Had it led to the invention of the weapon sought by Wilhelm Stieber? I felt sure it must have.
“Then his students began falling ill. They claimed Kavanagh had used them as test subjects in his experiments and had poisoned them. The college investigated, but found no proof that he’d caused their illnesses. Their symptoms were different, ranging from fever and coughs to gastric upsets and eye ailments. But one of the students died, and Kavanagh already had such a bad reputation that he was dismissed from his post. That was five years ago,” Dr. Forbes concluded. “Kavanagh left Oxford and dropped out of public life.”
Niall Kavanagh sounded like a brilliant but troubled man. I reexamined what Slade had told me about Kavanagh in the new light of what Dr. Forbes had just said. Niall Kavanagh was vindictive toward people who abused him. He had a grudge against the English in general. He had no loyalty toward his mentor or his colleagues; he was self-centered, with no inhibition against doing whatever he pleased. The brain fever he’d contracted in Africa had likely worsened his natural bad tendencies. If indeed he had experimented on his students, he had no respect for human life, which he had readily endangered for the sake of science. And this was the man who, according to Slade, had invented a weapon powerful enough to win a war.
If Niall Kavanagh fell in with Wilhelm Stieber and the Tsar, woe betide England!
“Have I upset you, Miss Bronte?” Dr. Forbes said. “I am truly sorry.”
“There’s no need to apologize. I asked about Niall Kavanagh, you answered, and I thank you.” We ate in silence for a moment; then I said, “Have you seen Dr. Kavanagh recently?”
“Not in these five years. But I’ve heard that he published a pamphlet advocating Catholic rights and joined a branch of the radical group, Young Ireland, that demonstrated in London during the revolutions of 1848.”
“Do you know where he might be?”
Dr. Forbes hesitated. “May I ask what your interest in him is?”
“I’m afraid it’s a private matter,” I said.
“If you mean to go looking for Kavanagh, I must advise you against it. He is an unpleasant man at best, and a dangerous one at worst.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. But if I don’t find him, it will be worse than if I do.”
Dr. Forbes studied me, seeking the meaning in my cryptic remark. He said reluctantly, “Very well.” He laid down his fork and folded his napkin. “Last November, I ran into a friend from the Royal Society. His name is Metcalf; he is a physician. He told me he was a member of a commission formed to investigate sanitary conditions in the slums of London. He went about inspecting houses and tenements. One day during the previous summer he knocked on the door of an old, decrepit house, and the man who answered was Niall Kavanagh. Dr. Metcalf was shocked by his appearance. Kavanagh was wearing dirty, torn clothes. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks and he smelled as if he’d been drinking heavily. Dr. Metcalf tried to speak to him, to offer help. But Kavanagh shouted at Dr. Metcalf to go away, and he slammed the door. That’s the last I’ve heard of Kavanagh.”
This sighting was a year past, but it was my only clue to Kavanagh’s whereabouts. “Did Dr. Metcalf say where this house was?”
“Not the exact location,” Dr. Forbes said. “But he did mention that it was a white terraced house on Flower and Dean Street. In Whitechapel.”
By seeking out Dr. Forbes, I had gone back to the point where my perils had begun. Now my path lay in other familiar territory. Niall Kavanagh had been sighted in Whitechapel, the very neighborhood of London in which I had witnessed Katerina’s murder; now, to Whitechapel I must return.
I parted from Dr. Forbes and joined Ellen and Mr. Nicholls. As we walked through the cold, misty night toward our inn, Ellen said, “What did you and Dr. Forbes talk about?”
“A mutual acquaintance,” I said.
“Did you get what you came for?”
“More or less.”
Ellen fell silent, and I felt bad because my evasiveness had hurt her feelings. Mr. Nicholls said, “What shall we do now?”
“We should retire for the night.” I was exhausted.
“That suits me.” Mr. Nicholls yawned, bleary-eyed and bloated from a long day and a large supper. “What about tomorrow? Are we going back to Haworth?”
“Back to Haworth! Why, we’ve only just gotten here!” Ellen turned her pique at me on Mr. Nicholls. “How can you even think of going home?”
To his credit, he refused to be provoked into another quarrel. “If Miss Bronte wants to go, we’ll go. If not, we’ll stay.”
“We’ll stay another day,” I said. “Tomorrow we’ll rent a boat and go rowing on the lake.”
“That sounds capital,” Mr. Nicholls said happily.
“Yes, quite.” Ellen cheered up, too.
Late that night, while Ellen slept soundly in her bed in the room we shared, I wrote two notes by candlelight. The first was to Papa: Forgive me for breaking my promise. I cannot allow Ellen and Mr. Nicholls to accompany me. It would put them in grave danger. Please do not blame them. Whatever happens to me is my fault. I will explain later.
I only hoped I would live to explain. I was bound for the place where a fiend killed and mutilated women, in the city where I was wanted for murder. Would I ever see Papa again?
The second note I addressed to Ellen and Mr. Nicholls: Forgive me for leaving you. It is for your own good. Where I am going next, I must go alone.
I left the notes on the table for Ellen to find in the morning. Then I packed my things and quietly departed.
25
The secret adventures of John Slade
1851 February. That winter in Moscow was the longest and coldest winter Slade had ever known. By day he picked pockets in the streets and stole money from alms boxes in churches. At night he went to ground in Kitrovka, the haunt of brigands, drunks, itinerant laborers, artists down on their luck, and fugitives from the law.
A permanent pall of smoke and mist hung over the marketplace in Kitrovka. Vendors sold sausages and herring from stalls set up in the snow; toothless women kept pots of soup warm under their skirts. Dirty, unshaven, and haggard, Slade blended in with Kitrovka’s populace. He lived in its shelters-low houses with dark, smoky rooms that stank of boots, latrines, and cheap tobacco. The men slept side by side on and under bunks made of boards, like corpses dressed in rags. Fleas, lice, bedbugs, and rats abounded. Fights broke out often. Slade never stayed in the same place two nights in a row, because the police made the rounds of the shelters, looking for fugitives. He caught a bad cold that developed into a wracking cough. Still, he was thankful for the blizzards that swept through Moscow: the police didn’t like working outdoors during them, and the manhunt for him died down after a few weeks. By then Slade had saved up enough money for a long trip.
One frozen, gray morning he waved down a sleigh on Yauzky Boulevard and said to the driver, “Take me to Sergeev Posad.” That was a town some forty miles northeast of Moscow. Slade had a friend there who would smuggle him out of Russia.
The driver was a squat, red-nosed man with icicles in his shaggy beard. He looked Slade over and sneered. “I don’t give free rides to beggars.”
“I can pay. I’ll give you fifty rubles now and fifty when we get to Sergeev Posad.”
Greed vied with suspicion in the driver’s eyes. “You must be wanted by the law. Double the price, and we have a deal.” He held out his hand, and Slade dropped a hundred rubles into it. “But we can’t go now. It’ll be safer after dark.”
Slade had no choice but to consent. “Where should we meet?”
“Behind the Ryady Bazaar. Eleven o’clock.”
The night was as still as if an ice age had paralyzed the city. The smoke from thousands of chimneys rose in vertical columns. Trudging through the snow, Slade avoided the main avenues where street lamps burned, but the snow reflected light from the full moon and a million stars onto him. He felt conspicuous and vulnerable, alone in the glacial landscape. Twice he thought he heard footsteps nearby. Twice he stopped, listened, looked around, and detected no one. Ill and exhausted, desperate to leave Moscow, Slade ignored his instincts.