XI (1/2)

von Wilkie Collins

The inquest was rushed for reasons that weighed heavily on the coroner and local authorities. It took place the following afternoon, and I was among the witnesses called to assist with the investigation.

My first task that morning was to visit the post office and check for the letter I was expecting from Marian. No matter how extraordinary the circumstances, my main concern while I was away from London remained unchanged. The morning letter was my only assurance that nothing had gone wrong in my absence, and it was the focal point of my day.

To my relief, Marian's letter was waiting for me at the office.

Nothing had happened; they were both safe and well, just as they had been when I left. Laura sent her love and asked me to let her know a day in advance of my return. Marian explained that Laura had saved “nearly a sovereign” from her own funds and had claimed the right to plan and host the dinner to celebrate my return. I read these little domestic details in the bright morning light, but the horrific events of the previous evening loomed large in my mind. The first thing that struck me was the need to protect Laura from any sudden knowledge of the truth. I immediately wrote to Marian, sharing what I’ve recounted here—delivering the news as gently as I could and warning her to keep any newspapers away from Laura while I was gone. If it had been any other woman, less brave and reliable, I might have hesitated to reveal everything. But I owed it to Marian to trust her, just as I trusted myself.

My letter took a while to compose, and I was still writing when it was time to head to the inquest.

The legal inquiry was complicated by various issues. Besides investigating how the deceased had died, there were serious questions about the cause of the fire, the missing keys, and the presence of a stranger in the vestry when the flames erupted. Even identifying the dead man hadn’t been resolved yet. The servant’s condition had made the police doubtful of his claim to recognize his master. They had sent for witnesses from Knowlesbury who were familiar with Sir Percival Glyde’s appearance, and they had contacted Blackwater Park first thing that morning. These steps helped the coroner and jury confirm the identity of the deceased and validate the servant’s assertion. The evidence from reliable witnesses, along with the discovery of certain facts, was further supported by an examination of the dead man’s watch, which bore the crest and name of Sir Percival Glyde.

Next, the inquiries turned to the fire.

The servant, the boy who had heard the light struck in the vestry, and I were the first witnesses called. The boy provided clear testimony, but the servant was still in shock and unable to contribute meaningfully to the inquiry, so he was asked to step down.

To my relief, my own examination was brief. I had never known the deceased, had never seen him, and was unaware of his presence at Old Welmingham. I hadn’t been in the vestry when the body was found. All I could testify was that I had stopped at the clerk’s cottage to ask for directions, had learned about the missing keys from him, had gone to the church to help, had seen the fire, had heard someone inside the vestry trying unsuccessfully to unlock the door, and had done what I could to save the man out of compassion. Other witnesses, who were familiar with the deceased, were asked if they could shed light on the mystery of his missing keys and his presence in the burning room. But the coroner seemed to assume, quite reasonably, that as a complete stranger to the area and to Sir Percival Glyde, I wouldn’t be able to provide any insight on those matters.

After my formal examination wrapped up, I had a clear idea of the path I needed to take. I didn’t feel the need to share my personal beliefs; doing so wouldn’t serve any real purpose now that all the evidence supporting my suspicions had been destroyed along with the burned register. Besides, I wouldn’t have been able to express my unsupported opinion clearly without revealing the entire story behind the conspiracy. That would only lead to the same confusion in the minds of the coroner and the jury that I had already caused for Mr. Kyrle.

However, now that some time has passed, I feel free to express my thoughts without the constraints I previously faced. Before I move on to other events, I want to briefly explain how my convictions lead me to understand the disappearance of the keys, the outbreak of the fire, and the man’s death.

The news of my release on bail seemed to push Sir Percival to his limits. His attempt to attack me on the road was one of his last desperate moves. The other, and the more effective one, was to eliminate any solid proof of his crime by destroying the page in the register where the forgery had occurred. If I couldn’t produce an extract from the original book to compare with the certified copy at Knowlesbury, I wouldn’t have any concrete evidence to threaten him with, and he wouldn’t face any real exposure. All he needed to do was slip into the vestry unnoticed, tear out the page from the register, and leave as quietly as he had entered.

Given this, it’s easy to see why he waited until nightfall to make his move and why he took advantage of the clerk’s absence to get hold of the keys. He would need to light a match to find the right register, and it would be wise for him to lock the door behind him in case any curious stranger—or I—happened to be nearby.

I can’t believe he intended to make the destruction of the register look like an accident by deliberately setting the vestry on fire. The mere possibility that help might arrive in time to save the books would have been enough to dismiss such an idea from his mind. Considering the number of flammable materials in the vestry—the straw, papers, packing cases, dry wood, and old, rotting presses—all signs point to the fire being an accident caused by his matches or light.

His first instinct, under those circumstances, would have been to try to put out the flames. When that failed, and unaware of the lock’s condition, he likely tried to escape through the door he had used to enter. When I called out to him, the flames must have already spread across the door leading into the church, flanked by the presses and surrounded by other combustible materials. The smoke and fire, contained in that small room, likely overwhelmed him as he attempted to escape through the inner door. He must have collapsed right where he was found, just as I reached the roof to break the skylight window. Even if we had managed to get into the church and force the door open from that side, the delay would have been fatal. He would have been beyond saving by then. We would have only allowed the flames to spread into the church—the very church that remained intact, but would have shared the vestry’s fate had we been delayed. I have no doubt, and I believe no one else can doubt, that he was already dead before we reached the empty cottage and worked desperately to tear down the beam.

This is the closest my theory can come to explaining a result that was a clear matter of fact. Events unfolded as I’ve described them. His body was found just as I’ve recounted.

The inquest was adjourned for a day—no explanation that the law could recognize had been uncovered to account for the mysterious circumstances surrounding the case.

More witnesses were to be called, and the deceased's London solicitor was invited to attend. A doctor was also tasked with assessing the mental state of the servant, who, at that moment, seemed unable to provide any significant evidence. All he could manage to say, in a dazed manner, was that he had been instructed to wait in the lane on the night of the fire, and that he knew nothing else except that the deceased was definitely his master.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that he had been used—without any wrongdoing on his part—to confirm the clerk’s absence from home the day before. After that, he had likely been told to wait near the church, hidden from view of the vestry, ready to assist his master if I managed to escape an attack on the road and a confrontation with Sir Percival occurred. It’s important to note that we never got his testimony to back up this theory. The medical report stated that whatever mental faculties he had were severely shaken. Nothing useful came from him at the adjourned inquest, and for all I know, he may never have recovered.

I returned to the hotel in Welmingham feeling completely drained, both physically and mentally. I was too weak and depressed to handle the local gossip about the inquest or to respond to the trivial questions thrown at me in the coffee room. I retreated from my meager dinner to my small, cheap room, seeking a moment of peace to think about Laura and Marian without interruption.

If I had been wealthier, I would have gone back to London that night just to see their familiar faces again. But I had to be present at the adjourned inquest if summoned, and I was doubly obligated to answer my bail before the magistrate at Knowlesbury. Our limited resources had already taken a hit, and the uncertain future—now more uncertain than ever—made me reluctant to spend money unnecessarily, even on a double train journey in second-class carriages.

The next day, the day after the inquest, was mine to spend as I wished. I started the morning by checking in at the post office for my regular update from Marian. It was there waiting for me, just like before, and it was filled with good spirits. I read her letter gratefully, feeling a sense of relief, and then set off to Old Welmingham to see the site of the fire in the morning light.

What a change awaited me there!

In our strange world, the trivial and the tragic often coexist. The irony of life shows no mercy to human suffering. When I arrived at the church, the only serious remnant of the fire and the death was the trampled state of the burial ground. A rough wooden fence had been erected in front of the vestry door, already covered in crude caricatures, while village children fought and shouted over who could get the best view through the gaps. Where I had once heard cries for help from the burning room, and where the terrified servant had dropped to his knees, a flock of chickens was now scratching for worms after the rain. At my feet, where the door and its grim burden had been laid, a workman’s lunch sat waiting in a yellow basin, while his loyal dog barked at me for getting too close to the food. The old clerk, idly observing the slow start of repairs, seemed only interested in avoiding blame for his role in the accident. One of the village women, whose terrified face I remembered from the moment we pulled down the beam, was now giggling with another woman, who looked utterly vacant, over an old washing tub. There’s nothing serious about mortality! Solomon, in all his glory, was still just Solomon, with the elements of the ridiculous lurking in every fold of his robes and every corner of his palace.

As I left the scene, my thoughts turned, for what felt like the hundredth time, to the complete collapse of any hope I had of proving Laura’s identity now that Sir Percival was gone. With his death, the chance I had worked so hard for—the one thing that had driven all my efforts and hopes—had vanished.

Was there no other way to view my failure?

What if he had lived? Would that change in circumstances have altered the outcome? Could I have turned my discovery into something valuable, even for Laura’s sake, after realizing that the core of Sir Percival’s crime was the theft of others' rights? Could I have traded my silence for his confession of the conspiracy, knowing that my silence would mean denying the rightful heir their estate and the rightful owner their name? Absolutely not! If Sir Percival had lived, the discovery I had hoped would vindicate Laura’s rights could never have been mine to hide or reveal as I saw fit.

In all honesty and honor, I would have had to go straight to the stranger whose birthright had been stolen. I would have had to surrender my victory at the very moment it was mine by handing over my discovery without reservation. I would have faced all the challenges that stood between me and the one goal of my life, just as I was determined to do now.

As I returned to Welmingham, my mind was clear, and I felt more confident in my resolve than I ever had before.

On my way to the hotel, I passed the end of the square where Mrs. Catherick lived. Should I go back and try to see her again? No. The news of Sir Percival’s death, the last thing she would have expected, must have reached her hours ago. The local paper had reported all the details from the inquest that morning—there was nothing I could tell her that she didn’t already know. My interest in making her speak had faded. I recalled the hatred that flashed across her face when she said, “There is no news of Sir Percival that I don’t expect—except the news of his death.” I remembered the way her eyes had lingered on me as we parted, filled with a furtive interest. Some instinct deep within me, which I felt was true, made the thought of entering her presence again repulsive. I turned away from the square and headed straight back to the hotel.

A few hours later, while I was resting in the coffee room, a waiter handed me a letter. It was addressed to me by name, and when I inquired, I learned it had been left at the bar by a woman just as dusk was settling in, right before the gas lights were lit. She hadn’t said a word and had left before anyone could speak to her or even notice who she was.

I opened the letter. It was neither dated nor signed, and the handwriting was clearly disguised. But before I had even read the first sentence, I knew who had written to me—Mrs. Catherick.

The letter read as follows—I’ll copy it exactly, word for word:

THE STORY CONTINUED BY MRS. CATHERICK

SIR,—You haven’t returned, as you said you would. No matter—I know the news, and I’m writing to tell you. Did you notice anything in my face when you left? I was wondering if the day of his downfall had finally come, and whether you were the one chosen to bring it about. You were, and you HAVE done it.

You were foolish enough, as I’ve heard, to try to save his life. If you had succeeded, I would have seen you as my enemy. Now that you’ve failed, I consider you my friend. Your inquiries scared him into the vestry at night—your inquiries, without your knowledge and against your will, have served the hatred and vengeance built up over twenty-three years. Thank you, sir, even if it was unintentional.

I owe something to the man who has done this. How can I repay my debt? If I were still a young woman, I might say, “Come, put your arm around my waist and kiss me, if you like.” I would have been fond enough of you to go that far, and you would have accepted my invitation—you would have, sir, twenty years ago! But I’m an old woman now. Well! I can satisfy your curiosity and repay my debt that way. You HAD a great curiosity about certain private matters of mine when you came to see me—private matters that all your cleverness couldn’t uncover without my help—private matters you still haven’t discovered. You SHALL discover them—your curiosity will be satisfied. I’ll go to any lengths to please you, my esteemed young friend!

You were just a little boy in the year twenty-seven, I suppose? I was a beautiful young woman back then, living in Old Welmingham. I had a contemptible fool for a husband. I also had the honor of being acquainted (never mind how) with a certain gentleman (never mind whom). I won’t call him by his name. Why should I? It wasn’t his own. He never had a name: you know that, just as well as I do.

Let me tell you how he managed to win my favor. I was raised with the tastes of a lady, and he indulged them—he admired me and showered me with gifts. No woman can resist admiration and gifts, especially when they’re exactly what she wants. He was clever enough to understand that—most men are. Naturally, he wanted something in return—don’t they all? And what do you think he asked for? Just a small favor: the key to the vestry and the key to the press inside it, all while my husband was unaware.

When I questioned him about why he needed the keys discreetly, he lied. He could have saved himself the effort—I didn’t believe him. But I enjoyed the gifts, and I wanted more. So, I got him the keys without my husband knowing, and I kept an eye on him without him realizing. I watched him once, twice, four times, and on the fourth time, I caught him.

I was never one to be overly concerned about other people’s business, and I certainly wasn’t going to fret over him adding another name to the marriage register on his own.

I knew it was wrong, but it didn’t harm me, which was one good reason not to make a fuss. Plus, I didn’t have a gold watch and chain, which was another reason—and he had promised me one from London just the day before, which was the best reason of all. If I had known what the law considered a crime and how it punished it, I would have taken better care of myself and exposed him right then. But I was clueless, and I longed for that gold watch. All I insisted on was that he confide in me and tell me everything. I was as curious about his affairs then as you are about mine now. He agreed to my conditions—well, you’ll see how that unfolded.

In short, here’s what I learned from him. He didn’t willingly share everything I’m telling you now. I coaxed some of it out of him through persuasion and some through direct questions. I was determined to uncover the whole truth, and I believe I succeeded.

He didn’t know any more than anyone else about the real situation between his parents until after his mother passed away. Then his father confessed and promised to do what he could for his son. He died without having done anything—not even leaving a will. The son (who could blame him?) wisely took matters into his own hands. He came to England immediately and claimed the property. There was no one to suspect him, no one to challenge him. His parents had always lived as husband and wife—none of the few who knew them ever thought otherwise. The rightful heir to the property (if the truth had been known) was a distant relative who had no idea he was entitled to it and was away at sea when his father died. He faced no difficulty in claiming the property; it was a matter of course.

However, he couldn’t just borrow money against the property without a couple of things. He needed a birth certificate and a marriage certificate for his parents. The birth certificate was easy to obtain—he was born abroad, and it was available in proper form. The marriage certificate, however, posed a problem, which led him to Old Welmingham.

Under different circumstances, he might have gone to Knowlesbury instead.

His mother had lived there just before meeting his father—under her maiden name, because the truth was she was already married, back in Ireland, to a man who had mistreated her and then left her for someone else. I have this information from a reliable source—Sir Felix mentioned it to his son as the reason he hadn’t married. You might wonder why, knowing his parents had met at Knowlesbury, he didn’t start his schemes with the register at that church, where it would have been reasonable to assume his parents had married. The reason was that the clergyman who officiated at Knowlesbury church in 1803 (when, according to his birth certificate, his parents should have been married) was still alive when he claimed the property in January 1827. This inconvenient fact forced him to broaden his search to our area. Here, there was no such risk, as the former clergyman at our church had been dead for several years.

Old Welmingham suited his needs just as well as Knowlesbury had. His father had taken his mother away from Knowlesbury, and they lived together in a cottage by the river, not far from our village. Those who had witnessed his solitary lifestyle when he was single weren’t surprised by his continued seclusion after he was supposedly married. If he hadn’t been such an ugly sight, his reclusive life with her might have raised some eyebrows. But given his appearance, no one was shocked that he kept his deformity hidden away from the world. He remained in our area until he inherited the Park. After twenty-four years had passed, who could say—now that the clergyman was dead—that his marriage hadn’t been as private as the rest of his life, or that it hadn’t taken place at Old Welmingham church?

As I mentioned, the son found our neighborhood to be the safest place to discreetly set things right for his own benefit. You might be surprised to learn that what he did to the marriage register was a spur-of-the-moment decision—something he thought through only after the fact.

Initially, he planned to simply tear out the page from the register (the one from the correct year and month), destroy it, return to London, and instruct the lawyers to obtain a certificate of his father’s marriage, casually directing them to the date on the missing page. After that, no one could claim that his parents hadn’t been married. He figured that whether they would bend the rules to lend him money was uncertain, but he was prepared with an answer if anyone questioned his claim to the name and the estate.

However, when he examined the register for himself, he noticed a blank space at the bottom of one of the pages for the year 1803. It seemed to have been left empty because there wasn’t enough room for a lengthy entry, which had instead been made at the top of the next page. This unexpected opportunity changed everything for him. It was something he had never anticipated, and he seized it—you know how. The blank space, which should have aligned perfectly with his birth certificate, appeared in the September section instead of July. But if anyone raised suspicions, he had a simple explanation: he would just describe himself as a seven-month-old child.

When he shared his story with me, I was foolish enough to feel some sympathy for him—which was exactly what he had counted on. I thought he had been treated unfairly. It wasn’t his fault that his parents hadn’t been married, nor was it theirs. A more principled woman than I—a woman who hadn’t set her sights on a gold watch and chain—might have found some justification for him. Regardless, I kept quiet and helped him cover up his actions.

He spent quite a while mixing ink to get the right color, experimenting with my pots and bottles, and later practicing the handwriting. In the end, he succeeded, managing to make an honest woman of his mother even after she had passed away. I can’t deny that he was decent enough to me. He gifted me a watch and chain, sparing no expense; both were beautifully crafted and quite costly. I still have them—the watch runs perfectly.

You mentioned the other day that Mrs. Clements had told you everything she knew. If that’s the case, I won’t bother recounting the petty scandal that made me the innocent victim, as I firmly believe. You must understand, just as I do, what my husband thought when he caught me meeting that gentleman and sharing secrets. But what you don’t know is how things ended between that gentleman and me. You’ll see how he treated me.

When I realized how things had turned, the first words I said to him were, “Do me justice—clear my name of the stain you know I don’t deserve. I don’t need you to confess everything to my husband—just tell him, on your honor as a gentleman, that he’s mistaken and that I’m not to blame as he thinks. Please, do me that justice after everything I’ve done for you.” He flatly refused. He made it clear that it was in his interest for my husband and everyone else to believe the lie—because as long as they did, they would never suspect the truth. I had a spirit of my own, and I told him I would reveal the truth myself. His response was blunt and straightforward: if I spoke out, I would be a lost woman, just as surely as he was a lost man.

Yes, it had come to that. He had tricked me about the danger I faced by helping him. He had played on my ignorance, lured me in with his gifts, and captivated me with his story. In the end, he made me his accomplice. He admitted this without a hint of remorse and finally revealed to me, for the first time, the horrifying punishment that awaited him for his crime—and anyone who assisted him. Back then, the law wasn’t as lenient as it is now. It wasn’t just murderers who faced the gallows, and women in prison weren’t treated like delicate flowers in distress.

I’ll admit, he scared me—the deceitful con artist! The cowardly scoundrel! Do you see now why I despised him? Do you understand why I’m going through all this trouble—gratefully going through it—to satisfy the curiosity of the well-meaning young man who tracked him down?