XII

by Wilkie Collins

We continued our search in Limmeridge, exploring every avenue and speaking with all kinds of people. Yet, despite our efforts, we found nothing. Three villagers claimed they had seen the woman we were looking for, but they couldn’t agree on her description or even the direction she had gone. Their vague accounts were no more helpful than the silence of the others who knew nothing at all.

Eventually, our fruitless inquiries led us to the edge of the village, where Mrs. Fairlie’s schools were located. As we walked past the boys' school building, I suggested we make one last attempt to speak with the schoolmaster, who we hoped would be the most knowledgeable person in the area.

“I doubt the schoolmaster will be much help,” Miss Halcombe replied. “He’s likely been busy with his students just when the woman passed through. Still, it’s worth a shot.”

We entered the playground and made our way to the back door. I paused for a moment at the window to take a look inside.

The schoolmaster sat at his high desk, facing away from me, lecturing the boys gathered in front of him. One boy, however, stood apart from the others on a stool in the corner—a sturdy, white-haired child, looking like a little castaway on his own island of shame.

When we reached the door, it was slightly open, and the schoolmaster’s voice carried clearly as we paused under the porch.

“Now, boys,” he said firmly, “listen closely. If I hear another word about ghosts in this school, you’ll all be in trouble. Ghosts don’t exist, and any boy who believes in them is rejecting reason and discipline, and he will be punished for it. Look at Jacob Postlethwaite standing on that stool in disgrace. He’s not being punished for claiming he saw a ghost last night, but because he refuses to listen to reason and insists he saw something that can’t possibly be real. If necessary, I’ll beat the ghost out of Jacob, and if this nonsense spreads, I’ll punish the whole school.”

“We seem to have arrived at an inconvenient time,” Miss Halcombe remarked, pushing the door open just as the schoolmaster finished his speech and stepping inside.

Our entrance caused quite a stir among the boys, who seemed to think we had come specifically to witness Jacob Postlethwaite’s punishment.

“Everyone go home for dinner,” the schoolmaster ordered, “except Jacob. He’ll stay here, and if a ghost wants to bring him his meal, that’s up to the ghost.”

Jacob’s courage crumbled at the sudden departure of his classmates and the loss of his dinner. He pulled his hands from his pockets, stared at his knuckles, and then, with great deliberation, rubbed his eyes while sniffing in a rhythm that echoed his distress.

“We came to ask you a question, Mr. Dempster,” Miss Halcombe said to the schoolmaster, “and we didn’t expect to find you busy with ghost stories. What’s going on? What really happened?”

“That troublesome boy has been scaring the whole school by claiming he saw a ghost last night,” the schoolmaster replied. “He continues to insist on his ridiculous story, despite everything I’ve said.”

“Extraordinary,” Miss Halcombe said. “I wouldn’t have thought any of the boys had enough imagination to see a ghost. This certainly adds to the challenges of shaping young minds at Limmeridge, and I wish you the best of luck with it, Mr. Dempster. Meanwhile, let me explain why I’m here and what I need.”

She then asked the schoolmaster the same question we had posed to nearly everyone else in the village. Unfortunately, we received the same disappointing answer. Mr. Dempster had not seen the stranger we were searching for.

“We might as well head back to the house, Mr. Hartright,” Miss Halcombe said. “It’s clear we won’t find the information we need here.”

She had just nodded to Mr. Dempster and was about to leave the schoolroom when she noticed Jacob Postlethwaite, sitting on the stool of shame, sniffling pitifully. Feeling a mix of amusement and sympathy, she paused to speak to the little boy before stepping out.

“You silly boy,” she said, “why don’t you just apologize to Mr. Dempster and stop talking about the ghost?”

“But I saw the ghost!” Jacob insisted, his eyes wide with fear and tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Ridiculous! You didn’t see anything of the sort. What ghost—”

“Excuse me, Miss Halcombe,” Mr. Dempster interjected, looking a bit uneasy. “I think it’s best not to question the boy. His stubbornness about this story is unbelievable, and you might lead him to—”

“Lead him to what?” Miss Halcombe shot back, her tone sharp.

“Lead him to shock your feelings,” Mr. Dempster replied, clearly flustered.

“Really, Mr. Dempster, you flatter me by thinking my feelings are so fragile that I could be shocked by a child like him!” With a defiant look, she turned back to Jacob. “Now, tell me everything. You naughty boy, when did you see the ghost?”

“Last night, at twilight,” Jacob replied.

“Oh, you saw it yesterday evening? And what did it look like?”

“All in white—just like a ghost should be,” he answered, his confidence belying his age.

“And where was it?”

“Over there, in the graveyard—where a ghost ought to be.”

“A ghost should be—where a ghost ought to be? You little fool, you talk as if you’ve known the ways of ghosts your whole life! You’ve got your story down pat. I suppose next you’ll tell me whose ghost it was?”

“Oh, I can tell you that,” Jacob said, nodding with a gloomy sense of triumph.

Mr. Dempster had tried several times to intervene while Miss Halcombe questioned his student, and now he spoke up firmly enough to be heard.

“Miss Halcombe, if I may, you’re only encouraging the boy by asking him these questions.”

“I’ll just ask one more, Mr. Dempster, and then I’ll be done. Whose ghost was it?” she asked, turning to Jacob.

“The ghost of Mistress Fairlie,” Jacob whispered.

The impact of this unexpected answer on Miss Halcombe was immediate and intense. Her face flushed with anger, and she turned on Jacob with such suddenness that he burst into fresh tears. She opened her mouth to speak to him but then composed herself and addressed Mr. Dempster instead.

“It’s pointless to hold a child like that accountable for what he says. I suspect someone else has planted this idea in his head. If there are people in this village who have forgotten the respect and gratitude owed to my mother’s memory, I will find them, and if I have any influence with Mr. Fairlie, they will pay for it.”

“I hope—no, I’m sure, Miss Halcombe—that you’re mistaken,” Mr. Dempster replied. “This matter begins and ends with the boy’s own foolishness. He saw, or thought he saw, a woman in white last night as he passed the churchyard. That figure, whether real or imagined, was by the marble cross, which everyone in Limmeridge knows marks Mrs. Fairlie’s grave. Those two details are likely what led him to the answer that has upset you.”

Though Miss Halcombe didn’t seem convinced, she recognized that Mr. Dempster’s reasoning was too sensible to openly dispute. She simply thanked him for his concern and promised to speak with him again once her doubts were cleared. With that, she bowed and led the way out of the schoolroom.

I had been standing quietly, listening intently and forming my own thoughts throughout this strange exchange. Once we were alone again, Miss Halcombe turned to me and asked if I had come to any conclusions about what I had heard.

“I have a very strong opinion,” I replied. “I believe the boy’s story has some basis in reality. I’m eager to see the monument over Mrs. Fairlie’s grave and to examine the area around it.”

“You will see the grave,” she said.

She paused for a moment, reflecting as we walked. “What just happened in the schoolroom has completely distracted me from the letter’s subject. I feel a bit lost trying to refocus. Should we abandon the idea of further inquiries and wait to discuss everything with Mr. Gilmore tomorrow?”

“Not at all, Miss Halcombe. What happened in the schoolroom only makes me more determined to continue my investigation.”

“Why does it make you more determined?” she asked.

“Because it reinforces a suspicion I had when you first asked me to read the letter.”

“I assume you had your reasons for keeping that suspicion to yourself until now, Mr. Hartright?”

“I was hesitant to acknowledge it. I thought it was completely absurd—I dismissed it as a quirk of my imagination. But I can’t ignore it any longer. Not only the boy’s responses to your questions but even a casual remark from the schoolmaster while he was explaining his story have forced the idea back into my mind. Events may prove me wrong, Miss Halcombe, but I strongly believe that the ghost the boy saw in the churchyard and the writer of the anonymous letter are the same person.”

She paused, her face drained of color as she looked at me intently.

“Who are you talking about?”

“The schoolmaster inadvertently revealed it. When he mentioned the figure the boy saw in the churchyard, he referred to it as ‘a woman in white.’”

“Not Anne Catherick?”

“Yes, Anne Catherick.”

She slipped her arm through mine, leaning on me heavily.

“I don’t know why,” she said quietly, “but there’s something about your suspicion that unsettles me. I feel—” She faltered, trying to laugh it off. “Mr. Hartright,” she continued, “I’ll show you the grave, but then I need to head back to the house. I shouldn’t leave Laura alone for too long. I need to be there with her.”

We were nearing the churchyard when she spoke. The church, a somber structure of grey stone, sat in a small valley, sheltered from the harsh winds sweeping across the moorland surrounding it. The burial ground extended from the church, climbing slightly up the hill. It was enclosed by a low, rough stone wall and was mostly bare and open to the sky, except at one end where a brook trickled down the rocky hillside, and a cluster of small trees cast narrow shadows over the sparse grass. Just beyond the brook and the trees, near one of the three stone stiles that provided access to the churchyard, stood the white marble cross marking Mrs. Fairlie’s grave, setting it apart from the simpler monuments scattered around.

“I don’t need to go any further with you,” Miss Halcombe said, pointing to the grave. “Please let me know if you find anything that supports your idea. Let’s reconvene at the house.”

She walked away, and I immediately made my way into the churchyard, crossing the stile that led directly to Mrs. Fairlie’s grave.

The grass around it was too short, and the ground too hard to show any footprints. Feeling disappointed, I turned my attention to the cross and the square block of marble beneath it, where the inscription was carved.

The natural whiteness of the cross was slightly marred by weather stains, and more than half of the square block beneath it, on the side with the inscription, was similarly affected. However, the other half caught my eye immediately with its remarkable cleanliness, free from any stains or impurities. I leaned in closer and noticed that it had been cleaned—recently, and in a downward motion from top to bottom. The line between the cleaned section and the uncleaned part was sharply defined, as if someone had deliberately done it. Who had started cleaning the marble, and why had they left it unfinished?

I looked around, pondering how to answer that question. There was no sign of a house nearby—the burial ground was left in the lonely company of the dead. I returned to the church and walked around to the back of the building, then crossed the boundary wall through another stone stile, finding myself at the edge of a deserted stone quarry. Against one side of the quarry stood a small two-room cottage, and just outside the door, an elderly woman was busy washing.

I approached her and struck up a conversation about the church and the burial ground. She was eager to chat, and almost immediately, she mentioned that her husband served as both clerk and sexton. I complimented Mrs. Fairlie’s monument, but the old woman shook her head, telling me I hadn’t seen it at its best. It was her husband’s responsibility to maintain it, but he had been ill and weak for months, barely able to attend church on Sundays to fulfill his duties, which had led to the monument being neglected. She added that he was starting to improve and hoped to be strong enough to clean it in a week or ten days.

The information I had gathered from the woman, despite her long-winded explanation in a thick Cumberland accent, gave me exactly what I needed to know. I handed her a small amount of money and hurried back to Limmeridge House.

It was clear that someone had started to clean the monument, but the job was left unfinished. This, combined with the story I had heard about the ghost sighted at twilight, confirmed my decision to keep a secret watch over Mrs. Fairlie’s grave that evening. I planned to return at sunset and stay within sight of it until darkness fell. Whoever had begun the cleaning might come back to finish it.

Once I was back at the house, I told Miss Halcombe about my plan. She looked surprised and a bit anxious as I explained, but she didn’t outright oppose it. Instead, she simply said, “I hope it ends well.”

Just as she was about to leave, I stopped her to ask, as calmly as I could, about Miss Fairlie’s health. She was in better spirits, and Miss Halcombe hoped that she might be persuaded to take a short walk while the afternoon sun was still shining.

Afterward, I returned to my room to organize the drawings. It was important to keep my mind occupied with anything that could distract me from my own thoughts and the bleak future ahead. Every so often, I paused my work to glance out the window and watch the sun dip lower in the sky. On one of those occasions, I spotted a figure on the gravel path below. It was Miss Fairlie.

I hadn’t seen her since that morning, and I had barely spoken to her then. I had only one more day at Limmeridge, and after that, I might never see her again. The thought kept me rooted at the window. I made sure to adjust the blind so she wouldn’t see me if she looked up, but I couldn’t resist the urge to follow her with my eyes as she walked.

She wore a brown cloak over a simple black silk dress, and the same straw hat she had on when we first met. A veil was attached to it now, obscuring her face. At her side trotted her little Italian greyhound, dressed in a bright red coat to protect him from the chill. She seemed oblivious to the dog, walking straight ahead with her head slightly bowed and her arms crossed in her cloak. The dead leaves that had swirled around me when I heard about her engagement now danced in the wind around her, rising and falling at her feet as she moved through the fading sunlight. The dog shivered and pressed against her, seeking her attention, but she didn’t acknowledge him. She continued walking, farther and farther away from me, with the leaves swirling around her on the path—until my aching eyes could no longer see her, leaving me alone once more with my heavy heart.

An hour later, I finished my work, and the sunset was approaching. I grabbed my hat and coat from the hall and slipped out of the house without encountering anyone.

The clouds were wild in the western sky, and the wind blew cold from the sea. Even from the shore, I could hear the surf crashing against the rocks, a dreary sound that echoed in my ears as I entered the churchyard. There was not a soul in sight. The place felt lonelier than ever as I chose my spot and waited, my gaze fixed on the white cross marking Mrs. Fairlie’s grave.