“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 death 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 Brontë?” 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 Brontë 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.
A sloped, bare-raftered ceiling and stained plaster walls enclosed a bed, a chair, and a dresser. Light seeped through a small, grimy window. Mr. Slade spied a carpetbag patterned with red roses standing on the worn floorboards. He dumped the contents on the bed. He briefly examined, then set aside, a woman’s garments. Wrapped in a fringed, India silk shawl he found a ticket for a ship scheduled to sail for Marseilles the next day. He searched the dresser, then looked under the bed and the mattress and behind the furniture; he scanned the walls and the ceiling for cracks, and he tested the floor for loose boards.
He found nothing.
Mr. Slade cursed under his breath. Then he made the bed, replaced the furniture, and repacked the carpetbag. He departed the room, locked the door, hurried outside, and caught another cab to a tavern near Exchange Alley.
The Five Coins Tavern is a haunt of minor bankers and merchants; it occupies an ancient brick and plaster building with crooked timbers. A sign over the window depicts a jester juggling coins. That day, a lone customer sat at a table, a glass of wine before him. As Mr. Slade approached him, the man looked up. He was of middle age, with high, square shoulders, colorless hair, arched eyebrows, and a nose as sharp as an accusation. He pulled a gold watch from his embroidered waistcoat, then looked at the timepiece and pointedly at Mr. Slade.
“Sorry for my tardiness, Lord Unwin,” said Mr. Slade. He sat opposite the other man.
“You had better have a damned good excuse,” Lord Unwin said in an affected, aristocratic drawl.
The publican came over, and Mr. Slade ordered whiskey. When he and Lord Unwin were once again alone, Mr. Slade said, “Isabel White has been killed.”
Lord Unwin’s eyebrows arched higher. “Well, you did suggest that such at thing might come to pass. How, precisely, did it happen?”
Mr. Slade described the stabbing in Paternoster Row. The publican brought Mr. Slade’s whiskey and departed. Lord Unwin raised his wineglass and said, “May she rest in peace.”
He and Mr. Slade drank. Lord Unwin sat silent for a moment, his manicured hands encircling his glass, his head bowed, then he fixed his shrewd, colorless gaze on Mr. Slade. “A case of murder means an official inquiry.”
“Not this one,” Mr. Slade said, and explained how the constable deemed Isabel White’s stabbing a botched robbery not worth investigating.
“How fortunate that the law is so cooperative.” Lord Unwin smirked. “It wouldn’t do for anyone to connect us with Isabel White and draw the wrong conclusions.”
“No one will,” Mr. Slade said. “As far as I know, there’s no evidence of any business between us and Isabel White.”
Lord Unwin’s eyes narrowed. “What about the book?”
“The police didn’t find it on her. Nor was it in her room. It’s gone.”
“If it exists at all, and is more than just a figment of your imagination.” Lord Unwin’s thin lips twisted into a sneer.
“It exists.” Mr. Slade took another drink.
“By the by,” Lord Unwin drawled, “I have news for you. A message from Birmingham came this morning. Joseph Lock is dead.”
“What?” Shock jolted the exclamation out of Mr. Slade. “When? How?”
“Steady, my good man, steady now.” Lord Unwin made a calming gesture, but his eyes gleamed with spite. “Yesterday, Mr. Lock put a bullet into his head. It seems that your options are disappearing in rapid succession.”
Mr. Slade clenched his jaws. With Joseph Lock and Isabel White dead and the book missing, he faced the ruin of the most important venture of his life.
“Just how do you plan to finish the job now?” Lord Unwin demanded, but a tinge of apprehension colored his authoritative bluster.
“There was a witness to Isabel White’s murder,” Mr. Slade said. “Her name is Charlotte Brontë. She and Isabel traveled together on the train from Yorkshire to London. Perhaps Isabel told Miss Brontë something of value to us.”
“Then you had better pursue Miss Brontë, hadn’t you?” Lord Unwin pushed aside his glass. He took from his pocket a thick envelope and flung it across the table to Mr. Slade.
Mr. Slade inspected the banknotes in the envelope, then rose. He and Lord Unwin exchanged a stare of mutual dislike and reluctant conspiracy. “I fully intend to,” he replied.
6
WHO WAS JOHN SLADE? WHAT HAD HE BEEN TO ISABEL White, and what were his intentions regarding me? The answers to those questions will emerge in due course. For now I shall resume my own story.
In my room at the C
hapter Coffee House, I vomited into a basin for the fourth time since Isabel’s death. Anne held my head, which pounded with thunderous pain. Finally I lay back on the bed, exhausted from my violent reaction to the trials of the past two days.
“Poor Charlotte,” Anne said, gently wiping my face with a damp cloth. “I’m sorry that you are suffering so badly.”
Sallow dusk glowed through the windows. The room was hot and stuffy. The Chapter Coffee House had once been a haunt of booksellers, publishers, writers, and critics. Later it became an inn frequented by university men and country clerics who were up in London. My father, who had stayed there during his days as a divinity student, had brought Emily and me here when he took us to school in Belgium. But that morning, upon our arrival, the proprietor had informed us that the Chapter Coffee House seldom accommodated overnight guests at present. Seeing our distress, he had graciously allowed us to stay and given us this dingy room upstairs. The inn was an empty, desolate place.
“My suffering is nothing compared to that of Isabel White,” I said, tossing feverishly. “That such a beautiful creature should be cut down in the prime of her life!”
“She is now at peace with God,” Anne said.
Faith had sustained our family through many troubles, but I drew meager solace from it now. “Isabel White came to Paternoster Row to see me!”
When I returned to the inn after speaking to the constable, the proprietor told me that Isabel had called for me a short time earlier. She had seemed upset to learn that I was out, he said, and had hurried away. Her killer must have attacked her immediately afterward.
“I knew she was in trouble, and I told her where to find me if she needed my help.” I winced at the agony of my headache. “It’s my fault that she met her death here.”
“Oh, Charlotte, you mustn’t blame yourself,” Anne said, bathing my face with cool water. “You were trying to do good. The blame belongs to the evil person who killed Miss White.”
Although I recognized the wisdom of my sister’s words, she could not dispel my guilt. “I’m certain that the police will do nothing to find the killer. Most probably, they consider it not worth their effort.”
“Perhaps the killer was a swell mobsman, as the constable suggested,” Anne said. “Perhaps he’ll be caught by the police in the course of his subsequent crimes, and punished then.”
“I cannot believe that the murder was but an accident of fate, and I cannot bear to simply wait and hope that another accident of fate will bring justice,” I cried with a passion. “No! I must try to discover who killed Isabel White.”
“You?” Anne was astonished. “My dear Charlotte!”
“It’s the least I can do for Miss White.”
“But it is police business, not yours. You’ve neither the right nor the means to investigate murder. What could you possibly do?”
“I don’t know,” I confessed. “But I must know the real story of what happened to Isabel. If I weren’t so ill, perhaps I could devise a plan.”
With uncharacteristic acerbity Anne said, “I begin to think that your illness has affected your mind.”
“My mind is perfectly sound.” I sat up, nettled by her suggestion.
“What other than mental aberration could explain these peculiar notions?” Rising, Anne twisted her hands in anxiety, but a rare defiant spark lit her eyes.
“You may be content to wait passively for matters to arrange themselves, but I am not,” I snapped. While I knew that my wish to find Isabel White’s killer sounded unreasonable, I resented my younger sister’s challenging me. “Why, if I hadn’t decided upon selling our writing, and persuaded you and Emily to join me in sending our work to publishers, we would have published nothing.”
“Too much initiative is as bad as too little.” Anne’s voice was breathless; she grasped the chair for support, but her gaze held mine. “I daresay that the murder isn’t the only thing that has impaired your judgment. Perhaps your literary success has rendered you foolishly bold.”
Sputtering in astonished indignation, I said, “Perhaps you envy my success and wish me to do nothing more than spend my life in idle, dull obscurity; but remember this: If not for my foolish boldness, we wouldn’t be where we are now!”
Tears shimmered in Anne’s eyes. Averting her face, she said, “I wish we were not.”
Now I was ashamed because I had hurt Anne. The murder must have been as upsetting to her as to me, but while I had collapsed, she had nursed me. She also had stood loyally by me during our expedition to Smith, Elder & Company. I felt guilty that I often gave Anne short shrift because she had never been my favorite sister. I loved Anne dearly, of course, but compared to Emily, brilliant and original of mind, Anne seemed dully inferior. I was suddenly horrified at how we had turned against each other. The rift between my sisters and me was growing. I climbed off the bed and hobbled over to Anne, who stood, head bowed, beside the window.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, taking her hand. “I shouldn’t have spoken as I did. Can you forgive me?”
Anne sniffed, managed a tremulous smile, and nodded. “If you will forgive me for speaking harshly to you.”
We embraced in mutual relief. Still, I harbored a need to learn the truth about Isabel White’s murder. A persistent curiosity gnawed at my mind, as though I’d been reading an engrossing book and had it snatched away from me before I could reach the end. I desired to obtain justice for this stranger who had engaged my interest and my sympathy. I could only hope that somehow an opportunity would present itself.
“Mr. Smith and his sisters will be coming to call soon,” I said. “We’d better prepare ourselves.”
After another hour’s rest, we washed, then dressed in fresh clothes. My sickness abated, though I still felt very shaky. When I peered in the mirror, my face looked as though it had aged ten years. Turning away from my ghastly reflection, I went with Anne downstairs to meet George Smith and two young ladies, whom he introduced as his sisters. They were brown-haired, fair, and lively like himself. They were very elegantly dressed in white silk gowns.
“I am pleased to present Miss Charlotte Brown and Miss Anne Brown, my friends from Yorkshire,” George Smith said, keeping his promise to conceal the our true identities.
He looked quite handsome and distinguished in tailcoat and white gloves, carrying a tall black hat. I experienced a stir of feelings long repressed. It had been years since I had permitted myself to admire a man.
“We should be on our way,” Mr. Smith said. “The opera will begin soon.”
“The opera?” I had by no means understood that we had agreed upon a trip to the opera, though it explained the Smiths’ formal dress. Panic struck me, for Anne and I were inappropriately attired. But if we refused to go, we would disappoint and offend the Smiths. Forcing a smile, I said, “Yes, let us go.”
In the carriage, I sat between Anne and Mr. Smith in the forward-facing seat, while the Misses Smith sat opposite us. As we clattered down the dark street, I experienced a thrill in spite of my illness and my shame at my poor appearance. Was an evening outing in London not the sort of adventure I had craved? The presence of George Smith, so near that I could smell his clean, manly scent of shaving soap, intensified my excitement. Inside me awakened, against my will, an old yearning. Twice in the past I had fallen in love. The first object of my affection had been William Weightman, my father’s curate nine years ago. Bonny and charming, he had flirted with me, but I eventually realized that he flirted with all the unattached ladies and preferred those prettier than I. As for my second love—how disgracefully I had humiliated myself! Now I willed my heart to calm its quickening rhythm.
“How did you spend your afternoon in town?” Mr. Smith asked.
“I’m afraid I had a most disturbing experience,” I said.
As I described Isabel White’s murder, his sisters exclaimed in shock. Mr. Smith said, “I wish I’d convinced you to stay with me, so that you needn’t have witnessed such a terrible crime. You and Anne
shouldn’t return to Paternoster Row; you must come to my house.”
His concern touched me, and the invitation, which offered the prospect of a better acquaintance with him, strongly tempted me, despite my aversion to living among strangers. Yet I knew myself vulnerable to inclinations that would cause me misery.
“You are very kind,” I said at last, “but I must decline your invitation, as there’s no need for you to protect me. I don’t consider myself to be in any danger.”
I explained that I believed that the killer was someone who had been known to Isabel and had followed her to London. After giving my reasons, I added, “I fear I will never rest until I have done everything in my power to find out who is responsible for the murder.”
“Your wish to exert yourself on behalf of a virtual stranger is commendable,” Mr. Smith said. Leaning closer, he whispered, “It reflects the same wonderful, generous spirit that I perceived in the author of Jane Eyre even before I met her.”
His compliment warmed me; I was afraid to look at him. Were the characteristics he’d mentioned those he valued in a woman? Did I dare think he valued them more than youth, beauty, or charm? I said timidly, “Could you advise me on how I might persuade the authorities to investigate the murder?”
He pondered a moment, then said, “I have a slight acquaintance with the commissioner of police. If you like, I’ll ask that he consider the facts you’ve provided.”
“Yes. I do thank you.” Gratitude increased my already favorable disposition towards George Smith.
Our carriage turned onto a noisy thoroughfare. Coaches rattled past strolling crowds, and street peddlers hawked playbills. Taverns filled with revelers, and gaudily dressed women loitered, shouting lewd invitations to men passing by. Gas streetlamps, their brightness veiled by smoke, lent the scene an unreal air that was at once frightening and intoxicating.
The Misses Smith were peering out the window, chattering to each other. “That carriage has been following ours since we left Paternoster Row.”
The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë Page 5