IV

von Wilkie Collins

Nothing of any real significance happened on my way to the offices of Gilmore & Kyrle in Chancery Lane.

As I waited for my card to be delivered to Mr. Kyrle, a thought struck me that I regretted not having considered earlier. The information I had gathered from Marian’s diary made it clear that Count Fosco had intercepted her first letter to Mr. Kyrle and had, through his wife, blocked the second. He was undoubtedly aware of the office's address and would logically assume that if Marian needed advice and help after Laura’s escape from the asylum, she would turn to Mr. Kyrle once again. This meant that Chancery Lane would be the first place he and Sir Percival would have under surveillance. If they employed the same people who had followed me before I left England, they would likely discover my return that very day. I had thought about the general risk of being recognized in the streets, but I hadn’t considered the specific danger tied to the office until now. It was too late to fix this oversight—too late to wish I had arranged to meet the lawyer somewhere more discreet. All I could do was resolve to be cautious when leaving Chancery Lane and avoid going straight home under any circumstances.

After a few minutes, I was ushered into Mr. Kyrle’s private office. He was a pale, thin man with a quiet demeanor and an attentive gaze. His voice was low, and he carried himself with a calmness that suggested he wasn’t easily swayed by emotion, especially when it came to strangers. He was exactly the kind of person I needed. If he made a decision, and if it was in our favor, it would solidify our case right then and there.

“Before we get into the reason I’m here,” I said, “I should warn you that even a brief explanation will take some time.”

“My time is at Miss Halcombe’s disposal,” he replied. “When it comes to her interests, I represent my partner both personally and professionally. He asked me to do so when he stepped back from active business.”

“Is Mr. Gilmore in England?” I asked.

“He is not. He’s currently with his relatives in Germany. His health has improved, but we don’t know when he’ll return.”

While we exchanged these initial pleasantries, he rifled through some papers and pulled out a sealed letter. I thought he was going to hand it to me, but instead, he placed it on the table, settled into his chair, and waited for me to speak.

Without wasting any time on small talk, I launched into my story, laying out everything that had happened as I had recounted it before.

Even though he was a lawyer through and through, I could see that I had shaken his professional composure. He interrupted me several times with expressions of disbelief and surprise that he couldn’t hide. Nevertheless, I pressed on until I finished and then asked the crucial question.

“What’s your opinion, Mr. Kyrle?”

He was too careful to give an immediate answer; he needed a moment to regain his composure.

“Before I share my opinion,” he said, “I must ask a few questions to clarify things.”

His questions were sharp and skeptical, revealing that he thought I might be deluded, and he might have even doubted my intentions if it weren’t for Miss Halcombe’s introduction.

“Do you believe I’ve told the truth, Mr. Kyrle?” I asked once he finished his examination.

“As far as your own beliefs go, I’m certain you have spoken the truth,” he replied. “I hold Miss Halcombe in high regard, so I have every reason to respect a gentleman she trusts in this matter. I’ll even go so far as to concede, for the sake of courtesy and argument, that Lady Glyde’s identity as a living person is a fact for both Miss Halcombe and yourself. However, you’ve come to me for a legal opinion. As a lawyer, it’s my duty to tell you, Mr. Hartright, that you don’t have the slightest case.”

“You put it strongly, Mr. Kyrle.”

“I’ll try to be straightforward as well. The evidence surrounding Lady Glyde’s death seems, at first glance, clear and convincing. There’s her aunt’s testimony confirming that she arrived at Count Fosco’s house, fell ill, and ultimately died. The medical certificate supports the claim of her death, indicating it occurred under natural circumstances. There’s the funeral held at Limmeridge, along with the inscription on her tomb. That’s the case you’re trying to challenge. What evidence do you have to support your claim that the person who died and was buried wasn’t Lady Glyde? Let’s go through the main points of your argument and see how they hold up.

Miss Halcombe visits a private asylum and encounters a female patient there. It’s known that a woman named Anne Catherick, who bears a striking resemblance to Lady Glyde, escaped from that asylum. It’s also known that the woman admitted last July was Anne Catherick, brought back. The gentleman who returned her warned Mr. Fairlie that part of her insanity involved pretending to be his deceased niece. Furthermore, she repeatedly claimed in the asylum—where no one believed her—that she was Lady Glyde. These are all established facts. What do you have to counter them?

Miss Halcombe’s recognition of the woman, which later events call into question. Does Miss Halcombe assert her supposed sister’s identity to the owner of the asylum and take legal steps to rescue her? No, she secretly bribes a nurse to help her escape. Once the patient is released in this questionable manner and brought to Mr. Fairlie, does he recognize her? Is he even slightly shaken in his belief that his niece has died? No. Do the servants recognize her? No. Is she kept in the area to assert her identity and face further scrutiny? No, she’s taken privately to London.

Meanwhile, you also claim to recognize her, but you’re not a relative; you’re not even a close family friend. The servants contradict you, Mr. Fairlie contradicts Miss Halcombe, and the supposed Lady Glyde contradicts herself. She claims she spent the night in London at a specific house. Your own evidence shows she has never been near that house, and you admit that her mental state prevents you from presenting her for investigation or allowing her to speak for herself. I’ll skip over minor points of evidence on both sides to save time, but I ask you: if this case were to go to court—before a jury that must consider facts as they appear—where are your proofs?”

I had to pause and gather my thoughts before I could respond. This was the first time I had seen Laura and Marian’s story from an outsider’s perspective—the first time the daunting obstacles in our path had been laid bare.

“There’s no denying,” I said, “that the facts you’ve outlined seem to be against us, but—”

“But you believe those facts can be explained away,” Mr. Kyrle interrupted. “Let me share what I’ve learned from experience. When an English jury has to choose between a straightforward fact on the surface and a complicated explanation beneath it, they always favor the surface fact. For instance, Lady Glyde—let’s call her that for the sake of argument—claims she stayed at a certain house, and it’s proven that she did not. You might explain this by delving into her mental state and drawing a philosophical conclusion from it. I’m not saying your conclusion is wrong; I’m just saying that the jury will prioritize the fact that she contradicted herself over any explanation you provide for that contradiction.”

“But isn’t it possible,” I pressed, “with patience and effort, to uncover more evidence? Miss Halcombe and I have a few hundred pounds—”

He looked at me with a mix of pity and resignation, shaking his head.

“Think about it from your own perspective, Mr. Hartright,” he said. “If you’re right about Sir Percival Glyde and Count Fosco—which I’m not conceding, by the way—then you’ll face countless challenges in gathering new evidence. Every possible legal hurdle will be thrown in your path. Every detail of the case will be contested, and by the time we’ve spent our thousands instead of our hundreds, the outcome will likely be against us. Questions of identity, especially when personal resemblance is involved, are notoriously difficult to resolve—even more so when they come with the complications we’re dealing with now. I honestly don’t see any way to shed light on this bizarre situation. Even if the person buried in Limmeridge churchyard isn’t Lady Glyde, she was, as you’ve pointed out, so similar to her that exhuming the body wouldn’t yield any new information. In short, there’s no case, Mr. Hartright—there really isn’t.”

I was determined to believe that there was a case, and in that determination, I shifted my approach and appealed to him again.

“Aren’t there other pieces of evidence we could present besides proof of identity?” I asked.

“Not in your current situation,” he replied. “The simplest and most reliable proof, which involves comparing dates, is completely out of your reach. If you could show a discrepancy between the date on the doctor’s certificate and the date of Lady Glyde’s trip to London, the situation would look entirely different, and I’d be the first to say, ‘Let’s proceed.’”

“That date might still be found, Mr. Kyrle.”

“When that date is found, Mr. Hartright, you’ll have a case. If you have any chance of uncovering it right now—let me know, and we’ll see if I can help.”

I thought for a moment. The housekeeper couldn’t assist us—Laura couldn’t help us—Marian couldn’t help us. Most likely, the only people who knew the date were Sir Percival and the Count.

“I can’t think of any way to find out the date at the moment,” I said, “because the only ones who are sure to know it are Count Fosco and Sir Percival Glyde.”

For the first time, Mr. Kyrle’s calm demeanor broke into a smile.

“With your opinion of those two gentlemen,” he said, “I assume you don’t expect any help from them? If they’ve conspired to make a lot of money, they’re not likely to confess it, are they?”

“They might be forced to confess, Mr. Kyrle.”

“By whom?”

“By me.”

We both stood up. He looked at me closely, showing more interest than he had before. I could tell I had thrown him off a bit.

“You’re very determined,” he said. “You must have a personal reason for pursuing this, which I won’t pry into. If a case can be made in the future, I can only say that my best assistance is at your disposal. However, I must warn you that, as the financial aspect always ties into legal matters, I see little hope of recovering Lady Glyde’s fortune even if you prove she’s alive. The foreigner would likely leave the country before any legal action could be taken, and Sir Percival has enough pressing debts to transfer almost any money he has to his creditors. You’re aware of this, I assume—”

I cut him off at that point.

“Let’s not discuss Lady Glyde’s affairs,” I said. “I’ve never known anything about them in the past, and I know nothing now—except that her fortune is gone. You’re right that I have personal reasons for getting involved in this. I want those reasons to remain as selfless as they are right now—”

He tried to interject, but I was a bit heated, feeling that he doubted my intentions, and I continued without waiting for him to finish.

“There will be no financial motive,” I said firmly, “no thought of personal gain in the service I intend to provide for Lady Glyde. She has been cast out as a stranger from the home where she was born—a lie has been inscribed on her mother’s tombstone declaring her dead—and there are two men, alive and unpunished, who are responsible for this. That house will open its doors to welcome her back in front of everyone who followed the false funeral to the grave. That lie will be publicly erased from the tombstone by the authority of the family head, and those two men will answer for their crime to ME, even if the justice of the courts cannot pursue them. I have dedicated my life to this cause, and if God allows me, I will see it through, no matter how alone I stand.”

He stepped back to his desk, saying nothing. His expression clearly showed that he believed my delusion had overtaken my reason, and he thought it pointless to offer me any further advice.

“We each have our opinions, Mr. Kyrle,” I replied, “and we’ll have to wait for future events to settle the matter between us. In the meantime, I appreciate the attention you’ve given to my statement. You’ve made it clear that the legal remedy is, in every sense, beyond our reach. We can’t provide the legal proof, and we aren’t wealthy enough to cover the legal fees. Knowing that is something, at least.”

I bowed and walked toward the door. He called me back and handed me the letter I had seen him set aside at the beginning of our meeting.

“This arrived by post a few days ago,” he said. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind delivering it? Please tell Miss Halcombe that I sincerely regret being unable to assist her beyond offering advice, which I fear won’t be any more welcome to her than it is to you.”

I glanced at the letter while he spoke. It was addressed to “Miss Halcombe. Care of Messrs. Gilmore & Kyrle, Chancery Lane.” The handwriting was unfamiliar to me.

As I left the room, I had one last question.

“Do you know,” I asked, “if Sir Percival Glyde is still in Paris?”

“He’s back in London,” Mr. Kyrle replied. “At least, that’s what I heard from his solicitor, whom I met yesterday.”

With that answer, I stepped outside.

Once I was out of the office, my first priority was to avoid drawing attention by lingering. I headed toward one of the quieter squares north of Holborn, then suddenly stopped and turned around, leaving a long stretch of pavement behind me.

At the corner of the square, two men had also paused and were talking to each other. After a moment’s thought, I decided to walk past them. One of the men moved as I approached, turning the corner from the square into the street. The other remained where he was. I glanced at him as I passed and immediately recognized one of the men who had watched me before I left England.

If I had followed my instincts, I might have confronted him, possibly ending in a fight. But I had to think about the consequences. If I publicly made a mistake, I would be handing Sir Percival the advantage. I had no choice but to counter cunning with cunning. I turned into the street where the second man had disappeared and walked past him, who was waiting in a doorway. He was a stranger, but I wanted to remember his face in case of future trouble. After that, I continued north until I reached the New Road. There, I turned west, keeping the men behind me in sight, and waited at a spot where I knew I was far from a cab stand until an empty, fast two-wheeled cab passed by. One appeared in a few minutes. I jumped in and told the driver to hurry toward Hyde Park. There wouldn’t be a second fast cab for the men trailing me. I saw them dash across the road to follow me on foot until they could find another cab or cab stand. But I had a head start, and when I stopped the driver and got out, they were nowhere in sight. I crossed Hyde Park, ensuring I was free in the open space. When I finally turned my steps homeward, it was many hours later—after dark.

I found Marian waiting for me alone in the small sitting room. She had convinced Laura to go to bed, after promising to show me her drawing the moment I returned. The poor little faint sketch—so insignificant in itself, yet so touching in its associations—was carefully propped up on the table between two books, positioned to catch the soft light from the single candle we allowed ourselves. I sat down to examine the drawing and whispered to Marian about what had happened. The partition separating us from the next room was so thin that we could almost hear Laura’s breathing, and we risked disturbing her if we spoke too loudly.

Marian maintained her composure as I recounted my meeting with Mr. Kyrle. But her expression turned anxious when I mentioned the men who had followed me from the lawyer’s office and when I revealed that Sir Percival had returned.

“Bad news, Walter,” she said, “the worst news you could bring. Is there nothing more you can tell me?”

“I have something to give you,” I replied, handing her the note Mr. Kyrle had entrusted to me.

She looked at the address and immediately recognized the handwriting.

“You know your correspondent?” I asked.

“Too well,” she answered. “My correspondent is Count Fosco.”

With that, she opened the note. Her face flushed deeply as she read it, and her eyes sparked with anger as she handed it to me for my turn.

The note contained these lines:

“Driven by a sense of honorable admiration—honorable to myself and to you—I write, magnificent Marian, to assure you of your peace with just two comforting words—

“Fear nothing!

“Trust your good sense and stay in seclusion. Dear and admirable woman, avoid any dangerous publicity. Resignation is a noble choice—embrace it. The quiet comfort of home is eternally refreshing—enjoy it. The storms of life pass harmlessly over the valley of Seclusion—stay there, dear lady.

“Do this, and I promise you have nothing to fear. No new disaster will wound your sensibilities—sensibilities that are as precious to me as my own. You will not be disturbed, and the lovely companion of your retreat will not be pursued. She has found a new refuge in your heart. Priceless refuge!—I envy her and leave her there.

“One last word of affectionate warning, a paternal caution, and I must tear myself away from the pleasure of addressing you—I close these fervent lines.

“Do not go any further than you have already, do not compromise any serious interests, do not threaten anyone. I implore you, do not force me into action—ME, the Man of Action—when my greatest ambition is to remain passive, to limit the vast reach of my energies and plans for your sake. If you have reckless friends, temper their unfortunate enthusiasm. If Mr. Hartright returns to England, do not communicate with him. I walk my own path, and Percival follows closely behind. The day Mr. Hartright crosses that path, he is a lost man.”

The only signature on the note was the initial “F,” surrounded by a circle of elaborate flourishes. I tossed the letter onto the table, filled with contempt.

“He’s trying to scare you—a sure sign that he’s scared himself,” I said.

She was too genuine to dismiss the letter as I had. The insolent familiarity of the language was too much for her self-control. As she looked at me across the table, her hands clenched in her lap, and the old fiery temper flared in her cheeks and eyes.

“Walter!” she said, “if those two men ever find themselves at your mercy, and you have to spare one of them, don’t let it be the Count.”

“I’ll keep this letter, Marian, to help me remember when the time comes.”

She watched me closely as I tucked the letter away in my pocket.

“When the time comes?” she echoed. “Can you really speak of the future as if you’re certain of it?—certain after what you’ve heard in Mr. Kyrle’s office, after what happened to you today?”

“I don’t count today as the start, Marian. All I did today was ask another man to act for me. I count from tomorrow—”

“Why tomorrow?”

“Because tomorrow I plan to act for myself.”

“How?”

“I’m going to Blackwater on the first train and hope to return by night.”

“To Blackwater!”

“Yes. I’ve had time to think since I left Mr. Kyrle. His opinion on one point confirms my own. We must persist until the end in tracking down the date of Laura’s journey. The one weak point in the conspiracy, and probably our only chance of proving she’s alive, hinges on discovering that date.”

“You mean,” Marian said, “the discovery that Laura didn’t leave Blackwater Park until after the date of her death on the doctor’s certificate?”

“Exactly.”

“What makes you think it might have been AFTER? Laura can’t tell us anything about her time in London.”

“But the owner of the Asylum told you she was received there on the twenty-seventh of July. I doubt Count Fosco could keep her in London and keep her unaware of everything around her for more than one night. In that case, she must have left on the twenty-sixth and arrived in London a day after the date of her own death on the doctor’s certificate. If we can prove that date, we prove our case against Sir Percival and the Count.”

“Yes, yes—I see! But how can we obtain proof?”

“Mrs. Michelson’s story has given me two ideas for how to try to get it. One is to question the doctor, Mr. Dawson, who should know when he resumed his attendance at Blackwater Park after Laura left the house. The other is to inquire at the inn where Sir Percival drove away alone that night. We know his departure followed Laura’s by a few hours, and we might uncover the date that way. It’s worth a shot, and tomorrow I’m determined to make it happen.”

“And what if it fails? I’m looking at the worst now, Walter; but I’ll focus on the best if disappointments come our way—what if no one can help you at Blackwater?”

“There are two men who can help me in London—Sir Percival and the Count. Innocent people might forget the details, but they can’t. They’re guilty, and they know it. If I can’t find answers anywhere else, I’m determined to get a confession from one or both of them, on my own terms.”

Marian’s face flushed as I spoke.

“Start with the Count,” she whispered urgently. “For my sake, please start with the Count.”

“We need to begin, for Laura’s sake, where we have the best chance of success,” I replied.

The color drained from her face again, and she shook her head sadly.

“Yes,” she said, “you’re right—it was selfish of me to say that. I’m trying to be patient, Walter, and I’m doing better now than I did in happier times. But I still have a bit of my old temper left, and it flares up when I think of the Count!”

“His time will come,” I assured her. “But remember, we don’t yet know of any weak points in his life.” I paused to let her regain her composure, then I said the decisive words.

“Marian! There is a weak point we both know about in Sir Percival’s life—”

“You mean the Secret!”

“Yes, the Secret. It’s our only real leverage against him. I can force him out of his comfortable position; I can expose him and his wickedness, but only through that means. Whatever the Count may have done, Sir Percival has joined the conspiracy against Laura for reasons beyond just greed. You heard him tell the Count that he believed his wife knew enough to destroy him? You heard him say he was a lost man if the truth about Anne Catherick came out?”

“Yes! Yes, I did.”

“Well, Marian, when all our other options have failed, I intend to uncover the Secret. My old superstitions still linger. I say again, the woman in white is a living presence in our lives. The End is set—it’s drawing us in—and even from her grave, Anne Catherick is still pointing the way forward!”