The Misses Smith were peering out the window, chattering to each other. “That carriage has been following ours since we left Paternoster Row.”
“Yes, it stays so closely behind us.”
Unease crept over me. I peered backwards out the window and saw an enclosed black coach drawn by a black horses, and the figure of a driver seated upon the box. A fearful notion constricted my heart: Could someone be following me? Was it the same man who had followed Isabel White?
I hastily recoiled from the window. Mr. Smith said to me, “You are shivering. Are you cold? Do you want the carriage blanket?”
“No, thank you, I am quite comfortable,” I said, deciding that my imagination had gotten the best of me.
We entered Covent Garden and drove past elegant stucco row houses. Men clustered outside the song and supper rooms or escorted ladies along the streets. Although July was the end of the London season, the theatre district was jammed with carriages. Scrutinizing them, I was relieved that the strange black coach seemed to have gone. Traffic converged upon the glittering Royal Opera House.
When my party disembarked, Mr. Smith offered me his arm. His somber, direct gaze lent the polite gesture an intimacy that sped my pulse. I floated into the theatre with him, scarcely aware of Anne at his other side or the Misses Smith behind us. The foyer was filled with men in formal dress and women who wore gowns of brilliant hues, displaying naked shoulders and bejeweled bosoms. They cast critical glances at my plain country garments. Wellbred laughter pealed. My head still throbbed, and my stomach was queasy, but giddy anticipation masked my discomfort. I involuntarily clutched George Smith’s arm, and he turned to me.
“You know, I am not accustomed to this sort of thing,” I stammered.
He laughed as if we shared a joke. I savored our march up the crimson-carpeted staircase. Mr. Smith greeted acquaintances and introduced me as “My dear friend Miss Brown.” He smiled at me as if our secret joined us in a daring conspiracy. I began to think he liked me, I blush to confess.
Erelong we were seated in a box in the first tier. Five more tiers-decorated with gold flowers, separated by gold columns, and filled with people-rose to a domed ceiling. An enormous crystal chandelier radiated sparkling gaslight. Ladies’ fans fluttered in the heat, amidst a roar of conversation. The box afforded me a welcome measure of privacy, yet I had the prickling sensation of watchful gazes focused on me.
“The opera is The Barber of Seville,” said Mr. Smith, at my side.
I noticed a man standing some fifty feet away, near the stalls in front of the stage. He was looking straight at me. My poor eyesight could barely discern that he had dark hair and wore dark clothing, and I perceived an air of menace about him. Then he abruptly turned away.
“Anne,” I whispered, nudging my sister, “do you see that man?”
“Which one?” Anne sounded puzzled.
Alas, our view was at that moment obscured by other persons, and by the time they had passed, he was gone. “Never mind.” I thought of the black coach: Had it brought that man here to watch me? Was he connected with Isabel White’s murder? Anxiously I searched the audience for him. He seemed a disembodied, threatening presence spread throughout the crowd. People peered through opera glasses, and whenever I saw them pointed my way, I cringed.
The lights dimmed, and a hush descended upon the audience. The orchestra played the overture, and the stage curtain lifted, revealing a medieval street scene. An actor dressed in a cape and wide-brimmed hat strode onto the stage. A band of musicians assembled, and he sang a serenade. It was very grand, but because the opera was performed in Italian, I didn’t understand a word. My sense of ominous, hidden watchers burgeoned. The warm air of the theatre was tainted with gas fumes that worsened my headache. As the drama unfolded, a female singer performed an aria; her high, piercing notes reminded me of Isabel White’s screams. I swallowed an eruption of nausea.
“Please excuse me,” I whispered to George Smith. I dreaded leaving the safety of the box alone, yet that seemed preferable to vomiting in front of him.
I clambered from my seat and stumbled out the door of the box. The long corridor was vacant. As I hurried along it, I heard stealthy footsteps following me. Too afraid to look back, I walked faster. Vivacious music emanated from inside the theatre. The footsteps quickened; they echoed the pounding of my heart. A stairwell appeared, and I ran down iron stairs. I heard the metallic racket of my pursuer descending after me. Desperate, gasping for breath, and direly ill, I burst through a doorway, into another corridor.
A door flew open right in front of me, releasing loud, uproarious singing. A group of ladies poured from their box. I followed them down the grand staircase, grateful for their unwitting protection. Outside I relieved my illness at last. My pursuer had disappeared.
When I returned to my box, I met George Smith outside its door. “I was looking for you,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I am, thank you,” I said. We resumed our seats, but the opera was lost on me. I could neither forget my frightening experience nor cease to ponder its meaning.
It was past one o’clock of Sunday morning when Anne and I returned to the Chapter Coffee House. The inn was silent; Paternoster Row slumbered. As we trudged up the stairs to our room, I told Anne what had happened at the opera.
“Dear Charlotte, are you sure that someone was chasing you?” Anne said skeptically.
“Quite sure,” I said.
“But even if it was the man who killed Isabel White, what could he want with you?”
“Perhaps he believes I can identify him to the police, and he wishes to stop me.”
“But you didn’t obtain a good look at his face.”
“He cannot know that,” I said.
“Why didn’t you mention the incident to Mr. Smith? There was ample time during the interval, when he could have asked someone to look for the man who chased you.”
I let out a sigh. “I was afraid he wouldn’t believe me.” I could tell from her expression that Anne didn’t believe me, either. “But it was not just my imagination. There was someone chasing me.”
Outside our room stood a table that held candles. I lit one and opened the door. Cool air rushed outward; the candle flame wavered. Entering the room, Anne and I both exclaimed in shock. Our trunk lay open, our belongings strewn about, and the dresser drawers were open. The covers had been flung off the bed, and the mattress dragged off the frame. Broken glass littered the floor under the window, where a jagged hole gaped. The curtains stirred in the breeze.
7
Sometimes a door to the future seems to open, and beyond this portal you can see a radiant blue sky, gardens blooming with flowers, and glorious sunshine. But when you draw nearer, the door is discovered to be an impenetrable wall with a bright, false vista painted upon it by your own folly. That is what happened to me the day after the opera.
Sunday afternoon lay like a golden mantle upon London. The Thames sparkled beneath a sky miraculously cleared by a freshening breeze; the city’s spires, domes, and towers glittered. Church bells tolled across the rooftops of Bayswater, a respectable suburb. Its terraced Regency-era houses basked in the sunshine, their white stucco facades and black wrought-iron fences gleaming. Children rolled hoops, and nurses wheeled perambulators under leafy trees in the square near Westbourne Place, where George Smith resided.
He and I sat in his dining room with Anne, his mother, and his sisters. The house was splendid, with Turkey carpets, polished mahogany furniture, white table linens, and fine crystal, silver, and china. Flowers masked the odor of cesspits that permeates even the best homes of London. Yet Anne and I were so bashful that we could only pick at our portions of roasted joint. Neither of us contributed much to the conversation until I described my experience at the opera and what we had found upon returning to the Chapter Coffee House.