Brightly colored birds flitted between the palm trees under the glass roof. As I listened to parrots squawk and watched plumed cranes strut, I felt a sudden prickling sensation. I knew that sensation from my years as a schoolteacher. I’d felt it whenever I’d turned my back to my pupils. It was the feeling of unfriendly eyes on me. I turned and saw a man holding his little boy up to feed a macaw perched on a branch. A group of people admired a peacock spreading his brilliant tail feathers. Two women laughed as they wiped bird dung off the head of a bald man. No one appeared to be watching me, but my pulse quickened. I knew the scent of danger. I smelled it now.
I fled the aviary and mingled with a crowd gathered around a lemonade stand. Here I was safe among numbers, but I could not shed the certainty that someone was following me, someone with malice in mind. As to who, I knew not. As to why, I could only speculate that the reason must involve Slade and our past relationship.
“Miss Bronte,” said a voice startlingly close to me.
I yelped and almost jumped out of my shoes. I whirled to face the young man who’d spoken. He smiled an earnest smile, his protuberant brown eyes shining. His pink, boyish face was familiar, although I couldn’t place him. He said, “It’s Oliver Heald.”
He was the man who had made me so uncomfortable at the Great Exhibition with his questions about my marital status. I said, “You frightened me half to death!”
His smile faltered; he tilted his head, a habit I recognized. “I’m terribly sorry.”
“What are you doing here?” I said, forgetting that he had as much right to be at the zoo as I did.
“I-I was hoping you would inscribe your book for me,” he said, disconcerted by my harsh manner. He held out a copy of Jane Eyre.
I stared at the book, then at his nervous, blushing face. How odd that Mr. Heald should happen to have the book with him at the same moment we ran into each other! It seemed too much of a coincidence. “Have you been following me?” I demanded.
“Well, yes,” he admitted sheepishly. “I saw you, and I remembered how gracious you were the last time we met, and I thought, ‘Here’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance to get my favorite author’s signature.’”
I ignored his compliments. My temper, already strained by the events of the past two days, found in him a handy target. “How dare you intrude on my privacy?”
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Heald said, alarmed by his own breach of manners, hurt by my reaction. “Will you please forgive me?”
“Go away.” I shooed him as if he were a buzzing fly. “Leave me alone!”
“Yes, Miss Bronte. I’m sorry.” Mr. Heald turned and ran, holding Jane Eyre against his heart.
I belatedly felt relieved that my pursuer had turned out to be the innocuous Mr. Heald. I also calmed down enough to regret how cruelly I’d treated him. “Wait, Mr. Heald,” I called, “I would be honored to sign your book.”
He’d gone into a wooded area that bordered the zoo. So guilty did I feel toward him, and so eager to make amends, that I didn’t stop to think about the possible danger of following a man I barely knew into what looked to be an isolated area. Instead, I did what every witless heroine in every second-rate romance novel would have done: I hastened after Mr. Heald, following a trail under a canopy of trees. Their leaves filtered the sunlight into a cool, green shade. The voices, the children’s laughter, and the animals’ cries sounded far away. I saw no one. Pausing, I called, “Mr. Heald?”
There was no answer. Leafy branches rustled behind me. I turned, glimpsed movement among the trees. Mr. Heald didn’t appear. Another rustle came, then soft footsteps. I felt a spurt of irritation. Was he teasing me? “Come out. Don’t play games,” I ordered.
A figure materialized behind a screen of foliage. That it belonged to a man was all I could discern, but his silhouette radiated menace. Fear shot through me. I began to run. I tried to steer a course toward the open, populated area of the zoo, but every time I turned in that direction, I saw the man’s shadow moving through the trees, between me and safety.
“Help!” I cried.
If he was Mr. Heald, would he hurt me? If he wasn’t, then who was he? A criminal who preyed on women he happened to meet? I thought of the women killed in Whitechapel. Fighting my way past low branches, I felt like a deer stalked by a tiger in a jungle. I panicked as I heard his footsteps moving faster, coming closer. I grew certain that this was no random encounter.
Somehow I had once again stumbled into bad business that involved John Slade. I acknowledged the terrifying possibility that it was he-lunatic, traitor, and murderer-who pursued me. If he caught me, what would he do?
I came abruptly upon a brick wall. From its other side I heard carriage wheels racketing and horses’ hooves plodding. This was the wall that separated the zoo from the street. It was too high for me to climb. I sought but found no gate. My back pressed against the wall, I watched with terror as swaying branches and rustling leaves heralded the arrival of my stalker.
11
I heard a sudden crash. A wild thrashing and scuffling ensued. It was the sound of men fighting. They flailed behind the bushes. Grunts punctuated thuds as blows landed. I could have taken the opportunity to escape, but I had to see who the men were. I crept toward them, but before I could gain a clear view, one jumped up and ran away. The other clambered to his feet. I tore through dangling vines and burst upon him. It was Slade.
He stood, brushed dirt off his black coat and trousers, and faced me. I realized that I did not know who had stalked me and who had rescued me, Slade or the other man. My heart drummed a cadence of fear and desire.
His expression was as distant as when I’d confronted him outside the Royal Pavilion Theater. “Go home, madam,” he said in the same Russian accent he’d used then. “From now on, do not wander by yourself. It is dangerous.”
He turned to leave. I was suddenly furious. Whether he remembered me or not, I had gone to much trouble to help him whether he deserved it or not. And I knew this was Slade, no matter what he or anyone else said. His were the eyes that had once looked deep into mine; his the lips I had kissed; his the hands that had caressed me in places touched by no other man. The least I deserved from him was an explanation.
“Don’t you walk away!” I shouted.
I seized his arm. He stared at me, surprised by my temerity. He looked at my hand that clutched him, and I felt his tough, strong muscles stiffen in resistance. I also felt the warmth of his skin through his coat sleeve. A torrent of emotion weakened me. For three years I’d longed to touch Slade. Now I was touching him, but this was not how I’d wanted it to be. I’d yearned to have his arms around me, our bodies united in love. But he wrenched free of my grasp, as callously as if throwing off a stranger who’d begged him for a penny. Anger overrode my hurt feelings and restored my strength.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“I see you go in woods and man follow.” Slade’s face had an impassivity that was as foreign as his accent. “I think he mean to hurt you. So I catch him, chase him away.”
“Stop pretending!” I was so incensed that I didn’t care whether what he’d said was true. “You’re not Russian.” My voice rose. “You’re as British as I, Mr. John Slade!”
The sound of his name uttered so loudly alarmed him. “For God’s sake, keep your voice down!” he said in a furious whisper. The Russian accent was gone.