“I can only tell you that should you accept it, you will be a rich woman,” he said. “Your every desire will be satisfied. You will live in luxury, assure yourself a better future than you could imagine, and fulfill your destiny.”
He had judged my character based on what his spies had learned about me and what he’d elicited from me tonight. He thought me a woman who was clever yet luckless, who was daring yet had failed at every venture she’d attempted heretofore, and who could thus be bought with a vague promise of financial security and a renewed sense of purpose in life. But he had misjudged me. He was unaware that I was the author of a famous novel, and that I was in league with a spy for the Crown. Mr. Slade had kept his identity as secret as I had mine; the villain had yet to detect that Mr. Slade was after him. He, like so many others, had underestimated me. Now, if I wanted to remain safe, I must play along with him.
“Your kindness is much appreciated,” I stammered, “but-”
Even in my addled condition, I perceived that here was the devil incarnate, offering to purchase my soul. If I accepted, he would force me into immoral acts as he had done Isabel. If ever I disobeyed him, I would meet a similar violent end. The price I would pay for wealth and gratification was my soul’s eternal damnation. Yet an impulse to leap at his offer vied with my distrust and natural caution, so alluring was he. He had shaken my self-confidence, and what better could I expect from life? And although I wanted never again to endure his company or his ruthless examination of me, I feared what he would do if I refused.
“But you need time to consider my proposal,” he said smoothly. “I do not expect you to decide in such haste. After you return to England, you will place an advertisement in the Times stating that Miss Bronte does or does not accept the position offered her in Belgium. Now the carriage will return you to your hotel. I bid you farewell, and thank you for a most delightful evening. Please put on your blindfold, Miss Bronte.”
When the carriage left me at the hotel, I fled inside-and collided so violently with Mr. Slade that he put his arms around me to steady us. I clung to him as shudders convulsed me.
“Thank God you’re all right,” he exclaimed in relief.
“I was so afraid,” I cried. “Why did you not come?”
“Your driver managed to elude us.”
This was exactly as I had feared. Now I quaked harder at the realization that I had been utterly alone and defenseless.
“I came back to wait for you,” Mr. Slade said. “The police are still out searching.”
Belatedly I realized that we held each other in too intimate an embrace. I stepped away from Mr. Slade. He seated me on a divan and summoned a maid to bring me tea. The cup and saucer were placed in my hands, which trembled so much that the china rattled, but the strong, bitter brew invigorated me.
Mr. Slade sat by my side. “Where did you go?”
“I don’t know,” I said, then explained why. “But it seemed to be a large house in the country.”
“What did the house look like?”
Alas, I had to tell him that the blindfold had prevented me from seeing anything except the dining room, which I described in detail.
“Tell me about the man you met,” Mr. Slade said.
“He would not tell me his name. And I never saw his face. He sat behind a screen. But I know he is a foreigner.” I tried to imitate his accent, but I am hopeless at mimicry. Mr. Slade could no more identify the villain’s land of origin than I could. When Mr. Slade asked what we had talked about, I related the proposal the man had made me.
“Is that all?” Mr. Slade said. “You were gone for quite some time. What else happened?”
“Nothing.” I averted my eyes, too ashamed to confess the man’s strange effect upon me.
“Perhaps the police can find the house,” Mr. Slade said.
The next afternoon, while riding along the country roads where my driver had shaken them off his tail, the police stumbled upon the house in the Foret de Soignes, a tract of woods southeast of Brussels. They took Mr. Slade and me to the ancient, ruined brick chateau. Its walls were crumbling and mossy, the window-panes shattered, the gardens overgrown by weeds; the turrets and gables had collapsed in places. Mr. Slade and I walked through corridors hung with peeling wallpaper, and vacant chambers stripped of furniture, into the dining room.
“This is the place,” I said.
The candles had burned out. My meal lay cold on the table, and a rat nibbled the food. No one sat behind the screen, but the exotic perfume lingered on the air. As I shivered at disturbing memories, the police inspector joined us.
“This house is the ancestral estate of an impoverished noble family,” he said. “Last year they rented the house to a Mr. Smith from England. They communicate with him only by letter and have never met him. Neither have the local people, for he keeps to himself. We’ve searched the property, but found no trace of the tenants.”
“‘Mr. Smith’ is apparently gone and not to return,” Mr. Slade said, his expression grim.
“We cannot catch him if we don’t know who he is,” said the police inspector.
Mr. Slade met my gaze, and we shared a thought that caused me tremors of dread. “It seems that the only possible means of locating the criminal is for me to accept his offer,” I said.
27
Alas, Mr. Slade and I were not the only ones disappointed by our misadventure in Brussels. We traveled posthaste to London and there presented ourselves to Mr. Slade’s superiors in the Foreign Office. Again we sat with Lord Unwin and his officials at the long table in the smoky chamber on Downing Street. After Mr. Slade described my rendezvous with the villain and his own thwarted pursuit, Lord Unwin regarded him with contempt.
“You had this man within your reach and allowed him to elude you.” Indignation elevated Lord Unwin’s reedy, affected voice. “Your ineptitude appalls me.”
Yet the sparkle in his pale eyes attested to how much he relished Mr. Slade’s failure. Mr. Slade endured the reprimand with clenched jaws. I knew he excoriated himself no less than did Lord Unwin. I sat silent and mournful to hear Mr. Slade abused.
“The trip was not a complete loss,” Mr. Slade said. “Communication was established between the villain and Miss Bronte. Should she place the advertisement in the Times and accept his offer of employment, he’ll contact her again. That will give me another chance at him.”
“Another chance, perhaps, but not for you,” Lord Unwin said. “We cannot afford the risk that you might blunder again. As of this moment, I am removing you from this inquiry.”
“You can’t!” Mr. Slade was outraged. “Not after I’ve handled the investigation this far, and it has produced what information we have about the villain. Not after one unfortunate mishap!”
“Indeed I can.” Lord Unwin’s cruel, haughty smile deepened. “And it’s not just one mistake you’ve made.” He lifted a paper that lay in front of him and passed it to Mr. Slade. “This letter came for you while you were in Belgium. I took the liberty of reading it.”
As Mr. Slade scanned the letter, a frown darkened his brow. He silently handed the paper to me. On it I read the words written in a hasty black scrawl: “No luck yet identifying the owner of the ship used by Isaiah Fearon to smuggle weapons out of Britain. No further contact with the person responsible.” There was no signature, but I deduced that the author must be the prime minister. My heart sank; our hopes of learning anything from him had been dashed.
“It seems that your other inquiries have also proved fruitless,” Lord Unwin said, clearly gratified at the second blow he’d delivered Mr. Slade. “You will go back to France and resume spying on the secret societies. Other agents will be dispatched to Belgium to trace the villain’s movements from there, and to Haworth to guard Miss Bronte. After she places the advertisement, they will report to me any communication she receives from the villain.”
Mr. Slade and I looked at each other in extreme dismay. I knew he didn’t want to return to the place where
he had lost his wife. I also knew how loath he was to quit our mission after we had come this far.
“You’ll not disrupt the pursuit of a killer and traitor because of your personal grievances with me!” Mr. Slade rose so abruptly that his chair crashed to the floor.
Lord Unwin sneered. “You’ll obey my orders, or face punishment for insubordination.”
Belatedly, my mind absorbed what he proposed regarding me. Not only must my family tolerate strangers in our home; I would lose Mr. Slade and our friendship. Such heartache filled me that I blurted, “I won’t have anyone but Mr. Slade!”
The men all turned to stare at me, surprised by my outburst. “My dear Miss Bronte, I’m afraid you have no say in the matter,” Lord Unwin said in a tone of polite disdain.
“If your agents come near my house, I won’t let them in.” I knew I sounded rude, and even childish; but I cared for nothing except to bind Mr. Slade to me. “If I receive a communication from the villain, I’ll not tell them.”
Before Lord Unwin could reply, one of his associates said to him, “A lack of cooperation from Miss Bronte could jeopardize our mission. Under these circumstances, I advise against replacing Mr. Slade.”
Lord Unwin pondered, frowning as he looked from me to Mr. Slade. Then he nodded grudgingly. “Very well.”
My heart rejoiced. Mr. Slade gave me a look that was as quizzical as grateful. Did he guess why I had so vehemently taken his side? I averted my gaze from him.
“Lest you think I’ve conceded because of your protests or Miss Bronte’s threats, I must disabuse you of the notion,” Lord Unwin said to Mr. Slade. “The search for this criminal has gained a level of urgency such that we cannot afford the slightest disadvantage. Last night there was a fire at the Paradise Club.”
I recognized the name of the den of iniquity where girls from the Charity School were sent to work and where Isabel White had brought the prime minister under the villain’s influence.
“The blaze was extinguished before it did much damage. You’ve had agents watching the club since you discovered its connection with our criminal, and they summoned help,” Lord Unwin continued, sounding reluctant to give Mr. Slade credit for anything. “Most of the patrons escaped without injury, but three women, and the men with them, were found strangled upstairs in private rooms.”
Horror chilled me. Mr. Slade’s gaze darkened with consternation. “The criminal has eliminated more people who had connections to him,” Mr. Slade deduced. “Could the fire have been set to cover up the murders?”
“It seems likely. There was a strong smell of kerosene near the rooms where the victims died.” Lord Unwin added, “Two of them were Jane Fell and Abigail Weston, former pupils at the Reverend Grimshaw’s Charity School.”
They had died because we had not yet caught the killer. Guilt lowered upon me.
“The men came from noble families, who have besieged the government with demands that the killer be brought to justice,” Lord Unwin said. “We now need Miss Bronte’s cooperation more than ever.” He shot me an ireful glance. “Miss Bronte shall place her advertisement tomorrow morning. Immediately thereafter, you and she shall return to Haworth to wait for a response.” Lord Unwin pushed back his chair; his subordinates followed suit. The gaze he bent on Mr. Slade turned colder. “This is your one chance to make amends for your Belgian escapade. Disappoint me again, and you’ll be out of Her Majesty’s service despite your illustrious career.”
It suddenly occurred to me that Emily had saved the day for Mr. Slade and me. Had she not gone to the Charity School and linked the villain to the Club Paradise, Lord Unwin would never have connected the murders to the villain, and nothing would have swayed him in our favor. We owed Emily a great debt indeed. How strange that she who had been least interested in our business should have the responsibility for its continuation.
As we all rose, Lord Unwin bowed with mocking courtesy to me. “I hope for your sake that henceforth Mr. Slade will do better at protecting you than he did in Brussels.”
Mr. Slade and I passed four days in Haworth-days that were uneventful yet strained with the tense pitch of waiting. On the last morn, Mr. Slade accompanied me on my visits throughout the parish, which I had shamefully neglected of late. He again sported the clerical garb and the guise of my cousin John from Ireland. He walked by my side, carrying the basket of food for the needy, across moors in their full summer glory. Flowers colored the cottage gardens and the hedgerows; thrushes swooped over meadows where fat sheep grazed. The sky was such a serene blue that I could almost forget the dangers that menaced my world.
“This is the existence that would have been mine had I not chosen a different path after I took my orders,” Mr. Slade said.
Once more he appeared such a convincing clergyman that I could well imagine him as the vicar of some country parish. “Have you ever regretted your choice?”
“I didn’t when I was younger. To tread an unvarying routine, to be confined within narrow environs, seemed repellent to me then.” Mr. Slade gazed across the hills that receded in hazy green swells. “Yet now, after all I’ve seen and done, I can understand the value of a life spent ministering to souls rather than adventuring in foreign lands. I find pleasure, instead of boredom, in England’s peaceful countryside.”
As we descended a slope towards town, I reflected that while Slade had come to appreciate the pleasures of a village parish, I had developed a taste for intrigue. The divide between us had narrowed. But I again recalled what Mr. Slade had said about Jane Eyre, and his implication that a man like him could never love a woman like me. The happiness he’d expressed on the ship must have resulted not from our comradeship but from the natural end to his mourning for his dead wife. I couldn’t know whether my regard for him was any less unrequited than before our trip to Belgium. I did know that this time we had together was but a transient interlude.
“What will happen when the villain contacts me?” I asked.
“He’ll instruct you as to where to meet him. My superiors will use the information to find and capture him.”
After the villain was caught, the Foreign Office would have no further need of me, and Mr. Slade would have no reason to dally in my vicinity. I couldn’t wish to prolong our mission, or for England to remain in danger, in order that the dreaded separation would be postponed; yet the thought of ending our association opened a chasm of emptiness and anguish before me.
Stepping back from the edge of the chasm, I said, “What if the information is insufficient to find the villain? Must I do his bidding and go to him?”
“Indeed not,” Mr. Slade said with firm resolve. “One way or another, we’ll get him without endangering you.”
Yet his reassurance didn’t negate the possibility I feared. “Suppose I did go. What would happen?”
Mr. Slade gave me a look that scorned what he thought was unnecessary speculation, but he humored me: “You wouldn’t go alone. I, and other agents, would follow you.”
“And after I arrive at my destination?”
“We would remain within your reach and protect you from the villain until his capture.”
“What should I do until then?” I said. “How should I behave that he would fail to see me as a decoy to draw him out of hiding?”
“Just be Miss Charlotte Bronte, the humble governess,” Mr. Slade said. “That’s what he thinks you are. He’ll never know otherwise.”
I hated to think that was how Mr. Slade viewed me too. “What might he want me to do for him?”
“Whatever it is, you won’t have to do it, because we’ll have him in chains first,” Mr. Slade said as we traversed the village along Main Street. Sunshine brightened the grey stone houses. “But this is idle talk. Don’t worry yourself. You won’t be going near that criminal. Besides, he hasn’t even summoned you yet.”
Walking the road uphill towards the parsonage, we met the postman. He handed me a letter that struck ice down my spine. It was enclosed in a plain envelope addressed to m
e in the same elegant script as the letter that the villain had sent me via M. Heger in Brussels. I opened it with trembling hands. Inside I found banknotes, a railway timetable, and a letter that read:
My dear Miss Bronte,
How pleased I am that you have accepted my offer. Please take the train to Cornwall that I have marked in the timetable. You will receive further instructions at the station in Penzance. I wish you a safe journey.
28
When writing a fictitious story, one should always choose the most exciting possible course for the story to follow. Characters in a book should experience action rather than inertia, and thrills rather than contentment. How fitting, therefore, that what I would write in fiction is what transpired in actuality. But life, unlike fiction, guarantees no happy ending. The dangers I faced were not mere words that could be expunged by the scribble of a pen. The villain who had summoned me was not harmless ink on paper but flesh and blood.
These notions haunted me as I journeyed by rail towards Penzance. That town is located in Cornwall, the county at England’s southwest extremity. Dread of an evil, ruthless man sank deeper into my bones while I traveled past fishing villages that clung to cliffs above the glittering blue sea. In meadows green and gold beneath the southern sun rose dark stone pillars, monuments built by ancient folk for mysterious rituals. The ruins of Roman fortifications dotted the countryside. This was the land where King Arthur was born at Tintagel. Would that I were an ordinary traveler, come to explore the scenes of legend!
A casual observer might suppose I journeyed by myself; but Mr. Slade had kept his promise that I should not go unaccompanied. He rode, disguised, somewhere on the train. At all times seated near me was a Foreign Office agent, duty bound to protect me. Other agents had been dispatched to Penzance to arrange for the surveillance and capture of our quarry. Yet I felt as alone as if I had entered another world. How I wish I had heeded the objections raised by Papa, Emily, Anne, and Slade when they learned I’d been summoned!
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