traitor.”
My mouth dropped. Shock delivered after too many previous shocks rendered me speechless.
“Apparently, Slade had given the Third Section the names of his three fellow British agents,” Lord Eastbourne said. “The Third Section arrested and murdered all of them. Our informant said that Slade had begun working for the Tsar, as an expert on British espionage, foreign policy, and military strategy.”
I found my voice. “That can’t be! Slade would never betray his country or his comrades!”
“Our source is reliable,” Lord Eastbourne countered, “and his statement was corroborated by the team of agents we sent to investigate.”
“I refuse to believe it!” My whole body was shaking, so agitated was I. “Where is Slade? I must hear his side of the story!”
Lord Eastbourne regarded me with a sympathy that I found more ominous than reassuring. He took my hand and held it between his own, which were warm, dry, and strong. The intimate gesture filled me with dread, for I had often seen clergymen extend it to the newly bereaved. “Miss Bronte, I know you think highly of John Slade. I regret to inform you that Slade was executed for treason. Our team of agents ambushed him in Moscow and shot him.”
Even as I went faint with horror, disbelief and anger flooded me. I wrenched my hand out of Lord Eastbourne’s. “Slade is alive! I saw him last night! I just told you so!”
The sympathy in Lord Eastbourne’s eyes turned to pity. “Whoever you saw, it couldn’t have been him. Whether or not you believe he was a traitor, you must face this fact: John Slade has been dead for four months now.”
10
When I returned to Gloucester terrace, all I wanted to do was avoid everyone, shut myself in my room, think on what I’d learned at the Foreign Office, and try to recover from my shock. But George Smith met me at the foot of the stairs. “Where have you been?” He was clearly relieved to see me, but vexed by my absence.
“I had business to attend to.” I couldn’t tell him what business.
Mrs. Smith joined us, happy that I’d displeased George. “Miss Bronte might have told us she was going out. But she is a secretive, stealthy sort of houseguest.”
“Our appointment with Dr. Browne, the phrenologist, is at nine o’clock,” George said. “I was worried that you wouldn’t come back in time. Had you forgotten?”
“Oh, dear. I am sorry.” I had indeed forgotten that we’d arranged to meet with Dr. Browne, who examined the skulls of his clients in order to assess their characters. Phrenology was all the rage, and Dr. Browne so popular that this Sunday morning was the only time during my stay in London that he could see us.
“You evidently don’t appreciate the trouble my son takes to entertain you.” Mrs. Smith addressed me but caught George’s eye.
“Well, no matter, Charlotte,” he said, looking uncomfortable. I could see he’d begun to sense that his mother didn’t care for me. “You’re here now. Shall we be on our way? I thought we could visit the zoo afterward.”
“Yes, but first I must go up to my room.” I desperately needed some time alone before facing the rest of the day.
As I ran up the stairs, I heard Mrs. Smith say, “Miss Bronte looks ill. Her constitution is delicate.” Too delicate for her to make you a good wife, her tone implied. “Perhaps she should go home.”
I wouldn’t give Mrs. Smith the satisfaction; and I couldn’t leave London now, when momentous events were happening one after another with no resolution in sight. In my room I drew deep breaths to calm myself, then splashed cold water on my face. Soon I was in a carriage with George, riding along Bayswater Road.
“How was the play last night?” he asked.
“Good enough,” I said in a tone meant to discourage further questions.
“Oh.” He felt snubbed, I could tell. But George is so good-natured that he seldom takes offense for long. He began to point out interesting sights and talk about them, although I barely listened. My mind dwelled on my conversation with Lord Eastbourne. He had kindly but firmly insisted that I must accept the truth and forget John Slade, for my own good. I’d left the Foreign Office upset because the authorities would not help me find Slade. They believed he was dead. They would not change their minds on the word of a hysterical woman. Perhaps that was for the best, since they were no longer his friends. But now I began to question my own credibility. Maybe the man I’d seen really wasn’t Slade. Maybe my nearsightedness was getting worse.
Dr. Browne had his consultancy in a row of townhouses near the Strand, that great thoroughfare that skirts the bank of the Thames from the West End to the city proper. When George rang the bell, a butler answered and said, “Mr. and Miss Fraser, I presume?”
Those were the names under which George had booked our appointment. We’d decided to pose as brother and sister and not reveal our true names, in case Dr. Browne had heard of us-foreknowledge might compromise his analysis. The butler sat George in the waiting room and ushered me to Dr. Browne’s office.
A slender man of perhaps fifty years, Dr. Browne had a long face with drooping jowls and pink cheeks. He was so clean that he smelled of soap and everything about him shone-his rimless spectacles, his long white coat, the gray hair combed over his bald pate, and his toothy, ingratiating smile. On the wall hung a phrenology chart- drawings of a head in front, back, top, and side views, with areas divided by dotted lines and labeled. He seated me by the window, in a chair with a cushioned seat and low back. I noticed a display of framed portraits of well-known people.
“Those are clients,” Dr. Browne said proudly.
I thought it a good thing that I’d used an alias. I wouldn’t care to have my portrait hung in his office and the results of his examination of Currer Bell publicized.
“Please allow me to explain the theory of phrenology,” Dr. Browne said. “The mind has different mental faculties, which reside in different organs within the brain. Bumps on the skull reflect the size of the underlying organs. I can therefore measure a person’s capacity for a particular mental faculty by measuring that bump.”
He took up a set of calipers. “First, I shall take some overall measurements of your skull. Hold still, please.” I obeyed while he fitted the calipers to my head, front to back, then sideways, and read off the numbers. “Ah! Your head is quite large.”
I wondered if the numerous folks who thought phrenology was quackery were right. I hardly needed Dr. Browne to tell me what anyone could see-that my head was too big for my body. “Is it?” I said, ever self-conscious about my awkward proportions.
“Indeed. It’s remarkable for its intellectual development. You have a large forehead, which signifies deep thoughtfulness and comprehensive understanding.”
That consoled me somewhat. Dr. Browne set aside his calipers, worked his fingertips gently but firmly over my scalp, and felt the bumps and indentations. “You have a fine organ of language. I deduce that you can express your sentiments with clearness, precision, and force.”
Perhaps there was merit to phrenology.
“You are very sensitive, with a nervous temperament, an exalted sense of the beautiful and ideal, and a gloomy view of the world. Although you are anxious to succeed in your undertakings, you are not so sanguine as to the probability of success.”
I winced, for he’d hit the target smack in the bull’s-eye.
His fingers expertly probed my skull. “You form strong, enduring attachments.”
I thought of Monsieur Constantin Heger, the Belgian professor I’d loved unrequitedly for three years. I realized that I had loved Slade for the same length of time. I blinked away tears.
“You also have a very strong sense of justice,” Dr. Browne said.
Even though Slade had repudiated me, I didn’t want him labeled a murder and traitor if he was not.
“I also detect a dedication to the truth,” Dr. Browne said.
And I still wanted to know whether Slade was guilty as charged.
“That concludes my examination.” Dr. Browne stepped back, clasped his hands, and smiled. “Have you any questions?”
