Eager to avoid another stint in the dark cell, I said I was. He took me to the dayroom where I’d had my altercation with Poll. The women pretended I wasn’t there, except for Maisie. She sidled up to me during dinner, which was greasy mutton stew.
“When Poll gets out of the dark cell, she’ll have your hide,” she whispered.
I prayed that I would be gone before then. In the evening, the warders marched us to our cells. These measured some thirteen feet by seven; each had iron bars and an iron gate across the front, a barred window, and a stone floor. Amenities consisted of a table and some stools, a copper basin with a water tap, shelves of bedding, and a water closet. A gas lamp with a tin shade burned dimly on the wall. My cellmates were three streetwalkers, two drunks who reeked of liquor, and two pickpockets. Our beds were mats that we spread on the floor. I wanted to lie down and drift into the blessed oblivion of sleep, but sleep proved to be impossible.
The other prisoners regaled one another with stories about the crimes for which they’d been arrested, the men who’d done them wrong, and their hard lives. The galleries rang with chatter and laughter. Even after the lights went out, the noise continued. My cellmates said to me, “It’s your turn. Tell us a story!”
Fearing what they would do to me if I refused, I began to recite an abridged version of Jane Eyre. None of them had heard of the book, let alone read it. They loved the tale of Jane’s suffering at the hands of the Reed family, her imprisonment in the Red Room, and her experiences at the dreadful Lowood School. They hung on every word. Women in nearby cells quieted down to listen. Those farther away shouted for me to speak up.
Everyone wept when Jane’s friend, Helen Burns, died.
I remembered my childhood, when the pupils at the Clergy Daughters’ School had thought me the best storyteller among them. Now my audience of criminals wouldn’t let me stop, even though my voice grew hoarse. I told my tale until what must have been midnight, when a warder appeared outside my cell and unlocked its gate. Two men were with her, dressed in white coats, their faces in shadow.
“Charlotte Bronte, get up,” she said. “You’re leaving.”
An outcry arose from the prisoners: “She can’t leave! We want to know what happens to Jane Eyre!”
Gladness filled me as I sprang up from my mat. I didn’t know that I was bound for somewhere much worse than Newgate Prison.
15
The secret adventures of John Slade
Easter 1849. After midnight mass, a huge crowd filled Red Square, a vast open expanse within the walls that enclosed the Kremlin. Domes glittered in the damp, fecund spring air. St. Basil’s Cathedral loomed above the crowd, as brightly colored and patterned as Christmas candy. Everyone carried candles. Thousands of faces lit by the flames glowed like medieval icons. The doors of all the churches in the Kremlin opened. Light from within flooded the square. Out marched parades of priests wearing golden vestments and swinging censers, followed by congregations bearing banners and lit tapers. Singing from choirs rose to heaven.
John Slade stood among the crowd. He saw a familiar figure-the Third Section agent who’d been watching him for four months. The agent was a common Russian type, a slim man with a pale, melancholy face and a dark mustache. Slade noticed something different about his shadow tonight. The man hovered closer than usual. For the first time he met Slade’s gaze. Slade sensed that the opportunity he’d been waiting for was at hand. He moved slowly out of the crowd, allowing his shadow to keep up with him. When he reached the bank of the river, he stopped. It was dark beneath the trees, and quiet. The lights in Red Square shimmered in the distance. Slade didn’t have long to wait. His shadow joined him and said, “Happy Easter, Mr. Ivan Zubov.”
“The same to you, Mr. Andrei Plekhanov. And to your colleagues in the Third Section.”
The man’s dark eyes widened. “How do you know who I am?”
Slade had done a little spying on his spy. He had followed Plekhanov to his lodgings and obtained the information from another tenant. Plekhanov hadn’t noticed that Slade had turned the tables on him. Now Slade said, “I borrowed a leaf from your book.”
Plekhanov smiled tensely. “You’re an unusual dissident, Mr. Zubov. Your friends-Peter, Alexander, and Fyodor-would never have spotted me, let alone managed to discover my name. But they are too preoccupied with plotting against the government, aren’t they?”
Slade knew he was supposed to be upset by the news that the Third Section knew who and what his friends were. He arranged his features into the proper expression of alarm and fright. Plekhanov’s smile relaxed.
“So you see, we know what you are up to,” Plekhanov said.
“I’m not up to anything,” Slade said, deliberately speaking with a tremor in his voice, avoiding the other man’s gaze, and signaling a lie. “I’m not a dissident.”
“Oh? What about the articles you write for the radical journals?”
“I write for anybody who will pay me. I’m just a poor author trying to make a living.”
Plekhanov laughed. “You are poor, that’s true enough. Your landlord says you’re behind on your rent. You also owe money at all the shops and taverns in the neighborhood.” Slade had deliberately created his reputation as a debtor, and Plekhanov had swallowed the bait. “But never fear. I have a proposition to make you. Should you accept, it will solve your financial problems.”
Slade combined hope with wariness in his expression. “What sort of proposition?”
“You work for me as an informant. You report on your friends, and I pay you enough to cover your debts and put vodka in your cup.”
“I can’t betray my friends,” Slade said, aghast.
Plekhanov’s melancholy face turned cruel. “If you refuse my proposition, I will have you sent back to St. Petersburg. I happen to know you’re wanted by the police there.”
Slade himself had spread the rumor that he’d committed petty crimes in St. Petersburg and he was a fugitive from the law. That story had led Plekhanov to believe he had power over Slade, just as Slade had intended. Slade let his shoulders sag in defeat. He nodded.
“You’re a wise man.” Plekhanov clapped Slade on the back. “Now that we’ve settled our bargain-are your friends up to anything the Third Section would like to know about?”
Slade thought of their conspiracy to assassinate its chief. They’d been spying on Prince Orlov, and their plans were almost set. Slade felt guilt descend upon him like the blade of a guillotine. Duty required him to deliver his friends to their enemies.
“Yes,” he said with genuine reluctance, “there is.”
16
I walked out a free woman, albeit still dressed in prison clothes. Incredulous and joyful, I offered my fervent thanks to the two white-coated men who had procured my release. They didn’t speak. Escorting me down the gallery, they looked straight ahead; they walked in step, as if in a military parade. Both were tall, both some thirty years old; but the man on my right had the strong musculature and carved features of a Greek athlete, while his comrade on my left was thin and lanky, with puffy lips and eyes that bespoke sensuality and dissipation.
“Were you sent by Lord Eastbourne?” I asked.
They didn’t even acknowledge that I’d spoken. But who except Lord Eastbourne could have sent them to get me out of prison? Neither of the men showed any interest in me, but I was too grateful to care about their behavior. Outside the prison, gaslights burned dimly up and down Newgate Street. It must have been two or three o’clock in the morning. Smoke drifted across the sky, which glowed orange over a foundry, like a false dawn. I didn’t see a soul. How was I to get home? I doubted I could find a carriage for hire, and I was afraid to walk. London teemed with cutthroats.
To my relief, a carriage drawn by two horses emerged from the darkness between the lampposts. My escort who looked like a Greek athlete climbed onto the box with the driver. The other man opened the door for me.
“Please take me to Number Seventy-Six Gloucester Terrace,” I said.
