Although I recognized the wisdom of my sister’s words, she could not dispel my guilt. “I’m certain that the police will do nothing to find the killer. Most probably, they consider it not worth their effort.”
“Perhaps the killer was a swell mobsman, as the constable suggested,” Anne said. “Perhaps he’ll be caught by the police in the course of his subsequent crimes, and punished then.”
“I cannot believe that the murder was but an accident of fate, and I cannot bear to simply wait and hope that another accident of fate will bring justice,” I cried with a passion. “No! I must try to discover who killed Isabel White.”
“You?” Anne was astonished. “My dear Charlotte!”
“It’s the least I can do for Miss White.”
“But it is police business, not yours. You’ve neither the right nor the means to investigate murder. What could you possibly do?”
“I don’t know,” I confessed. “But I must know the real story of what happened to Isabel. If I weren’t so ill, perhaps I could devise a plan.”
With uncharacteristic acerbity Anne said, “I begin to think that your illness has affected your mind.”
“My mind is perfectly sound.” I sat up, nettled by her suggestion.
“What other than mental aberration could explain these peculiar notions?” Rising, Anne twisted her hands in anxiety, but a rare defiant spark lit her eyes.
“You may be content to wait passively for matters to arrange themselves, but I am not,” I snapped. While I knew that my wish to find Isabel White’s killer sounded unreasonable, I resented my younger sister’s challenging me. “Why, if I hadn’t decided upon selling our writing, and persuaded you and Emily to join me in sending our work to publishers, we would have published nothing.”
“Too much initiative is as bad as too little.” Anne’s voice was breathless; she grasped the chair for support, but her gaze held mine. “I daresay that the murder isn’t the only thing that has impaired your judgment. Perhaps your literary success has rendered you foolishly bold.”
Sputtering in astonished indignation, I said, “Perhaps you envy my success and wish me to do nothing more than spend my life in idle, dull obscurity; but remember this: If not for my foolish boldness, we wouldn’t be where we are now!”
Tears shimmered in Anne’s eyes. Averting her face, she said, “I wish we were not.”
Now I was ashamed because I had hurt Anne. The murder must have been as upsetting to her as to me, but while I had collapsed, she had nursed me. She also had stood loyally by me during our expedition to Smith, Elder amp; Company. I felt guilty that I often gave Anne short shrift because she had never been my favorite sister. I loved Anne dearly, of course, but compared to Emily, brilliant and original of mind, Anne seemed dully inferior. I was suddenly horrified at how we had turned against each other. The rift between my sisters and me was growing. I climbed off the bed and hobbled over to Anne, who stood, head bowed, beside the window.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, taking her hand. “I shouldn’t have spoken as I did. Can you forgive me?”
Anne sniffed, managed a tremulous smile, and nodded. “If you will forgive me for speaking harshly to you.”
We embraced in mutual relief. Still, I harbored a need to learn the truth about Isabel White’s murder. A persistent curiosity gnawed at my mind, as though I’d been reading an engrossing book and had it snatched away from me before I could reach the end. I desired to obtain justice for this stranger who had engaged my interest and my sympathy. I could only hope that somehow an opportunity would present itself.
“Mr. Smith and his sisters will be coming to call soon,” I said. “We’d better prepare ourselves.”
After another hour’s rest, we washed, then dressed in fresh clothes. My sickness abated, though I still felt very shaky. When I peered in the mirror, my face looked as though it had aged ten years. Turning away from my ghastly reflection, I went with Anne downstairs to meet George Smith and two young ladies, whom he introduced as his sisters. They were brown-haired, fair, and lively like himself. They were very elegantly dressed in white silk gowns.
“I am pleased to present Miss Charlotte Brown and Miss Anne Brown, my friends from Yorkshire,” George Smith said, keeping his promise to conceal the our true identities.
He looked quite handsome and distinguished in tailcoat and white gloves, carrying a tall black hat. I experienced a stir of feelings long repressed. It had been years since I had permitted myself to admire a man.
“We should be on our way,” Mr. Smith said. “The opera will begin soon.”
“The opera?” I had by no means understood that we had agreed upon a trip to the opera, though it explained the Smiths’ formal dress. Panic struck me, for Anne and I were inappropriately attired. But if we refused to go, we would disappoint and offend the Smiths. Forcing a smile, I said, “Yes, let us go.”
In the carriage, I sat between Anne and Mr. Smith in the forward-facing seat, while the Misses Smith sat opposite us. As we clattered down the dark street, I experienced a thrill in spite of my illness and my shame at my poor appearance. Was an evening outing in London not the sort of adventure I had craved? The presence of George Smith, so near that I could smell his clean, manly scent of shaving soap, intensified my excitement. Inside me awakened, against my will, an old yearning. Twice in the past I had fallen in love. The first object of my affection had been William Weightman, my father’s curate nine years ago. Bonny and charming, he had flirted with me, but I eventually realized that he flirted with all the unattached ladies and preferred those prettier than I. As for my second love-how disgracefully I had humiliated myself! Now I willed my heart to calm its quickening rhythm.
“How did you spend your afternoon in town?” Mr. Smith asked.
“I’m afraid I had a most disturbing experience,” I said.
As I described Isabel White’s murder, his sisters exclaimed in shock. Mr. Smith said, “I wish I’d convinced you to stay with me, so that you needn’t have witnessed such a terrible crime. You and Anne shouldn’t return to Paternoster Row; you must come to my house.”
His concern touched me, and the invitation, which offered the prospect of a better acquaintance with him, strongly tempted me, despite my aversion to living among strangers. Yet I knew myself vulnerable to inclinations that would cause me misery.
“You are very kind,” I said at last, “but I must decline your invitation, as there’s no need for you to protect me. I don’t consider myself to be in any danger.”
I explained that I believed that the killer was someone who had been known to Isabel and had followed her to London. After giving my reasons, I added, “I fear I will never rest until I have done everything in my power to find out who is responsible for the murder.”
“Your wish to exert yourself on behalf of a virtual stranger is commendable,” Mr. Smith said. Leaning closer, he whispered, “It reflects the same wonderful, generous spirit that I perceived in the author of Jane Eyre even before I met her.”
His compliment warmed me; I was afraid to look at him. Were the characteristics he’d mentioned those he valued in a woman? Did I dare think he valued them more than youth, beauty, or charm? I said timidly, “Could you advise me on how I might persuade the authorities to investigate the murder?”
He pondered a moment, then said, “I have a slight acquaintance with the commissioner of police. If you like, I’ll ask that he consider the facts you’ve provided.”
“Yes. I do thank you.” Gratitude increased my already favorable disposition towards George Smith.
Our carriage turned onto a noisy thoroughfare. Coaches rattled past strolling crowds, and street peddlers hawked playbills. Taverns filled with revelers, and gaudily dressed women loitered, shouting lewd invitations to men passing by. Gas streetlamps, their brightness veiled by smoke, lent the scene an unreal air that was at once frightening and intoxicating.