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

As he pattered away, I looked up and down the street. Not a hint of life was evident. The only sounds I heard were clangs from distant factories. A shiver of fear and desolation crept up my spine. I looked at the house that the beggar had indicated was Katerina’s. I’d thought she would live in a residence as glamorous as she; then I recalled that she was but a foreign actress at a seedy theater. Dim light leaked around the curtains in the windows. Was Slade visiting his mistress tonight?

I almost quailed at the idea of meeting him in Katerina’s presence. Steeling myself, I walked up the steps. My heart raced; my head still throbbed. The door was ajar. A strange, ruddy light glowed within. Eager for a confrontation yet dreading it, I pushed the door open further and peered inside. To my right was a parlor. Crimson and gold wallpaper and tapestries decorated the walls. Burgundy velvet sofas and chairs stood on a patterned red Turkey carpet. A carved table held a brass samovar. Red candles burned on the mantel over the fireplace. The profusion of color seemed to bleed outward and engulf me. I smelled coffee and exotic perfume. Timid yet curious, I stepped inside the house.

To my left, a flight of carpeted stairs led upward. I heard a woman moaning, and a masculine voice, low and urgent. Although I am no expert on such matters, I recognized the sounds of a couple making love. Slade was with Katerina. Anguish lacerated my heart. I had hoped to find Slade here, but I’d refused to think that I might find him thus engaged. But I started up the stairs, as furtive as a thief. I was more determined than ever to confront Slade, even though it meant witnessing things that would only cause me more pain.

Katerina’s moans turned to cries; the man’s utterances grew more insistent. They were nearing the climax of their pleasure. I knew how that pleasure felt. I had experienced it once with Slade, and, I confess, many times thereafter, alone in my bed; yet I was a virgin still. I had never experienced the ultimate fulfillment that Katerina was experiencing. Choking on rage, jealousy, and tears, I was halfway up the stairs when she began to scream.

Her screams were piercing, shrill, loud enough to hurt my ears. I realized then that my perceptions had been distorted by my jealousy, that those screams expressed not rapture but terror and agony. These were not the sounds of a couple enjoying an amorous encounter. Rather, they conveyed the impression of a woman being tortured. I was so startled that I tripped on the stairs. I fell hard on my knee, with a resounding, painful thud. I exclaimed before I could stop myself. Then I heard rapid footsteps pounding down another set of stairs at the back of the house. A door slammed. The man must have left; I could no longer hear his voice. Katerina shouted words in Russian between her screams, calling for help.

Should I go to her aid and expose myself as a trespasser, or steal away and avoid trouble?

The daughter of a parson cannot turn her back on someone in need. I rushed up the stairs, to a chamber at the top, and almost fell across the threshold. A bizarre sight greeted my eyes. I thought it was a Crucifixion from a medieval painting. A naked figure lay on a background of gold, arms spread out and legs extended, like Jesus Christ on the cross. Sheer white fabric twisted around its groin. Its limbs and torso were marked with red gashes that oozed blood.

As I squinted through my spectacles, trying to make sense of what I saw, the figure groaned and writhed. Its chest heaved, and there I saw female breasts. It was Katerina, on a bed covered by a gold quilt. Her wrists and ankles were tied with ropes to the wrought-iron bedstead. Her head tossed. Her dark eyes were huge with fright.

She saw me and gasped out inarticulate pleas. I rushed to her and tried to untie the ropes that restrained her hands. She struggled so frantically that the knots tightened. “Be still,” I said.

But she fought like a trussed wild beast. I looked around the room for something to cut her bonds, and noticed a knife on the rug. Its black handle and long, narrow steel blade were smeared with blood. It was the weapon used to wound Katerina. The thought of touching it made me ill, but I snatched it up; I cut the ropes. Katerina moaned, her hands clutching her deepest wound-a cut across her abdomen.

“I’ll fetch help,” I said.

She reached out and grabbed my wrist. “No! Don’t leave me!”

Her grip was as strong as a bear trap. I tried to break free but could not. I tried to convince her that she needed a physician.

“It’s no use,” Katerina said. “I am dying.” She breathed in short, uneven gasps. “Please stay with me. I do not want to die alone.”

I snatched up a white shawl that lay upon a chair and pressed it to the wound on her stomach. As I desperately tried to stanch the bleeding, I saw that so much blood had already flowed that the bed was drenched. I noticed that Katerina was also bleeding from between her legs. Although suffering twisted her face, she tried to maintain her self-control. I stared at her, stricken. When I had seen her on stage, she had reminded me of my sister Emily, and now the resemblance was stronger than ever. When Emily took ill with consumption, she never uttered a complaint. She insisted upon going about her business despite the pain in her chest, the violent coughs, and the crippling shortness of breath. She fought for life until the end, when bodily weakness triumphed over her strong spirit; then she faced death with dignity.

As I stood beside Katerina and held her hand, I saw Emily lying on the sofa in the parsonage. I remembered watching helplessly as she declined. Katerina coughed; blood spilled from her mouth. That had happened to Emily, her lungs ravaged by the disease. Now I wept for her all over again. But I was not so lost in memory or grief that I forgot why I’d come. I did not overlook the possibility that Katerina might have information that I wanted.

“Who did this to you?” I asked.

Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

I thought of the women mutilated and murdered in Whitechapel. “Was it John Slade?”

A word emerged from Katerina in a fit of coughing. “Stieber…”

That was the name Slade had mentioned. “Wilhelm Stieber? The Tsar’s spy?” When Katerina nodded feebly, I said, “Why did he do it?”

Katerina mumbled in Russian. Had she forgotten how to speak English? I tried another question: “How do you know Stieber?”

She moaned; her eyes rolled. She brought to mind a horse I’d once seen on a farm outside Haworth. It had fallen and shattered its leg. Its eyes had rolled just like Katerina’s just before the farmer shot it. “I work for him.”

“Doing what?”

“I go with men… I…” Katerina lapsed into Russian again, words that smacked of vulgarity. “… They tell me secrets.”

I pieced together a story influenced by what I’d learned from Slade. “Russian men? You seduce them? And they tell you secrets about plots against the tsar?”

Her head tossed. “Not just Russian. English. Stieber want to find man.” In her agony, her English had deteriorated.

Excitement quickened my pulse. “Is it Niall Kavanagh?”

Katerina gripped my hand harder. I winced. She said, “Man… have gun. Stieber want.”

The scientist’s invention was a gun, I deduced. It must be unique in design, and so powerful that it could guarantee Russia a victory in a war with England. Wilhelm Stieber meant to obtain it for the Tsar. Wilhelm Stieber had ordered Katerina to use her charms on British men who might know where Kavanagh was. And if I could believe Slade, he meant to stop Stieber and keep the gun out of Russian hands.

“Did Stieber find Niall Kavanagh?” I asked. “What about the gun?”