I

by Wilkie Collins

After reading Mrs. Catherick’s shocking account, my first instinct was to destroy it. The sheer shamelessness of her words, the twisted mindset that linked me to a tragedy I had no part in, and to a death I had risked everything to prevent, filled me with disgust. I almost tore the letter to shreds, but then a thought stopped me.

This thought had nothing to do with Sir Percival. The details she shared about him only confirmed what I had already suspected. He had indeed committed the crime I believed he had, and the fact that Mrs. Catherick didn’t mention the duplicate register at Knowlesbury only reinforced my belief that he was completely unaware of its existence and the danger it posed. My interest in the forgery was over; the only reason I wanted to keep the letter was to help solve the last mystery that still eluded me—the identity of Anne Catherick’s father. There were a few lines in her mother’s story that I might need to revisit when I had the time to look for the missing evidence. I still held out hope of finding that evidence, and my desire to uncover the truth about the father of the poor woman resting in Mrs. Fairlie’s grave hadn’t faded.

So, I carefully sealed the letter and tucked it away in my pocketbook, planning to revisit it when the moment was right.

The next day was my last in Hampshire. After I appeared before the magistrate at Knowlesbury and attended the adjourned inquest, I would be free to return to London on the afternoon or evening train.

My first stop that morning, as usual, was the post office. I found Marian’s letter waiting for me, but when it was handed to me, it felt unusually light. I opened the envelope with growing anxiety and found only a small piece of paper folded in half. The few hurriedly scrawled lines read:

“Come back as soon as you can. I have been obliged to move. Come to Gower’s Walk, Fulham (number five). I will be on the lookout for you. Don’t be alarmed about us; we are both safe and well. But come back.—Marian.”

The news in those lines hit me like a punch to the gut. I immediately thought of some treachery from Count Fosco. I stood there, breathless, crumpling the paper in my hand. What had happened? What devious plan had the Count set in motion while I was away? A night had passed since Marian wrote the note, and hours would still stretch before I could return to them. A new disaster could have struck, and I was miles away, trapped by the law.

I could hardly say what reckless choices anxiety and fear might have led me to, if not for my unwavering faith in Marian. My complete trust in her was the only thing that kept me grounded and gave me the strength to wait. The inquest was the first hurdle in my path to freedom. I attended at the scheduled time, required to be present for the legal proceedings, but it turned out I wouldn’t need to repeat my testimony. This pointless delay was a tough test of my patience, but I did my best to stay focused on the proceedings.

Mr. Merriman, the deceased’s London solicitor, was among those present. Unfortunately, he couldn’t shed any light on the inquiry. All he could say was that he was utterly shocked and bewildered, and he had no insights into the mysterious circumstances surrounding the case. Throughout the adjourned investigation, he posed questions to the Coroner, but they led nowhere. After nearly three hours of exhaustive inquiry, the jury delivered the standard verdict for sudden death by accident. They added a note stating that there was no evidence to explain how the keys had gone missing, how the fire had started, or what the deceased had been doing in the vestry. With that, the proceedings came to a close. The legal representative of the deceased was left to handle the arrangements for the burial, and the witnesses were free to leave.

Determined not to waste a moment getting to Knowlesbury, I settled my bill at the hotel and hired a cab to take me to the town. A gentleman nearby, who overheard my request and noticed I was traveling alone, introduced himself. He mentioned that he lived near Knowlesbury and asked if I would mind sharing the cab with him. I agreed without hesitation.

As we drove, our conversation naturally revolved around the local news that everyone seemed to be buzzing about.

My new companion had some insight into the late Sir Percival’s lawyer. He and Mr. Merriman had been discussing the state of Sir Percival’s affairs and the succession to his estate. Sir Percival’s financial troubles were well-known throughout the county, and his lawyer had no choice but to acknowledge them openly. He had passed away without leaving a will, and even if he had, there was no personal property to bequeath. The fortune he had inherited from his wife had been completely consumed by his creditors. The heir to the estate—since Sir Percival had no children—was a son of Sir Felix Glyde’s first cousin, an officer commanding an East Indiaman. While the heir would inherit a property burdened with debt, it was expected to recover over time. If “the captain” managed his affairs wisely, he could still end up quite wealthy before his own time was up.

Though I was primarily focused on getting to London, this information intrigued me. It seemed to justify my decision to keep Sir Percival’s deceit a secret. The rightful heir, whose rights Sir Percival had usurped, was now the one who would inherit the estate. The income that should have been his for the past twenty-three years had been squandered by the deceased, irretrievably lost. Speaking out wouldn’t benefit anyone. By remaining silent, I could protect the reputation of the man who had deceived Laura into marrying him. For her sake, I wanted to keep this hidden; for her sake, I was telling this story under false names.

I parted ways with my fellow traveler at Knowlesbury and headed straight to the town hall. As I had expected, no one was there to press charges against me. The necessary formalities were completed, and I was released. As I left the court, a letter from Mr. Dawson was handed to me. It informed me that he was away on professional business and reiterated his offer of any assistance I might need. I quickly wrote back, expressing my gratitude for his kindness and apologizing for not being able to thank him in person due to my urgent return to town.

Half an hour later, I was on the express train speeding back to London.