He radiated the complacency of one who has never known privation and cares not about other people’s suffering. Such a man had been Carus Wilson. Old grief and fresh outrage swelled in me, but I maintained my silence while the Reverend Grimshaw led us outside to a large garden behind the school. It was bordered on two sides by low stone buildings; on the far end, birches obscured the old windmill.
“Those buildings are quarters for myself and my family and the teachers,” said Mr. Grimshaw. Pointing to an open expanse of ground, he said, “That is the pupils’ recreation area. And beyond is the vegetable garden.” There, girls weeded rows of plants. “Work builds character.”
I recalled similar pronouncements made by Carus Wilson. I also recalled listening to him sermonize upon the deaths of children who had taken ill at his schooclass="underline" I bless God that he has taken from us the children of whose salvation we have the best hope. He was now beyond my reach, and I could scarcely restrain myself from berating the Reverend Grimshaw in his stead.
We went to the parlor and drank tea. As Ellen and the Reverend Grimshaw made polite chat, I stared down at my cup in morose silence. How clever and brave I had thought myself when I devised the plan to investigate the school and solve the mystery of Isabel White’s murder! And what had I learned? Nothing-except that I was neither clever nor brave. Unable to discern whether the school was a den of sin or a noble institution, I was indeed the fool that Gilbert White thought me. Yet I couldn’t bear the prospect of defeat.
Turning to Mr. Grimshaw, I blurted, “Recently I happened to meet a former pupil of this school. Her name was Isabel White. Do you remember her?”
He stared at me as if the teapot had spoken. Ellen’s face proclaimed her alarm that I would introduce the matter of Isabel in such unsubtle fashion.
“Isabel White?” Mr. Grimshaw frowned; the perspiration beaded on his forehead. “I don’t believe the name is familiar. You must be mistaken. There’s been no Isabel White in our school.” He pulled from his pocket a gold watch and said, “My heavens, but time passes quickly. If you’ll excuse me, Miss Wheelwright and Miss, er-?” Amidst a flurry of courtesies, he ushered Ellen and me out the door.
We walked through the woods towards our waiting carriage, and Ellen burst into excited giggles. “Did you see how eager he was to get rid of us after you mentioned Isabel? He remembers her, I have no doubt of it.”
“His behavior isn’t proof that he was involved in her murder or knows anything about it,” I said. “And fool that I am, I provoked him to expel us before we could learn more.”
“My dear Charlotte, your plan worked brilliantly!” Ellen took my arm and gave it a comforting pat. “It gained us an inspection of the school.”
“For all the good it did us. I saw nothing about the place or the people that would seem out of the ordinary in a thousand schools in the kingdom.”
“I think the Reverend Grimshaw is most sinister and unattractive,” Ellen said with a little shiver. “I wouldn’t put any relation of mine in his charge.”
“I agree, but alas, our impressions aren’t evidence to connect him with the crime. Besides, I cannot imagine Mr. Grimshaw as the master who seduced and enslaved Isabel.” I favored Gilbert White for that role. “Perhaps Isabel experienced nothing more than the usual privations of boarding school, and it has nothing to do with what happened to her after she left.” I sighed. “I don’t know what else to do to expose her killer.”
“Oh, you’ll think of something,” Ellen said.
As we rounded a curve in the path, our carriage came into view. A gig, pulled by a pair of horses, drew up on the road. Two men rode in the open seat. They climbed out and strode towards us. The sight of them-one dark, the other ginger-haired-froze my blood and halted me in my steps. Quickly I dragged Ellen off the path and into the shelter of the woods.
“My dear, whatever are you doing?” she said.
I hushed her. The men passed nearly close enough for me to touch them, but they didn’t notice us. They continued up to the school and disappeared from sight.
“Who were they?” Ellen said. “Why did we hide?”
“They are the very same men who attacked Anne and me on the train.”
14
I wish I could say I confronted my attackers and delivered them into the hands of the law. I wish I could say I forced them to reveal their connection with the events surrounding the murder of Isabel White and tell me who killed her. I wish I could say that I left Skipton possessed of the knowledge necessary to thwart the schemes of Isabel’s master.
But alas! My actions were far less commendable. As we hid in the woods that day, Ellen urged that we leave at once, for those men were too dangerous to confront. I let her rush me into our carriage even as I deplored my cowardice. When I proposed going to the police, she reminded me that I could not just walk into a town where we are strangers, accuse people of wrongdoing, and expect to be believed. I had to credit her objections, and my nerves were in such a grievous state that she had no difficulty persuading me to board a train that very day. We parted at Keighley, where she caught a train to Birstall, and I proceeded, with utmost caution, to Haworth.
When I arrived shortly after nine o’clock that evening, a misty rain veiled the moors. I was exhausted from traveling, tense from looking over my shoulder to see if anyone pursued me, and downhearted because I felt little the wiser than when I’d left. I found Papa, Emily, and Anne kneeling in the study, their heads bowed as they said their evening prayers.
“Ah, Charlotte,” said Papa. “How happy I am that you’ve come home.”
Anne looked at Emily. Emily met my gaze with cold indifference: My absence had not softened her ill feelings towards me. I knelt, and we all prayed. Afterward, Papa went to lock the doors. I followed Emily and Anne to the parlor.
“Don’t you want to hear about my journey?” I asked.
Emily gave a disdainful sniff. Anne murmured, “Perhaps later.”
Less angry than hurt by their response, I said, “How is Branwell?”
“See for yourself,” Emily said. “He’s upstairs.”
I mounted the stairs, pained by the memory of happier homecomings. I opened the door of Branwell’s room, and the sour stench of illness nauseated me. My brother lay in bed, the covers twisted around his emaciated body, his bloodshot eyes half closed and his lips parted. His chest slowly rose and fell with each faint breath. He had procured laudanum and dosed himself into stupefaction. I left the room, shut the door, sat on the stairs, and wept.
I wish I could write that Branwell improved in the days that followed, but this wish, too, is in vain. The soporific effects of the laudanum wore off the next morning, and what tremors, violent sickness, and agony assailed him! He pleaded for money to buy more, and when we refused him, he cursed us. Emily remained hostile towards me, and Anne silently grieved at our estrangement. While we were at church the following Sunday, Branwell sneaked out of the house. Two days later, he still was gone. Our fears for him drove all thought of the murder, my adventures, and even Gilbert White from my mind.
On the second day, I walked the moors, thinking perhaps he might have wandered there and lost his way. The afternoon was cool and blustery. As I trudged up the hills, Emily’s brown bulldog, Keeper, bounded alongside me, and the landscape began to restore my spirits. Those who do not know the moors think them dreary, but I find in them great beauty and comfort. The sky, animated by changeable weather, seems a living companion in my solitude. I watched billowy clouds race across a heavenly blue firmament, their shadows drifting on the sunlit land. The heather had begun blooming, and its purple blossoms misted the grey-brown hills. Swallows flitted between gnarled thorn trees; sheep grazed. Ivy and ferns grew on drystone walls; violets and primroses clustered in hedge bottoms. The wind breathed sweet flower scents, and Keeper chased butterflies.