III

by Wilkie Collins

June 16th. — I have a few more thoughts to jot down before I head to bed tonight.

About two hours after Sir Percival left the lunch table to meet his lawyer, Mr. Merriman, in the library, I stepped out of my room for a walk in the gardens. Just as I reached the end of the landing, the library door swung open, and the two men emerged. Not wanting to interrupt their conversation, I decided to wait until they had crossed the hall before heading downstairs. Although they spoke in low tones, I could still make out their words.

“Don’t worry, Sir Percival,” I heard the lawyer say. “It all depends on Lady Glyde.”

I considered retreating back to my room for a moment, but the mention of Laura’s name stopped me in my tracks. I know it was wrong to eavesdrop, but what woman can truly ignore her instincts when her heart pulls her one way and her morals pull her another?

So, I listened—and I would do it again under the same circumstances, yes! Even if it meant pressing my ear to the keyhole.

“You understand, Sir Percival,” the lawyer continued, “Lady Glyde needs to sign her name in front of a witness—or two, if you want to be extra cautious—and then she must place her finger on the seal and say, ‘I deliver this as my act and deed.’ If that happens within a week, everything will go smoothly, and we’ll all breathe easier. If not—”

“What do you mean by ‘if not’?” Sir Percival snapped, his anger palpable. “If this needs to be done, it WILL be done. I assure you of that, Merriman.”

“Exactly, Sir Percival—exactly; but in every transaction, there are two possible outcomes, and we lawyers prefer to face both of them head-on. If, for some unforeseen reason, the arrangement doesn’t go through, I might be able to convince the parties to accept three-month bills. But how we’ll manage to raise the funds when those bills come due—”

“Forget the bills! There’s only one way to get the money, and I’m telling you again, it WILL be done. Have a glass of wine, Merriman, before you leave.”

“Thank you, Sir Percival; but I really can’t linger if I want to catch the next train. You’ll let me know as soon as everything is settled? And please don’t forget the caution I mentioned—”

“Of course not. The dog-cart is waiting for you. My groom will get you to the station in no time. Benjamin, drive like the wind! Get in. If Mr. Merriman misses the train, you’ll lose your job. Hold on tight, Merriman, and if you get thrown, trust the devil to save his own.” With that, Sir Percival turned and headed back into the library.

I hadn’t overheard much, but what I did hear was enough to make me uneasy. The “something” that had “happened” was clearly a serious financial issue, and Sir Percival’s way out depended on Laura. The thought of her getting dragged into her husband’s hidden troubles filled me with dread, made worse by my lack of understanding of finances and my deep-seated distrust of Sir Percival. Instead of going for my walk, I hurried back to Laura’s room to share what I had overheard.

To my surprise, she took the news with remarkable calm. It was clear she understood more about her husband’s character and his financial troubles than I had realized.

“I feared as much,” she said, “when I heard about that strange man who came by and refused to give his name.”

“Who do you think he was?” I asked.

“Someone with significant claims against Sir Percival,” she replied, “and the reason Mr. Merriman visited today.”

“Do you know anything about those claims?”

“No, I don’t know any details.”

“You won’t sign anything, Laura, without looking it over first?”

“Of course not, Marian. I’ll do whatever I can to help him, as long as it doesn’t jeopardize our peace and happiness. But I won’t act blindly, risking regret later. Let’s not dwell on it now. You’ve got your hat on—how about we spend the afternoon wandering in the gardens?”

As we left the house, we made our way toward the nearest shade.

As we walked through the open space among the trees in front of the house, we spotted Count Fosco ambling back and forth on the grass, soaking up the sun on that hot June afternoon. He wore a wide straw hat adorned with a violet ribbon. His enormous frame was covered by a blue blouse, embellished with intricate white designs across the chest, cinched at what might have once been his waist with a broad scarlet leather belt. His nankeen trousers, also featuring white fancy work around the ankles, and purple morocco slippers completed his outfit.

He was singing Figaro’s famous aria from the Barber of Seville, his voice crisp and fluid in a way that only an Italian could manage. He accompanied himself on the concertina, throwing his arms up ecstatically and twisting his head gracefully, resembling a plump St. Cecilia dressed as a man. “Figaro qua! Figaro la! Figaro su! Figaro giu!” he sang, tossing the concertina into the air and bowing to us with the effortless charm and elegance of a youthful Figaro.

“Trust me, Laura, that man knows something about Sir Percival’s troubles,” I said as we returned the Count’s greeting from a safe distance.

“What makes you think that?” she asked, her brow furrowing.

“How else would he know that Mr. Merriman is Sir Percival’s solicitor?” I replied. “And when I followed you out of the lunchroom, he told me, without me asking anything, that something had happened. I’m sure he knows more than we do.”

“Don’t ask him any questions if he does. Don’t let him into our confidence!”

“You seem to have a strong dislike for him, Laura. What has he done to deserve that?”

“Nothing, Marian. In fact, he was quite kind and attentive on our journey home, and he even managed to calm Sir Percival’s temper several times, showing consideration for me. Maybe I dislike him because he has more influence over my husband than I do. It stings my pride to feel indebted to his interference. All I know is that I really dislike him.”

The rest of the day and evening passed quietly. The Count and I played chess. He graciously let me win the first two games, but when he realized I had figured him out, he apologized and checkmated me in ten minutes during the third game. Sir Percival didn’t mention the lawyer’s visit at all that evening. Yet, whether it was that event or something else, he seemed to have changed for the better. He was polite and agreeable to all of us, just like he had been during his early days at Limmeridge, and he was surprisingly attentive and kind to his wife, which even made the usually icy Madame Fosco look at him with a serious surprise. What could this mean? I think I can guess—I’m afraid Laura can guess—and I’m certain Count Fosco knows. I caught Sir Percival glancing at him for approval more than once throughout the evening.

June 17th. — A day of events. I sincerely hope I won’t have to add that it’s also a day of disasters.

Sir Percival was as quiet at breakfast as he had been the night before regarding the mysterious “arrangement” that the lawyer had mentioned, looming over us. An hour later, however, he abruptly entered the morning room, where Laura and I were waiting, our hats on, for Madame Fosco to join us, and asked for the Count.

“We expect him here shortly,” I replied.

“The thing is,” Sir Percival continued, pacing nervously around the room, “I need Fosco and his wife in the library for a simple business formality, and I want you there too, Laura, just for a minute.” He paused, finally noticing that we were dressed for going out. “Have you just come in?” he asked, “or were you about to leave?”

“We were thinking of heading to the lake this morning,” Laura said. “But if you have another plan—”

“No, no,” he interrupted hastily. “My plan can wait. After lunch will work just as well as after breakfast. All going to the lake, huh? Good idea. Let’s have a leisurely morning—I’ll join you.”

There was no mistaking his demeanor, even if his unusual eagerness to accommodate others hadn’t been clear. He was clearly relieved to find an excuse to postpone the business formality in the library that he had mentioned. My heart sank as I drew the inevitable conclusion.

The Count and his wife joined us just then. She held her husband’s embroidered tobacco pouch and a stash of paper for rolling the endless cigarettes. The Count, dressed as usual in his blouse and straw hat, carried a colorful pagoda cage containing his beloved white mice. He smiled at them and at us with a warm friendliness that was hard to resist.

“With your permission,” the Count said, “I’d like to take my little family—my sweet, harmless mice—out for some fresh air with us. There are dogs around the house, and I can’t just leave my poor little white children to their mercy. Never!”

He chirped affectionately at his small white companions through the bars of the cage, and we all set off toward the lake.

As we walked through the plantation, Sir Percival wandered away from us. It seemed to be part of his restless nature to separate from the group on these outings, and he often occupied himself by whittling new walking sticks for himself. He found joy in the simple act of cutting and shaping wood. The house was filled with his creations, none of which he ever used more than once. Once he had fashioned a stick, his interest faded, and he moved on to make more.

He rejoined us at the old boathouse. I’ll recount the conversation that followed as we settled into our spots. It’s an important exchange for me, as it made me seriously question the influence Count Fosco had over my thoughts and feelings, and I resolved to resist it as much as I could.

The boathouse was spacious enough for all of us, but Sir Percival stayed outside, finishing his latest stick with his pocket knife. The three of us women found plenty of room on the large bench. Laura took out her work, and Madame Fosco began rolling her cigarettes. I, as usual, had nothing to do. My hands always felt clumsy, like a man’s. The Count cheerfully perched on a stool that was far too small for him, leaning against the side of the shed, which creaked under his weight. He placed the pagoda cage on his lap and let the mice crawl over him as usual. They were cute little creatures, but there was something unsettling about them moving over a man’s body. It sent a strange shiver through me, conjuring disturbing images of men in prison, dying while the crawling creatures of the dungeon went about their business.

The morning was windy and overcast, and the quick shifts between shadow and sunlight across the lake made the scene feel even wilder and gloomier.

“Some people call that picturesque,” Sir Percival said, gesturing toward the expansive view with his half-finished walking stick. “I call it a blot on a gentleman’s property. In my great-grandfather’s time, the lake flowed right up to here. Look at it now! It’s barely four feet deep anywhere, just puddles and pools. I wish I could drain it and plant it all over. My bailiff—an overly superstitious fool—thinks the lake is cursed, like the Dead Sea. What do you think, Fosco? It looks like the perfect spot for a murder, doesn’t it?”

“My dear Percival,” the Count replied, shaking his head. “What is your sensible English mind thinking? The water is too shallow to hide a body, and there’s sand everywhere to leave footprints. Overall, this is the worst place for a murder I’ve ever seen.”

“Rubbish!” Sir Percival snapped, angrily whittling at his stick. “You know what I mean. The dreary scenery, the isolation. If you want to understand me, you can—if not, I’m not going to waste my breath explaining.”

“And why not?” the Count asked. “When your meaning can be summed up in two words? If a fool were to commit a murder, your lake would be the first place he’d choose. If a wise man were to commit a murder, your lake would be the last place he’d choose. Is that your meaning? If so, there’s your explanation. Take it, Percival, with my blessing.”

Laura shot a glance at the Count, her dislike for him evident on her face. He was too engrossed in his mice to notice.

“I’m sorry to hear that the lake view is associated with something as terrible as murder,” she said. “And if Count Fosco insists on categorizing murderers, I think he’s made a poor choice of words. Calling them fools seems to give them an undeserved leniency, while labeling them wise feels like a contradiction. I’ve always believed that truly wise people are also truly good, and they have a deep aversion to crime.”

“My dear lady,” the Count replied, “those are admirable sentiments, and I’ve seen them written at the top of many notebooks.” He lifted one of the white mice in his palm and spoke to it in a playful tone. “My pretty little smooth white rascal,” he said, “here’s a moral lesson for you. A truly wise mouse is a truly good mouse. Do share that with your friends, and never gnaw at the bars of your cage again for as long as you live.”

“It’s easy to mock everything,” Laura said firmly, “but you won’t find it so simple, Count Fosco, to give me an example of a wise man who has committed a serious crime.”

The Count shrugged his broad shoulders and smiled at Laura in the friendliest way.

“Most true!” he said. “The fool’s crime is the one that gets discovered, while the wise man’s crime is the one that remains hidden. If I could provide you with an example, it wouldn’t be of a wise man. Dear Lady Glyde, your sound English common sense has bested me this time. Checkmate for me, Miss Halcombe—ha?”

“Stick to your guns, Laura,” sneered Sir Percival, who had been listening from the doorway. “Tell him next that crimes lead to their own discovery. There’s another piece of copy-book morality for you, Fosco. Crimes lead to their own discovery. What utter nonsense!”

“I believe that’s true,” Laura said quietly.

Sir Percival erupted into laughter, so loud and unexpected that it startled everyone, especially the Count.

“I believe it too,” I added, coming to Laura’s defense.

Sir Percival, who had found amusement in his wife’s comment, was now inexplicably irritated by mine. He struck the new stick hard against the sand and walked away from us.

“Poor dear Percival!” Count Fosco called after him cheerfully. “He’s a victim of English temperament. But, my dear Miss Halcombe, my dear Lady Glyde, do you really believe that crimes lead to their own discovery? And you, my angel,” he said, turning to his wife, who had remained silent until now, “do you think so as well?”

“I prefer to wait for guidance,” replied the Countess, her tone icy and directed at Laura and me, “before I share my opinion in the presence of such knowledgeable men.”

“Do you, indeed?” I replied. “I remember a time, Countess, when you championed the Rights of Women, and freedom of female opinion was one of them.”

“What’s your take on the matter, Count?” Madame Fosco asked, calmly lighting a cigarette and ignoring me completely.

The Count stroked one of his white mice thoughtfully with his chubby finger before responding.

“It’s truly remarkable,” he said, “how easily society can comfort itself for its worst failings with a bit of clever rhetoric. The system it has established for detecting crime is woefully ineffective—yet just create a moral saying that claims it works well, and everyone is blinded to its failures from that moment on. Crimes lead to their own discovery, do they? And murder will out (another moral saying), will it? Ask coroners who conduct inquests in large towns if that’s true, Lady Glyde. Ask secretaries of life insurance companies if that’s true, Miss Halcombe. Read your own newspapers. In the few cases that make it into the news, aren’t there instances of bodies found with no murderers ever identified? Multiply the cases that are reported by those that aren’t, and the bodies that are found by those that remain missing, and what conclusion do you reach? This: there are foolish criminals who get caught, and wise criminals who get away. The concealment of a crime, or its detection—what is it? A contest of skill between the police on one side and the individual on the other. When the criminal is a brutal, ignorant fool, the police win nine times out of ten. When the criminal is a determined, educated, highly intelligent person, the police lose nine times out of ten. If the police succeed, you generally hear all about it. If they fail, you usually hear nothing. And on this shaky foundation, you build your comfortable moral maxim that crime causes its own detection! Yes—all the crime you know of. But what about the rest?”

“Devilishly true, and very well said,” came a voice from the entrance of the boathouse. Sir Percival had regained his composure and returned just as we were listening to the Count.

“Some of what you say might be true,” I replied, “and it’s all very eloquently expressed. But I don’t understand why Count Fosco should celebrate the triumph of the criminal over society with such enthusiasm, or why you, Sir Percival, should applaud him so loudly for it.”

“Did you hear that, Fosco?” Sir Percival asked. “Take my advice and make peace with your audience. Tell them that virtue is a wonderful thing—they love that, I can assure you.”

The Count chuckled quietly to himself, and two of the white mice tucked into his waistcoat, startled by the internal commotion, scurried out and hurried back into their cage.

“The ladies, my dear Percival, will teach me about virtue,” he said. “They are far better judges than I am, for they know what virtue truly is, while I do not.”

“Did you hear him?” Sir Percival exclaimed. “Isn’t it dreadful?”

“It’s true,” the Count replied calmly. “I’m a citizen of the world, and I’ve encountered so many different kinds of virtue in my life that I’m at a loss, in my old age, to determine which is right and which is wrong. Here in England, there’s one kind of virtue. In China, there’s another. John Englishman insists that his virtue is the true one, while John Chinaman claims the same for his. I find myself saying yes to one and no to the other, and I’m just as confused by John in his top boots as I am by John in his pigtail. Ah, sweet little Mousey! Come here and kiss me. What’s your idea of a virtuous man, my pretty? A man who keeps you warm and feeds you well. And that’s a good idea, at least it’s understandable.”

“Wait a moment, Count,” I interrupted. “Using your example, surely we have one undeniable virtue in England that’s absent in China. The Chinese authorities execute thousands of innocent people for the most trivial reasons. We in England are free from such guilt—we commit no such horrific crimes—we detest senseless bloodshed with all our hearts.”

“Exactly right, Marian,” Laura chimed in. “Well said, and well put.”

“Please allow the Count to continue,” Madame Fosco interjected with a sharp tone. “You’ll find, young ladies, that he never speaks without having good reasons for everything he says.”

“Thank you, my dear,” the Count responded. “Care for a sweet?” He pulled out a beautifully inlaid box from his pocket and opened it on the table. “Chocolat à la Vanille,” he announced, cheerfully shaking the candies in the box and bowing to everyone. “Offered by Fosco as a tribute to this delightful company.”

“Please continue, Count,” his wife urged, casting a pointed glance at me. “I would appreciate it if you would answer Miss Halcombe.”

“Miss Halcombe makes a valid point,” the polite Italian replied. “At least, as far as she goes. I agree with her. John Bull certainly despises the wrongdoings of John Chinaman. He’s the quickest to point out the faults of his neighbors but the slowest to recognize his own. Is he really any better than those he criticizes? English society, Miss Halcombe, is as often an accomplice to crime as it is an enemy. Yes, crime in this country is much like crime elsewhere—it can be a friend to a man and those around him just as easily as it can be an enemy.

A notorious rogue often provides for his wife and family. The worse he is, the more sympathy he garners. He often takes care of himself as well. A reckless spendthrift who’s always borrowing money will get more from his friends than the strictly honest man who only asks once, when he’s in dire need. In one case, friends won’t be surprised and will gladly help. In the other, they’ll be shocked and hesitant.

Is the prison where Mr. Scoundrel ends up at the end of his life really worse than the workhouse where Mr. Honesty finds himself? When John Howard, the philanthropist, seeks to alleviate suffering, he looks for it in prisons, where crime brings misery—not in the huts and hovels, where virtue also suffers.

Who is the English poet who has garnered the most universal sympathy? Who makes for the easiest subject for both poignant writing and painting? That charming young man who started his life with a forgery and ended it with suicide—your beloved, romantic Chatterton.

Which of two poor, starving dressmakers do you think fares better—the woman who resists temptation and remains honest, or the one who succumbs and steals? You all know that the theft is what makes the second woman’s fortune—it brings her attention across the breadth of good-natured, charitable England—and she receives help as a lawbreaker when she would have been left to starve as a law-abiding citizen.

Come here, my little Mouse! Abracadabra! I transform you, for the moment, into a respectable lady. Stay right there in the palm of my hand, dear, and listen closely. You marry the poor man you love, and half your friends pity you while the other half criticize you. But if you sell yourself for money to a man you don’t care about, all your friends celebrate your choice, and a minister of public worship condones the most despicable of all human transactions, smiling and smirking at your table if you’re polite enough to invite him to breakfast.

Abracadabra! Be a mouse again and squeak. If you keep pretending to be a lady, I might just have to question whether your eyes and ears are really serving you well. Ah! I’m a bad man, Lady Glyde, aren’t I? I say what others only think, and while the rest of the world conspires to accept the mask for the true face, I’m the one who dares to tear off the pretty facade and reveal the bare bones beneath. I’ll rise up on my long legs before I do any more damage to your lovely opinion of me—I’ll take a little airy stroll of my own. Dear ladies, as the great Sheridan said, I take my leave—and leave my character behind.”

He stood up, placed the cage on the table, and paused for a moment to count the mice inside. “One, two, three, four—Ha!” he exclaimed, suddenly horrified. “Where, in the name of Heaven, is the fifth—the youngest, the whitest, the sweetest of them all—my Benjamin of mice!”

Neither Laura nor I were in the mood to be entertained. The Count’s smooth cynicism had revealed a side of him that made us both recoil. Yet, it was hard to resist the comical distress of such a large man over the loss of such a tiny mouse. We laughed despite ourselves, and when Madame Fosco stood to lead the way out of the boat-house so her husband could search every corner, we followed her.

Before we had taken three steps, the Count’s sharp eye spotted the lost mouse under the seat we had just vacated. He pulled aside the bench, scooped up the little creature, and then suddenly dropped to his knees, staring intently at a specific spot on the ground beneath him.

When he stood up again, his hand trembled so much that he struggled to return the mouse to its cage, and his face had turned a sickly yellow hue.

“Percival!” he whispered. “Percival! Come here.”

Sir Percival had been completely absorbed in his own world for the last ten minutes, scribbling numbers in the sand and then erasing them with the tip of his stick.

“What’s going on now?” he asked, casually strolling into the boathouse.

“Can’t you see anything there?” the Count said, gripping him by the collar with one hand and pointing with the other to the spot where he had found the mouse.

“I see a lot of dry sand,” Sir Percival replied, “and a patch of dirt in the middle.”

“Not dirt,” the Count whispered, suddenly tightening his grip on Sir Percival’s collar and shaking him in his agitation. “Blood.”

Laura was close enough to catch the last word, even though it was barely a whisper. She turned to me, her face pale with fear.

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear,” I reassured her. “There’s no reason to panic. It’s just the blood of a poor little stray dog.”

Everyone looked at me, surprised and curious.

“How do you know that?” Sir Percival asked, breaking the silence.

“I found the dog here, dying, the day you all returned from abroad,” I explained. “The poor thing had wandered into the plantation and had been shot by your keeper.”

“Whose dog was it?” Sir Percival pressed. “Not one of mine?”

“Did you try to save it?” Laura asked earnestly. “Surely you did, Marian?”

“Yes,” I replied. “The housekeeper and I both did our best, but the dog was mortally wounded and died in our arms.”

“Whose dog was it?” Sir Percival insisted, his irritation growing. “One of mine?”

“No, not one of yours.”

“Whose then? Did the housekeeper know?”

The housekeeper’s report about Mrs. Catherick wanting to keep her visit to Blackwater Park a secret from Sir Percival flashed through my mind. I hesitated, unsure if I should reveal that information. But I was anxious to calm the rising tension, and I had already gone too far to backtrack without raising suspicion, which could only complicate matters. I decided to answer directly.

“Yes,” I said. “The housekeeper knew. She told me it was Mrs. Catherick’s dog.”

Sir Percival had been standing at the far end of the boathouse with Count Fosco while I spoke from the doorway. But as soon as Mrs. Catherick’s name left my lips, he pushed past the Count and confronted me directly in the bright light.

“How did the housekeeper know it was Mrs. Catherick’s dog?” he asked, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that both angered and startled me.

“She knew because Mrs. Catherick brought the dog with her,” I said calmly.

“Brought it with her? Where did she bring it?”

“To this house.”

“What the hell did Mrs. Catherick want at this house?”

His tone was more offensive than his words. I turned away from him, silently expressing my disapproval of his lack of basic courtesy.

Just then, the Count’s reassuring hand landed on Sir Percival’s shoulder, and his smooth voice intervened to ease the tension.

“My dear Percival!—easy now—easy!”

Sir Percival shot him an angry glance, but the Count simply smiled and repeated his calming words.

“Easy, my good friend—easy!”

Sir Percival hesitated, followed me a few steps, and to my surprise, offered an apology.

“I’m sorry, Miss Halcombe,” he said. “I’ve been out of sorts lately, and I’m afraid I’m a bit irritable. But I really want to know what Mrs. Catherick could possibly want here. When did she come? Was the housekeeper the only one who saw her?”

“The only one,” I replied, “as far as I know.”

The Count chimed in again.

“In that case, why not ask the housekeeper directly?” he suggested. “Why not go to the source of information right away?”

“Absolutely right!” Sir Percival agreed. “It’s incredibly foolish of me not to have thought of that myself.” With that, he turned and hurried back to the house.

The reason behind the Count’s sudden interest, which had initially confused me, became clear as soon as Sir Percival turned his back. The Count had a barrage of questions about Mrs. Catherick and her visit to Blackwater Park—questions he could hardly ask with his friend present. I kept my answers brief, determined to avoid any hint of sharing secrets with Count Fosco. However, Laura unwittingly assisted him by asking her own questions, leaving me no choice but to respond or risk appearing as if I was hiding Sir Percival’s secrets. In about ten minutes, the Count learned everything I knew about Mrs. Catherick and the strange connection we had with her daughter, Anne, dating back to when Hartright first encountered her.

The impact of my revelations on him was, in one way, quite intriguing.

Despite his close relationship with Sir Percival and his apparent involvement in his friend’s affairs, he was just as in the dark as I was about the true story of Anne Catherick. The mystery surrounding this troubled woman now seemed even more suspicious to me, fueled by the strong belief that Sir Percival had concealed the truth from his closest friend. I couldn’t miss the Count’s eager curiosity as he absorbed every word I said. There are many types of curiosity, but the blank surprise on the Count’s face was unmistakable.

As we exchanged questions and answers, we strolled back through the plantation. Upon reaching the house, the first thing we noticed was Sir Percival’s dog-cart, with the horse harnessed and the groom waiting by it in his stable jacket. If these unexpected signs were to be believed, the housekeeper’s questioning had already yielded significant results.

“What a fine horse you have, my friend,” the Count said, addressing the groom with a friendly demeanor. “Are you going to drive out?”

“I’m not going anywhere, sir,” the man replied, glancing at his stable jacket, clearly puzzled by the Count’s familiarity. “My master drives himself.”

“Aha!” the Count exclaimed. “Does he really? I wonder why he bothers when he has you to drive for him. Is he planning to tire that lovely, shiny horse by taking her far today?”

“I don’t know, sir,” the groom answered. “The horse is a mare, if you please. She’s the most spirited one we have. Her name’s Brown Molly, and she’ll keep going until she drops. Sir Percival usually takes Isaac of York for shorter trips.”

“And your brave Brown Molly for the long ones?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Logical deduction, Miss Halcombe,” the Count said, turning to me with a brisk motion. “Sir Percival is going a long distance today.”

I didn’t respond. I had my own conclusions to draw from what I knew through the housekeeper and what I observed, and I wasn’t inclined to share them with Count Fosco.

As I thought to myself, when Sir Percival was in Cumberland, he had walked a long way to question the family at Todd’s Corner about Anne. Now that he was in Hampshire, was he planning to drive a long distance again to interrogate Mrs. Catherick at Welmingham?

We all entered the house. As we crossed the hall, Sir Percival emerged from the library to greet us. He looked hurried, pale, and anxious, yet he was polite as he spoke.

“I’m sorry to say I have to leave you,” he began. “It’s a long drive—a matter I can’t put off. I’ll be back in good time tomorrow, but before I go, I’d like to settle that little formality we discussed this morning. Laura, will you come into the library? It won’t take a minute—a mere formality. Countess, may I trouble you as well? I need both of you to witness a signature—nothing more. Come in quickly so we can get it over with.”

He held the library door open for them, followed them inside, and closed it softly behind him.

I stood alone in the hall for a moment, my heart racing and my mind filled with unease. Then I slowly made my way up the staircase to my room.