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

They sat rigidly upright, foreign soldiers in British civilian garb. Friedrich was a fine specimen of strong manhood; Wagner his lanky, puffy-faced, distorted reflection.
    â€œDid you find out what you wanted to know, sir?” Friedrich asked.
    â€œYes.” The Prussian relayed the intelligence gleaned from the maid.
    Wagner said, “Sir, is this Charlotte Brontë a problem?”
    â€œObviously. She witnessed our operation in Bedlam. If she tells the police what she saw, they may investigate because she is a woman of position. And we do not want the police snooping in our business.”
    Wagner frowned. “She could make trouble for us in Bedlam.”
    â€œAlso in more important spheres,” the Prussian said grimly. “She is acquainted with John Slade. Maybe they spoke before we got to him. Maybe he told her something.”
    â€œWhat should we do, sir?” Friedrich asked.
    â€œFor now we’ll watch her,” the Prussian said. “If she appears to know too much—” He removed from his pocket a long, slender knife and slid it out of its leather sheath. The sharp blade reflected his pale eyes, which were devoid of mercy. “We follow standard procedure.”

    As we rode through Hyde Park Gardens, Mr. Thackeray said, “Which play have you chosen for our enjoyment, Miss Brontë?”
    â€œ The Wildwood Affair ,” I said.
    â€œI’ve not heard of that one,” Mrs. Brookfield said.
    â€œAt which theater is it playing?” Mrs. Crowe asked.
    â€œThe Royal Pavilion,” I said.
    Mrs. Brookfield said, “Where, pray tell, is that?”
    â€œIn Whitechapel.” I could tell that neither Mrs. Brookfield nor Mrs. Crowe wanted to attend a play not endorsed by the critics, in a poor part of town. I confess that I was a little amused by their discomfiture. They turned entreatingly to Mr. Thackeray.
    Mr. Thackeray said, “I told Miss Brontë that she could choose the play, and a man must keep his promises.”
    The ladies conceded with good grace. They chatted politely with me until we reached Whitechapel. The bright Saturday afternoon bustle was gone. Harlots posed under the flickering gas lamps along the high street and called to passing men. Drunkards filled gin palaces, from which spilled rowdy laughter and discordant music. The crowds were still thick around the stalls, but new attractions had sprung up, like plants that only bloom at night. Curtained enclosures housed a freak show, whose signs advertised hairy men and hairless dogs, gorillas and giants, Aztecs and bearded women. Excitement and danger laced the foul, smoky air. The back streets were dark, fearsome tunnels.
    It wasn’t hard to believe that a murderer had stabbed and mutilated his victims there.
    Mrs. Brookfield murmured, “My heavens.” Mrs. Crowe’s huge eyes grew huger with fright. Even Mr. Thackeray looked uncertain. The carriage stopped outside the Royal Pavilion Theater. With its Grecian columns and dingy white plaster façade, it resembled a ruined classical temple. The people who poured in through the door hailed from the lower classes, the men in laborers’ clothes, the women in cheap finery. When we alit from the carriage, a crowd gathered to watch. We were ridiculously overdressed. Boys jeered and whistled at us. We walked toward the theater, surrounded by coarse, staring faces, jostled by the other patrons. Mr. Thackeray nodded, smiled, and bowed as if making an appearance at Buckingham Palace. Mrs. Brookfield and Mrs. Crowe cringed. I searched the crowd for Slade, but in vain.
    At the ticket booth, Mr. Thackeray bought four seats in front boxes. Inside, the shabby auditorium was dimly lit by guttering lamps around the stage. Our shoes stuck to the floor as we walked down the aisle. Most of the seats were already filled. A roar of conversation and laughter resounded up to the galleries. The air smelled of gas, tobacco smoke, urine, and