“I’m burning in the fires of hell!” he shrieked.
We rushed down the stairs. Emily ran to the kitchen, fetched a bucket of water, and hurled it at Branwell. The splash doused the flames. He sat up, sputtering and dripping, clad in the charred remains of his clothes, his thin body shivering.
Papa crouched beside him, asking querulously, “Where have you been? What have you done to yourself?”
“He’s been drinking. I can smell it on him.” Emily gazed at Branwell in disgust. “He obviously sneaked into the house, went to sleep, and left a candle lit and set himself on fire again. Then he panicked and tumbled downstairs.”
Some two years ago, Branwell had nearly burned to death in his bed. I said, “Let’s take him upstairs. He doesn’t seem to have broken anything. The burns on his arms and legs don’t look serious, but still, the doctor ought to examine him.”
When Papa and I moved to raise Branwell to his feet, he batted our hands away. “No!” he cried, his eyes wild. “This was no accident. There was an intruder in the study. He attacked me!”
“What did this intruder look like?” I asked, skeptical.
“He was tall and dressed in dark clothing,” Branwell said. “That’s all I could see.”
“Drunken delusions,” was Emily’s scornful pronouncement.
“There really was an intruder,” Branwell insisted. “He almost killed me!”
Just then there came a loud crash from the rear of the house. Clattering noises and rapid footsteps were followed by the sound of the back door opening. Papa, my sisters, and I hurried through the kitchen and down the passage to the door, which stood open. We saw, running up the hill behind the parsonage, the dark figure of a man.
“Stop!” Papa shouted.
Aiming his pistol out the door, he fired. The shot boomed. The intruder raced onward and vanished over the hill. We exchanged glances of wordless bewilderment, while in the hall, Branwell burst into hysterical laughter.
“Either you believe me now,” he called, “or Father is shooting at phantoms of my imagination!”
We helped Branwell upstairs. Papa dressed him in a nightshirt and put him to bed, then fetched the doctor and the constable. The doctor salved and bandaged Branwell’s burns. The constable deduced that the intruder had come in through the front door, which Branwell must have forgotten to lock, and left no trace of his presence other than a broken plate in the kitchen. When at last the men had departed, Papa, Emily, Anne, and I gathered in the parlor.
“Do you think this was related to the series of attacks on you, Charlotte?” asked Papa.
Emily spoke in a barely audible voice: “We’ve never had a burglar before.” Huddled in the corner of the sofa, she was so pale that her lips had gone white.
“This can’t have been an ordinary burglar,” Anne said. “Nothing was taken.”
A thought struck me. I ran upstairs to the study and looked on the desk. I searched through the books and papers atop it, then went back to the parlor. “Isabel White’s book is gone. The intruder must have stolen it.”
My family absorbed the news with the air of people already numbed by too many shocks. The intrusion was clearly another episode arising from Isabel’s murder, exactly the sort of event I had been anticipating since John Slade accosted me on the moor.
“They were in this house,” Emily said. “They handled our things.” Panic tinged her voice. “Maybe they even came into our rooms while we were sleeping.”
That evildoers had invaded our home horrified me no less than Emily. Papa stood at the table, reloading his pistol; his hands shook. Anne sat on the sofa and put her arm around Emily.
“Branwell could have been killed,” Anne said, “perhaps the rest of us, too.” She asked me, “Do you think it was John Slade? He knew Isabel sent you the package, because you told him. He wanted it badly enough to come to Haworth. When he didn’t get it, he could have decided to steal it tonight.”
I nodded, as that explanation had occurred to me. “Mr. Slade does fit Branwell’s vague description of the intruder. But he thinks I gave the package to Mrs. White. Therefore, he wouldn’t have come here to get it.” In spite of my rage at his deception, I found that I wanted to believe Mr. Slade innocent. How my feelings for him managed to persist against my will! “He doesn’t know I have a transcript of Isabel’s story.” It was locked safe in my drawer. For once in my life I was thankful for my poor sight, which had required Ellen to read aloud the words Isabel had written and me to copy them out in case I should want to study them at a later date.
“What’s going to happen next?” Emily demanded of me.
“I fear that whoever stole the book won’t stop at that. They must know I’ve read what Isabel wrote. They could very well suppose she also entrusted other information to me.” Distraught, I twisted my hands and paced the floor. “And if they think it’s information that endangers them or their plans, they will come back for me.”
Emily looked terror-stricken, and Anne was anxious. Papa said, “What is to be done, Charlotte?”
“Shall we ask the police for help?” said Anne.
“They can’t capture our attackers or thwart the schemes of Isabel’s master based on the little information we have,” I said. “Nor can they stand guard over us day and night.”
“Then what do you propose we do?” Emily cried.
I liked that she and Anne appeared ready to forget our quarrel and unite with me against our enemies. But I liked less the plan which I had in mind, although it seemed our only hope.
“We must turn to John Slade,” I said.
Anne regarded me with disbelief. “After he misrepresented himself and terrified you-and may have murdered Isabel, among others? My dear Charlotte!”
“If he is an agent of the Crown as he claims, then he would have the wherewithal to help us, as well as to protect us.” And despite my antagonism toward Mr. Slade, my heartbeat quickened at the thought of seeing him again.
“Can he truly be an agent?” Papa said doubtfully. “How can we know he’s not an imposter?”
“He might have lied to you again,” Anne said.
Though I shared these same reservations, the night’s events forced me to appeal to this man I reviled for dashing my hopes as well as using me. “We needn’t take his word for what he is,” I said, and I told them how Mr. Slade had claimed that Dr. Dury could vouch for him.
Papa pondered the surprise of his and Mr. Slade’s mutual connection with Dr. Dury, his old schoolmate, a don at St. John’s College in Cambridge, where they had studied together. “I’ve not seen Nicholas in many years, although we’ve corresponded. He has an unimpeachable reputation. Charlotte, we must consult him about Mr. Slade at once.”
16
Papa and I journeyed the next day to Cambridge, site of the famed university. Across this ancient town spread the various colleges, reminiscent of medieval castles, with towers, spires, and fortified gates. Venerable walls, adorned by sculpture and ivy, sheltered gardens and cloisters. Water flowed from elegant fountains; stained glass gleamed like gems; and stone bridges arched over the swans and punts drifting upon the River Cam. The afternoon of our arrival was rainy, the town devoid of the black-gowned fellows and students who flock the streets during the academic terms. Papa led me to St. John’s College, which occupies four magnificent red brick quadrangles with profuse battlements, dormers, and chimneys. We were fortunate to find Papa’s friend Dr. Dury in, for we had arrived without invitation or notice. He received us in his rooms at the top of a narrow staircase.
“My dear Patrick,” he exclaimed in warm greeting. “After all this time! And this must be your daughter Charlotte.”
He was Papa’s age, rotund of figure and hardly taller than I. Thin grey hair fringed his scalp. His eyes were bright blue and keen-sighted in a cheerful, rosy face.
“Can it be forty years since we last met?” Papa said.