The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë by Laura Joh Rowland

A sign over the window depicts a jester juggling coins. That day, a lone customer sat at a table, a glass of wine before him. As Mr. Slade approached him, the man looked up. He was of middle age, with high, square shoulders, colorless hair, arched eyebrows, and a nose as sharp as an accusation. He pulled a gold watch from his embroidered waistcoat, then looked at the timepiece and pointedly at Mr. Slade.
    “Sorry for my tardiness, Lord Unwin,” said Mr. Slade. He sat opposite the other man.
    “You had better have a damned good excuse,” Lord Unwin said in an affected, aristocratic drawl.
    The publican came over, and Mr. Slade ordered whiskey. When he and Lord Unwin were once again alone, Mr. Slade said, “Isabel White has been killed.”
    Lord Unwin’s eyebrows arched higher. “Well, you did suggest that such at thing might come to pass. How, precisely, did it happen?”
    Mr. Slade described the stabbing in Paternoster Row. The publican brought Mr. Slade’s whiskey and departed. Lord Unwin raised his wineglass and said, “May she rest in peace.”
    He and Mr. Slade drank. Lord Unwin sat silent for a moment, his manicured hands encircling his glass, his head bowed, then he fixed his shrewd, colorless gaze on Mr. Slade. “A case of murder means an official inquiry.”
    “Not this one,” Mr. Slade said, and explained how the constable deemed Isabel White’s stabbing a botched robbery not worth investigating.
    “How fortunate that the law is so cooperative.” Lord Unwin smirked. “It wouldn’t do for anyone to connect us with Isabel White and draw the wrong conclusions.”
    “No one will,” Mr. Slade said. “As far as I know, there’s no evidence of any business between us and Isabel White.”
    Lord Unwin’s eyes narrowed. “What about the book?”
    “The police didn’t find it on her. Nor was it in her room. It’s gone.”
    “If it exists at all, and is more than just a figment of your imagination.” Lord Unwin’s thin lips twisted into a sneer.
    “It exists.” Mr. Slade took another drink.
    “By the by,” Lord Unwin drawled, “I have news for you. A message from Birmingham came this morning. Joseph Lock is dead.”
    “What?” Shock jolted the exclamation out of Mr. Slade. “When? How?”
    “Steady, my good man, steady now.” Lord Unwin made a calming gesture, but his eyes gleamed with spite. “Yesterday, Mr. Lock put a bullet into his head. It seems that your options are disappearing in rapid succession.”
    Mr. Slade clenched his jaws. With Joseph Lock and Isabel White dead and the book missing, he faced the ruin of the most important venture of his life.
    “Just how do you plan to finish the job now?” Lord Unwin demanded, but a tinge of apprehension colored his authoritative bluster.
    “There was a witness to Isabel White’s murder,” Mr. Slade said. “Her name is Charlotte Brontë. She and Isabel traveled together on the train from Yorkshire to London. Perhaps Isabel told Miss Brontë something of value to us.”
    “Then you had better pursue Miss Brontë, hadn’t you?” Lord Unwin pushed aside his glass. He took from his pocket a thick envelope and flung it across the table to Mr. Slade.
    Mr. Slade inspected the banknotes in the envelope, then rose. He and Lord Unwin exchanged a stare of mutual dislike and reluctant conspiracy. “I fully intend to,” he replied.

6

    W HO WAS JOHN SLADE? WHAT HAD HE BEEN TO ISABEL White, and what were his intentions regarding me? The answers to those questions will emerge in due course. For now I shall resume my own story.
    In my room at the Chapter Coffee House, I vomited into a basin for the fourth time since Isabel’s death. Anne held my head, which pounded with thunderous pain. Finally I lay back on the bed, exhausted from my violent reaction to the trials of the past two days.
    “Poor Charlotte,” Anne said, gently wiping my face with a damp cloth. “I’m sorry that you are suffering so badly.”
    Sallow dusk glowed through the