It was clear that Mr. Slade perceived the advantage he held over the prime minister, for he said, “Miss Bronte and I will protect your secrets, under one condition.”
A dour, raspy chuckle emanated from Lord John Russell. “You would bargain with me? Your audacity is remarkable.” He made as if to leave, but ventured only a few steps before reluctantly pausing.
“Should Isabel’s master contact you and demand more favors, inform me at once,” Mr. Slade said. “Determine who owns any ships you’re asked to give safe passage from England and what cargo they carry. Help me identify and apprehend the villain, and I will shield you from exposure and punishment.”
Lord Russell considered. “If you receive an anonymous letter addressed to you at the Foreign Office, you should heed it,” he finally said, then left us.
“There seems little more to be learned here,” Mr. Slade said. “We may as well go.”
Yet he did not move. He regarded me with a strange look that stirred a fluttering sensation in my breast. The trees and darkness isolated us from the crowd at the ball; our only companion was the marble Aphrodite, immobile and silent.
“Your speech to the prime minister carried the day,” said Mr. Slade, and I heard new respect and warmth in his voice. “I congratulate you.” He added gruffly, “I must also tell you how lovely you look tonight.”
Such a stir of pride and happiness arose in me that I could not answer. The night seemed to swell with a freshening breeze, the slow turning of the heavens, and the tide of hope that lapped at my heart.
I am no fanciful young maiden who believes that a summer eve harbors magic, or that a beautiful gown, a waltz, and a successful collaboration can influence destiny. But my relations with Mr. Slade altered that night, and in the days which followed, they continued altering, to my joy and hazard.
21
What transpired at the ball caused me such tumultuous emotion that I tossed in my bed that night, my mind awhirl; I then fell into dreams of waltzing with Mr. Slade. I awoke breathless with anticipation of what the day would bring.
When I went into the dining room and joined Mr. Slade and Kate at the breakfast table, he handed me two letters. “These came in the morning post.”
One letter was from Anne, the other from Emily. I opened Emily’s first, and as I read, consternation filled me. “Emily writes from Haworth. She’s left the Charity School. She gives no explanation. What can have happened?”
Mr. Slade’s grave expression said he feared that Emily had somehow compromised our inquiries. “What does Anne say?”
Her letter was even more disturbing, as her own words can attest. My dear Charlotte, I write in haste to convey important news. The day after the mysterious visitor came, Mr. Lock and I again dined together. He looked so much more haggard and preoccupied than usual that I was emboldened to ask him what was amiss. With unconvincing haste he attempted to assure me that all was well. When I confessed I had seen him arguing with a man last night, and asked him if it was this man who troubled him, his countenance went deathly pale. He swayed in his chair. Perspiration on his face glistened in the candlelight. I hurried to him and poured him a glass of wine, which he gulped. I blotted his forehead with a napkin, and he drew shuddering breaths as his color returned. As soon as he was able, he thanked me for my assistance and apologized for disturbing me. His courtesy while in distress increased my sympathy for Henry Lock. He seemed little more than a boy, and I had an urge to cradle him in my arms. Hesitantly, I suggested he tell me his worries, that perhaps I could help. There must be something about me that engages other people’s trust. Friends, employers, and total strangers have told me their woes. Now Henry Lock confided how he had tried to dissuade his elder brother Joseph from placing him in charge of the family gunworks, for he sensed that his brother had been compelled to retire against his will. Regardless, Mr. Joseph Lock announced his decision to his workers the very next day. A shudder passed through Henry Lock as he reached this point in his sad tale. “Joseph’s wife sent me a message to come home at once. When I arrived, she said he had locked himself in his office and she’d heard a shot.” He looked haunted, as though he were reliving his discovery. “I broke down the door and found Joseph slumped over his desk. His head lay in a pool of blood. The room smelled of gunpowder. The pistol had fallen from Joseph’s hand, onto the floor.” After murmuring my condolences, I ventured to ask why his brother had taken his life. Mr. Lock told me his brother had left no explanation, but a week after Joseph Lock’s death, he began to understand. “I was working late at the gunworks, reviewing the account books,” he told me. “It was after ten at night, and I was alone at my desk. Suddenly the man who came here yesterday stalked into the room. I asked him who he was and what he wanted. The man never gave his name, and to this day, I do not know it. He said, ‘I’m here to fetch the guns I ordered from Joseph Lock.’” A stir of excitement passed through me, for I sensed that I was about to hear something important. Henry Lock continued, “The man told me to unlock the warehouse. Then he walked out of my office as if he expected me to follow and obey him. I ran after him, calling, ‘My brother is dead. I know nothing of your transaction with him. I must see some proof of it before I can give you any guns.’ “There were four other men standing by the warehouse. They grabbed me and threatened to beat me unless I cooperated. I watched helplessly as they carried out crates of guns and loaded them on a wagon. The men all climbed on the wagon and prepared to drive off. The leader told me that my brother had already been paid an agreed-upon price, and that I was bound to keep his bargain now that Joseph was dead. He told me he wanted hundreds of rifles, pistols, and cannons and he would come for them in two weeks. “I argued that those guns were more than the factory could produce in that time, and I called him a thief. I said I would report him to the law. But he said there were things that my brother wanted kept secret. He mentioned that one concerned a Miss Isabel White, and that this and other secrets would ruin not only Lock Gunworks but Joseph’s memory and my good name if they were made public.” Henry Lock exhaled in desolation. “I surmised that Joseph had committed improprieties with the childrens’ governess. But it was obvious that he’d done something else, something even more terrible, that had put him under this man’s power, and he’d bartered the guns to protect himself, our family, and the firm. I thought that if I honored the bargain, I could avert whatever disaster Joseph had feared. But when the two weeks were up and the men came for the guns, I had completed only half of them. That man came here yesterday to demand that I deliver the rest.” The candles burned low. Henry Lock, crumbling with despair, admitted that he feared that even should he be able to deliver the guns, the demands would never stop. His firm would go bankrupt, and his family would be destroyed. “Surely there’s some other recourse,” I said. “Perhaps your brother’s secret isn’t as dangerous as you’ve been led to believe. Have you any idea what it is?” He had none, he told me. He supposed he would never know the whole truth until the blackmailer made good on his threat and a scandal broke. Thinking of Mr. Slade, I mentioned I had a friend connected to the Crown who might be able to help him. But Henry Lock begged me not to involve my friend or anyone else. He knew his brother had broken the law, he said, and he could not allow his family to be punished for his sins. The wine in the glass he held trembled as his body shook with fear, but he proclaimed that he would endeavor to produce the guns and pray that the business would be resolved. I could not share his blind faith, for I believed Isabel White’s evil master was behind his troubles and would have no mercy on him. I determined on learning more, and the next day brought an opportunity. The children went on a holiday with friends. I was left with no duties and a great wish to escape the gloomy house, so I asked the coachman to drive me into Birmingham. There I noticed a man outside a tobacconist’s shop. I recognized his distinctive beaked nose and jutting chin. He was the man who had threatened Henry Lock. As he walked away, rash impulse seized me. I told the coachman to wait, and I hurried out of the carriage. Crowds around the shops blocked my view of the man, and I almost lost him. But I spied him passing the church and ran to catch up. We traversed districts that grew shabbier until the man turned down a dark, forbidding road. There, moldering tenements bordered a narrow cobblestone pavement. The man entered a dingy brick public house called Barrel and Shot. I peered cautiously through its window into a dim room. The man I’d followed sat drinking amidst others who looked to be crude, unemployed laborers. So occupied was I that I didn’t notice two men enter the street until they neared me. They were rough young scoundrels, their smiles malicious. They advanced on me, and fear caught my breath. “What in there was you so interested in?” the first man said, pointing towards the Barrel and Shot. I shook my head in mute terror. “Might be she was lookin’ for a man,” the other taunted. Nudging elbows, they exchanged sly glances and snickers replete with insinuation, then grabbed my arms. Panic assailed me. I struggled to free myself and pleaded for them to let me go. The men laughed, jeered, and propelled me along the road. I screamed for help and a constable strode towards us. Some blows from his stick sent my attackers fleeing. He inquired after my well-being, and I replied that I was unharmed and thanked him. The constable escorted me to my carriage, chastising me that this was no place for a lady. I took the opportunity to describe the man in the public house, Henry Lock’s tormentor, and asked, “Could you tell me who he is?” The constable said, “No, but he’s someone you’d best not associate with, I’m sure.” Yet I felt sure that the man in the public house is a link to the person responsible for Isabel White’s murder and Joseph Lock’s suicide, as well as the attacks on you, dear Charlotte. I regret that I was unable to discover his identity, and I hope for a chance to rectify my failure. Anne