“What will become of him?” I asked Slade.
“He’ll probably spend the rest of his life here.”
“But shouldn’t he be tried in court and punished for what he’s done?” After all, he’d murdered the three women in Whitechapel, and he’d almost killed the Queen, not to mention millions of other people.
“Imprisonment in Bedlam will have to be punishment enough,” Slade said. “Kavanagh can’t be put on trial. He can’t go out in public, not even to be hanged. God only knows what he might say. He has to stay in Bedlam, where his ravings won’t be taken seriously and the doctors can control him with drugs. Otherwise, the whole story might come out. And the government does not want the story to come out.”
Queen Victoria had cleaned up after the fiasco at the Crystal Palace with admirable if not gentle efficiency. She sent for the army to restore peace at the Great Exhibition, then ordered Slade, George Smith, Mr. Thackeray, and me to accompany her, Prince Albert, and the royal entourage back to Buckingham Palace. When we arrived, we were given rooms in the guest quarters. The Queen’s personal physician removed the bullet from Slade’s leg and dressed the wound. I kept vigil by his bedside while Slade slept.
In the morning, after breakfast, a servant escorted me to a chamber where I found George and Mr. Thackeray sitting at a vast, highly polished table beneath a crystal chandelier. They didn’t appear to have slept any more than I had. They had dark shadows under their eyes and the stunned look of people who had wandered into strange territory and didn’t know if they could ever go home. They rose when I joined them. We remained standing while the Queen and Lord Palmerston entered.
We made our bows; the Queen acknowledged them with a brisk nod. She seated herself across the table from us, motioned us to sit, and said, “I’ve summoned you here to talk about the sorry business at the Great Exhibition.”
Standing beside her, Palmerston smiled, but with less humor than usual. “We must ask you not to discuss it with anyone, not even among yourselves.”
I suspected he was sorry to have missed out on the excitement. Perhaps he also thought he could have handled the situation better than we had.
“Oh, don’t mince words,” the Queen said impatiently. “We’re not asking. It’s an order.”
“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Palmerston said.
“It would serve no good purpose for the British people to learn what almost happened,” the Queen said. “It would only frighten them and destroy their confidence in the government.”
Neither George, Mr. Thackeray, nor I dared to suggest that since the threat to Britain had been engineered by one of its own officials, perhaps the government deserved to lose some of its citizens’ faith in it. When the Queen said, “Do you swear to keep the events of last night a secret?” we each solemnly said, “I do.”
“You are free to go,” Palmerston said. “Unless you have questions you’d like to ask.”
“I hope Dr. Crick is not in trouble?” I said.
“Fortunately for him, no one was hurt when his airship exploded,” Palmerston said. “I’ve had him sent home. He won’t be punished.”
“The only thing he’s guilty of is having the bad judgment to fall in with you, Miss Bronte,” the Queen said, cutting her eyes at me.
Mr. Thackeray spoke up. “What’s to become of Dr. Kavanagh?”
“That is yet to be determined,” the Queen said.
“What about his research?” George asked.
“Her Majesty has declared it a state secret,” Palmerston said. I understood that it was his idea. “We’ll collect Kavanagh’s papers and equipment and put them in a secure place.”
“Shouldn’t his work be continued?” Mr. Thackeray asked.
“It could be used for the good of mankind,” George said. “Why, it could revolutionize science.”
“Possibly,” the Queen said, “but his theory about the cause of disease is too extreme to be sprung on the world all of a sudden.”
“His techniques for culturing the animalcules are too dangerous to let fall into the hands of our enemies during this troubled age,” Palmerston said. “His work must be suppressed until the time is right to make it public.”
I couldn’t imagine when that would be. “But Wilhelm Stieber knows about Dr. Kavanagh’s research. He’ll tell the Tsar.”
Palmerston’s smile thinned. “Not if we can help it.”
“Your Majesty, may I ask how Mr. Slade is?” George said, looking at me.
“My physician tells me that Mr. Slade is expected to make a full recovery. But you could have asked Miss Bronte.” The Queen gave me an unpleasant, insinuating smile. “I daresay she knows more about Mr. Slade than anyone else does.”
I covered my embarrassment by asking, “Is there any news of Lord Eastbourne?”
“He was caught this morning at his home, where he’d gone to pack his things and fetch money to leave the country,” Palmerston said.
“What will become of him?” Mr. Thackeray asked.
“He will get his comeuppance,” the Queen said, “never fear.”
“In the meantime, we would like to thank you for your service to the Crown,” Palmerston said to George, Mr. Thackeray, and me. “I’m sorry that because of the need for discretion, we can’t give you any medals, but please know that you are held in the highest honor.”
“Yes,” the Queen said. “Mr. Smith and Mr. Thackeray, you are heroes. And you, Miss Bronte, are a heroine.” She pronounced the last word as if she’d had another one in mind.
We thanked her and Lord Palmerston. After she had dismissed us, George and Mr. Thackeray and I were escorted out of the palace to a carriage that waited to take us home. Mr. Thackeray said, “That was certainly a hullabaloo, wasn’t it, Miss Bronte?” I noticed that he didn’t call me Jane Eyre. I suspected he never would again. “I could have dined out on it for the next ten years if I hadn’t been sworn to secrecy.”
George held out his hand to help me into the carriage. “May I?”
“Thank you, but I’m not going yet.” I wanted to wait for Slade.
George dropped his hand. “I understand.” He sounded dejected. I recalled that he’d seen me kissing Slade last night. He’d deduced that there was no place in my heart for him. “Well, then,” he said with an attempt at a smile. “I hope to see you the next time you’re in London.”
As I bade goodbye to my friends, I felt a distance between us. Last night they’d seen a new side of me, and it had frightened them. Because of me they’d become involved in a near disaster. Our friendship would never be the same, I regretted as I watched the carriage roll out the palace gate. But although I had lost something valuable, I had found what I had set my heart on that day I’d visited Bedlam. I turned and went back inside the palace, to Slade.
Now the bells at St. Sepulchre’s Church tolled eight o’clock. A huge crowd massed outside Newgate Prison to watch justice served. Men, women, and children pressed against the railings that surrounded the scaffold, a platform some ten feet high and ten feet long, which abutted the wall of the prison. Upon the scaffold, the gibbet consisted of two parallel beams supported on two wooden pillars. A roof sheltered a pair of benches. Slade and I sat in the gallery provided for privileged spectators, amid government and court officials and their guests. I felt sick to my stomach with anticipation and dread.
I had never witnessed a hanging before, although public executions were a popular form of entertainment in London.
“You don’t have to watch,” Slade said, uneasy for my sake. “We can leave now.”
“I must. We’ll stay.”
I knew he wanted to see his investigation through to its end, and I felt a duty to witness the consequences brought about in part by my actions. It was my duty as a writer to look straight at them, so that I would be able to tell the story with firsthand authenticity. Gazing at the gentlemen and ladies seated with us and the people in the crowd below, I was startled by their gay conversation and laughter. They showed none of the sorrow, fear, or sobriety that befitted the occasion; only ribaldry, humor, and drunken debauchery did I observe.