VI

von Wilkie Collins

As soon as I stepped outside the house, I felt a surge of urgency. I had to act on the information I’d received immediately—tonight was my only chance to confront the Count. If I waited until morning, I risked losing Laura’s last hope. I glanced at my watch: it was ten o’clock.

There was no doubt in my mind about why the Count had left the theater. His escape that evening was clearly just the first step toward fleeing London altogether. The mark of the Brotherhood was on his arm; I was as sure of it as if he had shown me the brand. I had seen the betrayal of the Brotherhood in his eyes when he recognized Pesca.

It made sense that Pesca hadn’t recognized him in return. A man like the Count wouldn’t risk the dire consequences of acting as a spy without ensuring his own safety first. The clean-shaven face I had pointed out at the opera could have been hidden behind a beard in Pesca’s time. His dark brown hair might have been a wig, and his name was obviously a false one. Time could have changed him too; his considerable bulk might have come with age. There were plenty of reasons why Pesca wouldn’t recognize him, but none why the Count wouldn’t recognize Pesca, whose striking appearance made him memorable wherever he went.

I was certain of the Count’s intentions when he slipped away from us at the theater. How could I doubt it? I had seen with my own eyes that he believed, despite his changed appearance, that Pesca had recognized him and that he was in danger. If I could speak to him tonight, if I could show him that I was aware of the mortal threat he faced, what would happen? Clearly, one of us would have to take control of the situation—one of us would be at the mercy of the other.

I had to weigh the risks before I confronted him. I owed it to myself and to my wife to do everything I could to minimize the danger.

The risks were clear and straightforward. If the Count realized, through my own admission, that the path to his safety lay through my life, he would be the last person to hesitate in taking advantage of that knowledge when he had me alone. The only way I could defend myself against him was to ensure that my discovery was ready to be used against him and safe from any attempt he might make to suppress it. If I set a trap for him before approaching, and instructed a third party to trigger it after a certain time unless I gave different orders, then the Count’s safety would depend on mine. I could hold the upper hand, even in his own home.

This plan struck me as I neared the new lodgings we had taken after returning from the seaside. I slipped inside quietly with my key. A light was on in the hall, and I made my way to my workroom to prepare, determined to commit myself to an encounter with the Count before either Laura or Marian had the slightest inkling of my intentions.

I decided that a letter to Pesca would be the best precaution I could take. I wrote:

“The man I pointed out to you at the opera is a member of the Brotherhood and has betrayed his trust. Verify both claims immediately. You know the name he uses in England. His address is No. 5 Forest Road, St. John’s Wood. For the love you once had for me, use the power entrusted to you against him without mercy and without delay. I have risked everything and lost it all—and the price of my failure has been my life.”

I signed and dated the letter, sealed it in an envelope, and wrote on the outside: “Keep this sealed until nine o’clock tomorrow morning. If you don’t hear from me or see me before then, break the seal when the clock strikes and read the contents.” I added my initials and enclosed it in a second sealed envelope addressed to Pesca at his lodgings.

With that done, all that remained was to find a way to send my letter immediately. I had done everything I could. If anything happened to me in the Count’s house, I had ensured that he would pay for it with his life.

I had no doubt that Pesca had the means to prevent anyone from escaping, no matter the circumstances. His intense anxiety to remain in the dark about the Count’s identity—essentially, to keep enough uncertainty around the facts to justify his inaction—made it clear that he had the tools to deliver the Brotherhood's ruthless justice at his disposal. Yet, as a naturally compassionate man, he hesitated to state this outright in front of me.

The chilling efficiency with which foreign political groups hunt down traitors, no matter how well they hide, was something I had seen too often, even in my limited experience. Just as a casual reader of the news, I recalled instances in London and Paris of foreigners found murdered in the streets, their killers never identified. Bodies and body parts tossed into the Thames and the Seine, with no one ever caught. Deaths by secret violence that could only be explained in one way. I had not concealed anything about myself in these pages, and I wouldn’t hide the fact that I believed I had signed Count Fosco’s death warrant if the moment came when Pesca could act on my message.

I left my room to head downstairs and talk to the landlord about finding a messenger. As luck would have it, I ran into him on the stairs. He suggested his son, a bright young lad, as the messenger after I explained what I needed. We brought the boy upstairs, and I gave him his instructions. He was to take the letter in a cab, deliver it into Professor Pesca’s hands, and return with a note of acknowledgment from him—keeping the cab waiting for my use. It was nearly half-past ten, and I estimated the boy could be back in twenty minutes, allowing me to leave for St. John’s Wood shortly after.

Once the lad was off on his task, I returned to my room for a moment to organize some papers, making sure they would be easy to find if things took a turn for the worse. I sealed the key to the old-fashioned bureau where the documents were kept and left it on my table, with Marian’s name written on the outside of the small packet. With that done, I went downstairs to the sitting room, expecting to find Laura and Marian waiting for me after the Opera. My hand trembled for the first time as I reached for the door lock.

Only Marian was in the room. She looked up from her reading and glanced at her watch in surprise when I entered.

“You’re back early!” she exclaimed. “Did you leave before the Opera ended?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Neither Pesca nor I stayed for the finale. Where’s Laura?”

“She had one of her bad headaches tonight, so I suggested she go to bed after tea.”

I left the room again, pretending I wanted to check on Laura. Marian’s keen eyes were starting to scrutinize my face—her instinct was picking up on the weight I carried.

When I entered the bedroom and quietly approached the bedside, illuminated only by the soft glow of the night lamp, I found my wife asleep.

We had only been married for a month. If my heart felt heavy, if my resolve wavered for a moment as I looked at her peaceful face turned toward my pillow—if I noticed her hand resting open on the coverlet as if it were waiting for mine—surely I had some justification? I allowed myself just a few moments to kneel beside her bed and gaze at her closely, so close that her breath fluttered against my face. I brushed my lips against her hand and cheek in a gentle farewell. She stirred, murmuring my name, but didn’t wake. I lingered for a moment at the door, looking back at her. “God bless and keep you, my darling,” I whispered before stepping out.

Marian was waiting for me at the top of the stairs, holding a folded slip of paper.

“The landlord’s son brought this for you,” she said. “He’s got a cab waiting at the door—he says you asked him to keep it for you.”

“Exactly right, Marian. I need the cab—I’m going out again.”

As I spoke, I descended the stairs and glanced into the sitting room to read the note by the light on the table. It contained two sentences in Pesca’s handwriting:

“Your letter is received. If I don’t see you before the time you mentioned, I will break the seal when the clock strikes.”

I tucked the paper into my pocket and headed for the door. Marian stopped me at the threshold, pushing me back into the room, where the candlelight illuminated my face. She held my hands tightly, her eyes searching mine.

“I see!” she whispered eagerly, her voice low. “You’re taking your last chance tonight.”

“Yes, the last chance and the best,” I replied quietly.

“Not alone! Oh, Walter, please, not alone! Let me come with you. Don’t turn me away just because I’m a woman. I have to go! I will go! I’ll wait outside in the cab!”

Now it was my turn to hold her back. She struggled to break free, eager to reach the door first.

“If you want to help me,” I said, “stay here and sleep in my wife’s room tonight. Just let me leave knowing Laura is safe, and I’ll handle everything else. Come on, Marian, give me a kiss and show me you have the courage to wait for my return.”

I couldn’t let her say another word. She tried to grab me again, but I unclasped her hands and slipped out of the room in an instant. The boy downstairs heard me on the stairs and opened the front door. I jumped into the cab before the driver could even get off his seat. “Forest Road, St. John’s Wood,” I called through the front window. “Double fare if you get there in fifteen minutes.” “I’ll do it, sir.” I glanced at my watch. Eleven o’clock. Not a moment to waste.

The cab sped through the streets, each passing second bringing me closer to the Count. The thrill of my risky mission ignited a feverish excitement in me, and I shouted for the driver to go faster. As we left the main roads and entered St. John’s Wood, my impatience took over completely. I stood up in the cab, leaning out the window to catch a glimpse of our destination before we arrived. Just as a church clock chimed a quarter past, we turned onto Forest Road. I stopped the driver a little way from the Count’s house, paid him, and stepped out.

As I approached the garden gate, I noticed someone else coming toward it from the opposite direction. We met under the gas lamp in the street, and I instantly recognized the light-haired foreigner with the scar on his cheek. I thought he recognized me too. He didn’t say a word, and instead of stopping at the house like I did, he continued walking slowly past. Was he here by chance? Or had he followed the Count home from the opera?

I didn’t dwell on those questions. After waiting a moment until the foreigner disappeared from view, I rang the gate bell. It was twenty minutes past eleven—late enough for the Count to easily dismiss me with an excuse that he was already in bed.

To prevent that from happening, I decided to send in my name without asking any preliminary questions, making it clear that I had a serious reason for wanting to see him at this late hour. While I waited, I took out my card and wrote underneath my name, “On important business.” Just as I finished the last word in pencil, the maid answered the door, eyeing me with suspicion.

“Please take this to your master,” I said, handing her the card.

I could tell from her hesitation that if I had asked for the Count directly, she would have simply told me he wasn’t home. My confidence seemed to surprise her. After staring at me in confusion, she retreated into the house, closing the door behind her and leaving me waiting in the garden.

A minute later, she returned. “Her master’s compliments, and would you be so kind as to tell me what your business is?”

“Return my compliments,” I replied, “and say that the business can only be discussed with your master.”

She left again, and soon came back, this time asking me to come inside.

I followed her without hesitation. In moments, I was inside the Count’s house.