Laura Rowland - Bedlam - The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte

George sighed in exasperation as he joined me. “You need to consider the possibility that even if this Josef Typinski is your friend John Slade, he’s not the man you knew.”

I wondered if something had happened to Slade, had changed him from a sane man of honor into a crazed murderer. As to what it might be, I couldn’t imagine. I had to know the truth, and Josef Typinski’s lodgings seemed the only source of clues.

We waited an hour, inching up a foul staircase so narrow that people coming down had to squeeze past us. Finally we reached the head of the line, outside a door on the second floor. There the landlady stood, like Cerberus guarding the gates to Hades. Indeed, she resembled a small, fierce bulldog. A neat black frock and white cap gave her a veneer of respectability, which was compromised by the tobacco pipe gripped between her sharp yellow teeth.

“That’ll be a tuppence,” she said. George paid. “You’ve got five minutes.”

We stepped into the room. The landlady hovered inside the door, to make sure we didn’t steal anything. The room was a tiny cell, its window so begrimed that little light came through, furnished with an iron bed and a washbasin on a stand. A travel-worn black valise stood in a corner. I breathed a scent that brought forth a flood of memories.

Scent is a time machine that can instantly transport one to places and people long lost. My surroundings faded. I lay in a forest with Slade, his arms around me, our mouths locked in a kiss. It was Slade’s scent-masculine, faintly salty with sweat, but fresh despite the squalid conditions in which he apparently now lived. The sensations of nostalgia and yearning were so powerful that tears sprang to my eyes.

“There’s not much here.” George Smith’s voice snapped me back to the present.

He was examining clothes strewn upon the unmade bed. I surreptitiously wiped my eyes before I joined him. The clothes were such as a poor European immigrant might own-worn trousers, shirt, undergarments, coat, a pair of socks. I didn’t think Slade would have left his possessions in such disorder. He had once stayed at my home for a while, and he’d been a tidy, self-contained guest.

George opened the valise. “This is empty.”

I eyed the landlady. She must have put all of Slade’s things out, the better for curiosity seekers to gawk at. I wanted to snatch up the shirt, bury my face in it, and inhale the vestiges of Slade’s presence, but I didn’t want to betray my feelings. The washstand held a towel, comb, soap, cup, and shaving brush. I saw a black hair tangled in the comb. My hand made an involuntary movement toward it, but the landlady snapped, “Don’t touch.” I snatched my hand back. She added, “The police took away his razor. They figured he used it on those women.”

I couldn’t control the shudder that passed through me. George said, “Even if he isn’t the killer, let us hope that your friend John Slade is not the same man as Josef Typinski. That he would use an alias is extremely shady.”

However, I could think of a legitimate reason why Slade would pose as an immigrant Pole. Maybe he was on a secret assignment for the Foreign Office, the branch of the British government that employed him. Maybe Slade hadn’t contacted me because he could-n’t risk breaking his disguise. But I couldn’t tell this to George. Not only was I sworn to secrecy; he would never believe me.

“Time’s up,” the landlady said.

“Not yet!” I couldn’t bear to leave without the answers to my questions, and here I felt close to Slade. I cast a frantic gaze around the room and saw, under one leg of the washstand, a folded piece of paper. It must have been put there to prevent the washstand from rocking. I bent and picked up the paper. The landlady was instantly at my side.

“What’s that?” she said.

I unfolded the paper. It was a handbill printed on cheap paper, which read, “The Royal Pavilion Theater Presents Katerina the Great in The Wildwood Affair.” A crude illustration showed a dark-haired woman with haunted eyes.

“Give me that.” The landlady snatched the handbill from me. She laid it on the bed with the clothing, for the next gawkers to view.

George shot me a look that said he knew what I was thinking. “No, Charlotte. I would do just about anything for you, but I am not taking you to see The Wildwood Affair.”

“That’s quite all right,” I said. “You needn’t.”

I had a better idea.

That evening, in my room at the Smiths’ house, I put on my best gown. My hands trembled as I smoothed the folds of gray satin that glowed with an emerald sheen. I supposed that other women all over London were preparing for a night out, but I felt none of the frivolous gaiety that they must have felt. I donned the gown as if it were armor for a battle.

I arranged my hair in a simple knot. The face in the mirror was as plain as ever. Once my plainness had caused me much grief, but these days I liked my visage better: it belonged to Currer Bell, the author who’d fulfilled my childhood dreams. And the dress brought back happy memories of the first time I’d worn it, three years ago, the first and only time John Slade and I had danced together. His admiration had made me feel beautiful. I saw my eyes shine with tears. Had I lost him forever? Or would I find him tonight?

I went downstairs and met Mr. Thackeray and two ladies, one buxom and willowy and fair, the other slight and dark, both dressed in silk gowns and glittering gems. “Good evening, Jane-er, Miss Bronte,” said Mr. Thackeray. “Please allow me to present two dear friends of mine.” He introduced the slight, dark lady. “This is Mrs. Crowe, your fellow authoress.”

Mrs. Crowe had huge, intense, unblinking eyes. She might have been pretty were she not so thin. “It’s a privilege to meet you,” she said in a hushed voice. “I so admire your work. Perhaps you’ve heard of mine?”

“Yes.” I understood that she wrote about mediums, seances, and the spirits on the Other Side. I thought it utter claptrap, but I said, “I look forward to reading your books.”

“And this is Mrs. Brookfield,” Mr. Thackeray said.

Smiling, conspiratorial glances passed between him and the fair woman, a rich society hostess. Although not young, she was beautiful. She was also Mr. Thackeray’s paramour. “I’m glad to make your acquaintance,” she said in a friendly fashion. I took an immediate dislike to her. Mr. Thackeray was himself a married man, and I could not condone adultery.

“You look splendid tonight,” Mr. Thackeray said to me with such sincere admiration that I forgave him his sins. “Are you ready for our expedition to the theater?”

Here I must describe other events that occurred outside my view. The details, based on facts I later learned, are as accurate as I can make them. Reader, you will see that when I went to the theater that night with Mr. Thackeray and his friends, I was in grave danger.

As our carriage rattled down the road, the street seemed deserted; the pools of light beneath the lamps were empty. A warm hush enveloped Hyde Park Gardens. I didn’t notice the figure standing in the shadow under a tree near the house I’d just left. It was the foreigner I had seen in Bedlam, the Tsar’s Prussian conspirator. He had followed George and me from the asylum to Whitechapel, and from Whitechapel to the Smith house. Now he watched the house until a maid stepped out the front door, on her way home for the night.

“Excuse me,” he said.

She gasped and paused. “Lord, you gave me a scare.”

“Who is the master of this house?”

“Mr. George Smith,” the maid blurted.

“Who was the lady that left in the carriage?”

“Which lady?” The maid stepped back from him, wary of strangers, sensing that he was more dangerous than most.