted curses.

“Your real names, please,” Mr. Slade said.

A lady should turn away from the sight of violence and close her ears to foul language. I should have experienced disgust at watching Mr. Slade coerce the prisoners, but his action roused some primitive instinct in me. My breaths came faster; I thrilled to a stir of dark pleasure and leaned closer to the window.

The prisoners capitulated. My attacker revealed himself to be Charles Ogden; the blackmailer was named Sid Jakes; and the third man, Artie Crowe.

“Thank you,” Mr. Slade said, as polite as if this were a social occasion. He and the constables shoved the prisoners towards the benches. “You may sit down now.”

The men obliged, glaring at Mr. Slade, their hatred like blood in the air. Though dismayed that Mr. Slade would use force to obtain facts, this hitherto unseen dimension of his personality fascinated me. And I had no sympathy towards these criminals.

“Mr. Ogden, why did you and your friend attack the Misses Brontë on the train near Leeds on the eleventh of July? And on whose orders?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Ogden. “You have the wrong man.” His manner was so plausible that even I, his erstwhile victim, almost believed him.

Mr. Slade turned to Jakes. “Who receives the guns you stole from the Lock Gunworks?”

“I never stole nothing,” the blackmailer huffed, but I spied guilty fear in his eyes.

Crowe, the third man, watched this exchange with such caution that I surmised he had something to hide. Mr. Slade flicked a glance at him, then addressed the whole group: “Why were you in the Barrel and Shot?”

“I wanted a drink,” said Ogden. I perceived that he was the ring-leader. He said belligerently to Mr. Slade, “This is an outrage. You’ve no right to keep me here. I’m going.”

He rose, as did the other men. Mr. Slade blocked the door. “Try if you like.” As the men hesitated, a disdainful smile twisted Mr. Slade’s mouth. “Ah. You beat helpless women, but you’d prefer to avoid a fight with me. What a coward you are.”

Ogden clenched his fists. I saw how much he disliked being mocked in front of his friends. I sat on the edge of the chair, my face close to the grating.

“And you’re a fool to obey a master who leaves you to take the consequences of the crimes he orders,” Mr. Slade added provocatively.

Angered beyond prudence and forced to assert his masculine courage, Ogden charged at Mr. Slade, who dodged his blows and struck Ogden in the stomach. Ogden bellowed in pain, doubled over, then rammed his head into Mr. Slade’s chest. They crashed against the door and grappled with each other. I feared that Mr. Slade would be harmed; yet I trembled with exultation to see his face and muscles strain. I thought of his days as a soldier in the East and as a spy on the Continent. The same hands that had touched me must have done harm, even killed. I did not care.

As Mr. Slade and Ogden fought, Jakes rushed towards the door. A constable grabbed him, and a storm of flying fists engulfed the pair. Mr. Slade flung Ogden at the other constable. The constable caught Ogden, and they struggled together. My heart beat wildly; gasps parted my lips. Now I understood why men in Haworth flocked to the boxing matches at the Black Bull Inn. Mr. Slade advanced on Crowe, who backed fearfully away.

“Please don’t ’urt me!” Mr. Crowe said.

The constables wrestled Ogden and Jakes facedown on the floor and straddled their backs. “I’ll spare you if you’ll talk,” Mr. Slade said to Crowe.

I realized that Mr. Slade had marked Crowe as the weakest member of the group. By overpowering the others, he’d aimed to win a turncoat. Crowe exclaimed, “All right! It’s true! Charlie attacked them women. Sid took the guns.”

“Shut up!” yelled Ogden, pinned under the constable. His nose bled; his ginger hair dripped with sweat.

Jakes, lying limp and defeated, said to Crowe, “Bloody traitor, you’ll pay for ratting on me.” In retaliation he addressed Mr. Slade: “He killed that yellow-haired bitch who was governess at Mr. Lock’s house.”

I stared dumbstruck at Crowe. He was the man I’d seen stabbing Isabel White! Mr. Slade momentarily froze in astonishment that his hunt had netted the murderer. I could scarcely believe that Anne, my little sister, had led us to this revelation. Mr. Slade glanced at me, and we shared satisfaction that one mystery had been solved.

“It was ’im said to do it,” Crowe babbled, desperate to excuse himself. “It was ’im told Charlie to kidnap the Brontë woman, and Sid to get the guns.”

“Who?” Mr. Slade asked, looming over the cowering man.

“He’ll kill us if you tell, you fool!” Ogden shouted.

“Don’t say nothin’ else!” said Jakes.

They obviously feared their master more than they did the law. Mr. Slade’s eyes glinted, registering this fact. “Mr. Crowe, you’ve confessed to murder. You’ll hang for it.” Crowe sat on a bench, huddled in dejection. Mr. Slade turned to Ogden and Jakes. “I have witnesses to the blackmail of Henry Lock and the attack on the Misses Brontë. Ordinarily, you would go to prison. But your employer leads a conspiracy to destroy civil order in Europe and undermine the British government. The crimes you have all committed for him make you accomplices to treason, and the penalty for treason is death.”

Ogden and Jakes scowled; I could feel panicked thoughts racing through their heads.

“But if you cooperate with me, I’ll reduce your sentences,” Mr. Slade said. “Give me the name and whereabouts of the man who ordered your crimes, and I’ll protect you from him.”

I was horrified that these criminals might not be punished to the fullest extent of the law, but I understood Crowe, Ogden, and Jakes were but small game, and Mr. Slade wanted larger prey. Leniency towards them was the price he must pay to capture their master.

Jakes uttered a scornful laugh. “There’s nowhere safe from him, and none what can protect us. Betray him, and we’re dead.”

“Betraying him is your only chance to survive,” Mr. Slade said. “When he learns of your arrest, he’ll assume you talked whether you did or not. Here are your choices: Help me catch him so that he can’t harm you, and you’ll go free. Refuse my offer, and either you’ll hang or he’ll kill you.”

A short eternity passed. Jakes and Crowe looked to Ogden, who heaved a breath of resignation and nodded. I admired Mr. Slade because although his strength had gained him an advantage over the men, his cleverness had won him victory. The constables returned Ogden and Jakes to their seats. There the men slumped, diminished by defeat.