Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë by Laura Joh Rowland Read Free Book Online Page A

the floor. They were dressed in plain cotton trousers and smocks. One was crumpled on his side. A gory halo of blood surrounded his head. The other man sprawled on his back, arms flung out. From his left eye protruded a slim glass cylinder equipped with a plunger, such as the one I’d seen used by the foreigner yesterday. Its needle had penetrated deep into the man’s brain.
    I experienced an onslaught of relief, confusion, and astonishment.
    Neither dead man was Slade.
    I fell into the arms of George Smith. He beheld the scene inside the room and said, “Good Lord!” He turned me so that my face was against his chest and I could see no more.

    I managed not to faint; my adventures of 1848 had given me a reserve of stamina. But I was so breathless that I couldn’t walk. George carried me out of the lunatics’ wing, shouting for help. I was put in a wheelchair and conveyed to a chamber used for conferences. A doctor administered smelling salts. A matron fetched me a cup of hot tea. I drank the tea and revived somewhat. George sat at the table with me; he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
    â€œThat was the most awful sight I’ve ever seen. I’m just glad it wasn’t your friend who was murdered.” He paused, then said, “Who exactly is this John Slade?”
    I hadn’t told him that Slade was a spy for the Crown. None but a few privileged persons were supposed to know. “He’s a clergyman from Canterbury.” That was a false identity Slade had once used. It would have to do.
    â€œHow did you come to know him?”
    I’d been sworn to secrecy about the circumstances under which I’d known Slade. “We had a mutual acquaintance.” It was Isabel White, the woman whose murder had launched me on my adventure of 1848.
    George stroked his chin; he seemed to debate with himself on the wisdom of pursuing the subject. “May I ask exactly how well you know Mr. Slade?”
    He didn’t want to hear that Slade had been my suitor, I could tell. He most certainly didn’t want his company’s famous authoress to have romantic connections with a mental patient. What an ado the newspapers would make about that! And I couldn’t tell him anything of what had passed between Slade and me.
    â€œMr. Slade is a good friend, but no more,” I settled for saying.
    George scrutinized me closely, and I averted my eyes from the suspicion in his. Fortunately, we were interrupted by the arrival of the man in the black raincoat and a middle-aged woman dressed in a gray frock, a white apron, and a white cap. She had a prim mouth, sharp eyes and nose, and cheeks as rosy, mottled, and hard as crabapples.
    â€œI’m Henrietta Hunter, matron of Bethlem Hospital,” she said. “Are you feeling better?”
    I said I was. The black-coated man said, “Good, because I want a few words with you.” His high, stooped shoulders, black garments, and long face gave him the look of a vulture. His greenish eyes flicked over me as if I were a carcass he was wondering whether to eat. “I’m Detective Inspector Hart, from the Metropolitan Police.”
    George rose and demanded, “What is going on here? Who were those men that were killed? Who killed them, and how did it happen?”
    â€œMr. Smith, is it?” D. I. Hart said with a humorless smile. “You bullied my constable into letting you into the crime scene. You hadn’t ought to have done that. He’s in trouble, and so will you be, unless you sit down and keep quiet.”
    George reluctantly obeyed.
    â€œThat’s better.” D. I. Hart pulled up a chair next to mine, turned it to face me, and sat. Matron Hunter remained standing near me, like a jailer. He asked my name, and after I gave it, said, “What do you know about this, Miss Brontë?”
    My status as a famous authoress gave me the confidence to stand up to him instead of meekly surrendering.