III

by Wilkie Collins

This was the story of the past—the story as we understood it at the time.

After hearing it, two clear conclusions struck me. First, I began to grasp the nature of the conspiracy—the way they had manipulated circumstances and taken advantage of opportunities to pull off a bold and complex crime without facing consequences. Although many details remained a mystery, it was painfully obvious how the striking resemblance between the woman in white and Lady Glyde had been exploited. Anne Catherick had been brought into Count Fosco’s home as Lady Glyde, and in a twisted turn of events, Lady Glyde had taken the dead woman’s place in the asylum. This substitution had been orchestrated so carefully that innocent people—the doctor, the two servants, and likely the owner of the asylum—had unwittingly become accomplices in the crime.

The second conclusion followed naturally from the first. We could expect no mercy from Count Fosco and Sir Percival Glyde. Their successful conspiracy had netted them a staggering thirty thousand pounds—twenty thousand for one and ten thousand for the other through his wife. They had a vested interest, along with many others, in avoiding exposure, and they would stop at nothing—no stone unturned, no sacrifice spared, no treachery untried—to find where their victim was hidden and to separate her from her only allies—Marian Halcombe and me.

The weight of this looming danger—a threat that could close in on us at any moment—was the driving force behind my decision on where we would hide. I chose a location in the far east of London, where there were fewer idle people wandering the streets. I opted for a poor, densely populated neighborhood because the struggle for survival among the locals meant they were less likely to notice unfamiliar faces. These were the main advantages I considered, but our chosen location also offered another crucial benefit: we could live frugally on my daily earnings, saving every penny for the righteous cause of righting an outrageous wrong that I was determined to pursue.

Within a week, Marian Halcombe and I had mapped out how we would navigate our new lives.

There were no other lodgers in the house, and we had the means to come and go without passing through the shop. For the time being, I decided that neither Marian nor Laura should step outside without me, and that they should not allow anyone into their rooms while I was away, no matter the reason. With this rule in place, I reached out to an old friend—a wood engraver with a thriving business—to seek work, explaining that I had reasons for wanting to remain anonymous.

He immediately assumed I was in debt, expressed his usual sympathies, and promised to help me as best he could. I let him keep that misconception and accepted the work he offered. He knew he could rely on my experience and dedication. I had what he needed—reliability and skill—and although my earnings were modest, they were enough to meet our needs. Once we felt secure in this arrangement, Marian and I pooled our resources. She had between two and three hundred pounds left from her own funds, and I had nearly as much remaining from the sale of my drawing-master’s practice before I left England. Together, we had over four hundred pounds. I deposited this small fortune in a bank, earmarked for the secret inquiries and investigations I was determined to undertake, even if I had to do it alone. We meticulously calculated our weekly expenses down to the last penny, and we only touched our little fund for Laura’s sake and interests.

The housework, which would have been handled by a servant if we had dared to trust anyone else, was taken on by Marian Halcombe from day one. “This is what a woman’s hands are meant for,” she declared, extending her trembling hands. The frail arms told a story of hardship as she rolled up the sleeves of her plain dress, chosen for its practicality. Yet, despite everything, her indomitable spirit still shone through.

I watched as tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She quickly wiped them away with a flicker of her old determination and managed a faint smile that hinted at her usual good spirits. “Don’t doubt my courage, Walter,” she urged. “It’s my weakness that cries out, not me. The housework will conquer it if I can’t.”

And she kept her promise—the victory was evident when we met again in the evening, and she finally sat down to rest. Her large, steady black eyes met mine with a spark of the bright confidence she once had. “I’m not completely broken yet,” she said. “I can be trusted with my share of the work.” Before I could respond, she leaned in and whispered, “And I can be trusted with my share of the risk and danger too. Remember that when the time comes!”

I did remember it when the time arrived.

By the end of October, our lives had settled into a predictable routine, and the three of us were as isolated in our hiding place as if we were on a deserted island, surrounded by the vast sea of streets and countless people. I found myself with some time to think about my future plans and how to prepare myself for the inevitable confrontation with Sir Percival and the Count.

I had given up any hope of proving Laura’s identity through my own recognition or Marian’s. If we had loved her less, if our instinct, born from that love, hadn’t been sharper than any reasoning or observation, we might have hesitated upon first seeing her.

The suffering and terror of the past had tragically intensified the resemblance between Anne Catherick and Laura. In my earlier accounts of my time at Limmeridge House, I noted how, despite their striking resemblance, there were significant differences when examined closely. Back then, if they had stood side by side, no one could have mistaken one for the other, as often happens with twins. But that was no longer the case. The sorrow I had once feared might touch Laura had left its marks on her youth and beauty. The resemblance I had once only imagined now stood before me, real and undeniable. Strangers, acquaintances, even friends who couldn’t see her as we did might have questioned whether she was the Laura Fairlie they once knew, and they wouldn’t have been wrong to do so.

The one remaining hope I had—appealing to her memories of people and events that no impostor could know—had proven futile. Every little precaution Marian and I took, every small remedy we tried to help steady her shaken mind, only served as a reminder of the risk of dragging her back to that troubled past.

The only memories from the past that we dared to encourage her to recall were the small, everyday moments from that joyful time at Limmeridge, when I first arrived and taught her how to draw. The day I sparked those memories by showing her the sketch of the summer-house she had given me on the morning of our farewell—the one I had kept close ever since—marked the beginning of our first hope.

Tenderly and gradually, the memories of our old walks and drives began to surface for her. Her tired, longing eyes looked at Marian and me with a new interest, a hesitant thoughtfulness that we cherished from that moment on. I bought her a small box of colors and a sketchbook, just like the one I had seen in her hands the morning we first met. Once again—oh, how I wished it could be different!—in the dim light of my cramped London room, I sat beside her during my spare hours, guiding her unsteady hand and helping her regain her touch. Day by day, I nurtured this new interest until it found a secure place in the emptiness of her life. She could think about her drawing, talk about it, and patiently practice on her own, reflecting some of the innocent joy I had in encouraging her and the growing satisfaction she found in her own progress, reminiscent of the lost happiness of her past.

We helped her mind slowly through these simple means. On pleasant days, we took her for walks in a quiet old square nearby, where nothing would confuse or alarm her. We set aside a few pounds from our savings to buy her wine and the delicate, nourishing food she needed. In the evenings, we entertained her with card games and scrapbooks filled with prints I borrowed from the engraver I worked for. Through these small acts of kindness, we calmed her and steadied her, holding onto hope as cheerfully as we could, fueled by time, care, and love that never wavered or despaired for her. But taking her out of her safe haven and confronting her with strangers, or even acquaintances who felt like strangers, would only stir up the painful memories of her past that we had worked so hard to quiet. Even if it was in her best interest, we couldn’t bring ourselves to do it. Whatever sacrifices it required, whatever long, exhausting delays it involved, the wrongs done to her had to be righted without her knowledge or assistance.

With that resolution made, the next step was to figure out how to take the first risk and what actions to take.

After discussing it with Marian, I decided to start by gathering as many facts as possible. Then, I would seek the advice of Mr. Kyrle, someone we trusted, to find out if a legal remedy was within our reach. I owed it to Laura’s future not to gamble everything on my own efforts, especially when there was even a slight chance of strengthening our position with reliable help.

The first source of information I turned to was the journal kept by Marian Halcombe at Blackwater Park. There were parts of this diary that she thought I shouldn’t see, so she read to me from the manuscript while I took notes. We could only manage this late at night, and we dedicated three nights to it, which was enough for me to gather all the information Marian could provide.

Next, I sought to obtain additional evidence from others without raising suspicion. I went to Mrs. Vesey to confirm whether Laura’s memory of having spent the night there was accurate. Out of consideration for Mrs. Vesey’s age and frailty, and for caution in all similar situations, I kept our true circumstances a secret and referred to Laura as “the late Lady Glyde.”

Mrs. Vesey’s response only confirmed my earlier fears. Laura had indeed written to say she would spend the night with her old friend, but she had never actually been to the house.

In this case, as I feared might happen in others, her mind had confused something she intended to do with something she had actually done. This unconscious contradiction was easy to explain, but it could lead to serious consequences. It was a stumble right at the start—a flaw in the evidence that could prove disastrous for us.

When I next asked for the letter Laura had written to Mrs. Vesey from Blackwater Park, it was handed to me without its envelope, which had long been tossed into the wastebasket and destroyed. The letter itself didn’t mention a date—not even the day of the week. It contained only these lines:

“Dearest Mrs. Vesey,

I am in deep distress and anxiety, and I may come to your house tomorrow night to ask for a bed. I can’t explain what’s wrong in this letter—I write it in such fear of being discovered that I can’t focus on anything. Please be at home to see me. I will shower you with kisses and tell you everything.

Your affectionate, Laura.”

What help was there in those words? None at all.

After returning from Mrs. Vesey’s, I asked Marian to write to Mrs. Michelson, taking the same precautions I had. She was to express, if she wished, some general suspicion about Count Fosco’s behavior and to request a straightforward account of events for the sake of truth. While we waited for her response, which took a week to arrive, I went to the doctor in St. John’s Wood, introducing myself as someone sent by Miss Halcombe to gather more details about her sister’s last illness than Mr. Kyrle had managed to obtain. With Mr. Goodricke’s help, I got a copy of the death certificate and arranged to meet the woman, Jane Gould, who had prepared the body for burial.

Through her, I found a way to contact the servant, Hester Pinhorn. She had recently left her job after a disagreement with her employer and was staying with some people nearby whom Mrs. Gould knew. This led me to gather the accounts from the housekeeper, the doctor, Jane Gould, and Hester Pinhorn, just as they are presented here.

With this additional evidence in hand, I felt ready for a meeting with Mr. Kyrle. Marian wrote to inform him of my name and to specify the day and time I wished to see him about private matters.

In the morning, I had enough time to take Laura for her usual walk and then settle her down to her drawing. She looked up at me with a new worry etched on her face as I stood to leave the room, her fingers nervously toying with the brushes and pencils on the table.

“You’re not tired of me yet, are you?” she asked. “You’re not leaving because you’re tired of me? I’ll try to do better—I’ll try to get well. Do you still care for me, Walter, as much as you used to, now that I’m so pale and thin, and so slow at learning to draw?”

She spoke like a child, revealing her thoughts as a child might. I lingered a few moments longer, wanting to tell her that she was dearer to me now than she had ever been. “Try to get well again,” I encouraged, nurturing the new hope I saw flickering in her mind. “Try to get well for Marian’s sake and for mine.”

“Yes,” she murmured to herself, returning to her drawing. “I must try, because they both care about me so much.” Then she looked up again. “Don’t be gone long! I can’t focus on my drawing, Walter, when you’re not here to help me.”

“I’ll be back soon, my darling—soon to see how you’re doing.”

My voice wavered despite my efforts to keep it steady. I forced myself to leave the room. It wasn’t the time to lose the self-control that might be crucial later that day.

As I opened the door, I signaled for Marian to follow me down the stairs. I needed to prepare her for a potential outcome that I sensed might arise from my being seen openly in the streets.

“I’ll probably be back in a few hours,” I said, “and you’ll make sure, as usual, to keep the doors closed to anyone while I’m gone. But if anything happens—”

“What could happen?” she interrupted quickly. “Tell me plainly, Walter, if there’s any danger, and I’ll know how to handle it.”

“The only danger,” I replied, “is that Sir Percival Glyde may have been called back to London because of news of Laura’s escape. You know he had me watched before I left England, and he probably recognizes me, even though I don’t know him.”

She placed her hand on my shoulder, looking at me with anxious silence. I could see she understood the serious risk we were facing.

“I probably won’t be back in London anytime soon,” I said, “not to see Sir Percival or anyone he employs. But there’s always a chance something unexpected could happen. If that’s the case, don’t worry if I don’t come home tonight. Just give Laura the best excuse you can think of for my absence. If I sense even the slightest hint that I’m being followed, I’ll make sure no one trails me back to this house. Trust that I’ll return, Marian, even if it takes longer than expected—and don’t be afraid.”

“Afraid?” she replied, her voice steady. “You won’t regret having only a woman on your side, Walter.” She paused, holding onto my hand for a moment longer. “Be careful!” she urged, her grip tightening. “Please, be careful!”

With that, I left her and set out to uncover the truth—the dark and uncertain path that began at the lawyer’s office.