his mistress, and you tortured her and killed her in a jealous rage.”
“That’s not how it was!” Had I found Slade making love to Katerina, I might have been angry enough to kill him, but I wouldn’t have hurt her. Or would I have lashed out at both of them? I was horrified to realize that I could have. I have always been sedate and disciplined in my physical actions, but I couldn’t deny the emotions that had assailed me while I was inside Katerina’s house. The impulse to violence exists in all of us, and it could very well have overpowered me, with fatal results.
Lord Eastbourne shook his head regretfully. “Appearances often count more than facts do. In a court of law, a prosecutor would cast you as a woman scorned and out for revenge. The jury might well find you guilty.”
My legs went weak at the thought of myself on the gibbet and crowds lining up to see Currer Bell hang. I grasped the bars of the cage for support. My future was looking bleaker by the moment.
Lord Eastbourne lapsed into another thoughtful silence; he watched arguments break out between prisoners and men who’d come to see them. Warders patrolled, keeping order. “Did you tell the police who John Slade was and how you knew him?”
“No,” I said, offended by the suggestion that I would talk about the events of 1848 after I’d been sworn to secrecy. “I’ve kept my promise.”
“Good,” Lord Eastbourne said. “If the police question you about Slade, say you never heard of him. Pretend you’ve forgotten you said anything about him. Say you went to see Katerina because you admired her acting.”
Consternation filled me. “I can’t lie. They’ll know.”
“You must. Changing your story will serve you better than sticking to the truth.”
I wondered whether changing my story would serve others better than it would myself. Lord Eastbourne and I had conflicting aims. I wanted to be exonerated; he wanted secret affairs of state kept secret. Even if he owed me a favor in exchange for my service to the government, how could I trust him? Alas, I could not.
“You could also help yourself by providing evidence that someone other than you killed Katerina,” Lord Eastbourne said. “Have you any?”
“I heard a man in her house. He was talking to Katerina.”
“Did you see him?”
“No. He ran down the back stairs and out the door.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Lord Eastbourne said. “The police questioned the neighbors, but no one else seems to have observed a man at Katerina’s house. There are, however, witnesses who saw you going in. You are the obvious culprit.”
My spirits sank deeper. “But I have Katerina’s own last statement, which says otherwise.”
Suddenly alert, Lord Eastbourne moved closer to the fence. “Did she say something before she died?”
This subject was dangerous territory; I knew even before my mind had time to articulate the reasons. I felt as though a field of traps and sinkholes had opened up before me. What should I tell Lord Eastbourne, and what must I not?
“She said it was a man named Wilhelm Stieber who tortured her and left her to die.” That was what I’d thought I understood Katerina to say, and it would now be my story. I needed to incriminate someone other than myself and didn’t want to point the finger at Slade, in spite of everything.
“Wilhelm Stieber.” Lord Eastbourne repeated the name as if he’d never heard it before and wanted to commit it to memory.
But I am adept at detecting faint signs of emotion, even in those well trained at masking them. I learned my skill while I was a charity pupil and later while a governess in the house of wealthy employers. It is the skill of the weak and downtrodden, whose survival depends on the ability to read their masters, the better to avoid punishment. When I’d said “Wilhelm Stieber,” I’d seen a brief but definite flare of recognition in Lord Eastbourne’s eyes.
“Did Katerina say who he is?” Lord Eastbourne asked.
He already knew; I could tell. That gave credence to Slade’s story and justified my tendency to believe Slade had been telling the truth. “She said Stieber is a spy for the Tsar of Russia.”
“Indeed,” Lord Eastbourne said, as if impressed and interested. “Did she also say what her relationship was with Stieber?”
“She worked for him as an informant.” Although I distrusted Lord Eastbourne more than ever, and I didn’t like to release the information, my hope of freedom hinged on him. I could not evade his questions and risk offending him. “She consorted with Russian immigrants. She learned about plots against the Tsar and reported them to Stieber.”
Skepticism crossed Lord Eastbourne’s face. “Then why did he torture her?”
“She said she had crossed him.”
“How?”
“I don’t know,” I said, compelled by my instinct to conceal the details and protect Slade. If Lord Eastbourne learned that Katerina had named Slade as a party involved in her death, it might convince him that Slade was alive, even though my sightings of Slade had not. Lord Eastbourne already thought Slade was a traitor; he surely wouldn’t hesitate to deem him a murderer as well. I imagined Lord Eastbourne launching a manhunt for Slade, and myself forced to participate. I didn’t want Slade persecuted for yet another crime-at least not until I discovered whether he was guilty. “Katerina was dying, she was growing incoherent, babbling in Russian.” I decided to test Slade’s story. “But she did say that Stieber was looking for someone. A scientist named Kavanagh. She said he’d invented a device that the Tsar wants.”
Lord Eastbourne listened without visible emotion, but I sensed excitement rising in him. “What kind of device?”
“A new kind of gun. She indicated that the Tsar wants to use it against England.” Here I blended Katerina’s statement with Slade’s. “Stieber thought she knew where to find the scientist. That’s the other reason he tortured Katerina.”
“Well.” Lord Eastbourne pondered, then said in an offhand manner, “Anything that has to do with Russia is of interest to the Foreign Office. Did Katerina tell you Niall Kavanagh’s whereabouts?”
My heart beat faster. I hadn’t mentioned Kavanagh’s Christian name. Lord Eastbourne knew it, and he’d let the fact slip.
“No,” I said. “She died.”
Kavanagh existed, and so, presumably, did his invention. What Slade had said was true-but perhaps only in part. I didn’t yet know which side Slade was on-England’s or Russia’s-or whether he was guilty of murder. Perhaps he’d mixed truth with lies. Still, I was glad I hadn’t spilled everything to Lord Eastbourne. He’d deceived me by concealing the fact that he knew about Wilhelm Stieber, Niall Kavanagh, and the secret invention. Maybe he’d done so to protect state secrets, but maybe he had other, baser motives. If my experiences during the summer of 1848 had taught me anything, it was that men in positions of authority weren’t always honorable.
Another thought occurred to me. Slade had told me that the British government had Kavanagh hidden, but Lord Eastbourne had asked where Niall Kavanagh was. Did that mean the government didn’t know? If Stieber didn’t have him, then who did?
“Have you had any further contact with the man you thought was John Slade?” Lord Eastbourne asked.
I experienced a cold, sick sensation of dismay, for I could tell that Lord Eastbourne had revised his opinion concerning Slade: he was no longer certain Slade was dead. I had tried so hard to convince him that Slade was alive that I had gone too far toward succeeding. Probably he would send more agents to hunt down Slade, execute him, and make sure he was really dead this time. And I could not forsake my loyalty to Slade, even though he’d treated me badly.
“No,” I said, “I haven’t.”
Although I trembled with nerves, I looked Lord Eastbourne straight in the eye. I watched him try to discern whether I was lying. I saw that he was undecided, but I could tell he knew I’d withheld information.
“I must go now, Miss Bronte,” he said.
Panic struck. “Please don’t leave me here!” I thrust my hand through the bars of the cage to prevent him from going.
Lord Eastbourne patted my fingers, barely touching them, and smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll pull some strings and have you free in no time.”
“Are you ready to be good?” the warder asked me.
