“See, Your Majesty?” Lord Eastbourne said, jubilant. “It’s not a new miraculous weapon of war. It’s an ordinary bomb that an idiot could build. This fellow is clearly mad.”
“Please don’t let appearances deceive you, Your Majesty,” I found the courage to say. “The bomb isn’t the innovation. The innovation is the powder in the jars.”
Slade quickly and concisely explained that Dr. Kavanagh had discovered that animalcules caused disease and had learned how to cultivate them. “Those jars contain enough culture to infect thousands of people with woolsorter’s disease, which is fatal. The bomb is only the mechanism of spreading the culture through the air.”
“It will work,” Dr. Kavanagh insisted eagerly.
“Bosh and nonsense,” Lord Eastbourne said. “Everyone knows that diseases are caused by bad air. Whom are you going to believe, Your Majesty? A madman, a murderess and traitor, or me? I have served the Crown long and faithfully. My record is unimpeachable.”
“Not anymore,” Slade said. “You blotted it when you succumbed to your ambitions. You didn’t keep Kavanagh and his research under wraps for Her Majesty’s sake. Rather, you wanted the weapon for yourself. You wanted the power that it would give the man who owned it. You wanted a place in history as much as Dr. Kavanagh does, at the price of your loyalty to your sovereign. You’re the traitor, not I.”
With a visible effort Lord Eastbourne ignored Slade. “I advise you to judge for yourself, Your Majesty.” He flung his hand toward the bomb in a gesture of disdain. “Is this a weapon that will revolutionize warfare, or a joke?”
“It’s not a joke!” Kavanagh wailed.
The Queen looked uncertain, although she liked Slade and I saw her incline toward taking him at his word. Slade said, “Let’s try a test. Dr. Kavanagh, open one of those jars. Lord Eastbourne, you breathe the culture and show Her Majesty that it’s harmless.”
Lord Eastbourne took a step backward, his expression filling with alarm.
“Just as I thought,” Slade said. “He’s afraid to take the test. He knows Dr. Kavanagh has succeeded in creating the weapon he paid for. He reneged on their contract because he realized that the weapon is too powerful for him to control, too dangerous to use. And he had another reason for burning down the laboratory besides covering up his involvement: he knew it was rife with disease.”
“That is proof enough for me,” the Queen said. Indeed, it was obvious from Lord Eastbourne’s face that everything Slade had said was true. “Lord Eastbourne, you have committed such serious breaches of protocol and crimes against the state that it will require a court to determine-”
Lord Eastbourne’s eyes glazed with panic. He’d changed from a suave, confident gentleman into a cornered animal. He shuffled a few quick steps backward, then turned and ran into the receding horde.
“Wait!” called the Queen. “How dare you leave while I’m speaking to you?” She saw four soldiers hurrying to her aid. She ordered them, “Go arrest that man!”
Two of them hurried off; the others remained to guard her. Prince Albert said, “Don’t worry; he won’t get far.”
“In the meantime, I have business with Dr. Kavanagh,” the Queen said, turning to the scientist. “I am declaring your invention the property of the Crown and the British government. If you would be so good as to hand it over.”
Kavanagh looked startled. “No.” He knelt and flung his arms around the bomb.
“My dear sir, that was an order from the Queen,” Mr. Thackeray said, regaining his eloquence, even though fear blanched his big, florid face.
“You have to obey,” George Smith said. He, too, was pale and shaken. I saw him glance from me to Slade, trying to discern our relationship.
“I won’t,” Kavanagh said.
“Take it,” the Queen told the two soldiers.
They started forward. Stieber pointed his gun at them and said, “I claim the weapon in the name of Russia,” then started toward Kavanagh. “Put it in the suitcase and give it to me.”
“Don’t move!” the soldiers ordered, aiming their rifles at Stieber.
He froze. Kavanagh took a loose jar of culture from the suitcase and cried, “Nobody come near me, or I’ll drop this.” Everyone stood still, terrified. “There’s no use fighting over my invention.” Kavanagh gloated because two such powerful heads of state wanted it. “I’m not giving it away to anyone. I’m going to stage my demonstration. You can all watch.”
He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a box of matches. I gasped with horror. That the Queen herself, and Prince Albert, would be among Kavanagh’s first victims!
“Your Majesty and Your Highness should leave,” Slade said urgently. “Go somewhere far away.” He told George Smith, Mr. Thackeray, and me, “You should leave, too.”
“I’m staying.” I would not abandon my husband.
“I won’t leave Charlotte,” George declared. Not only did he wish to protect me, I observed; he’d figured out that Slade was his rival for my affections and he wouldn’t let Slade be a hero while he decamped like a coward.
“Nor will I,” Mr. Thackeray said. “A proper Englishman doesn’t desert the battleground.”
Prince Albert took his wife by the hand. Her expression was anxious, conflicted. Stieber said, “Everyone will stay,” but he sounded uncertain. Events were moving too fast, too unpredictably. The Queen and the Prince, George Smith, and Thackeray were wild cards that he’d not had time to figure into his game. He moved the gun back and forth, as if he couldn’t decide whom it would be best to shoot.
“Let the Queen and the Prince Consort go,” Slade said. “If you hurt them, you’ll be shot dead the next moment. You won’t be able to do your duty to the Tsar.”
I watched Stieber realize the truth in Slade’s words, even though he was clearly loath to cooperate with Slade and wondered what tricks he might have up his sleeve. “Very well.”
Prince Albert said, “Come, along, dearest.”
“I will not.” The Queen tore her hand free. “Britain is in danger. I can’t run off like a ninny and hide. I must defend my kingdom.”
I heard Slade stifle a groan. The Queen’s contrary nature had asserted itself at the worst possible time. Dr. Kavanagh frowned because attention had shifted away from him.
“It’s not necessary for you to be here,” Prince Albert said. “I will help Mr. Slade resolve the situation peacefully.”
The Queen swelled with wrath. “Are you saying that you and Mr. Slade can accomplish that better than I can?”
Prince Albert winced; he realized he’d touched a sore point. “Of course not. But you’re the Queen. If anything happens to you, what will become of Britain?”
“Why should anything happen to me?” the Queen said, in high dudgeon now. “Why do you assume that I’ll fail?”
“Think of the children,” Prince Albert pleaded. “Do not put their mother in danger.”
The Queen hesitated, torn between her duty as a monarch and her love for her children. Then her plump, girlish face hardened into mature lines. “There are times for being a mother and times for being a soldier. This is the latter sort of time. I will stay.” She embodied the spirit of her ancestors who’d ridden into battle at the forefront of their armies. At that moment she looked like Henry VIII. “You go.”
“I can’t leave you.” The prince was aghast.
“You will take care of the children. That’s an order.”
Prince Albert was stunned; evidently his wife had never pulled rank on him so harshly before. “Well, then…”
Dr. Kavanagh interrupted: “I’m going ahead with my demonstration. Stay and watch it or not.”
“Go!” the Queen urged Prince Albert. “Now!”
He lumbered away, casting a worried look over his shoulder. The Queen turned to Dr. Kavanagh. “There’s no need for a demonstration. I believe your theory about diseases. I believe that your invention is as wonderful as you claim. Your scientific achievement is duly recognized.”
Her eyebrows went up. “Why not? I am the highest authority in the land.”
“Lord Eastbourne tried to sweep me and my discovery under the rug.” Kavanagh bent an accusing stare on the Queen. “What’s to say that you won’t?”
Drawing herself up, her head high, she said. “I swear on the throne.”
Her oath rang with the full augustness of her royal blood, but Kavanagh only frowned, toying with his matches. He absently set down the jar.
The soldiers rushed at him. Slade said, “No! Don’t!”
Kavanagh screamed, gathered up his bomb, and clasped it to his chest.
“If you break the jars, we’ll be infected and the entire Crystal Palace will be contaminated,” Slade said.
Even as the soldiers skidded to a halt, Stieber fired his gun. The Queen shrieked. One soldier spun, fell, and lay still. A wet patch spread on his uniform jacket. The other soldier gaped with shock. He was a middle-aged man who’d probably spent years guarding the royal family but never experienced a crisis like this. Confused, he aimed the rifle at Kavanagh.
“Do not shoot him,” Stieber said. “Drop your weapon and walk away.” He needed Kavanagh alive, for the Tsar. He aimed his gun at the Queen. “Do as I say, or I’ll shoot Her Majesty.”
She gasped. The soldier let his rifle fall and reluctantly departed. Stieber said to Kavanagh, “If you give me the bomb and come with me to Russia, the Tsar will give you your own laboratory.”
Awe, disbelief, and yearning combined in Kavanagh’s expression. “He would do that?”
“Yes,” Stieber said.
“I’ll top that offer,” Slade said, and looked to the Queen. “With Your Majesty’s permission.”
“You have it,” she said. “Proceed.”
“Not only will we give you a laboratory,” Slade told Kavanagh, “you’ll have unlimited funds for your research.”
Kavanagh listened, as rapt and wishful as a little boy at Christmas, looking at toys in a shop window. Setting his bomb on the floor, he glanced from Slade to Stieber. I wished I could do something to sway his decision, to avert disaster.
“Oh, don’t be so stingy!” the Queen scolded Slade. She said to Kavanagh, “I’ll put Britain’s best scientists at your disposal, to assist you with your work. I’ll create a new Royal Scientific Society and appoint you head of it.” She seemed to understand better than anyone Kavanagh’s need for affirmation of his importance. “And you’ll give lectures about your discoveries to Parliament.”
Emotion choked Kavanagh. “Such riches are laid before me. But it’s too late.” He burst into tears. He smiled a sickly smile filled with pain. “I’m dying.”
Stieber blinked as enlightenment struck him. “He has the disease?”
“Yes,” Slade said.
George Smith, Mr. Thackeray, and the Queen shrank away from Kavanagh, fearing contagion. Stieber cut his eyes at Slade. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would it have made any difference if I had?” Slade said.
Stieber didn’t bother answering. “Come with me, Dr. Kavanagh. Share your knowledge with the Russian scientists before you die. The Tsar will give you a state funeral, with your body embalmed in a glass coffin and the Russian army parading you through the streets of Moscow.”
Kavanagh sobbed. “I have two more days to live, at most. I wouldn’t make it to Russia in time.”
“Give us the bomb,” Slade said, “and we’ll have your state funeral here in England.”
“Miss Bronte and I will write your life story together,” Mr. Thackeray said. “She’s a famous authoress, I’m a famous author, and everyone will read about your great scientific breakthrough.”
“I’ll publish your biography,” George chimed in. “I own a major publishing house, I should mention. I’ll flood the country with copies of the book. Your face will be on the covers, in every bookstore in Britain.”
“You’ll be immortalized,” Slade said.
“Immortalized.” Kavanagh’s voice was hushed; his eyes shone with tears and rapture. “It’s what I always wanted.” For a moment I thought he would capitulate. We were all paralyzed by suspense. I felt hope in the air. We waited… until Kavanagh’s habitual distrust returned. “But when I’m dead, I won’t know whether you kept your word. Instead of giving me the honors I deserve, you might just relegate me to obscurity.” His ghastly expression showed how much he dreaded that fate. “No. I won’t be bought by promises. I must go ahead with my original plan. Then I can die happy, because everyone will know what I’ve done.”
He struck a match. With trembling hands he applied the flame to the fuse.
42
The fuse caught fire. It began to burn. The flame reflected in Niall Kavanagh’s spectacles. Kneeling before his bomb, he had the reverent look of a saint witnessing a divine visitation. For an instant, the rest of us watched in motionless, horrified silence. The next instant, everything happened so fast that I barely had time to register who did what and when.
Slade exclaimed, “Your Majesty! Run!”
She tried to, but stumbled on her skirts. George Smith rushed to help her. Supported on his arm, she ran with him, but tripped again and fell, bringing George down with her. Slade charged toward the bomb. So did Stieber. He didn’t want the bomb to explode, kill him, and foil the Tsar’s plot against England, but neither did he want Slade to gain possession of the device. Before Slade could throw himself on the fuse and smother the flame, Stieber rashly gave in to his desire to destroy Slade. He fired the pistol.
I screamed, “Look out!” But I was too late. Slade dropped as if the bullet had cut his legs out from under him. A shout of pain burst from him as he landed with a heavy thud, on his side, before he reached Kavanagh. He tried to raise himself, his hands slipping in blood that spread on the floor beneath his body. Stieber aimed the gun down at Slade. I rushed to him and grabbed his arm. He threw me off and pulled the trigger.
The gun clicked. It had run out of bullets.
As I sighed with relief, he tossed the gun aside and took another from his coat pocket. He’d taken the extra weapon from one of his men before he’d left them. Now he saw, as I did, that the fuse had burned down to a mere inch. The flame flared and sputtered. Stieber dove at it while he fired on Slade again. Slade rolled away from the shot. He kicked out at Stieber with his left leg. His right leg was bleeding from the wound in his thigh. His foot struck Stieber’s knee. Stieber flailed his arms and lost his grip on the gun as he tried to rebalance himself. It flew out of his hand, skittered across the floor, and stopped near the glass fountain. Stieber fell on his buttocks. Slade crawled toward the fuse. I hurried to help him, but Stieber raced up behind me and shoved me away. He and Slade lunged for the bomb. They collided in midair.
Kavanagh smiled beatifically, as if nothing that was happening could affect him. He seemed ready to die a martyr to his own genius, at peace at last.
Mr. Thackeray stood by, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as if he couldn’t decide whether to join the melee or run. His face had the expression of a stray dog I’d once seen wander into Euston Station, panicked by the roaring locomotives and the crowds. He still clutched his glass of lemonade.
The burning end of the fuse had almost reached the igniting device on the bomb. The flame burned brighter. It crackled and sizzled as it consumed the gunpowder that coated the twine. Slade and Stieber crashed to the floor together, their hands outstretched inches from the fuse. I grabbed the glass from Mr. Thackeray’s hand and dashed the lemonade onto the fuse.
Sometimes we act best when we act unthinkingly. Sometimes the body takes the initiative when the mind is too fraught with confusion to guide us. I didn’t pause to remember that liquid extinguishes fire. I instinctively put the ancient knowledge to work.
The fuse hissed and fizzled out. Lemonade splashed Nia
ll Kavanagh. Uttering a startled grunt, he looked from the wet fuse to me. Slade and Stieber were struggling to untangle themselves from each other. Kavanagh giggled, took another match out of the box, and struck it. But the match was drenched. It wouldn’t light. Neither would the next one he struck. Rendered impotent by common sense, the scientific genius wailed.
Mr. Thackeray and I were so surprised that we stood gaping. Kavanagh flung the matches on the floor. Then he hurled himself, shrieking and sobbing, at me. I was caught off guard. He grabbed me by the front of my dress and shouted, “You spoiled everything!” He shook me so hard that my neck snapped back and forth and my teeth jarred.
His face was purple with fury, bleared with mucus, his bloodshot eyes burning through his tears. At the corners of his mouth, saliva frothed. He reminded me of Branwell during one of his rages, desperate for opium and liquor. But Branwell had never laid a hand on any of us. I had never feared that he would hurt me except inadvertently. Niall Kavanagh punched my left ear. I cried out as pain shot through my jaw, cheekbone, and temple. The lights in the Crystal Palace shimmied and fragmented, as if behind a pane of shattering glass. Noises echoed weirdly. Through them I heard Slade calling, “Charlotte!”
My vision cleared, but I was so dizzy that that the world spun. Niall Kavanagh was yelling at me, calling me profane, ugly names. His angry face whirled before me. Nauseated by vertigo, fearing contagion, I turned my head away. I seized his wrists and tried to break his grip on me, but although he was skin and bone, weakened by disease and dissipation, his temper lent him strength. I could not break free.
Near us, Slade was on the floor with Stieber. Hands gripping each other’s throats, they grunted, shouted, and kicked. Slade rolled on top of his enemy. He lifted Stieber’s head up, then banged it against the floor. He thrashed free of Stieber and sped toward me.
“I’m all right,” the Queen told George Smith, who hesitated between his duty to assist her and his desire to save me. “Go fetch help.”
Although clearly reluctant to abandon her and me, George went running. I saw Stieber raise himself to a sitting position. Gasping and coughing, one hand at his throat, he pushed himself onto his knees. He walked on them toward the bomb.
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