I
My first impulse, after reading Mrs. Catherick’s extraordinary
narrative, was to destroy it. The hardened shameless depravity of the
whole composition, from beginning to end—the atrocious perversity of
mind which persistently associated me with a calamity for which I was
in no sense answerable, and with a death which I had risked my life in
trying to avert—so disgusted me, that I was on the point of tearing the
letter, when a consideration suggested itself which warned me to wait a
little before I destroyed it.
This consideration was entirely unconnected with Sir Percival. The
information communicated to me, so far as it concerned him, did little
more than confirm the conclusions at which I had already arrived.
He had committed his offence, as I had supposed him to have committed
it, and the absence of all reference, on Mrs. Catherick’s part, to
the duplicate register at Knowlesbury, strengthened my previous
conviction that the existence of the book, and the risk of detection
which it implied, must have been necessarily unknown to Sir Percival.
My interest in the question of the forgery was now at an end, and my
only object in keeping the letter was to make it of some future service
in clearing up the last mystery that still remained to baffle me—the
parentage of Anne Catherick on the father’s side. There were one or two
sentences dropped in her mother’s narrative, which it might be useful
to refer to again, when matters of more immediate importance allowed me
leisure to search for the missing evidence. I did not despair of still
finding that evidence, and I had lost none of my anxiety to discover
it, for I had lost none of my interest in tracing the father of the
poor creature who now lay at rest in Mrs. Fairlie’s grave.
Accordingly, I sealed up the letter and put it away carefully in my
pocket-book, to be referred to again when the time came.
The next day was my last in Hampshire. When I had appeared again before
the magistrate at Knowlesbury, and when I had attended at the adjourned
inquest, I should be free to return to London by the afternoon or the
evening train.
My first errand in the morning was, as usual, to the post-office. The
letter from Marian was there, but I thought when it was handed to me
that it felt unusually light. I anxiously opened the envelope. There
was nothing inside but a small strip of paper folded in two. The few
blotted hurriedly-written lines which were traced on it contained these
words:
“Come back as soon as you can. I have been obliged to move. Come to
Gower’s Walk, Fulham (number five). I will be on the look-out for
you. Don’t be alarmed about us, we are both safe and well. But come
back.—Marian.”
The news which those lines contained—news which I instantly associated
with some attempted treachery on the part of Count Fosco—fairly
overwhelmed me. I stood breathless with the paper crumpled up in my
hand. What had happened? What subtle wickedness had the Count planned
and executed in my absence? A night had passed since Marian’s note was
written—hours must elapse still before I could get back to them—some
new disaster might have happened already of which I was ignorant. And
here, miles and miles away from them, here I must remain—held, doubly
held, at the disposal of the law!
I hardly know to what forgetfulness of my obligations anxiety and
alarm might not have tempted me, but for the quieting influence of
my faith in Marian. My absolute reliance on her was the one earthly
consideration which helped me to restrain myself, and gave me courage
to wait. The inquest was the first of the impediments in the way of
my freedom of action. I attended it at the appointed time, the legal
formalities requiring my presence in the room, but as it turned out,
not calling on me to repeat my evidence. This useless delay was a hard
trial, although I did my best to quiet my impatience by following the
course of the proceedings as closely as I could.
The London solicitor of the deceased (Mr. Merriman) was among the
persons present. But he was quite unable to assist the objects of
the inquiry. He could only say that he was inexpressibly shocked
and astonished, and that he could throw no light whatever on the
mysterious circumstances of the case. At intervals during the adjourned
investigation, he suggested questions which the Coroner put, but which
led to no results. After a patient inquiry, which lasted nearly three
hours, and which exhausted every available source of information, the
jury pronounced the customary verdict in cases of sudden death by
accident. They added to the formal decision a statement, that there
had been no evidence to show how the keys had been abstracted, how the
fire had been caused, or what the purpose was for which the deceased
had entered the vestry. This act closed the proceedings. The legal
representative of the dead man was left to provide for the necessities
of the interment, and the witnesses were free to retire.
Resolved not to lose a minute in getting to Knowlesbury, I paid my bill
at the hotel, and hired a fly to take me to the town. A gentleman who
heard me give the order, and who saw that I was going alone, informed
me that he lived in the neighbourhood of Knowlesbury, and asked if I
would have any objection to his getting home by sharing the fly with
me. I accepted his proposal as a matter of course.
Our conversation during the drive was naturally occupied by the one
absorbing subject of local interest.
My new acquaintance had some knowledge of the late Sir Percival’s
solicitor, and he and Mr. Merriman had been discussing the state of
the deceased gentleman’s affairs and the succession to the property.
Sir Percival’s embarrassments were so well known all over the county
that his solicitor could only make a virtue of necessity and plainly
acknowledge them. He had died without leaving a will, and he had no
personal property to bequeath, even if he had made one, the whole
fortune which he had derived from his wife having been swallowed up
by his creditors. The heir to the estate (Sir Percival having left
no issue) was a son of Sir Felix Glyde’s first cousin, an officer in
command of an East Indiaman. He would find his unexpected inheritance
sadly encumbered, but the property would recover with time, and, if
“the captain” was careful, he might be a rich man yet before he died.
Absorbed as I was in the one idea of getting to London, this
information (which events proved to be perfectly correct) had an
interest of its own to attract my attention. I thought it justified me
in keeping secret my discovery of Sir Percival’s fraud. The heir, whose
rights he had usurped, was the heir who would now have the estate.
The income from it, for the last three-and-twenty years, which should
properly have been his, and which the dead man had squandered to the
last farthing, was gone beyond recall. If I spoke, my speaking would
confer advantage on no one. If I kept the secret, my silence concealed
the character of the man who had cheated Laura into marrying him. For
her sake, I wished to conceal it—for her sake, still, I tell this story
under feigned names.
I parted with my chance companion at Knowlesbury, and went at once to
the town-hall. As I had anticipated, no one was present to prosecute
the case against me—the necessary formalities were observed, and I was
discharged. On leaving the court a letter from Mr. Dawson was put into
my hand. It informed me that he was absent on professional duty, and it
reiterated the offer I had already received from him of any assistance
which I might require at his hands. I wrote back, warmly acknowledging
my obligations to his kindness, and apologising for not expressing my
thanks personally, in consequence of my immediate recall on pressing
business to town.
Half an hour later I was speeding back to London by the express train.