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

“I refuse to say until you answer Mr. Smith’s questions.”
    D. I. Hart looked surprised and vexed. I folded my arms. He put on a condescending expression and said, “The murder victims were nurses. It was an inmate who killed them.”
    I had been so relieved to discover that Slade wasn’t the victim, but now I felt a cold, ominous touch of dread.
    â€œAs far as I can deduce, they were removing him from the treatment table,” D. I. Hart said. “They thought he was unconscious, but he was faking. When they undid the straps, he attacked them. He hit one nurse on the head with a truncheon. He fought with the other, grabbed a hypodermic syringe, and stabbed him through the eye.”
    George Smith shook his head in disapproving wonder. I could hardly bear to ask whether Slade was the murderer, but I had to know. “Was the inmate a tall, thin man with shaggy black hair and gray eyes, about forty years old?”
    Interest kindled in D. I. Hart’s gaze. He looked even more carnivorous than before. “So I’m told. How did you know?”
    It was as I’d feared: the police thought Slade was the murderer.
    â€œA nurse reported that a lady visitor had wandered into the criminal lunatics’ wing yesterday.” Matron Hunter bent a speculative stare on me. “Was that you, Miss Brontë? Did you see the inmate then?”
    â€œIt was, and I did,” I said. “But he didn’t kill those men!”
    â€œWhat makes you so sure?” D. I. Hart said. “Do you know him?”
    â€œYes,” I said with passionate conviction, “and I know that John Slade is innocent.”
    â€œIt appears you don’t know the man at all,” D. I. Hart said with a smug, unpleasant smile. “His name isn’t John Slade. It’s Josef Typinski. And it’s highly unlikely that you’ve ever met him. He’s a refugee from Poland.”

    At first I was shocked by this news, and jarred out of my certainty that the man I’d seen was Slade.
    â€œIt’s just as I suggested,” George said gently. “You made a mistake.”
    Then I recalled that his work often required Slade to use aliases. Adept at foreign accents and languages, he could easily have styled himself as a Polish refugee. But I couldn’t tell the detective inspector any of this, for I was sworn to secrecy.
    â€œI want to see him,” I said. “Where is he?”
    â€œI’d like to see him, too, but that’s not possible at the moment,” D. I. Hart said. “He’s escaped.”
    Relief vied with fresh horror in me. Slade wasn’t under arrest, but he was a wanted man, a fugitive.
    â€œWhy was this Josef Typinski committed to Bedlam in the first place?” George asked.
    â€œI’m not allowed to say,” Matron Hunter answered. “Information about the inmates is confidential.”
    I had to find Slade. I had to hear, from him, the truth about the murders. “Where might he have gone?”
    D. I. Hart’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t be thinking of looking for him yourself, now would you?” He rose from his seat and stepped back from me, as if he’d finished picking my carcass down to bare bones. “Information concerning police investigations is confidential. You’d better go home and stay out of this, for your own sake.”
    Walking through the asylum with me, George said, “I didn’t care for the detective inspector, but he’s right. I’ll take you home. You can rest and forget this whole business.”
    â€œNo! I can’t!” As I resisted the pressure George applied to my arm, I saw some hospital staff members standing idle, watching me. One of them was the foreigner. I pointed and said, “That’s the man I told you about—the one I saw with Mr. Slade!”
    The foreigner met my gaze. His gaze was as pale as if bleached by lye, and menacing. I felt a chill,