Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte tsaocb-2

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Not as free as he thought. I’d not forgotten that he knew it was I behind the mask, or that if I gave answers other than those he wanted, I would get a lecture.

  “I wish you would speak your mind now, Charlotte.” By drawing upon our history, Papa had bound me in a filial obligation tighter than the blanket gowns in Bedlam. “What on earth is going on? Does it involve John Slade?”

  I couldn’t deny him the truth, and I wanted at least one person who loved me and believed in me to know it. “Yes, Papa,” I said, and told him everything.

  He expressed all the concern, horror, and woe that I’d expected, but he didn’t try to dissuade me from carrying out the plan I’d also confided to him. “You must do what you must to save Mr. Slade, yourself, and your nation.” He chuckled sadly. “Of all my children, you are the most like me. You were all intelligent, and you all inherited my love of reading and writing, but only you wanted to take on the world, as I once did. A father shouldn’t have a favorite among his children, but if I did, it would be you, Charlotte.”

  Tears stung my eyes. I’d always thought he loved Branwell best; I thought he regretted that his only surviving child was I, the least satisfactory.

  “Losing you would be the death of me,” Papa said. “But I will let you go on this mission of yours, with my blessing, if you will only promise me one thing.”

  Beware of blessings with strings attached. “What is it, Papa?”

  He held up his hand. “Promise first.”

  Trapped by obligation and love, I said, “I promise.”

  Papa rose, opened the door, and summoned Ellen and Mr. Nicholls. “Pack your bags,” he told them. “You are going with Charlotte. She has agreed to take you both.”

  I had never seen them so flabbergasted. Ellen said, “It would be most improper for Mr. Nicholls to travel with us.” Mr. Nicholls looked amazed at his good fortune and stammered out his gratitude. I was horrified that Papa had saddled me with two guardians I didn’t want and whose safety I feared for. I began to protest.

  Papa cut us short with the stern look he gives parishioners who talk in church. “You promised, Charlotte,” he said, then addressed Ellen and Mr. Nicholls: “Protect my daughter.” His stare at Mr. Nicholls said he hadn’t forgotten that his curate sought to woo his daughter away from him, but he would put that quarrel aside for now. “Should any harm come to her, I will hold you both responsible.”

  23

  The secret adventures of John Slade

  1851 January. Slade barely managed to escape the Kremlin.

  The call for his blood went out minutes after he slipped away from his listening post in the Tsar’s reception hall, where he’d heard the news that the British agents had been executed. As he raced through the palace, he heard the tread of boots, the soldiers searching for him. His fall from grace had been so swift that he couldn’t stop to think. All he could do was run.

  Emerging into the frigid night, Slade saw lit torches carried by search parties moving around the palaces and cathedrals. He shivered in the cold; he hadn’t even had time to fetch his coat. Dogs barked. The army had brought out the wolfhounds to track him. The walls of the Kremlin stood between him and safety. His only hope of getting out alive was the escape route he’d installed in case of emergencies.

  He headed for the strip of wooded parkland that extended alongside the wall from the Saviour Gate to the tower at the eastern corner of the Kremlin. As he neared it, he heard the cry: “There he is!”

  Running footsteps clattered on the icy pavement behind him. The dogs bayed, too close. Slade leaped through the snow between the trees and fell against the wall. He ran his hands over it, searching in the dark for the iron spikes he’d driven into the mortar, one by one, during many nights. They formed a ladder up the wall. With the army thrashing through the woods in pursuit, Slade climbed.

  His head cleared the trees. He pulled himself up onto the crenellated wall. Someone in the tower shouted, “He’s up there!”

  Gunshots cracked. Bullets pinged off the wall around Slade. He dropped into the trees on the other side. Branches battered him all the way down. A snowdrift broke his fall. He scrambled up. As he ran along the promenade that bordered the river, he dodged gunfire from other watchtowers. Bonfires on the riverbank illuminated a skating party. Above the music from an orchestra Slade heard the furious stampede of horses’ hooves. Mounted soldiers rounded the corner of the Kremlin and charged toward him. He whirled. More horsemen came galloping from the other direction. He skidded down the riverbank and hid among the people gathered around a bonfire. They wore rich sable coats; they were members of the aristocracy. Up on the promenade, the troops halted, torches raised, looking for him, hesitant to fire into the crowd and risk killing somebody important. Slade waited, panting and freezing.

  A group of merrymakers strolled toward a troika parked on the ice. Slade hurried along with them. When they climbed into the troika, neither they nor their driver noticed him sliding underneath. The horses pulled the troika across the ice while Slade clung to the bottom. The relief he felt was short-lived.

  Nowhere in Moscow is safe for a man wanted by the Third Section.

  In the morning Slade made his way through the back alleys of the city to his lodging house, only to find policemen loitering outside. He turned and hurried away. Even if the police hadn’t already confiscated the money he kept in his room, he couldn’t get to it without being caught. He mingled with the people who crowded the shops and outdoor markets. By sleight of hand he stole a coat, boots, and a fur hat. A loaf of bread and a string of sausages vanished under his coat. Warmly dressed, his hunger satisfied, he set out to find a way out of town.

  Soldiers patrolled every road. Wilhelm Stieber had mounted a massive search for him. Slade didn’t know how Stieber had discovered his true identity, but Stieber must have had surveillance on him, even though he’d never spotted it. Now, every city gate he approached was heavily guarded. Slade watched the sentries stop, inspect, and question men who fit his description. He was trapped.

  24

  The town of Amblesideis located in the lake district in the far northwestern part of England, some fifty miles from Haworth. The journey was long and arduous, requiring us to change carriages three times. At first I was glad to have Ellen and Mr. Nicholls for company. If Wilhelm Stieber and his minions were following me, they would probably not attack all three of us and risk drawing attention to themselves. But Ellen made insulting comments to Mr. Nicholls, who lost his patience and snapped at her. They bickered in the station in Lancaster while we waited two hours for the train. On the train I pretended to sleep, but they argued in whispers until we alit at Windermere Station.

  It was past seven o’clock in the evening. Here in these lofty altitudes, the air was thin, chilly, and moist. Breathing it cleansed my throat and lungs, which were parched by smoke and cinders from the train. The sun’s silvery rays glinted through indigo and violet clouds that floated over a landscape of green hills that rose to mountainous, mist-veiled heights.

  “Mr. Nicholls, go fetch our trunks,” Ellen said.

  He glowered because she’d spoken to him as if he were a dog, but he obeyed, and he hired a carriage for us. As we rode, Lake Windermere came into view, a long silver ribbon winding through lush woods. Here was the landscape that had inspired the great poets, Robert Southey and William Wordsworth. Lights sparkled like strewn golden beads from towns on shore. Above, flocks of geese winged, their calls plaintive and haunting.

  “We’ll obtain lodgings at an inn by the lake,” Ellen said. “Charlotte likes the water.”

  “A secluded place in the hills would be safer,” Mr. Nicholls said.

  Ellen turned to me. “What do you think?”

  I felt like a rope in a tug-of-war between two children. “By the lake.” In order that Ellen and Mr. Nicholls wouldn’t think I was taking sides, I added, “That’s where he is likely to be.”

  “Where who is likely to be?” Ellen asked.

&nbs
p; During the trip I’d refused to say why I wanted to go to the Lake District. “The man I’ve come to see. Dr. John Forbes. I consulted him about Anne’s illness, as you may remember.”

  Fear showed on my companions’ faces. Ellen said, “Charlotte, are you ill?”

  “Are you here to seek treatment from Dr. Forbes?” Mr. Nicholls asked.

  “No, I’m perfectly healthy. All I seek from Dr. Forbes is information.”

  My chance encounter with Dr. Forbes had led me to Bedlam and my fateful glimpse of John Slade. He had told me that he planned a holiday in Ambleside. Now I hoped he could steer my quest for the truth in the right direction.

  “Information about what?” Ellen asked.

  “About a private matter,” I said.

  She and Mr. Nicholls gave up nagging me for answers. We rode in silence into Ambleside, whose pretty stone cottages and shops lined narrow streets. Hikers equipped with knapsacks and walking sticks congregated at taverns. We chose a modest inn near the waterfront. After securing rooms for the night, we walked out down the street.

  “Ambleside is a small town,” I said. “It shouldn’t be hard to find Dr. Forbes.”

  Find him we soon did, at the third inn we tried. The proprietor told us that the doctor had gone boating and should be back soon. We went down to the lake, which reflected the fading light from the sunset in a shimmery patchwork of silver, cobalt, and bronze. Swans glided on this like graceful white specters. Islands shrouded by mist rose in the distance, as mysterious as Avalon. A rowboat came skimming across the water. I heard the splash of oars; a lone man wielded them. He paddled the boat up to the dock where Ellen, Mr. Nicholls, and I stood.

  “Dr. Forbes,” I called.

  He secured his boat, climbed onto the dock, and smiled. “Why, hello, Miss Bronte.”

  I introduced him to my companions. After handshakes and pleasantries, Dr. Forbes said, “What a coincidence that we should meet here. Are you on holiday, too?”

  “I wish I were, and I’m afraid it’s no coincidence. You once said that if I needed your assistance, I should ask. So here I am.”

  Alarm erased Dr. Forbes’s smile. “Is it about that business at Bedlam?”

  I deduced that someone there had written to him about the murders, my second visit, and the fact that the police’s suspect was the inmate I’d claimed was my friend. I could tell that Dr. Forbes would rather not involve himself with a grisly crime, an escaped lunatic, or my delusions.

  “No.” I was becoming more adept at lying. I met his gaze, and my voice didn’t waver as I said, “I need information about a scientist named Niall Kavanagh.”

  Dr. Forbes’s eyebrows lifted. “Niall Kavanagh.” He sounded relieved to learn that I wanted nothing more. “That’s a name I’ve not heard in a while.”

  “But you are familiar with him?” I asked.

  “Yes, indeed. What do you want to know?”

  I’d gambled that the community of scientists was as small and gossipy as that of the literati. How glad I was that my gamble had paid off! “I want to know everything.”

  “That would take a while to tell,” Dr. Forbes said with a smile. “Will you and your friends join me for dinner?”

  We dined at his inn. The dining room was bright with lamp-light, warm from a blazing fire in the hearth, and crowded with the inn’s other guests. They noisily regaled one another with stories of the adventures they’d had that day. The larger tables were all occupied, so Dr. Forbes and I sat at a table for two in a corner, my companions across the room. That suited me fine, although Ellen and Mr. Nicholls craned their necks in a futile attempt to hear what we were saying.

  “At one time I knew Niall Kavanagh very well,” Dr. Forbes said as we ate a simple but tasty meal of bread, cheese, meat pie, and pickles. “We were both members of the Royal Society of science. Until Kavanagh was expelled.”

  “Expelled for what reason?” I asked.

  “For conduct unbecoming to a member. He had a great talent for science, but a greater talent for offending people.” Dr. Forbes noticed my confusion and said, “I’d better start at the beginning, with the basic facts about the man.

  “Niall Kavanagh is Irish by birth. His father, Sir William Kavanagh, is head of a whiskey brewery that’s been in the family for more than a hundred years. The family estate is called Clare House. It’s in County Wicklow. He would be about forty years old now. He came to England as a young man, to study chemistry and biology at Oxford. He was the top scholar in his class, and he cut quite a handsome figure, but the other students looked down on him because he was Irish and harassed him because he was a Roman Catholic.”

  My father had endured many slights when he’d come from his native Ireland to attend Cambridge, and I supposed that anti-Irish and anti-Catholic sentiment had still run high at the universities in more recent years.

  “He retaliated by mixing up a foul-smelling chemical in his laboratory and pouring it under the doors of his harassers’ rooms,” Dr. Forbes said. “The college had to evacuate an entire building for a week.”

  Men at the next table were raising glasses, reciting comical poems, drinking, and cheering. Dr. Forbes said, “Kavanagh was brought before the college authorities and charged with malicious misbehavior. He freely admitted what he’d done. He also ranted about the injustices that England had perpetuated against Ireland. He was almost sent down. But one of the dons spoke up in his defense, took him under his wing, and promised to keep him in line. Kavanagh became his research assistant. The work they did on contagious diseases earned Kavanagh a membership in the Royal Society and a teaching post at Oxford. Kavanagh’s future looked bright, until he published a paper about some new experiments. He gave all the credit to himself and none to his mentor, and he criticized his mentor’s earlier work. They had a falling-out. Then he offended the Royal Society by airing wild scientific theories. He claimed that tiny, invisible creatures cause diseases. Can you imagine that?”

  Dr. Forbes laughed, and so did I. Everyone knows that diseases are caused by bad air.

  “He made himself even more unpopular by engaging in affairs with his colleagues’ wives,” Dr. Forbes said. “The upshot was that Kavanagh lost his place in the Society and Oxford packed him off on a research expedition to Africa. While there, he caught brain fever. When he came back to England two years later, he was drastically changed-thin, haggard, and wasted. He neglected to bathe, shave, or comb his hair. His eyes burned with a strange light, as if some African devil had taken possession of him. He locked himself inside his laboratory and worked around the clock. He wouldn’t tell anyone what he was doing, but he boasted that he was on the verge of a major breakthrough that would change the world.”

  Had it led to the invention of the weapon sought by Wilhelm Stieber? I felt sure it must have.

  “Then his students began falling ill. They claimed Kavanagh had used them as test subjects in his experiments and had poisoned them. The college investigated, but found no proof that he’d caused their illnesses. Their symptoms were different, ranging from fever and coughs to gastric upsets and eye ailments. But one of the students died, and Kavanagh already had such a bad reputation that he was dismissed from his post. That was five years ago,” Dr. Forbes concluded. “Kavanagh left Oxford and dropped out of public life.”

  Niall Kavanagh sounded like a brilliant but troubled man. I reexamined what Slade had told me about Kavanagh in the new light of what Dr. Forbes had just said. Niall Kavanagh was vindictive toward people who abused him. He had a grudge against the English in general. He had no loyalty toward his mentor or his colleagues; he was self-centered, with no inhibition against doing whatever he pleased. The brain fever he’d contracted in Africa had likely worsened his natural bad tendencies. If indeed he had experimented on his students, he had no respect for human life, which he had readily endangered for the sake of science. And this was the man who, according to Slade, had invented a weapon powerful enough to win a war.

  If Niall Kavanagh fell in
with Wilhelm Stieber and the Tsar, woe betide England!

  “Have I upset you, Miss Bronte?” Dr. Forbes said. “I am truly sorry.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. I asked about Niall Kavanagh, you answered, and I thank you.” We ate in silence for a moment; then I said, “Have you seen Dr. Kavanagh recently?”

  “Not in these five years. But I’ve heard that he published a pamphlet advocating Catholic rights and joined a branch of the radical group, Young Ireland, that demonstrated in London during the revolutions of 1848.”

  “Do you know where he might be?”

  Dr. Forbes hesitated. “May I ask what your interest in him is?”

  “I’m afraid it’s a private matter,” I said.

  “If you mean to go looking for Kavanagh, I must advise you against it. He is an unpleasant man at best, and a dangerous one at worst.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. But if I don’t find him, it will be worse than if I do.”

  Dr. Forbes studied me, seeking the meaning in my cryptic remark. He said reluctantly, “Very well.” He laid down his fork and folded his napkin. “Last November, I ran into a friend from the Royal Society. His name is Metcalf; he is a physician. He told me he was a member of a commission formed to investigate sanitary conditions in the slums of London. He went about inspecting houses and tenements. One day during the previous summer he knocked on the door of an old, decrepit house, and the man who answered was Niall Kavanagh. Dr. Metcalf was shocked by his appearance. Kavanagh was wearing dirty, torn clothes. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks and he smelled as if he’d been drinking heavily. Dr. Metcalf tried to speak to him, to offer help. But Kavanagh shouted at Dr. Metcalf to go away, and he slammed the door. That’s the last I’ve heard of Kavanagh.”

  This sighting was a year past, but it was my only clue to Kavanagh’s whereabouts. “Did Dr. Metcalf say where this house was?”