masculine hand. I read: Our agreement of 20 July 1850 is hereby confirmed. A research laboratory has been procured for you. It is located at the old workhouse in Tonbridge. The facilities and equipment you requested will be delivered on 18 August. Remember to keep all matters associated with your work and our agreement strictly confidential.
The note wasn’t signed; however, I’d seen that handwriting before. Its strong forward slant, high ascenders, and emphatic punctuation marks were distinctly familiar. But where had I seen it? Gazing at the note, I had a memory of a desk strewn with papers that bore the same handwriting as the note I held. A man rose from behind the desk. It was Lord Eastbourne.
So many thoughts barraged my mind that I could not immediately sort them out. The note proved that Lord Eastbourne and Niall Kavanagh had entered into a contract under which Kavanagh would receive a laboratory furnished by Lord Eastbourne. I recalled Slade telling me that Kavanagh was building a model of his invention for the British government, which was keeping him hidden. Lord Eastbourne must be the official charged with installing Kavanagh in a secret location.
So many things that I had wondered about were now explained. Lord Eastbourne had pretended he didn’t know about Kavanagh and the invention because they were a government secret that he wasn’t permitted to reveal. He’d left me to languish in Newgate Prison because he couldn’t let me run loose, reveal what I knew, and interfere with Foreign Office business.
Yet so many questions were still unanswered. If Lord Eastbourne was working with Kavanagh to build the secret weapon, then why would Lord Palmerston be unaware of it? After all, Lord Palmerston was Lord Eastbourne’s superior. But I would swear in church that Palmerston didn’t know. At Osborne House I’d seen nothing in his manner to suggest that he’d only been pretending to doubt my story about Kavanagh. I had to conclude that his ignorance was genuine, and so must be the Queen’s.
And why had Lord Eastbourne asked me whether Katerina had told me Niall Kavanagh’s whereabouts? He, of all people, should have known them.
More questions had to do with John Slade. Why had Lord Eastbourne seemed unappreciative of Slade’s efforts to protect Kavanagh and the work he was doing for the British Empire? Why was Lord Eastbourne instead so eager to brand Slade a traitor? Why had Lord Eastbourne been unwilling to reinvestigate Slade’s case, discover the truth, and help me rescue Slade?
I could not answer these questions, and now I faced the most immediate one of all: What should I do with the journal and the note?
My first impulse was to run to the police and show them the evidence that Niall Kavanagh was the Whitechapel Ripper and I was innocent. But caution forestalled me. Nothing in the journal spelled out the fact that Kavanagh had killed Mary Chandler, Jane Anderson, or Catherine Meadows. The police would think I was clutching at straws, and so might a jury. The fact that I’d left prison before being officially released wouldn’t lend me credibility. Moreover, the journal and the note didn’t prove that John Slade was not a traitor. If I turned myself in to the police now, they would throw me back in prison, and I would lose my chance to exonerate Slade.
As the hot, crowded omnibus carried me past the drab cityscape of Whitechapel, I realized that I must give up all hope of a quick end to my troubles with the law. There was but one feasible course of action, which required me to remain a fugitive a little longer.
28
After retrieving my possessions from my hotel and settling the bill, I boarded a train to Tonbridge, a market town twenty-five miles southeast of London, and I arrived just before five o’clock. A Norman castle overlooking the River Medway attested to the town’s ancient history, as did many buildings that dated from the Middle Ages. I engaged a room at the Rose and Crown, a sixteenth-century Tudor coaching inn. There were few coach travelers in these days of railways, but the inn was still very grand, a three-story brick structure that dominated the high street. I registered as “Mrs. Charlotte Bell” and wore my fake wedding ring. When I asked the proprietor for directions to the old workhouse, he said, “The old workhouse is closed, madam. You’ll be wanting the new one.”
He eyed me curiously: in my smart new clothes, I did not appear to need any workhouse. Workhouses were institutions that sheltered the poor, who labored inside them in exchange for bed and board. The population of poor had swelled of late due to declines in agriculture and mass unemployment. Hundreds of new workhouses, some as large as villages, had been built all across England. The older, smaller establishments had been demolished or put to other use.
“No,” I said, “I want the old one.” Lord Eastbourne’s note had been specific.
“Suit yourself, madam.” The proprietor gave me directions.
As soon as the porter had carried my trunk to my room and I had freshened myself, I set out. It was a warm, golden evening, but I carried my umbrella in case the clouds on the horizon brought rain. I didn’t know what I would do when I found Dr. Kavanagh-or how to proceed from finding him to finding Slade. My quest was like a novel that I made up as I went along.
The old workhouse was located on a street aptly named Poorhouse Lane. It was a Tudor-style mansion with half-timbered walls, two stories high, its slate roof studded with chimneys, gables, and dormers, set apart from other houses in the area by extensive grounds. These were enclosed within a vine-covered brick wall. Two huge, ancient chestnut trees flanked the ironwork gate and its crumbling stone pillars. More trees loomed over outbuildings around the mansion. Nothing about its appearance struck me as unusual, but the other senses often perceive what the eye cannot. The body reacts before the mind can articulate what it thinks. I felt such an immediate, instinctive revulsion that I stopped ten paces from the gate. The house was picturesque, with its many-paned windows that reflected the golden light from the setting sun. What caused me this strong urge to flee?
I believe that places can absorb the evil that humans have done or suffered within them. Workhouses are cauldrons of misery, where men, women, and children live in squalid conditions, labor hard at tasks such as stone breaking, and are abused by cruel masters. Maybe their ghosts haunted this workhouse. Or was it Niall Kavanagh’s madness I sensed?
Curiosity overrode instinct. I moved toward the gate. A breeze stirred the air; from the workhouse issued a faint stench of decay. My nose must have registered it and warned me off before my brain had. I halted at the gate, which hung open on rusty hinges. Beyond it a path of broken flagstones led between overgrown bushes. I shook my head in disappointment and vexation at myself. How rash had been my decision to come! What had I expected-that Slade would magically appear, like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow? Alas, I had. Since he was nowhere in sight, what should I do?
I supposed I could ascertain whether Niall Kavanagh was inside, then go on from there. But I was afraid to meet the deranged scientist by myself. I looked around for support, guidance, or encouragement, but saw nothing except the empty, quiet street. The sun’s dying light turned the windows of the workhouse blood-red.
A sudden loud, splintery, jangling sound of glass breaking shattered the calm.
It would have sent me running like a coward, had I not remembered my adventures of 1848. Why should I, who’d once faced death and lived to tell, be daunted by anything now? I pushed open the gate and stepped through. Raising my umbrella against foes real or imaginary, I advanced up the path.
Stairs rose to an entrance within a porch. The noise had come from my left, and I went in that direction, along another path between shrubs higher than my head. As I rounded the corner of the house, I heard scrambling noises, branches thrashing, and leaves rustling. A man perched in a tree he’d climbed up to a window. He removed his jacket, wrapped it around his fist, and used his padded fist to enlarge a jagged hole in the window, which he must have broken by throwing a rock through it. Glass tinkled, fell, and scattered. Moving closer, I saw that the burglar I’d caught in the act was John Slade.
Amazement and vindication flooded me. The trail to Niall Kavanagh had led me straight to Slade. I forgot all about danger. I started toward Slade, spoiling for the confrontation I’d long anticipated.
“Hey!” called a loud, gruff, masculine voice. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I froze. A man emerged from a grove of trees. The twilight was fading, and I couldn’t see much about him except that he was stocky and wore a brimmed cap. He stood no more than twenty feet from me, but it wasn’t me
