Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë by Laura Joh Rowland Page B

had an impassivity that was as foreign as his accent. “I think he mean to hurt you. So I catch him, chase him away.”
    â€œStop pretending!” I was so incensed that I didn’t care whether what he’d said was true. “You’re not Russian.” My voice rose. “You’re as British as I, Mr. John Slade!”
    The sound of his name uttered so loudly alarmed him. “For God’s sake, keep your voice down!” he said in a furious whisper. The Russian accent was gone.
    â€œAha!” I said. “You admit you are John Slade. What took you so long?”
    He made shushing motions while he looked around to see if anyone was listening. “Be quiet! You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into!”
    â€œYou’re right, John Slade, I don’t. Until I do, I won’t be quiet. Now tell me, why were you in Bedlam? Did you murder the nurses? Or those women in Whitechapel? Why did you come back to England? Do you remember who I am?”
    When he frowned and didn’t reply, I shouted, “Tell me, John Slade!”
    Repeating his name was like chanting a magic spell that gave me power over him. Annoyed resignation settled over his features. I’d seen that same look in the past, whenever I’d determined upon doing things he thought I shouldn’t. “All right,” he said, but in a manner so cold that it was like an icicle driven into my heart. “Yes, I remember you, Miss Charlotte Brontë.” He spoke my name as formally as if we were little more than strangers. “I’ll tell you everything, on one condition—that you never breathe a word of it to anyone.”
    I glared and kept silent, letting him think I agreed to his bargain; later, I would decide whether to renege. Eyeing me cautiously, he began his story: “The Foreign Office sent me to Russia. My mission was to aid and abet Russian intellectuals who are trying to bring about a revolution, and to discover what actions the Tsar plans to take against Britain.”
    That corresponded to what Lord Eastbourne had told me. “Go on.” Although I began to relax because I could believe Slade so far, I warned myself against taking him at his word: deception was his trade, and I had good reason for doubt.
    â€œWhile I was there, I infiltrated the Tsar’s court. The Tsar anticipates a war with Britain in the near future,” Slade said. “He’s been searching for a way to ensure his victory, and he thinks he’s found it at last.”
    Here, Slade’s story departed from Lord Eastbourne’s. I listened with suspicion.
    â€œHis spies abroad learned of a scientist named Niall Kavanagh, a British citizen, Irish by birth. Dr. Kavanagh has apparently invented a device that could give its possessor a crucial advantage in a war. He is currently building a model of his device for the British government, which is keeping him hidden. The Tsar means to have the device.”
    â€œHow do you know this?” I asked.
    â€œFrom eavesdropping on the Tsar’s private conversations in the Kremlin,” Slade said. “The Tsar has sent his favorite spy to fetch Dr. Kavanagh to Moscow. The spy is a man named Wilhelm Stieber.” Darkness pooled in the depths of Slade’s crystalline gray eyes. “Wilhelm Stieber also serves as chief spy to the King of Prussia. He is an expert at espionage, with his own agents all over Europe.” His tone indicated a strong personal dislike for Stieber, and perhaps a rivalry between two expert spies pitted against each other in a deadly game. “I came back to England to find Kavanagh before Stieber does and keep him out of the Tsar’s hands.”
    I wished to believe Slade. How I wished it with all my heart! But his story about the scientist and the secret device seemed fantastic, and I had no corroboration for it. “How does this explain why you were arrested for murder and committed to