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von Wilkie Collins

Once I was out of sight of the church, I picked up my pace, heading towards Knowlesbury.

The road ahead was mostly straight and flat. Every time I glanced back, I saw the two men trailing me. They kept a safe distance for most of the journey, but occasionally they quickened their pace, as if trying to catch up, only to stop and huddle together for a moment before falling back again. It was clear they had some agenda, and their hesitation suggested they were debating the best way to achieve it. I couldn’t figure out their plan, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wouldn’t make it to Knowlesbury without something going wrong. Unfortunately, I was right.

I had just entered a desolate stretch of road, with a sharp turn up ahead, and I had calculated that I must be nearing the town when I suddenly heard footsteps right behind me.

Before I could turn around, one of the men—the one who had followed me in London—brushed past me on my left and shoved me with his shoulder. I had been more annoyed by their relentless pursuit from Old Welmingham than I realized, and in a moment of frustration, I pushed him away with my hand. He immediately shouted for help. The taller man, dressed like a gamekeeper, rushed to my right side, and in an instant, they had me pinned between them in the middle of the road.

The realization that I had walked into a trap, combined with the irritation of knowing I had fallen for it, kept me from making things worse by struggling against two men, one of whom would likely overpower me alone. I stifled my instinct to shake them off and scanned the area for anyone who might help.

A laborer was working in a nearby field, and he must have seen everything unfold. I called out to him, asking him to follow us to the town. He shook his head stubbornly and walked away toward a cottage set back from the road. Meanwhile, the men holding me announced their intention to charge me with assault. I was calm enough now to avoid further conflict. “Let go of my arms, and I’ll go with you to the town,” I said. The man in the gamekeeper’s outfit refused roughly, but the shorter man seemed to think better of it and signaled to his companion. They released my arms, and I walked on between them, free but still trapped.

As we reached the turn in the road, the suburbs of Knowlesbury came into view. A local policeman was strolling along the path beside us. The two men immediately approached him. He informed them that the magistrate was currently sitting at the town hall and suggested we go there right away.

We made our way to the town hall, where the clerk prepared a formal summons. The charge against me was laid out, complete with the usual exaggerations and distortions of the truth. The magistrate—a grumpy man who seemed to take pleasure in wielding his authority—asked if anyone had witnessed the alleged assault. To my surprise, the complainant acknowledged the laborer in the field. However, the magistrate’s next words clarified the purpose of that admission. He remanded me for the witness to be produced, while also offering to take bail for my reappearance if I could provide a responsible surety. Since I was a complete stranger in town, he wouldn’t release me on my own recognizance.

The whole scheme was now clear to me. It had been orchestrated to ensure I would be remanded in a town where I had no connections, making it impossible for me to secure my release on bail. The remand would last three days, until the magistrate’s next session. During that time, while I was locked up, Sir Percival could do whatever he wanted to complicate my situation—perhaps even to cover his own tracks—without any chance of me interfering. By the end of those three days, I had no doubt the charge would be dropped, and the witness would be rendered irrelevant.

My anger, and I might even say my despair, at this frustrating setback to my progress—so petty and insignificant in itself, yet so discouraging and potentially serious in its consequences—left me momentarily unable to think clearly about how to get myself out of the predicament I found myself in. In a moment of foolishness, I called for writing materials, thinking I could privately explain my situation to the magistrate. It wasn’t until I had started writing the first lines of the letter that I realized how hopeless and reckless this idea was. It was only after I had pushed the paper aside—not to mention that I was on the verge of letting my frustration overwhelm me—that a new course of action suddenly came to mind, one that Sir Percival likely hadn’t anticipated, and which could set me free within hours. I decided to reach out to Mr. Dawson at Oak Lodge.

I had visited Mr. Dawson’s home during my initial inquiries in the Blackwater Park area, where I had presented him with a letter of introduction from Miss Halcombe, who had strongly recommended me to his kind attention. Now, I wrote to him, referencing that letter and what I had previously shared about the sensitive and precarious nature of my inquiries. I hadn’t revealed the truth about Laura; I had only described my mission as being of utmost importance to private family matters that concerned Miss Halcombe. Maintaining that same caution, I explained my presence in Knowlesbury in the same way, and I asked the doctor whether the trust placed in me by a lady he knew well, along with the hospitality I had received in his home, justified my request for his assistance in a place where I was completely alone.

I got permission to hire a messenger to take my letter immediately, with the understanding that he could also bring the doctor back right away. Oak Lodge was on the Knowlesbury side of Blackwater. The messenger assured me he could make the trip in forty minutes and return with Mr. Dawson in another forty. I instructed him to follow the doctor wherever he might be if he wasn’t at home, then settled down to wait for the outcome with as much patience and hope as I could muster.

The messenger left just before half-past one. By half-past three, he was back, bringing the doctor with him. Mr. Dawson’s kindness and the way he treated his swift assistance as if it were nothing special nearly overwhelmed me. The bail was provided and accepted without delay. By four o’clock that afternoon, I was warmly shaking hands with the good old doctor—a free man again—in the streets of Knowlesbury.

Mr. Dawson kindly invited me to return with him to Oak Lodge and stay the night. I could only respond that my time wasn’t my own, and I asked if I could visit him in a few days to express my gratitude and offer the explanations I felt he deserved, but which I couldn’t provide at that moment. We parted with friendly assurances on both sides, and I immediately headed to Mr. Wansborough’s office in the High Street.

Time was now of the utmost importance.

The news of my release on bail would undoubtedly reach Sir Percival before nightfall. If the next few hours didn’t put me in a position to validate his worst fears and leave him powerless at my mercy, I risked losing all the ground I had gained, perhaps never to recover it. The unscrupulous nature of the man, his local influence, and the desperate threat of exposure that my blind inquiries posed—all of these urged me to push forward toward a concrete discovery without wasting a single moment. While waiting for Mr. Dawson, I had found time to think, and I had used it well. Certain parts of the old clerk’s chatter, which had bored me at the time, now returned to me with new significance, and a dark suspicion crossed my mind that hadn’t occurred to me while I was in the vestry. Initially, I had planned to ask Mr. Wansborough for information about Sir Percival’s mother. Now, my goal was to examine the duplicate register of Old Welmingham Church.

Mr. Wansborough was in his office when I asked for him.

He was a cheerful, red-faced man who looked more like a country gentleman than a lawyer. His expression was a mix of surprise and amusement as I explained my request. He mentioned that he had heard about his father's copy of the register but had never seen it himself. It had never been sought after, and it was likely tucked away in the strong room with other documents that hadn’t been touched since his father passed away.

“It’s a shame,” Mr. Wansborough said, “that the old gentleman isn’t around to hear that his precious copy is finally being asked for. He would have been thrilled to ride that hobby of his harder than ever.” He then asked how I had come to learn about the copy. Had someone in town mentioned it?

I deflected the question as best as I could. At this stage of my investigation, I needed to be cautious, and it was wise not to let Mr. Wansborough know too soon that I had already looked at the original register. So, I explained that I was pursuing a family inquiry, and every moment counted. I needed to send some details to London by that day’s post, and a quick glance at the duplicate register—of course, paying the necessary fees—might provide the information I needed and save me another trip to Old Welmingham. I added that if I needed a copy of the original register later, I would request it through Mr. Wansborough’s office.

After my explanation, there were no objections to producing the copy. A clerk was sent to the strong room and returned after a short wait with the volume. It was the same size as the one in the vestry, but the copy was more elegantly bound. I took it to an empty desk, my hands shaking and my head feeling hot. I tried to hide my agitation from those around me before I dared to open the book.

On the blank page at the front, I found some faded lines. They read:

“Copy of the Marriage Register of Welmingham Parish Church. Executed under my orders, and afterwards compared, entry by entry, with the original, by myself. (Signed) Robert Wansborough, vestry-clerk.” Below this note, in a different handwriting, was added: “Extending from the first of January, 1800, to the thirtieth of June, 1815.”

I flipped to September eighteen hundred and three. There it was—the marriage of the man who shared my first name. I found the double entry for the marriages of the two brothers. But between those entries, at the bottom of the page?

Nothing. Not a trace of the entry that recorded the marriage of Sir Felix Glyde and Cecilia Jane Elster in the church register!

My heart raced, pounding so hard I thought I might choke. I looked again, afraid to trust my own eyes. No doubt about it. The marriage wasn’t there. The entries in the copy matched the original perfectly. The last entry on one page was the marriage of the man with my name. Below it was a blank space—clearly left because it was too small to fit the marriages of the two brothers, which, just like in the original, began at the top of the next page. That blank space told the whole story! It must have remained in the church register from eighteen hundred and three, when the marriages were recorded and the copy was made, until eighteen hundred and twenty-seven, when Sir Percival appeared at Old Welmingham. Here at Knowlesbury was the opportunity for the forgery shown to me in the copy, and there at Old Welmingham was the forgery committed in the church register.

I felt dizzy and gripped the desk to steady myself. Of all the suspicions I had about that desperate man, none had come close to the truth.

The thought that he might not be Sir Percival Glyde at all—that he had no more right to the title and to Blackwater Park than the poorest laborer on the estate—had never crossed my mind. At one point, I had considered that he might be Anne Catherick’s father; at another, I thought he could have been her husband. But the crime he was truly guilty of had been far beyond anything I could have imagined.

The meager methods by which the deception had been carried out, the sheer audacity of the crime it represented, and the terrifying consequences if it were uncovered overwhelmed me. Who could blame the wretched man for his restless existence—his desperate swings between cowardly deceit and reckless violence? The paranoia that drove him to confine Anne Catherick in the asylum, and to plot against his own wife, all stemmed from the fear that they might uncover his dreadful secret. Revealing that secret could have led to his execution in the past, and now it could imprison him for life. Even if those he had wronged chose to spare him from legal punishment, the truth would strip him of his name, his title, his estate—everything he had stolen. This was the secret, and it was mine! With just a word, I could take away his house, his lands, his baronetcy—everything that defined him. One word from me, and he would be cast out into the world, a nameless, penniless, friendless outcast. His entire future rested on my decision, and he knew it just as well as I did.

That realization steadied me. There were stakes far more important than my own at play, and I had to be cautious in every move I made. Sir Percival might resort to any treachery against me. Cornered and desperate, he wouldn’t shy away from risks or crimes—he would do anything to save himself.

I paused to think. My first priority was to secure written evidence of the discovery I had just made. If anything were to happen to me, I needed to ensure that evidence was beyond Sir Percival’s reach. I knew the copy of the register would be safe in Mr. Wansborough’s strong room, but the original in the vestry was far from secure.

In this moment of urgency, I decided to return to the church, to speak with the clerk again, and to extract the necessary information from the register before the night was over. I didn’t realize at the time that I needed a legally certified copy, and that a document I pulled together myself wouldn’t hold the same weight as proof. My determination to keep my actions secret kept me from asking the questions that could have clarified this for me. All I could think about was getting back to Old Welmingham. I made the best excuses I could for the unease that Mr. Wansborough had already noticed, paid the required fee, promised to write to him in a couple of days, and left his office, my mind racing and my blood pulsing with anxiety.

It was just starting to get dark. The thought crossed my mind that I might be followed again and attacked on the road.

My walking stick was light and practically useless for defense. Before leaving Knowlesbury, I stopped and bought a sturdy country cudgel—short and heavy at the end. With this simple weapon, I felt I could hold my own against one attacker. If more than one came at me, I could rely on my speed. Back in school, I had been a fast runner, and I had plenty of practice since my time in Central America.

I set off from the town at a brisk pace, keeping to the center of the road.

A light misty rain was falling, making it hard to tell if I was being followed during the first half of my journey. But as I neared the church, about two miles away, I saw a man dash past me through the rain, then heard a field gate slam shut sharply behind me. I pressed on, cudgel in hand, my ears alert and my eyes straining to pierce the mist and darkness. Just a hundred yards ahead, I heard rustling in the hedge to my right, and suddenly three men jumped into the road.

I immediately stepped aside onto the footpath. The two men in front rushed past me before they could stop themselves. The third was quicker. He halted, turned halfway, and swung his stick at me. The blow was wild and not very strong, landing on my left shoulder. I retaliated with a heavy strike to his head. He staggered back, colliding with his two companions just as they charged at me. This gave me a moment’s advantage. I slipped past them and sprinted back into the middle of the road, pushing myself to run as fast as I could.

The two unharmed men were right behind me, and they were fast. The road was smooth and flat, but for the first five minutes, I realized I wasn’t pulling ahead. Running in the dark was dangerous; I could barely make out the faint outlines of the hedges on either side, and any unexpected obstacle could easily send me tumbling.

Soon, I felt the ground shift beneath me. It dipped down at a bend and then rose again. They gained on me going downhill, but as I climbed, I started to pull away. The steady thud of their footsteps faded, and I calculated that I was far enough ahead to slip into the fields, hoping they would miss me in the dark. I veered onto a footpath, searching for the first break in the hedge that I could guess at, rather than see. It turned out to be a closed gate. I jumped over it and found myself in a field, moving steadily away from the road.

I heard the men pass the gate, still running, and then one of them called out to the other to come back. It didn’t matter what they did now; I was out of their sight and hearing. I continued across the field, reaching the far side before pausing for a moment to catch my breath.

Going back to the road was out of the question, but I was determined to make it to Old Welmingham that evening.

Neither the moon nor the stars offered any guidance. I only knew that I had kept the wind and rain at my back when I left Knowlesbury, and if I continued that way, I could at least be sure I wasn’t heading completely in the wrong direction.

Following this plan, I made my way across the countryside, facing no worse obstacles than hedges, ditches, and thickets, which occasionally forced me to change my course. Eventually, I found myself on a hillside, with the ground sloping steeply down before me. I descended into the hollow, squeezed through a hedge, and emerged onto a lane. After turning right, I decided to turn left this time, hoping to get back on track.

After following the muddy twists of the lane for about ten minutes, I spotted a cottage with light spilling from one of the windows. The garden gate was open, so I stepped inside to ask for directions.

Before I could knock, the door swung open, and a man rushed out, holding a lantern. He stopped, lifting the light to illuminate my face. We both jumped at the sight of each other. My wandering had led me around the outskirts of the village, and I realized I was back at Old Welmingham. The man with the lantern was none other than the parish clerk I had met that morning.

His demeanor had changed dramatically since our last encounter. He looked suspicious and flustered, his cheeks flushed, and when he spoke, his words were a jumble.

“Where are the keys?” he demanded. “Have you taken them?”

“What keys?” I replied, bewildered. “I just came from Knowlesbury. What keys are you talking about?”

“The keys to the vestry. Lord save us! What am I going to do? The keys are gone! Do you hear?” he cried, shaking the lantern in his agitation. “The keys are gone!”

“How? When? Who could have taken them?”

“I don’t know,” the clerk said, his eyes darting around in the darkness. “I just got back. I told you I had a long day’s work this morning—I locked the door and shut the window. Now it’s open! Someone got in and took the keys.”

He turned to the window, showing me that it was wide open. As he swung the lantern, the door came loose, and the wind snuffed out the candle immediately.

“Get another light,” I urged. “Let’s go to the vestry together. Hurry!”

I pushed him back into the house. The betrayal I had feared, the betrayal that could strip away every advantage I had gained, might be happening right then. My impatience to reach the church was overwhelming, and I couldn’t just stand idly in the cottage while the clerk relit the lantern. I stepped outside, down the garden path, into the lane.

Before I had gone ten paces, a man approached from the direction of the church. He spoke respectfully as we crossed paths. I couldn’t see his face, but judging by his voice, he was a complete stranger.

“I beg your pardon, Sir Percival—” he began.

I interrupted him before he could continue.

“You’re mistaken,” I said. “I’m not Sir Percival.”

The man stepped back immediately.

“I thought it was my master,” he mumbled, looking confused.

“You were told to wait for your master here?”

“Yes,” he replied.

He turned and walked back, and I glanced at the cottage just as the clerk stepped outside, lantern lit once more. I took the old man’s arm to help him move faster. We hurried down the lane, passing the person who had approached me earlier. In the dim light of the lantern, I could see he was a servant, not in uniform.

“Who’s that?” the clerk whispered. “Does he know anything about the keys?”

“We can’t stop to ask,” I replied. “Let’s head to the vestry first.”

Even in daylight, the church was hidden until we reached the end of the lane. As we climbed the slope leading to the building, a village boy came up to us, drawn by our light. He recognized the clerk immediately.

“Hey, sir,” the boy said, tugging at the clerk’s coat. “There’s someone in the church. I heard him lock the door and strike a match.”

The clerk trembled, leaning heavily against me.

“Come on!” I urged. “We’re not too late. We’ll catch whoever it is. Keep the lantern and follow me as quickly as you can.”

I hurried up the hill. The dark silhouette of the church tower was the first thing I spotted against the night sky. As I turned to approach the vestry, I heard heavy footsteps behind me. The servant had followed us into the church.

“I don’t mean any harm,” he said, fear evident in his voice when I turned to face him. I ignored him and kept moving.

As soon as I rounded the corner and saw the vestry, I noticed the lantern skylight glowing brightly from within, shining out against the dark, starless sky.

I rushed through the churchyard toward the door.

As I got closer, a strange smell wafted through the damp night air. I heard a crackling sound inside, and the light above grew brighter. A pane of glass cracked. I ran to the door and placed my hand on it. The vestry was on fire!

Before I could react, before I could catch my breath after that realization, a heavy thud came from inside the door. I heard the key turning violently in the lock, and a man’s voice screamed for help, rising to a terrifying pitch.

The servant who had followed me staggered back, trembling, and dropped to his knees. “Oh, my God! It’s Sir Percival!”

As he spoke, the clerk joined us, and at that moment, there was one last, grating turn of the key in the lock.

“Lord have mercy!” the old man exclaimed. “He’s doomed. He’s stuck in there!”

I rushed to the door. In an instant, all the anger and resentment I had felt toward the man vanished. I forgot about the heartless harm he had caused—the love, the innocence, the happiness he had destroyed. I even forgot the vow I had made to hold him accountable for his actions. All that mattered was the horror of his situation. I felt only the instinct to save him from a terrible death.

“Try the other door!” I shouted. “Go to the church! The lock is jammed. You’ll be dead if you waste another second!”

There was no renewed cry for help after the last turn of the key. Silence fell, leaving only the crackling of flames and the sharp snap of glass from the skylight above.

I glanced at my companions. The servant had gotten to his feet, holding the lantern up vacantly at the door. Fear had rendered him almost catatonic—he followed me like a lost dog. The clerk sat huddled on a tombstone, shivering and mumbling to himself. Just one look at them was enough to show me that they were both useless in this moment.

Acting on instinct, desperate and without thinking, I pushed the servant against the vestry wall. “Stoop down!” I commanded. “Hold on to the stones. I’m going to climb over you to the roof and break the skylight to give him some air!”

The man shook from head to toe, but he didn’t waver. I climbed onto his back, my cudgel clenched between my teeth, and grabbed the edge of the parapet with both hands. In an instant, I was on the roof. In the chaos and urgency of the moment, it didn’t even occur to me that I might be letting out the flames instead of letting in air. I struck at the skylight, smashing through the cracked, loose glass with one blow. The fire burst forth like a wild beast escaping its den. If the wind hadn’t happened to blow it away from me, my efforts might have ended right then and there.

I crouched on the roof as smoke poured out above me alongside the flames. The flickering light revealed the servant’s face, staring blankly up from below the wall; the clerk stood on a tombstone, wringing his hands in despair; and the few villagers—haggard men and terrified women—were gathered in the churchyard, all appearing and disappearing in the red glow of the fire and the thick black smoke. And the man beneath me! The man, suffocating, burning, dying so close to us all, yet completely out of reach!

The thought drove me nearly mad. I lowered myself from the roof, gripping with my hands, and dropped to the ground.

“The key to the church!” I shouted to the clerk. “We have to try that way—we might still save him if we can break open the inner door.”

“No, no, no!” the old man cried. “There’s no hope! The church key and the vestry key are on the same ring—both locked inside! Oh, sir, he’s past saving—he’s dust and ashes by now!”

“They’ll see the fire from the town,” a voice called out from behind me. “There’s a fire engine there. They’ll save the church.”

I turned to that man—he was thinking clearly—I called for him to come and talk to me. It would take at least a quarter of an hour for the town’s engine to reach us. The horror of doing nothing for that long was more than I could bear. Defying my own reason, I convinced myself that the doomed man in the vestry might still be lying unconscious on the floor, that he might not be dead yet. If we could break open the door, could we save him? I knew the strength of the heavy lock; I knew the thickness of the nailed oak; I understood the futility of trying to force either one with ordinary means. But surely there were beams left in the ruined cottages near the church? What if we got one and used it as a battering ram against the door?

The thought shot through me like flames bursting from a shattered skylight. I turned to the man who had first mentioned the fire engine in town. “Do you have your pickaxes ready?”

“Yes, we do!”

“And a hatchet, a saw, and some rope?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

With the lantern in hand, I dashed into the crowd of villagers. “Five shillings for every man who helps me!”

At those words, they sprang to life. The desperate hunger for money stirred them into action almost instantly. “Two of you, go get more lanterns if you have them! Two of you, grab the pickaxes and tools! The rest, follow me to find the beam!”

They cheered, their voices sharp and thin. The women and children hurried away to the sides. We surged together down the churchyard path toward the first empty cottage. The only one left behind was the clerk—the poor old man stood on a flat tombstone, sobbing and mourning for the church. The servant was still at my side, his pale, terrified face hovering close to my shoulder as we entered the cottage.

Rafters from the collapsed floor above lay scattered on the ground, but they were too light. A beam stretched across above us, just within reach of our arms and pickaxes—securely anchored in the ruined walls, with the ceiling and flooring ripped away, and a massive gap in the roof open to the sky. We attacked the beam from both ends.

God, how it resisted! The brick and mortar of the wall fought back fiercely. We struck, pulled, and tore. The beam finally gave at one end, crashing down with a chunk of brickwork. A scream erupted from the women huddled in the doorway, and a shout from the men—two of them had fallen but were unhurt.

With one last collective tug, the beam loosened at both ends. We lifted it and shouted for everyone to clear the doorway. Now for the real work! Now for the rush at the door! The fire blazed into the sky, brighter than ever, lighting our way!

Steady along the churchyard path—steady with the beam for a charge at the door. One, two, three—and go! The cheers erupted again, unstoppable. We had shaken it already; the hinges must give if the lock wouldn’t. Another run with the beam! One, two, three—and go! It’s loose! The sneaky fire flickered at us through the gaps around it.

One last rush! The door crashed down. A heavy silence fell over us, a breathless anticipation gripping every soul present. We searched for the body. The scorching heat on our faces pushed us back; we saw nothing—above, below, all around the room, just a sheet of living fire.

“Where is he?” whispered the servant, staring blankly at the flames.

“He’s dust and ashes,” said the clerk. “And the books are dust and ashes—and oh, sirs! The church will be dust and ashes soon.”

Those were the only two who spoke. When they fell silent again, the only sound was the bubbling and crackling of the flames.

Listen!

A harsh rattling sound echoed in the distance—then the hollow beat of galloping horses—followed by the overwhelming roar of hundreds of voices shouting together. The engine had finally arrived.

The people around me turned from the fire and rushed eagerly to the top of the hill. The old clerk tried to join them, but his strength had given out. I saw him clutching one of the tombstones. “Save the church!” he cried faintly, as if the firemen could hear him already.

“Save the church!”

The only one who didn’t move was the servant. He stood there, his eyes locked on the flames in a vacant stare. I spoke to him, shook him by the arm. He was beyond rousing. He whispered once more, “Where is he?”

In ten minutes, the engine was in place, the well behind the church feeding it, and the hose was brought to the vestry door. If they had needed my help, I wouldn’t have been able to give it. My willpower had vanished—my strength was spent—and the chaos in my mind had suddenly quieted, now that I knew he was gone.

I stood there, useless and helpless, staring into the burning room.

I watched as the fire was slowly subdued. The brightness of the flames dimmed—the steam rose in white clouds, revealing the smoldering piles of embers glowing red and black on the floor. There was a pause, then the firemen and police advanced together, blocking the doorway. They whispered among themselves, and then two men were sent out of the churchyard through the crowd. The crowd parted in silence to let them pass.

After a while, a shiver ran through the crowd, and the narrow lane opened up. A group of men returned, carrying a door from one of the abandoned houses. They brought it to the vestry and stepped inside. The police quickly formed a barrier around the entrance, while others slipped out from the throng in pairs and small groups, eager to be among the first to catch a glimpse. A few lingered nearby, hoping to hear the news first. Women and children were among those waiting.

Word from the vestry began to trickle out, spreading slowly through the crowd until it reached my spot. I could hear the questions and answers being repeated in hushed, excited voices all around me.

“Have they found him?” “Yes.” “Where?” “Against the door, on his face.” “Which door?” “The one that leads into the church. His head was against it—he lay face down.” “Is his face burned?” “No.” “Yes, it is.” “No, scorched, not burned—he was lying on his face, I tell you.” “Who was he? They say he was a lord.” “No, not a lord. Sir Something; ‘Sir’ means knight.” “And baronet, too.” “No.” “Yes, it does.” “What was he doing in there?” “No good, you can bet on that.” “Did he do it on purpose?” “Burn himself on purpose!” “I don’t mean himself; I mean the vestry.” “Is he awful to look at?” “Awful!” “Not about the face, though?” “No, no, not so much about the face. Doesn’t anyone know who he is?” “There’s a man who says he does.” “Who?” “A servant, they say. But he looks dazed, and the police don’t believe him.” “Doesn’t anyone else know who it is?” “Hush—!”

A loud, authoritative voice cut through the murmurs, silencing the crowd instantly.

“Where is the gentleman who tried to save him?” the voice called out.

“Here, sir—here he is!” Dozens of eager faces surrounded me, and eager hands parted the crowd. The authoritative figure approached me, holding a lantern.

“This way, sir, if you please,” he said calmly.

I couldn’t find my voice, nor could I resist when he took my arm. I wanted to explain that I had never seen the dead man alive, that I couldn’t possibly identify him as a stranger. But the words wouldn’t come. I felt faint, silent, and powerless.

“Do you know him, sir?”

I found myself standing in a circle of men. Three of them, facing me, held lanterns low to the ground. Their eyes, along with everyone else’s, were fixed on my face, waiting expectantly. I understood what lay at my feet; I knew why they held the lanterns so low.

“Can you identify him, sir?”

My gaze fell slowly. At first, all I saw was a rough canvas cloth. The sound of rain dripping onto it broke the heavy silence. I looked up along the cloth, and there, stark and grim against the yellow light, was his lifeless face.

So, for the first and last time, I saw him. It was as if fate had decreed that this would be our only meeting.