IX

by Wilkie Collins

June 19th. Once I was safely locked in my room, I opened my journal and prepared to continue recording the events of the day.

For more than ten minutes, I sat there, pen in hand, unable to write. My mind drifted back over the last twelve hours, but when I finally tried to focus on my task, I found myself struggling in a way I had never experienced before. No matter how hard I tried to concentrate, my thoughts kept wandering back to Sir Percival and the Count. All the interest I meant to pour into my writing was instead consumed by the private meeting between them, which had been postponed all day and was now set to unfold in the quiet of the night.

In this distracted state, I couldn’t recall what had happened since morning. With no other option, I closed my journal and decided to step away for a moment.

I opened the door that led from my bedroom to my sitting room, walked through, and closed it behind me to avoid any drafts that might disturb the candle left burning on the dresser. The window in my sitting room was wide open, and I leaned out, gazing listlessly into the night.

It was dark and still. The moon and stars were hidden, and the air was thick with the scent of impending rain. I reached my hand out into the night. No, the rain hadn’t arrived yet; it was just a threat hanging in the air.

I leaned against the window sill for nearly fifteen minutes, staring into the darkness, hearing nothing but the occasional voices of the servants or the distant sound of a door closing somewhere below.

Just as I was about to turn away and head back to my bedroom to make another attempt at my journal entry, I caught the faint smell of tobacco smoke drifting toward me on the heavy night air. A moment later, I noticed a tiny red spark moving through the darkness from the far end of the house. I heard no footsteps, and all I could see was that spark. It traveled along the night, passed by my window, and stopped just outside my bedroom, where the light still flickered on the dresser.

The spark lingered for a moment before retreating back into the shadows. As I followed its path, I saw a second, larger red spark approaching. The two met in the darkness. Remembering who smoked cigarettes and who preferred cigars, I quickly deduced that the Count had come out first to look and listen beneath my window, and Sir Percival had joined him afterward. They must have been walking on the lawn—otherwise, I would have certainly heard Sir Percival’s heavy footsteps, though the Count’s lighter tread might have gone unnoticed on the gravel.

I waited quietly at the window, confident that they couldn’t see me in the darkness of the room.

“What’s going on?” I heard Sir Percival say in a low voice. “Why don’t you come in and sit down?”

“I want to see the light from that window,” the Count replied softly.

“What’s wrong with the light?”

“It shows she isn’t in bed yet. She’s sharp enough to suspect something and bold enough to come downstairs and listen if she gets the chance. Patience, Percival—patience.”

“Rubbish! You’re always talking about patience.”

“I’ll talk about something else soon enough. My good friend, you’re on the edge of a domestic disaster, and if I let you give the women one more chance, I swear they’ll push you right over!”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“We’ll get to our explanations, Percival, once that light is out of the window and I’ve had a quick look at the rooms on either side of the library, and a peek at the staircase too.”

They slowly moved away, and their conversation, still conducted in low tones, faded into silence. That was fine; I had heard enough to convince me to prove the Count right about my sharpness and courage. Before the red sparks vanished into the darkness, I resolved that I would be a listener when those two men sat down to talk—and that, despite all the Count’s precautions, I would be the one to hear them. I needed only one reason to justify my actions to myself and to give me the courage to follow through—and that reason was clear. Laura’s honor, her happiness—her very life—might depend on my quick ears and my faithful memory tonight.

I had overheard the Count mention his plans to inspect the rooms flanking the library and the staircase before discussing anything with Sir Percival. This was enough for me to realize that the library was where their conversation would take place. In that fleeting moment, I also found a way to circumvent his precautions—essentially, a chance to listen in on their discussion without having to venture downstairs.

Earlier, when I described the ground floor rooms, I had briefly mentioned the verandah outside, accessible through French windows that stretched from the ceiling to the floor. The flat roof of the verandah drained rainwater through pipes into tanks that supplied the house. Along the narrow lead roof, just below the window sills of the bedrooms, a line of flower pots was arranged, spaced apart and protected from strong winds by an ornamental iron railing.

The plan that formed in my mind was to slip out of my sitting room window onto this roof, creep quietly until I was directly above the library window, and crouch down between the flower pots, pressing my ear against the railing. If Sir Percival and the Count decided to smoke tonight, as they had many nights before, with their chairs pulled close to the open window and their feet resting on the zinc garden seats below, I would hear every word they exchanged above a whisper. And we all know that no lengthy conversation can be held in whispers. However, if they chose to sit further back in the room, I might hear little to nothing, which would force me to take the much greater risk of trying to outsmart them downstairs.

Though my resolve was bolstered by the desperation of our situation, I fervently hoped to avoid that last resort. My courage, after all, was only that of a woman, and it wavered at the thought of being on the ground floor in the dead of night, so close to Sir Percival and the Count.

I quietly returned to my bedroom to try the safer option of the verandah roof first.

I needed to change my clothes completely for several reasons. I started by removing my silk gown; even the slightest rustle could give me away on such a still night. Next, I took off the cumbersome parts of my undergarments and replaced them with a dark flannel petticoat. I draped my black traveling cloak over this and pulled the hood up over my head. In my usual evening attire, I felt like I took up the space of three men. In this outfit, snug against me, I could slip through the narrowest gaps with ease. This was crucial, given the limited space on the roof between the flower pots and the house’s walls and windows. If I knocked something over or made any noise, who could predict the consequences?

I only paused to place the matches near the candle before extinguishing it and feeling my way back into the sitting room. I locked that door, just as I had locked my bedroom door, then quietly climbed out of the window and carefully set my feet on the lead roof of the verandah.

My two rooms were at the far end of the new wing of the house, and I had five windows to pass before I could reach the spot directly above the library. The first window belonged to an empty spare room. The second and third were Laura’s room. The fourth belonged to Sir Percival, and the fifth to the Countess. The other windows, which I didn’t need to pass, were those of the Count’s dressing room, the bathroom, and another empty spare room.

Silence enveloped me, the oppressive darkness of the night surrounding me as I stood on the verandah. But then, at the very spot above the library where I was headed, I noticed a flicker of light! The Countess was still awake.

It was too late to turn back—there was no time to hesitate. I made up my mind to move forward, trusting my instincts and the cover of night to keep me safe. “For Laura’s sake!” I reminded myself as I took my first step onto the roof, one hand clutching my cloak tightly around me while the other felt along the wall of the house. It was safer to stay close to the wall than risk tripping over the flower pots just inches away on the other side.

I passed the dark window of the spare room, testing the heavy roof with my foot before I shifted my weight onto it. I moved past the dark windows of Laura’s room, whispering a silent prayer for her safety that night. I continued past the dark window of Sir Percival’s room. Then I paused for a moment, knelt down to steady myself, and crawled into position behind the low wall that separated me from the lighted window above and the verandah roof.

When I dared to glance up at the window, I saw that only the top was open, and the blind inside was drawn down. As I watched, I noticed the shadow of Madame Fosco glide across the white expanse of the blind, then retreat slowly. She couldn’t have heard me, or else her shadow would have lingered at the blind, even if she had the courage to open the window and look out.

I positioned myself sideways against the railing of the verandah, carefully feeling for the flower pots on either side of me. There was just enough space for me to sit between them. The sweet scent of the flowers on my left brushed against my cheek as I rested my head lightly against the railing.

The first sounds that reached me from below were the opening and closing of three doors in succession—most likely the last one closing. These doors led to the hall and the rooms flanking the library, which the Count had promised to inspect. The first thing I saw was a red spark flickering out into the night from beneath the verandah, moving away toward my window, pausing for a moment, then returning to its starting point.

“Damn your restlessness! When are you going to sit down?” Sir Percival’s voice growled from below.

“Ugh! It’s so hot!” the Count sighed, sounding exhausted.

His complaint was followed by the scraping of garden chairs against the tiled pavement beneath the verandah—the reassuring sound that meant they were settling in by the window as usual. So far, the odds were in my favor. The clock in the turret chimed a quarter to twelve as they got comfortable in their chairs. I heard Madame Fosco yawn through the open window and saw her shadow pass once more across the blind.

Meanwhile, Sir Percival and the Count began their conversation below, occasionally lowering their voices but never to a whisper. The strangeness and danger of my situation, combined with my unease about Madame Fosco’s lighted window, made it hard for me to focus and keep my composure. For several minutes, I could only grasp the general flow of their discussion. I understood the Count to say that the only lit window was his wife’s, that the ground floor was clear, and they could now speak freely without fear of being overheard. Sir Percival responded by accusing his friend of having disregarded his wishes and neglected his interests throughout the day. The Count defended himself, claiming he had been overwhelmed by certain troubles that demanded his full attention, and that the only safe time to discuss their situation was when they could be certain of privacy. “We are at a serious turning point in our affairs, Percival,” he said. “If we are to decide our future, we must do so in secret tonight.”

That statement from the Count was the first I fully grasped as it was spoken. From that moment on, with a few interruptions, my entire focus was on their conversation, and I followed every word intently.

“Turning point?” Sir Percival echoed. “It’s a worse situation than you realize, I can assure you.”

“I would expect as much from your behavior over the past couple of days,” the Count replied coolly. “But let’s hold off for a moment. Before we discuss what I don’t know, let’s make sure we’re clear on what I do know. Let’s first confirm my understanding of the past before I propose anything for the future.”

“Wait until I grab the brandy and water. Have some yourself.”

“Thank you, Percival. I’ll take the cold water, a spoon, and the sugar bowl. Eau sucrée, my friend—nothing more.”

“Sugar and water for a man your age! There you go, mixing your sickly concoction. You foreigners are all the same.”

“Now listen, Percival. Let me lay out our situation clearly, and you can tell me if I’m right or wrong. We both returned to this house from abroad with our finances in serious trouble—”

“Get to the point! I needed thousands, and you needed hundreds. Without the money, we were both on a fast track to ruin. That’s the situation. Do what you can with it. Go on.”

“Well, Percival, in your own straightforward English, you needed thousands and I needed hundreds. The only way to get that money was for you to secure it for your own needs—plus a little extra for my small amount—by getting help from your wife. What did I tell you about your wife on our way back to England? And what did I say again once we arrived here, after I had seen for myself what kind of woman Miss Halcombe is?”

“How should I know? You were rambling on as usual.”

“I said this: Human ingenuity has only found two ways for a man to deal with a woman. One way is to resort to violence—a method often used by the brutish lower classes, but completely unacceptable to the refined and educated. The other way is much longer and more challenging, but ultimately just as effective: never let a woman provoke you. This applies to animals, children, and women, who are really just grown-up children. The one thing that animals, children, and women all lack is quiet resolve. If they can shake that quality in their master, they gain the upper hand. If they can’t disturb it, he prevails over them. I told you to remember this truth when you needed your wife’s help for the money. I said to remember it even more when you were around your wife’s sister, Miss Halcombe. Have you kept that in mind? Not once, in all the complications that have arisen in this house. Every provocation your wife and her sister threw at you, you accepted without hesitation. Your temper cost you the signature on the deed, the ready cash, and prompted Miss Halcombe to write to the lawyer for the first time.”

“First time? Has she written again?”

“Yes, she wrote again today.”

A chair crashed to the ground on the verandah, as if it had been kicked over.

It was fortunate for me that the Count’s revelation stirred Sir Percival’s anger. When I heard that I had been discovered again, I flinched so hard that the railing I leaned against creaked ominously. Had he followed me to the inn? Did he think I must have handed my letters to Fanny when I told him I had none for the post? Even if that were the case, how could he have examined the letters when they had gone straight from my hand to the girl’s dress?

“Thank your lucky stars,” I heard the Count say next, “that I’m here to fix the damage as quickly as you cause it. Thank your lucky stars I said no when you foolishly suggested locking Miss Halcombe away today, just like you did with your wife. Are you blind? Can you look at Miss Halcombe and not see that she has the foresight and determination of a man? With her as my ally, I would snap my fingers at the world. With her as my enemy, even with all my brains and experience—I, Fosco, as cunning as the devil himself, as you’ve told me countless times—I walk on eggshells! And this remarkable woman—I raise my glass of sugar and water to her—this incredible woman, who stands strong in her love and courage, solid as a rock, between us and your delicate, pretty blonde wife—you push her to her limits as if she were no sharper or braver than any other woman. Percival! Percival! You deserve to fail, and you HAVE failed.”

There was a moment of silence. I write down the villain’s words about me because I want to remember them—because I still hope for the day when I can confront him, to throw them back at him one by one.

Sir Percival was the first to break the silence.

“Yes, yes, bluster all you want,” he said sulkily. “The money issue isn’t our only problem. You’d be ready to take drastic measures with the women yourself—if you knew what I know.”

“We’ll get to that second issue soon enough,” the Count replied. “You can twist yourself into knots all you want, Percival, but you won’t confuse me. Let’s settle the money situation first. Have I managed to break through your stubbornness? Have I shown you that your temper is only making things worse? Or do I need to go back and, as you put it in your straightforward English, bully you a bit more?”

“Come on! It’s easy to complain about me. Just tell me what needs to be done—that’s the real challenge.”

“Is it? Nonsense! Here’s what needs to happen: you give up all control over this matter starting tonight. You leave it entirely in my hands for the future. I’m speaking to a practical British man here—does that work for you?”

“What do you suggest if I hand it all over to you?”

“Answer me first. Is it going to be in my hands or not?”

“Fine, let’s say it is in your hands—what then?”

“Just a few questions to start. I need to wait a bit longer to let circumstances unfold, and I need to know as much as possible about what those circumstances might be. There’s no time to waste. I’ve already told you that Miss Halcombe wrote to the lawyer today for the second time.”

“How did you find that out? What did she say?”

“If I told you, Percival, we’d just end up back where we started. Let’s just say I found out, and that discovery has caused me quite a bit of trouble and anxiety, which is why I’ve been so distant with you today. Now, to refresh my memory about your situation—it’s been a while since we discussed it. The money has been raised, without your wife’s signature, through three-month bills—raised at a cost that makes my impoverished foreign hair stand on end just thinking about it! When those bills come due, is there truly no way to pay them without your wife’s help?”

“None at all.”

“What? You don’t have any money at the bank?”

“A few hundred, but I need thousands.”

“Do you have any other assets to borrow against?”

“Not a single thing.”

“What do you actually have with your wife right now?”

“Nothing but the interest on her twenty thousand pounds—barely enough to cover our daily expenses.”

“What do you expect to get from your wife?”

“Three thousand a year when her uncle dies.”

“A nice little fortune, Percival. What kind of man is this uncle? Old?”

“No—he’s neither old nor young.”

“A good-natured, easy-going man? Married? No, wait—I think my wife mentioned he’s not married.”

“Exactly. If he were married and had a son, Lady Glyde wouldn’t be the next heir to the property. I’ll tell you what he is. He’s a sentimental, rambling, selfish fool who bores everyone around him with his health complaints.”

“Men like that, Percival, tend to live long and marry unexpectedly when you least expect it. I don’t have much faith in your chances of that three thousand a year. Is there nothing else you can expect from your wife?”

“Nothing.”

“Absolutely nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing—except in the event of her death.”

“Aha! In the event of her death.”

There was a pause. The Count moved from the porch to the gravel path outside. I recognized his movement by his voice. “The rain has finally arrived,” I heard him say. It had indeed arrived. The state of my cloak indicated it had been pouring for a while.

The Count returned to the porch, and I heard the chair creak under his weight as he settled back down.

“Well, Percival,” he said, “if Lady Glyde were to die, what would you receive then?”

“If she has no children—”

“Which is likely?”

“Which is not likely at all—”

“Yes?”

“Then I would inherit her twenty thousand pounds.”

“Paid in full?”

“Paid in full.”

They fell silent again. As their voices faded, Madame Fosco’s shadow darkened the blind once more. Instead of passing by this time, she lingered, perfectly still. I saw her fingers slip around the edge of the blind and pull it aside. The dim white outline of her face appeared, looking directly at me from behind the window. I remained still, wrapped in my black cloak. The rain, which was quickly soaking me, dripped down the glass, blurring it and preventing her from seeing anything. “More rain!” I heard her mutter to herself. She dropped the blind, and I could breathe freely again.

The conversation resumed below me, the Count taking the lead this time.

“Percival! Do you care about your wife?”

“Fosco! That’s a pretty blunt question.”

“I’m a blunt man, and I’ll ask it again.”

“Why on earth are you looking at me like that?”

“You won’t answer? Fine, let’s say your wife dies before summer ends—”

“Drop it, Fosco!”

“Let’s say your wife dies—”

“Drop it, I’m telling you!”

“In that case, you would gain twenty thousand pounds, but you would lose—”

“I’d lose the chance of three thousand a year.”

“The REMOTE chance, Percival—the remote chance only. And you need money right now. In your position, the gain is certain, while the loss is uncertain.”

“Speak for yourself as well as for me. Some of the money I need has been borrowed for you. And if you come into money, my wife’s death would mean ten thousand pounds in your wife’s pocket. As sharp as you are, you seem to have conveniently forgotten Madame Fosco’s inheritance. Don’t look at me like that! I won’t have it! With your expressions and your questions, I swear you make my skin crawl!”

“Your skin? Does skin mean conscience in English? I’m talking about your wife’s death as if it’s a possibility. Why not? The respectable lawyers who draft your deeds and wills face the reality of living people’s deaths. Do lawyers make your skin crawl? Why should I? Tonight, my job is to clarify your situation beyond any doubt, and I’ve done that. Here’s your situation: If your wife lives, you pay those bills with her signature on the document. If she dies, you pay them with her death.”

As he spoke, the light in Madame Fosco’s room went out, plunging the entire second floor of the house into darkness.

“Talk! Talk!” Sir Percival grumbled. “You’d think, listening to you, that my wife’s signature on the deed was already secured.”

“You’ve left this matter in my hands,” the Count shot back, “and I have more than two months to figure this out. Let’s not discuss it any further for now. When the bills come due, you’ll see for yourself if my ‘talk! talk!’ is worth anything or not. Now, Percival, having wrapped up the financial matters for tonight, I can focus my attention on that second issue that’s intertwined with our little troubles and has changed you so much that I hardly recognize you anymore. Speak, my friend—and forgive me if I shock your fiery national sensibilities by mixing myself another glass of sugar-and-water.”

“It’s easy for you to say ‘speak,’” Sir Percival replied, his tone suddenly quieter and more polite than before, “but it’s not so simple to know where to start.”

“Shall I help you?” the Count suggested. “What if I name this private issue of yours? How about calling it—Anne Catherick?”

“Listen, Fosco, we’ve known each other for a long time. If you’ve helped me out of a few tight spots before, I’ve done my best to help you in return, at least financially. We’ve made plenty of friendly sacrifices on both sides, but we’ve also kept secrets from each other—haven’t we?”

“You’ve kept a secret from me, Percival. There’s a skeleton in your closet here at Blackwater Park that’s shown itself to others besides you in the last few days.”

“Well, suppose it has. If it doesn’t concern you, you don’t need to be curious about it, do you?”

“Do I look curious about it?”

“Yes, you do.”

“So, my face tells the truth, then? What a remarkable foundation of goodness there must be in a man who reaches my age and whose face hasn’t lost the habit of revealing the truth! Come on, Glyde! Let’s be honest with each other. This secret of yours has sought me out; I haven’t sought it. Let’s say I’m curious—do you want me, as your old friend, to respect your secret and leave it in your own keeping?”

“Yes—that’s exactly what I want.”

“Then my curiosity ends here. It dies in me from this moment.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“What makes you doubt me?”

“I’ve had some experience with your roundabout ways, Fosco, and I’m not so sure you won’t find a way to pry it out of me after all.”

Suddenly, the chair below creaked again, and I felt the trellis-work pillar shake beneath me. The Count had jumped to his feet, striking it with his hand in indignation.

“Percival! Percival!” he exclaimed passionately. “Do you not know me better than that? Has all your experience shown you nothing about my character? I’m a man of the old school! I’m capable of the highest acts of virtue—when I have the opportunity to perform them. It’s been the misfortune of my life that I’ve had few chances. My understanding of friendship is noble! Is it my fault that your skeleton has peeked out at me? Why do I confess my curiosity? You poor superficial Englishman, it’s to highlight my own self-control. I could extract your secret from you, if I wanted to, just as easily as I could pull this finger from my palm—you know I could! But you’ve appealed to my friendship, and the duties of friendship are sacred to me. See! I trample my base curiosity underfoot. My noble sentiments lift me above it. Recognize them, Percival! Imitate them, Percival! Shake hands—I forgive you.”

His voice faltered over the last words, trembling as if he were genuinely shedding tears.

Sir Percival fumbled to excuse himself, but the Count was too magnanimous to listen.

“No!” he said. “When my friend has hurt me, I can forgive him without needing apologies. Tell me plainly, do you want my help?”

“Yes, badly enough.”

“And you can ask for it without putting yourself at risk?”

“I can try, at least.”

“Then try.”

“Well, here’s the situation: I told you today that I did my best to find Anne Catherick, and I failed.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Fosco! I’m done for if I don’t find her.”

“Really? Is it that serious?”

A small beam of light slipped out from under the porch and illuminated the gravel path. The Count had brought the lamp from the inner room to see his friend more clearly.

“Yes!” he replied. “Your face tells the truth this time. It’s serious—very serious, just like the financial issues we’re dealing with.”

“More serious. I swear, it’s more serious than that!”

The light flickered away again, and their conversation continued.

“I showed you the letter my wife received that Anne Catherick buried in the sand,” Sir Percival went on. “There’s no boasting in that letter, Fosco—she knows the Secret.”

“Let’s not discuss the Secret too much in my presence. Did she learn it from you?”

“No, from her mother.”

“Two women holding your secrets—bad news, my friend! One question before we go further. I understand why you locked the daughter away in the asylum, but how did she manage to escape? Do you think the staff turned a blind eye at the request of some enemy who could pay them off?”

“No, she was the best-behaved patient they had—and, foolishly, they trusted her. She’s just mad enough to be locked up, and just sane enough to ruin me if she gets out—if you catch my drift?”

“I do understand. Now, Percival, get to the point, and I’ll know what to do. What’s the danger in your situation right now?”

“Anne Catherick is in this area and in contact with Lady Glyde—there’s the danger, plain and simple. Who could read the letter she buried in the sand and not see that my wife has the Secret, no matter how much she denies it?”

“Just a moment, Percival. If Lady Glyde knows the Secret, she must also realize it’s a dangerous secret for you. As your wife, wouldn’t it be in her best interest to keep it?”

“Would it? I’m getting to that. It might be in her interest if she cared at all about me. But I’m just an obstacle in the way of another man. She loved him before she married me—she loves him now—a wretched drawing master named Hartright.”

“My dear friend! What’s so unusual about that? Women often love someone else. Who gets the first claim on a woman’s heart? In all my experience, I’ve never met the man who was Number One. Number Two, sometimes. Number Three, Four, Five—often. But Number One? Never! He exists, of course, but I’ve never encountered him.”

“Wait! I’m not finished. Who do you think helped Anne Catherick escape when the people from the asylum were after her? Hartright. Who do you think saw her again in Cumberland? Hartright. Both times, he spoke to her alone. Don’t interrupt me. The scoundrel is as taken with my wife as she is with him. He knows the Secret, and she knows the Secret. If they get together again, it’s in both their interests to use that information against me.”

“Easy, Percival—easy! Are you really so blind to Lady Glyde’s integrity?”

“Forget her integrity! I believe in nothing about her except her money. Can’t you see how it is? She might be harmless on her own, but if she and that scoundrel Hartright—”

“Yes, yes, I see. Where is Mr. Hartright?”

“Out of the country. If he wants to keep his skin intact, I suggest he doesn’t come back anytime soon.”

“Are you sure he’s out of the country?”

“Absolutely. I had him followed from the moment he left Cumberland until he sailed. I’ve been careful, I assure you! Anne Catherick stayed with some people at a farmhouse near Limmeridge. I went there myself after she slipped away and made sure they knew nothing. I even had her mother write a letter to Miss Halcombe, clearing me of any bad motives for putting her under restraint. I can’t even say how much I’ve spent trying to track her down, and despite all that, she shows up here and escapes me on my own property! How can I know who else might see her or talk to her? That nosy scoundrel, Hartright, could come back without me knowing and use her against me tomorrow—”

“Not if I have anything to say about it, Percival! While I’m here, and while that woman is in the area, I’ll make sure we find her before Mr. Hartright—even if he does return. I see! Yes, I see! Finding Anne Catherick is our top priority—rest easy about the rest. Your wife is here, under your control—Miss Halcombe is inseparable from her, so she’s under your control too—and Mr. Hartright is out of the country. This elusive Anne of yours is all we need to focus on for now. Have you made your inquiries?”

“Yes. I’ve spoken to her mother, searched the village—and it’s all been for nothing.”

“Can her mother be trusted?”

“Yes.”

“She’s already revealed your secret once.”

“She won’t do it again.”

“Why not? Are her own interests at stake as well as yours?”

“Yes—very much so.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Percival, for your sake. Don’t lose hope, my friend. As I mentioned, my financial situation gives me plenty of time to figure things out, and I might have better luck finding Anne Catherick tomorrow than you did. But first, one last question before we call it a night.”

“What is it?”

“When I went to the boathouse to inform Lady Glyde that the issue with her signature was postponed, I happened to see a strange woman parting from your wife in a way that raised my suspicions. Unfortunately, I wasn’t close enough to get a good look at her face. I need to know how to identify our elusive Anne. What does she look like?”

“Look like? I can sum it up in two words: she’s a sickly version of my wife.”

The chair creaked, and the pillar shook again. The Count stood up, astonished.

“What?!” he exclaimed, intrigued.

“Imagine my wife after a serious illness, with something slightly off in her mind—and that’s Anne Catherick,” Sir Percival replied.

“Are they related?”

“Not at all.”

“And yet they look so similar?”

“Yes, exactly. What’s so funny?”

There was silence, no response. The Count was laughing silently to himself.

“What’s so funny?” Sir Percival pressed.

“Perhaps I’m just indulging in my own thoughts, my good friend. Let me have my Italian humor—after all, I come from the illustrious nation that invented Punch and Judy! Well, I’ll know Anne Catherick when I see her, and that’s enough for tonight. Rest easy, Percival. Sleep well, and see what I can do for you when morning comes. I have my plans and ideas brewing in this big head of mine. You will pay those bills and find Anne Catherick—I swear it! Am I not a friend worth keeping close to your heart? Am I not worth those loans you so delicately reminded me of earlier? Just promise me you won’t hurt my feelings again. Acknowledge them, Percival! Reflect them, Percival! I forgive you once more—I’ll shake your hand again. Good night!”

Not another word was spoken. I heard the Count close the library door and Sir Percival secure the window shutters. It had been raining the entire time. I was cramped and chilled to the bone. When I first tried to move, the effort was so painful that I had to stop. I tried again and managed to rise to my knees on the wet roof.

As I crept toward the wall and leaned against it, I glanced back and saw the light from the Count’s dressing room. My fading courage flickered back to life, and I kept my eyes fixed on his window as I cautiously made my way back, step by step, along the side of the house.

The clock struck a quarter past one when I finally laid my hands on the window sill of my own room. I hadn’t seen or heard anything to suggest that my escape had been discovered.