A sudden noise interrupted his contemplation of the profits earned from his secret venture: It was the sound of wood splintering under a hard blow. A distant door opened. There was an intruder in the warehouse. Fearon took a pistol from the desk drawer, snuffed the lamp, and tiptoed out of his office.
A wavering light moved behind the high rows of piled goods. Stealthy footsteps walked the stone floor and echoed in the gloom. Pistol in hand, Fearon stole through the shadows, circling his unseen adversary, determined to protect his property. Suddenly a cord whipped over his head and pressed tight around his neck, choking him. Fearon squealed; as his muscles tensed in shock and panic, he squeezed the trigger. The pistol discharged with a great boom. Fearon dropped the gun and clawed at the cord, which squeezed his throat harder. His attacker gripped him in an iron embrace. His body sagged to the floor. The terror in his expression faded as his features went slack. All was silent.
Over the corpse stood John Slade.
He held a lantern above Fearon’s livid, swollen face. He breathed hard and fast, spent by exertion; his unruly dark locks were wet with sweat, his eyes afire. He hastened to the office and noted the chest of gold, then turned to the ledgers piled on the desk. He skimmed pages listing quantities of opium sold in China, and of silks and tea imported to England. Impatient, he yanked open the desk drawers, searching through the letters there. One document read as follows: “I am terminating our business agreement, and you should expect no more merchandise from my firm. Yours sincerely, Joseph Lock.”
Slade folded the letter into his pocket, read the remaining correspondence, and cursed in frustration, for the name he sought appeared nowhere. Then he heard men’s excited voices outside, and running footsteps: Fearon’s gunshot must have alerted the dock guards. Slade fled soundlessly from the warehouse and vanished into the dark labyrinth of the docks.
11
I spent the following days wondering and fretting over whether I should write to Gilbert White about the package. Each arrival of the post caused me a flurry of expectation that I might receive a letter from him; but time passed, no letter came, and my caution won out.
Emily observed my discomfort with grim pleasure. The burden of my duty to Isabel pressed upon me, and my previous adventures had left me hungering for more. Then on Thursday, July 20-six days after I had received the package-I heard a carriage rattling up Church Road. I dared to think that Gilbert White had come to call instead of writing me, and I hurried to open the door. Disappointment struck me.
My dear friend Ellen Nussey glided into the house, smiling. Ellen is plump and fair; her blue summer frock matched her round, light eyes. A straw bonnet covered her fluffy yellow curls. “My dear, the look on your face!” she exclaimed, enfolding me in an embrace as gentle as her voice. She always smells pleasantly of lavender potpourri. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Yes, of course,” I hastened to say. “I’m just surprised.” Ellen lives in Birstall-some twenty miles from Haworth-and never visits without prior arrangement. “You must be weary from your journey. Let me fetch you some nourishment.”
I laid a light repast upon the parlor table. Pouring tea, I said, “What brings you here?”
As I passed the bread and butter, I contemplated the differences between us. Ellen is placid, while I am nervous. I am a daughter of a humble clergyman, but Ellen’s father had been a wealthy owner of textile mills which still provided ample livelihood for the Nusseys. While I have worked to earn my keep, Ellen spends her days visiting, waiting on her mother, and fancy sewing. We first met seventeen years ago, at Roe Head School. I thought Ellen a prim, dull-witted busybody, and I did not like her; but over time, a mutual attachment had grown and flourished, and I learned to appreciate her good qualities.
“I came because of your letter,” Ellen said. “Such dark hints about strange experiences! I felt certain that you were in a bad way and needed my help. I’m glad to find you in a good condition, but has something happened to your family?”
“They are all fine,” I said, “except for Branwell, who’s no worse than usual.”
“Then my fears were unfounded.” Clasping a hand to her bosom, Ellen sighed in relief. “But I was astonished to hear you had gone to London. Whatever for?”
Anxiety gripped me: Ellen didn’t know the secret of Currer, Acton, and Ellis Bell, and I could not explain the trip without giving it away. “Anne and I had business in London.”
“Oh. I see.” I saw that Ellen was hurt by my evasion. Guilt pricked me, but before I could frame an explanation that would placate her without revealing too much, Ellen said, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. It concerns that book everybody has been talking about, Jane Eyre.”
A feeling of dread coursed through me.
“I heard a rumor that you are the author,” Ellen continued. “At first I thought it could not possibly be true, because you wouldn’t have published a book without telling me. But when I read Jane Eyre, I recognized Thornfield Manor as Rydings, where my family used to live. The grey house with its battlements, the rookery, and the thorn trees were all in the book, just as you saw them when you visited us. And I could almost hear your voice speaking as I read. Now I must know for certain: Did you write Jane Eyre?”
Wincing inwardly, I clutched my teacup. Ellen had never been much interested in literature, and I never thought she would read Jane Eyre , let alone recognize anything in it. I had sworn to keep the secret, yet I didn’t want to lie to my faithful friend.
“Ellen,” I began.
As eager anticipation brightened her face, I spied Emily standing in the parlor doorway. Emily glowered at me, her meaning clear: She did not wish that Ellen be told, even though Ellen was one of the few people outside the family whom she liked. Then Emily turned and walked away, leaving me to choose between my friend and my sister.
“I did not write Jane Eyre,” I declared. “If anyone tells you otherwise, you must set them straight.”
“Oh. Yes, of course I will.” Ellen looked unconvinced, even wounded, by my denial.
Anxious to atone for my deception, I clasped Ellen’s hand and said, “I’m glad you’re here, and I haven’t even thanked you for coming. Please forgive me, and let me explain about the experiences I mentioned in my letter.” I described Isabel White’s murder and the incidents that followed, sharing with Ellen my belief that the events were somehow related.
“How awful!” Ellen exclaimed, clutching her throat as if she might faint. “My dear, how did you manage to find so much trouble?”
“I’m afraid that trouble found me, and it still lurks at my door,” I said.
As I told her about the package from Isabel White and the inquisitive man in the village, I watched her expression turn aghast. She cried, “Oh, Charlotte, I can’t bear for you to be in danger. You must come home with me this instant.”
“That won’t help me discover who’s behind the attacks,” I said. “Conveying the package to Isabel’s mother and learning what I can from her represents my only hope of protecting myself and my family. But I cannot travel to Bradford alone under these circumstances, and Emily and Anne refuse to go with me. And Papa’s health is too weak.”
“How fortunate that I can be of use to you after all!” Ellen said, clapping her hands together. “My dear, I shall accompany you to Bradford.”