I went downstairs and met Mr. Thackeray and two ladies, one buxom and willowy and fair, the other slight and dark, both dressed in silk gowns and glittering gems. “Good evening, Jane-er, Miss Bronte,” said Mr. Thackeray. “Please allow me to present two dear friends of mine.” He introduced the slight, dark lady. “This is Mrs. Crowe, your fellow authoress.”
Mrs. Crowe had huge, intense, unblinking eyes. She might have been pretty were she not so thin. “It’s a privilege to meet you,” she said in a hushed voice. “I so admire your work. Perhaps you’ve heard of mine?”
“Yes.” I understood that she wrote about mediums, seances, and the spirits on the Other Side. I thought it utter claptrap, but I said, “I look forward to reading your books.”
“And this is Mrs. Brookfield,” Mr. Thackeray said.
Smiling, conspiratorial glances passed between him and the fair woman, a rich society hostess. Although not young, she was beautiful. She was also Mr. Thackeray’s paramour. “I’m glad to make your acquaintance,” she said in a friendly fashion. I took an immediate dislike to her. Mr. Thackeray was himself a married man, and I could not condone adultery.
“You look splendid tonight,” Mr. Thackeray said to me with such sincere admiration that I forgave him his sins. “Are you ready for our expedition to the theater?”
Here I must describe other events that occurred outside my view. The details, based on facts I later learned, are as accurate as I can make them. Reader, you will see that when I went to the theater that night with Mr. Thackeray and his friends, I was in grave danger.
As our carriage rattled down the road, the street seemed deserted; the pools of light beneath the lamps were empty. A warm hush enveloped Hyde Park Gardens. I didn’t notice the figure standing in the shadow under a tree near the house I’d just left. It was the foreigner I had seen in Bedlam, the Tsar’s Prussian conspirator. He had followed George and me from the asylum to Whitechapel, and from Whitechapel to the Smith house. Now he watched the house until a maid stepped out the front door, on her way home for the night.
“Excuse me,” he said.
She gasped and paused. “Lord, you gave me a scare.”
“Who is the master of this house?”
“Mr. George Smith,” the maid blurted.
“Who was the lady that left in the carriage?”
“Which lady?” The maid stepped back from him, wary of strangers, sensing that he was more dangerous than most.
“The small, plain one.”
“None of your business, I’m sure.” Offended by his impertinence, she was haughty as well as frightened.
He took a sovereign from his pocket and offered it to her. Her eyes bulged with greed. She accepted the coin. “The lady’s Charlotte Bronte, also known as Currer Bell. The famous authoress.”
“Does she reside in the house?”
“No. She’s just visiting.”
“Where does she reside?”
“Haworth. In Yorkshire.” The maid slid a nervous glance toward the house. “I can’t talk anymore. The mistress doesn’t like us to gossip.” She hurried away.
The Prussian walked around the corner, to a waiting carriage. He climbed in and sat opposite the two men already inside. Their names were Friedrich and Wagner. 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.
“Did you find out what you wanted to know, sir?” Friedrich asked.
“Yes.” The Prussian relayed the intelligence gleaned from the maid.
Wagner said, “Sir, is this Charlotte Bronte a problem?”
“Obviously. 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.”
“Also 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.”
“What should we do, sir?” Friedrich asked.
“For 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 Bronte?”
“ The Wildwood Affair,” I said.
“I’ve not heard of that one,” Mrs. Brookfield said.
“At which theater is it playing?” Mrs. Crowe asked.
“The Royal Pavilion,” I said.
Mrs. Brookfield said, “Where, pray tell, is that?”
“In 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 Bronte 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 facade, 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 the crowd’s breath, which reeked of beer, onions, and bad teeth. People stared and pointed at us as we took our seats. We were the center of attention until the play started.
The first scene featured a miserly old man who owned a mill in a fictional town called Wildwood. Sporting a black mustache and hat, he cut the wages of his workers; he strutted, sneered, and counted piles of cash. He was a ludicrous caricature, whom the audience booed with great gusto. Mr. Thackeray chuckled tolerantly. Mrs. Brookfield and Mrs. Crowe looked bored.
When the mill owner called for his wife, an expectant hush settled over the audience. A young woman walked out onto the stage. She was as slim as a wraith, dressed in a white, diaphanous gown that clung to her full breasts. Black, curling hair streamed down her back. Her features were distinctly Slavic, her deep-set eyes aglow with passion. The portrait on the playbill had not done her beauty justice. All gazes were riveted on her. Whispers of “Katerina the Great” swept the audience. Someone murmured, “A Jewess from Russia.” I’d never seen her before, but I was so shocked by recognition that I uttered a cry I couldn’t stifle. For the second time since I’d arrived in London, the dead had been resurrected. Katerina the Great was my sister Emily.
She did not resemble Emily in physical appearance, but rather in spirit. She burned with the same inner fire.
