Bedlam

“For three years, I’ve missed you and longed for you, even though I tried to put you out of my mind,” he said. “One lapse of attention can be the death of a spy. Still, I kept wondering whether your feelings toward me had changed. I couldn’t write to you and ask—it was dangerous to smuggle letters out of or into Russia. I decided that I would finish this one last assignment, be done with spying, then go back to England and propose to you again.”

“But when the time came, I couldn’t just waltz back into your life. I’m not the man you loved three years ago.” Slade’s features hardened into stoicism. “I’ve done terrible things since then.”

A cold shadow of dread encroached upon me. I didn’t want to hear what Slade was going to say, but I’d forced him into a confession, and I must listen to it all.

“While I was in Moscow, I befriended three Russian intellectuals.” Slade told me the story of Peter, Fyodor, and Alexander, which I have recorded in my tale of his adventures. “I betrayed them. I bought my way into the Tsar’s court with their deaths.”

I felt a revulsion so strong that I took a step backward from Slade, down the path that led away from the workhouse. His gaze showed disgust at himself and pity for me. “I tried to warn you. Now do you wish you’d stayed away from me?”

What I wished was that Slade had never gone to Russia. I hurried to defend him, even though I deplored his exploitation of harmless men who would have been content to talk about revolution rather than take action if not for him. “You were doing your duty.”

Slade gave me a bitter smile; he perceived my ambivalence. “The blood of those men is still on my hands. And they aren’t the only ones I’ve betrayed.”

“I didn’t give their names to the secret police, but I might as well have signed their death warrants.” Slade described how he’d worked as an informant for the Third Section while spying on the Russian government. He told me the story of the men and the firing squad in Butyrka Prison. “I used to meet with them on occasion, to share news. Wilhelm Stieber must have followed me to a meeting, although I never saw him—I swear, the scoundrel has a cloak of invisibility. He must have caught one of our agents, then tortured him into admitting he was a British spy and exposing the rest of us. I didn’t know what had happened until it was too late to save them. All I could do was run for my own life.”

I hope my retelling of his story has conveyed what Slade had experienced. When he described the wild chase through the Kremlin and living as a fugitive in Moscow, I felt as harrowed as if I’d gone through it all myself. “How did you escape?”

“By an accident of fate.” He told me how he’d been ambushed on his way out of Moscow and the four men who’d tried to murder him had been killed by the secret police. “They were British agents, my comrades, disguised as Russians. I figured that my superiors had discovered that my fellow spies had been caught. They blamed me, and they’d sent the agents to deliver me to justice. But I didn’t know for sure until you told me what Lord Eastbourne said.”

“I did,” Slade said, “after I came back to England. A friend in Russia smuggled me into Poland. The Polish people don’t like Russia, which has taken over their country. Some were glad to give me food and shelter and money and teach me their language. I went on to Amsterdam, then stowed away on a ship and landed in England this past April. I wrote to Lord Palmerston at the Foreign Office, explaining what had happened. I warned him about Stieber, Kavanagh, and the invention. But I didn’t trust Palmerston enough to meet him face to face or tell him where to send a reply to my letter. So I don’t know whether he received it.”

“At any rate, I doubted that I could walk into the Foreign Office, turn myself in, and expect my problems to be straightened out,” Slade said. “All I could do was proceed with my plan to search for Niall Kavanagh. And I wanted revenge on Wilhelm Stieber.”

I’d known that Slade was a man of strong passions, but I’d never seen the full power of his hatred until now. Stieber had better pray to God that he and Slade never met again.

“My quest led me to Katerina.” Slade spoke with such sorrow that I felt a stab of jealousy. “While I was in Whitechapel, looking for Stieber, I learned that she was his informant. I struck up an acquaintance with her and persuaded her to work for me.”

“I knew it was dangerous for her. I knew what Stieber would do to her if he found out. But I was like a speeding train that can only go in the direction that its track is laid. I killed her as surely as if I’d plunged a knife into her heart.” Slade clenched his hand and pantomimed stabbing. The rage in his voice underscored the violence of his words. “Katerina’s murder is another death I’m responsible for. And my actions have also put you in trouble with the law.”

My emotions were in turmoil. My horror at the carnage he’d left in his wake now reverted to fury at Slade. If he wanted to add me to the list of people he’d harmed, he should accept responsibility for his most egregious crime against me. “You say you love me; you purport to be sorry I’ve been charged with murder. If you really care for me, then why did you take Katerina as your mistress?”

“You’re forgetting that I saw you with Katerina, that night at the theater. I saw you kiss her.” My voice quavered at the memory. “You didn’t even care if I saw.”

“To protect you.” Slade rushed to explain: “When I came out of the theater with Katerina and you suddenly appeared, I wanted to rush to you, seize you in my arms, and never let you go. But I couldn’t.” Agony glazed his eyes. “You looked so beautiful and innocent. I couldn’t touch you, lest you be contaminated.”

Slade held up his hands and regarded them as if they were smeared with filth from his sins. “I had to drive you away. So I climbed in the carriage with Katerina, and even though she and I weren’t on intimate terms, I kissed her.” He smiled glumly; he rubbed his cheek. “You didn’t see it, but she slapped me. I resisted my urge to look back at you. I couldn’t bear to see the look on your face. I hated to leave you, but it was for the best.”

He leaned closer, his eyes shining fiercely in the remains of the daylight. “Now I’ve told you everything. Now that you know the worst, do you still love me? Will you still have me?”

My heart urged me to cry, yes! My love for Slade was as ardent as ever. I was humbled by his belief that he no longer deserved me, and moved by his wish to protect me. But as blind as love can be, my mind couldn’t ignore the fact that eight people were dead and Slade deserved at least some of the blame, no matter that he’d done everything he’d done in service to his country and I believed he was a good man at heart.

“I see you hesitate,” Slade said. “At the risk of driving another nail into my coffin, I must remind you that I’m a fugitive. I can’t wed you in church, lest I be caught and arrested. If you choose to be with me, it would be on the lam, without the benefit of clergy.”

Once more I found myself walking the same path down which I’d sent Jane Eyre. She’d had to choose whether to live with Mr. Rochester in sin or flee and retain her honor. Now I faced my own crossroads. Slade was a criminal in the eyes of the law, and although I had stepped outside the law in order to find him, I was bound by convention. My love couldn’t stand against my bred-in-the-bone belief in the sanctity of marriage. Choosing to be with Slade meant estranging myself from everyone else who mattered to me. I must renounce him or lose my family, my friends, and my virtue. My choice must be the same as I’d made for Jane.

Slade’s face took on a look of triumph blended with devastation. “I see that I’ve succeeded in destroying whatever regard you had for me. You are offended because I made you such an insulting proposition. You despise me now.”

Of course I did not! Yet I was so upset that I couldn’t find words to explain my decision or lessen his guilt and misery. I could hardly believe that our positions had reversed—that I was the object of his unrequited love, or so he thought.

“You should go,” Slade said. He wasn’t Mr. Rochester, who’d begged Jane to stay even though it would compromise her. He was a stronger man, with higher moral standards.

“Not until I prove I’m innocent and exonerate you,” I clarified. I didn’t admit that I wasn’t ready for us to part even though we must. Now that I had found Slade, I could not immediately give him up, and I had ample justification for delaying. “I can’t go home while I’m in as much trouble with the law as you are.”

I was silent: I had no idea. I’d plotted my course up until this point, but no further. Alas, I was like a heroine in a novel whose author did not know how to bring the story to a satisfying conclusion.

“Are you hoping to turn Niall Kavanagh over to the police and say he’s the Whitechapel Ripper?” Slade said, incredulous and scornful. He was trying to offend me and thus drive me away. “And after that, track down Wilhelm Stieber, drag him before Lord Palmerston, and make him confess that he, not I, was responsible for the deaths of the British agents?”

“I admit that I am,” I retorted. “It takes a certain amount of naïveté to think that one can write a novel that people will buy. It takes even more to believe that one can foil a plot against the British Empire. The fact that I’ve done both things indicates that God rewards naïveté.”

Night had come; the moon had risen. The workhouse appeared even more intimidating than ever. But I took my courage in hand, and I moved along the path, circling the mansion.

“No,” Slade said. “I’ve been keeping watch on the place for two days. He’s gone. Nobody in town seems to know where. That’s why I was breaking in—to see if he left any clues, or if there’s any sign of his invention inside.”

I thought he would try to force me to leave, but he didn’t; perhaps he couldn’t bear for us to part any more than I could. We seemed to have come to a tacit agreement to quit the topic of our relationship, to pretend Slade’s confession hadn’t happened. We were conversing easily, but our talk felt brittle, like ice thinly frozen over a turbulent ocean. I said, “How did you find out about Kavanagh’s secret laboratory?”

“I went to his house in Whitechapel. While questioning people in the neighborhood, I found a man who used to be Kavanagh’s servant. He told me where Kavanagh had moved.” Slade said with abrupt suspicion, “How did you find out?”

I evaded the question in case the answer was a bargaining chip I might need later. The path veered away from the house. “What’s in that building up ahead?”

“Why not?” I stepped around him. The building was a barn that had once contained animals that the workhouse residents had raised for food. The wooden doors were open; a padlock dangled from broken hinges. I entered before Slade could stop me. The foul odor was so strong that I covered my nose with my hand. On one side of the barn, sheep lay dead in pens. Flies buzzed and maggots swarmed over the rotting carcasses. On the other side were cages of small corpses with matted fur, wizened claws, and long tails—rats.

“There are bare patches on their bodies where the hair was shaved off. I saw cuts in the skin, but not deep enough to kill. Maybe they died of neglect after Kavanagh left.”

We stopped near the window Slade had broken. The caretaker was gone; he’d regained consciousness and escaped. Slade said, “You’re not going in there. ”

I stopped, but I stood my ground. My gaze dared him to make good on his threat. The air between us was charged with heat. If Slade had touched me then! But he didn’t. He thought I would repulse any contact with him. His mouth twisted in frustrated despair.

“You wanted to know how I found out about the laboratory.” My voice was unsteady, my heart racing. “I spoke with a friend who knows Dr. Kavanagh. He told me about the house in Whitechapel. I went there, too. The landlord let me see some things Dr. Kavanagh left behind. Among them were his journal and some papers. The location of the laboratory was there.”

Grasping the tree beside the window, I started to climb, but Slade said, “Here, I’ll help you up.” He clasped his hands and lowered them. “After we’re finished, you’re going home.”