Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “Who are you?” Although his voice was deeper than Branwell’s, it had a familiar inflection—an Irish accent not quite erased by an English education.

  Addled by the ether, shocked by the sight of him, I couldn’t speak.

  “Who is he?” The man pointed at Slade.

  Slade stirred, groaned, and propped himself up on his elbows. “Charlotte?” His voice was furred with sleep. He gazed in bleary confusion at the man before us. “Who—?”

  Now I realized who the man was. “This is Niall Kavanagh.”

  Slade rubbed his eyes. “Well,” he said, at once bewildered and gratified. “Dr. Kavanagh. At last.”

  “How do you know who I am?” Fear joined suspicion in Kavanagh’s manner. “Who are you people?”

  “My name is John Slade, and this is Charlotte Brontë.” Slade added, “My wife,” as though he’d momentarily forgotten we were married. He dragged himself over to Kavanagh. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He extended his hand through the cage’s bars.

  Kavanagh recoiled. Slade noticed the cage and the fact that we were inside it. His gaze moved to the stout iron padlock that held the door shut. He frowned. “Did you put us in here?”

  “Yes.” Kavanagh grinned.

  “Did you throw the bottles of ether at us?”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you were trespassing.” Kavanagh uttered a giggle tinged with hysteria. It raised a chill on my skin, for I had often heard it from Branwell. My dead brother truly seemed to live inside Niall Kavanagh, whose humor abruptly turned to angry belligerence. “Why did you come?”

  “Let us out of the cage,” Slade said, “and we’ll explain.”

  “No!” Kavanagh faltered backward. “If I let you out, it’s all over for me.” Again I heard the echo of Branwell in his voice. It’s all over for me, Branwell had often said during fits of black despair. “You want to destroy me and steal my work—just like everybody else!”

  I remembered Branwell claiming that the world was against him, that everybody was in league to plagiarize his poems, wring all the artistic talent from him, and toss him aside like a dry husk. “We don’t want to hurt you,” I assured Niall Kavanagh in the soothing voice I’d employed with my brother. “We came to help you.”

  “Why should you want to help me? I don’t know you. How do you know me? Who are you?”

  I opened my mouth to speak. Slade said, “Charlotte.” His tone warned me that our captor might react badly to the truth about ourselves or our motives. I turned to Slade. “We owe him an explanation.” I then told Kavanagh, “I’m an authoress. My husband is a former espionage agent for the British crown. We’ve learned that Lord Eastbourne at the Foreign Office employed you to build a device based on your research on animalcules.”

  Kavanagh pounced on this news with all the temper that Slade had anticipated. “Lord Eastbourne said my invention was worthless. He ordered me to cease working on it. He reneged on our contract, the bastard!” Kavanagh’s expression turned sly. “But he didn’t fool me. Lord Eastbourne wanted to steal my invention and take credit for it himself.” He didn’t seem to have considered the possibility that Lord Eastbourne had realized that the weapon worked far too well and was far too dangerous to be built and deployed. Now Kavanagh regarded us with heightened suspicion. “Are you working with Lord Eastbourne?”

  “Far from it,” Slade said. “He did me a bad turn, too.”

  “Any enemy of Lord Eastbourne’s is a friend of mine,” Kavanagh said, although he sounded less than amicable. “But I don’t need help. I’m quite all right on my own.”

  “No, you aren’t,” Slade said. “You’re in a lot of trouble.”

  “How would you know?”

  “You were in such a hurry to quit the British Isles that you left your things behind,” Slade said. “Not to mention that you look like a wreck.”

  Kavanagh’s distrust deepened. “How did you find me?”

  “We spoke with your parents,” Slade said. “They told us you were here.”

  Kavanagh huffed out angry breaths; he clawed his hair. “They promised to keep it secret! The traitors!”

  “They’re concerned about you,” I hastened to say. “You told them that someone is after you. They said you were terrified.”

  “Not anymore.” Kavanagh’s quaking body and the haunted look in his eyes belied his words. “I ran away from Lord Eastbourne. Surely he’s stopped looking for me by now.”

  “He hasn’t,” Slade said. “A few days ago he went to your laboratory in Tonbridge. He burned the place down. What do you think he’ll do when he catches up with you?”

  Kavanagh wobbled. Fear paled the flush in his cheeks. “He’ll never find me here.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Slade said. “Lord Eastbourne will go through the same channels that my wife and I did. But he’s not your only problem.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I took up the story. “Lord Eastbourne isn’t the only person who’s after you. There’s a man named Wilhelm Stieber. He’s the chief spy for Tsar Nicholas of Russia. He has two Prussian soldiers—”

  I stopped because Kavanagh’s face had turned so ghastly white that I thought he would faint. He dropped onto his stool and whispered, “It’s true, then. I wasn’t just imagining them. They were snooping around my house in Whitechapel. I saw them when I went back to look for some things I thought I’d left there. I hoped it was just a hallucination.” Hunched in fear, he asked, “What do they want with me?”

  “Stieber knows about your invention,” Slade said. “He wants it for the Tsar.”

  Kavanagh stared, his mouth open, astonished. “He believes my invention works?”

  “Yes. That’s why he traveled all the way from Russia to find you,” Slade said.

  “At last!” Kavanagh’s mood altered yet again; a gleeful smile crept across his face. “Somebody important believes in me. He doesn’t think I’m deluded. At last, my genius is recognized!” Kavanagh dropped to his knees, clasped his hands. “Thank God!”

  Slade and I exchanged troubled glances. Kavanagh didn’t seem to understand that being wanted by Russia wasn’t the boon he craved. Slade said, “Stieber believes so strongly in your invention that he has tortured people to obtain information on your whereabouts. He wants it so badly that he has killed twice in an attempt to get it.”

  I watched trepidation erase Kavanagh’s smile.

  “Stieber and the Tsar are even less trustworthy than Lord Eastbourne, and they’re far more dangerous,” Slade continued. “They mean to use your weapon in a war against England. Thousands of people will die.”

  “So be it,” Kavanagh said, shaken yet defiant. “The way England has treated me, and my people, it deserves to be punished.”

  “Should a plague start in England, it will spread to Ireland. Your own people will be killed,” Slade said.

  Kavanagh sniffed.

  Reader, I do not mean to give the impression that Branwell was as unreasonable, self-centered, or destructive as Niall Kavanagh. My brother started out a generous, considerate, loving person. Despite his weaknesses and passions to which he succumbed, he never had the dire, inborn flaw that afflicted Kavanagh. But Branwell and Kavanagh were points along the same spectrum of bad character. Even though my experience with Branwell had been miserable, it gave me insight into Niall Kavanagh. Perhaps I could gain command over the man.

  “I understand how you feel,” I said. “You want to be valued for your genius. You want to be remembered. You want your name written into the history of great men of the world.”

  Such had been Branwell’s fondest wishes. Now Niall Kavanagh nodded eagerly. “Yes! That’s right! It’s what I’ve been working toward all my life!”

  “But that won’t happen if you fall in with Wilhelm Stieber,” I said.

  “Oh?” Kavanagh thrust out his lip and folded his arms, like a boy who’s been denied a sweet. “Why not?”

  Slade
quickly caught on to my aims. “Stieber will steal your invention. He’ll kill you and dump your body in a ditch.”

  “No one else will know what happened to you,” I said. “It will be as if you never existed.”

  The conceit leaked out of Kavanagh like air from a balloon. At last he realized that he’d gotten in trouble over his head, and he dissolved into trembling fright, misery, and despair. He looked worse than Branwell had when most plagued by the aftereffects of liquor and opium. Crawling up to the cage, he implored, “What should I do? Help me! Please!”

  I heard Slade expel a breath of satisfaction. I, too, was glad that we had Niall Kavanagh ready to cooperate with us; but I pitied him as I had pitied Branwell. Such another sorry waste of talent!

  “Everything will be all right,” Slade assured Kavanagh. “We’ll take you back to England. We’ll protect you.”

  “You’ ll be safe,” I said. “You can work in peace, and be rewarded handsomely.”

  Slade and I avoided looking at each other while we spoke; we felt guilty for deceiving a sick, vulnerable man. Kavanagh didn’t know that we intended to turn him over to the British government, which would likely make sure he quit his dangerous research and never built any more destructive devices.

  “Oh, yes!” He sobbed in relief; delight shone through his tears while he envisioned a rosy future. “Thank you!”

  “All you have to do is let us out of this cage and come with us,” Slade said.

  “Very well.” Kavanagh sprang up. “Now what did I do with the key?” We held our breath, fearing that he’d lost it. Kavanagh began hunting in his pockets. “Oh, no!”

  “Maybe you dropped it.” I’d enacted such a scene many times with Branwell, when he’d misplaced his valuables. Now I endeavored to stay calm. “Look everywhere you’ve been since you used the key. Retrace your steps.”

  Kavanagh crawled along the floor, peering through his spectacles, his hands scrabbling in the dirt. “Ah!” He triumphantly held up the key, scurried to us—then halted. “Why should I trust you to do what you say you will?” His suspicion flared anew.

  “Because we have your best interests at heart,” I said.

  “Because we’re the only people who can help you,” Slade added. “Unlock the cage, and we’ll show you that we’re on your side.”

  Kavanagh frowned, torn between his wish to believe us and the fear engendered by drink, disease, natural inclination, and ill treatment from other folk. “How do I even know that you’re who you say you are? Have you any proof?”

  “In my pocketbook.” It lay on the floor some fifteen feet away, where I’d fallen when I’d lost consciousness. “There,” I said, pointing.

  Kavanagh set the key on the stool on his way to fetch my pocketbook. He rummaged inside the pocketbook and found the paper I always carried, the only identification I’d brought. He read, “‘I am Charlotte Brontë. In case of an emergency, please contact my father, the Reverend Patrick Brontë, at the parsonage in Haworth, Yorkshire.’” He looked askance at me, tossed the paper and pocketbook on the floor, and turned to Slade. “What about you?”

  Slade reached inside his pocket and removed a card. As he handed it to Kavanagh, I saw that all it said was, “John Slade.” Kavanagh took the card, glanced at it, then snorted and threw it onto my pocketbook. “It doesn’t say you ever worked for the Foreign Office.”

  “Agents don’t carry documents that identify them as such,” Slade said. “That would be dangerous, should we fall into the hands of our enemies.”

  “That’s a convenient explanation,” Kavanagh said scornfully. “Who are you really?”

  Although we tried to convince him that we were telling the truth, we couldn’t overcome his suspicion. Kavanagh jabbed his finger at us. “Ah! I know who you are. You’re agents for the Tsar. You’re trying to trick me into giving you my invention and telling you my secret techniques for building it!”

  We could only deny it; alas, we had no proof to offer. Kavanagh grew more agitated. He ambled in circles, muttering to himself. “If they found me here, so will their accomplices, so will Lord Eastbourne. They’ll kill me. They’ll steal my invention and my secrets. I’ll never have the fame or glory I dreamed of. What shall I do?”

  Slade and I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t listen. He gulped wine from his bottle. “I must leave this place. I must find somewhere else to hide.”

  I despaired because the liquor would only make him less tractable. Now he flew into a rage, tearing at his hair and clothes. “How unjust it is that I should be a fugitive, when I am the greatest scientist who ever lived!” Kavanagh wept and blubbered. “How terrible that I should have to hide the most spectacular invention of all time or die!” He turned on us in fury. “Damn you! You’ve brought me to this!” Like Branwell, he blamed others for his woes. “If I must die, then so must you!”

  But Branwell had never physically harmed anyone but himself. Kavanagh scrambled away, snatched up something that lay in the shadows beyond his lamp. He returned, brandishing an axe.

  “No!” I fled to the far end of the cage and cringed.

  “Pull yourself together, man,” Slade ordered, and I heard the desperation beneath the authority in his voice. “Think rationally. You know Lord Eastbourne has treated you ill. You’ve seen Stieber’s spies sniffing around, trying to nab your invention. But what harm have we ever done you? None! We shouldn’t be punished for everyone else’s sins.”

  “If you kill us, you’ll just make things worse for yourself,” I said. “You’re already wanted in connection with the deaths of Mary Chandler, Catherine Meadows, and Jane Anderson. Two more murders, and you’ll surely hang.”

  Kavanagh gaped, stricken. “You know about my experiments?” Then he giggled. “You won’t live long enough to tell.”

  He swung the axe. Slade ducked. I screamed. The blade struck a bar of the cage with an ear-splitting, echoing clang. Kavanagh reeled, off balance. He hauled back for another swing.

  “For your own good, don’t!” Slade shouted. “Cooperating with us is your only hope of surviving, let alone getting the recognition you want.”

  Kavanagh’s mood shifted yet again, with lightning speed. Mischievous cunning gleamed in his bloodshot eyes. “Maybe you’re right: you can do me more good alive than dead.”

  36

  KAVANAGH ABRUPTLY TURNED AND DEPARTED. HIS FIGURE vanished into the darkness of the dungeon. His shuffling footsteps receded down a passage; then a door slammed shut. Slade and I looked at each other in bewildered surprise.

  “What can he intend?” I asked.

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea,” Slade said, “but we’d best get out of this cage.”

  He yanked on the lock, but it held firm. I tested the bars, which were too sturdy to break. Slade stretched his arm through them, but it reached a fraction of the distance to the footstool. The key glittered there like fool’s gold, bright and mocking. We then tried to move the cage, but it was bolted to the floor. Slade removed his coat, grasped one sleeve, and flung the garment at the key. He only managed to knock the key off the footstool. It bounced on the floor and landed farther out of reach. Slade said, “Damnation!”

  “Maybe we can pick the lock.” I lifted my hands to my hair and was about to remove a pin, when we heard wheels rattling. Slade signaled me to desist. He hurriedly donned his coat. We stood and waited, endeavoring to look innocent. I hoped Kavanagh wouldn’t notice that the key had been moved.

  He reappeared, pushing a cart laden with boxes, casks, and various tools. “This is my invention. I’ve made up my mind that people must know what I’ve accomplished before I die. You shall have the honor of being the first.” Kavanagh bent over a box on the cart and removed the top. Inside, cushioned by straw, were a dozen glass jars with metal lids. “Look!” He held a jar aloft on his palm, displaying its powdery, brownish contents; he beamed with pride. “The culmination of my scientific research.”

  “That’s the disease-producing material you
used to infect those women in Whitechapel?” Slade said.

  As we gazed upon the jar with repugnance, Kavanagh laughed. “No, no. Those experiments were but an early stage in my work.” He shook the jar; the powder swirled inside. “This is a culture of something far more serious. Have you ever heard of woolsorter’s disease?”

  I nodded. Woolsorter’s disease was an ailment of cattle, sheep, and goats, also of farm folk who handled animal products; hence, its name. In the cities it was known as ragpicker’s disease, afflicting people who manufactured buttons from animal horns and brushes made from bristles, worked in the leather industry, or handled cloth that had touched persons suffering from the disease. The symptoms were a cough, sore throat, fatigue, and severe difficulty in breathing. Woolsorter’s disease was usually fatal within days. There was no cure, and no prevention except to boil the victims’ clothes and bedding, wash down their rooms with lye, and cremate their dead bodies. The disease was one of the oldest and most dreaded in history, believed by some to be the sixth plague mentioned in the Bible. Outbreaks had frequently ravaged Europe. Now Slade and I were horrified to realize what Niall Kavanagh’s invention was.

  “This one jar contains enough animalcules to infect an entire city.” Kavanagh tossed the jar up into the air and barely managed to catch it. He giggled at our fright. “Would you like to know how I cultured them?”

  “First we would like you to put that jar down,” Slade said. “Then we would like to come out of the cage.”

  “Never mind what you want,” Kavanagh said, although he did set the jar in the box. “I want you to know the details of my research, so I will tell you, and you will listen.”

  He assumed the pedantic manner of a professor lecturing. “I traveled to the countryside, talked to farmers, and located a field where some cows that had died of the disease were buried. I dug them up.”