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“You can’t close off an entire avenue of inquiry!” Mr. Slade protested, leaping from his seat.

“Indeed I can,” Lord Unwin sneered. “You’d best hope that your amateur spies can elicit the facts we need. I now adjourn this meeting.” Chairs scraped as Lord Unwin and his men rose; he bowed to me. “Good evening, Miss Bronte.”

“Lord Unwin fears to risk his own neck,” Mr. Slade said with bitter ire as we rode away in our carriage. “That a man like him should have charge over the nation’s affairs! God save us all from cowards!”

I confess that I savored the feeling of comradeship that stemmed from our siding together against Lord Unwin. “Why does Lord Unwin dislike you so much?”

“For common reasons as old as history.” Mr. Slade gave a humorless laugh. “Lord Unwin belongs to a proud, noble family that lost its land and wealth. He was forced to go to work instead of enjoying the life of an idle aristocrat. Family connections got him a post in the Foreign Office, and he’s been promoted to a high rank merely because of his name. I, on the other hand, am an upstart son of a nobody. My achievements rankle Lord Unwin because they, not birthright, have won me a place in the world. He would like to see me fail, disgrace myself, and prove his superiority.” Mr. Slade mused, “Lord Unwin’s kind are fast losing their domination over England, and he has chosen to punish me for that.”

How well I understood. While a governess, I had been abused by rich employers who resented my education, as if I had insulted them by possessing what they lacked. My sense of camaraderie with Mr. Slade increased. “What shall we do?”

Mr. Slade’s teeth flashed white in a brief, cunning smile. He said, “I have ways to circumvent Lord Unwin’s orders.”

My hopes buoyed me yet again, with their sudden resurgence.

19

During the next few days, Mr. Slade left his sister’s house early every morning, before I awakened, to pursue inquiries whose nature he did not elucidate to me. In his absence he stationed two Foreign Office agents in the foyer to guard me. I kept to my room, where I endeavored to finish writing Shirley, waited for news from Mr. Slade, and grew ever more anxious. At night I lay awake and heard him come home very late. Our previous sense of partnership had vanished, to my vexation and disappointment.

My solitary wait was enlivened by letters from Anne and Emily. Here I reproduce Anne’s:

My dear Charlotte,

I am glad to report that I arrived safely in Birmingham and am now ensconced as governess at the Lock house. My role as secret observer is one for which I am much less qualified, and I hope I shall perform creditably.

The family consists of Mrs. Caroline Lock, who is the widow of Joseph Lock, her two sons-Harry and Matthew, aged seven and six-and Mr. Henry Lock, her brother-in-law. Mrs. Lock is a pale, haggard wraith. Her blue eyes are sunken and the effort of conversation seems to pain her. When we met, I caught the odor of spirits on her person. She spends all her time in her chamber, tended by her maid, who carries in trays of food and glasses of wine. The trays come out barely touched, the glasses empty.

My two pupils are both fair, sturdy, handsome lads; but oh, how obstreperous Master Harry is! During our first lesson he chattered constantly. When I told him to be quiet, he hurled his books out the window. Young Matthew never speaks at all, and his eyes are solemn. He wets his bed, as if he were a much younger child. But I suspect that he is more sad then feebleminded, and Harry more confused than evil. Their father’s death seems to haunt the entire household, and not the least of all Mr. Henry Lock.

Mr. Lock is a fair, slender man with a perpetually worried face. He manages the family gunworks and spends long days there. While the nursemaid gives the boys their supper, Henry Lock and I dine alone together (Mrs. Lock never joins us). We sit at opposite ends of the table in the elegant candlelit dining room. He always greets me politely, then retreats into his private thoughts. We nibble at the food, for which neither of us has much appetite; then he excuses himself and withdraws to the study on the top floor. I know he works very late, because the study is directly above my room, and I can hear him moving about.

A more troubled family I have seldom seen. The Locks’ melancholy might have depleted my own spirits, had I not a purpose to accomplish. With that purpose in mind, I ventured to the kitchen on the afternoon of my second day, on the pretext of begging some water to drink. The cook and the scullery maid were quite willing to gossip about Mrs. Lock’s grief and about her husband’s suicide. But before I could hear more than I already knew, the housekeeper came into the kitchen and scolded us for idle talk.

My subsequent attempts to obtain information from the servants met with evasion. I began to fear I would never learn why Mr. Lock took his own life, nor what was his connection to the murder of Isabel White. I doubted that I would ever glimpse her “master” or anyone associated with him-until tonight.

The hall clock chiming midnight roused me from a fitful doze. Then came a knock at the front door. As I wondered who called so late, I heard the door open, and Henry Lock say, his voice shrill with alarm, “What are you doing here?”

A man replied in menacing words that I could not discern. I crept from my room onto the landing and peered over the banister. Henry Lock stood at the open door. Beyond the threshold stood a man with a beaked nose, jutting chin, and ominous expression.

“I won’t,” Henry Lock said. “We’ve done enough for you. Go away and leave me alone!”

The man seized him by the collar. Henry Lock lurched and cried out, his hands splayed. The visitor murmured threats that were indistinguishable to me, yet struck fear into my heart.

“No!” I heard Henry Lock say; then: “Yes! Whatever you wish. Just please don’t-”

The visitor released him. He staggered backward. There was a last mutter from the visitor, whose shadowy figure withdrew. Henry Lock slammed the door, secured the bolt, and sagged against the wall, gasping. What had transpired between him and his caller? Does my wishful imagination convince me that the caller is an emissary of Isabel White’s evil master? I feel certain that dire peril threatens this house. I shall wait and watch for the opportunity to solve the mystery.

I hope you and Emily are well, and that your own inquiries are progressing.

With love,

Anne

Her letter engendered in me both fear and, at the same time, the hope that Anne had found a path that would lead to the truth. I know how much she craved independence and wanted to prove her worth, but how I regretted allowing her to go to Birmingham! Yet my anxiety concerning Anne was far less than that I felt for Emily.

Emily was never a fulsome correspondent; her letter was brief. She merely said that she had arrived at the Charity School and been taken in as a teacher. I didn’t discover what happened during her time there until after her death, when I read the following passages in her journaclass="underline"

The Journal of Emily Bronte

Skipton, 10 August 1848.

The train carried me northwest, like a coffin speeding towards doom. The passengers in the carriage numbered more strangers than I had seen in years. With every passing mile, my heart yearned more desperately for home.

A thunderstorm coincided with my arrival at the Charity School, which was as forbidding as a ruined castle. I stood, wet and shivering, for some time at the door, my heart pounding while I fought an urge to flee. At worst there were evil criminals inside; at best, strangers to face. I summoned all my courage and knocked. When a maid answered, I forced myself to say, “I am in need of work. Might you need a teacher?”

My appearance must have convinced her that I was the correct sort of destitute gentlewoman, for she admitted me into the building. “Wait here. I’ll fetch the mistress.”