After Mr. Slade and I had read this letter, I exclaimed, “If the constable hadn’t been near, Anne might have been hurt by those scoundrels! I should have anticipated that she would get herself in trouble. She must leave Birmingham at once!”
That Mr. Slade didn’t remind me how he’d warned us of the danger was a credit to his tact. “Indeed, Anne should leave. She has learned more than she realizes. We have her description of Henry Lock’s mysterious tormentor, as well as the name of the public house.” Mr. Slade narrowed his eyes in contemplation. “The Barrel and Shot is a notorious meeting place of Chartist agitators. I begin to see how the man fits into the scheme of Isabel’s master.”
“I shall write immediately to Anne and tell her to return home,” I said, rising from my chair.
Mr. Slade rose too. “Better yet, we’ll fetch her. A trip to Birmingham to find the man Anne saw promises us more good than staying in London in case the prime minister should contact us.”
Kate ordered the carriage, while I hurried to pack. Mr. Slade and I boarded the train to Birmingham that very morning.
22
We all experience emotions that we would rather die than confess, and sensations we experience with shame and guilt. To relish what is deplorable seems a sin; that evil can inspire such pleasure shows how wayward is the human flesh. The spectacle of human violence should repel me; yet under some circumstances, I instead feel the same exhilarating passion as when I watch storms rage or the ocean’s waves crash. This I learned, to my disgrace, on my trip with Mr. Slade to Birmingham.
When we arrived there, he deposited Anne and me in a lodging house owned by a respectable married couple he knew-the man was a retired East India Company sergeant with whom Mr. Slade had served. Anne and I were given a comfortable room upstairs, where we rejoiced to be together again and talked over our experiences. Our hosts had two sons who worked as police constables. That night, they and Mr. Slade went out to seek the man who had extorted guns from Henry Lock. Anne retired to bed, but I sat up, too restless for sleep. I mused upon how my relations with Mr. Slade had evolved. Although my feelings towards him had gained power, I felt easier with him than any other man I’d ever met. It seemed we had reached some unspoken accord, the paths of our lives had converged, and we traveled side by side towards some unknown destiny. But who was John Slade? I could now count many hours we had spent together; yet all I knew beyond doubt was that he was a man inclined to disappear and leave me waiting.
At dawn, Mr. Slade returned. I hastened to meet him. “What has happened?” I said.
“We arrested three men at the Barrel and Shot,” said Mr. Slade. His hair and clothes were disheveled. “One of them may be familiar to you. Another fits Miss Anne’s description of the man she followed there. I must ask you both to come to the prison and identify the men.”
Mr. Slade escorted us in a hackney cab to the Birmingham prison, a forbidding, brick-built dungeon in Moor Street. Through its barred windows, inmates shouted rude remarks at passersby. Sharp spikes topped the surrounding wall. Outside, constables unloaded shackled men from a horse-drawn van. A warden unlocked the massive, ironclad gate for us. In the lodge, he sent Anne and me into a cubbyhole where a hatchet-faced woman groped over our bodies and under our clothes, seeking hidden weapons or other contraband. While Mr. Slade and the warden escorted us through a maze of gloomy passages lit by guttering gas lamps, I experienced increasing trepidation.
Through rusty window gratings I spied male prisoners marching around the yard. A stench of urine, excrement, and misery grew worse as we proceeded deeper into the prison. The walls and floor of the passage were slick with fetid moisture. Yells, groans, and raucous babble echoed from the prison galleries. Guards dressed in blue uniforms patrolled the corridors, the keys on their belts jangling. Chained prisoners leered at Anne and me as they were marched by. Mr. Slade halted us outside a door that had a small glass pane set at eye level.
“Look inside,” Mr. Slade told Anne. “Do you recognize the man you described in your letter?”
Anne peered through the glass; I looked over her shoulder into a room with a scarred plank floor, whitewashed walls, and exposed gas pipes. The two constables stood guard over three men seated on benches at a table. One man had a craggy, beak-nosed face. His right eye was blackened, his clothing stained with blood. Mr. Slade must have fought a strenuous battle to capture the prisoners.
“That is the man who threatened Henry Lock,” said Anne.
My attention was caught by another prisoner, seated opposite the one Anne had identified. He wore a black suit, and his head was wrapped in a bandage; he had ginger hair and a cruel, coarse face I would never forget.
“The bandaged man is one of the pair that attacked us on the train and came to the Charity School,” I exclaimed.
Mr. Slade flashed a brief, triumphant smile. “I thought I recognized him from your drawing. It seems our hunt was doubly successful. What about the third prisoner?”
This was a fellow whose thin figure, sleek hair, and pointed features gave him the appearance of a greyhound. His narrow eyes shifted and his foot tapped nervously. His suit boasted scuff marks and torn sleeves. Neither Anne nor I had ever seen him before.
Mr. Slade thanked us for our help, then said, “The cab will take you to your lodgings while I interrogate the captives.”
Though Anne readily acquiesced, I said, “I want to watch and hear what those men reveal.”