I

by Wilkie Collins

As I closed the last page of the Count’s manuscript, I realized that the half-hour I had promised to stay at Forest Road had come to an end. Monsieur Rubelle glanced at his watch and gave a polite bow. I stood up immediately, leaving him alone in the empty house. I never saw him again, nor did I hear anything more about him or his wife. They had slithered into our lives from the dark corners of deceit and villainy, and just as quietly, they slipped back into those shadows, lost to us forever.

Fifteen minutes later, I was back home.

It took only a few words to explain to Laura and Marian how my desperate mission had concluded and what the next chapter of our lives might hold. I promised to share all the details later in the day and hurried back to St. John’s Wood to find the person Count Fosco had arranged for the carriage when he went to meet Laura at the station.

The address I had led me to a livery stable about a quarter of a mile from Forest Road. The owner was a polite and respectable man. When I explained that I needed to check his records for an important family matter, he readily agreed to help me. He brought out the ledger, and there, under the date of “July 26th, 1850,” was the entry:

“Brougham to Count Fosco, 5 Forest Road. Two o’clock. (John Owen).”

I learned that “John Owen” was the name of the driver who had been hired for the job. He was working in the stable yard and was called over to speak with me.

“Do you remember driving a gentleman from Number Five Forest Road to Waterloo Bridge station last July?” I asked.

“Well, sir,” he replied, “I can’t say I do.”

“Maybe you remember the gentleman himself? A tall, remarkably fat foreigner?”

His face lit up. “Oh yes, I remember him! The fattest gentleman I’ve ever seen, and the heaviest passenger I’ve had. Yes, we went to the station from Forest Road. There was a parrot or something screeching in the window. The gentleman was in a rush about the lady’s luggage and gave me a nice tip for being quick with the boxes.”

“Getting the boxes!” I recalled that Laura had mentioned someone helping her with her luggage when she arrived in London. This was the man.

“Did you see the lady?” I asked. “What did she look like? Was she young or old?”

“Well, sir, with the rush and the crowd, I can’t really say what she looked like. The only thing I remember is her name.”

“You remember her name?”

“Yes, sir. It was Lady Glyde.”

“How do you remember that when you can’t recall what she looked like?”

He smiled, shifting his weight awkwardly. “To be honest, sir, I had just gotten married around that time, and my wife’s name, before she took mine, was the same as the lady’s—Glyde. The lady mentioned it herself. ‘Is your name on your boxes, ma’am?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it’s Lady Glyde.’ I thought to myself, ‘I’m terrible with names, but this one feels familiar.’ I can’t say how long ago it was—maybe close to a year, or maybe not. But I can swear to the stout gentleman and to the lady’s name.”

There was no need for him to remember the date; the order book confirmed it. I realized I now had the means to dismantle the entire conspiracy with the solid truth. Without hesitation, I took the stable owner aside and explained the significance of the evidence in his order book and the driver’s testimony. We quickly arranged compensation for the driver’s time, and I made a certified copy of the entry in the ledger, signed by the owner himself.

I left the livery stables knowing that John Owen would be available to me for the next three days, or longer if necessary.

Now, I had everything I needed—the district registrar’s copy of the death certificate and Sir Percival’s dated letter to the Count safely tucked in my pocketbook.

With the evidence I had gathered and the coachman’s words still fresh in my mind, I finally made my way to Mr. Kyrle’s office. This was my second visit, and I had two main purposes: to inform him of my findings and to let him know that I intended to take my wife to Limmeridge the following morning, where I wanted her to be publicly acknowledged in her uncle’s home. I left it to Mr. Kyrle to decide, in Mr. Gilmore’s absence, whether he felt it was his duty as the family solicitor to be present for this significant moment.

I won’t dwell on Mr. Kyrle’s astonishment or the way he expressed his opinions about my actions throughout the investigation. What matters is that he quickly agreed to accompany us to Cumberland.

We set off the next morning on the early train. Laura, Marian, Mr. Kyrle, and I shared one carriage, while John Owen and a clerk from Mr. Kyrle’s office took another. Upon arriving at Limmeridge station, we first headed to the farmhouse at Todd’s Corner. I was determined that Laura would not enter her uncle’s house until she was publicly recognized as his niece. I left Marian to discuss accommodations with Mrs. Todd, who was still recovering from the shock of our purpose in Cumberland. Meanwhile, I arranged for John Owen to stay with the farm workers.

Once those details were settled, Mr. Kyrle and I made our way to Limmeridge House together.

I can’t recount our meeting with Mr. Fairlie in detail, as it fills me with impatience and disdain, making the memory utterly unpleasant. I’ll simply state that I achieved my goal. Mr. Fairlie tried to handle the situation in his usual manner. We ignored his polite insolence at the start of our conversation and listened without sympathy as he feebly claimed that the revelation of the conspiracy had left him devastated. He whined and complained like a petulant child, asking how he could have known his niece was alive when he had been told she was dead. He insisted he would welcome Laura with open arms if only we would give him time to recover. Did we think he looked like he wanted to be rushed to his grave? No? Then why hurry him?

He repeated these protests at every opportunity until I finally interrupted him, presenting him with two unavoidable choices. I made it clear he could either do right by his niece on my terms or face the consequences of a public declaration of her existence in court. When he turned to Mr. Kyrle for support, Mr. Kyrle told him plainly that he needed to make a decision right then and there. In a characteristically self-serving move, Mr. Fairlie chose the option that would relieve him of immediate stress. He declared, with unexpected energy, that he couldn’t handle any more pressure and that we could do as we wished.

Mr. Kyrle and I immediately went downstairs and drafted a letter to be sent to the tenants who had attended the false funeral, summoning them, in Mr. Fairlie’s name, to gather at Limmeridge House two days later. We also wrote an order for a stonemason in Carlisle to send someone to Limmeridge churchyard to erase the false inscription. Mr. Kyrle, who planned to stay in the house, assured me that Mr. Fairlie would hear these letters read and would sign them himself.

I spent the day at the farm writing a straightforward account of the conspiracy and detailing how the facts contradicted the claim of Laura’s death. I shared this narrative with Mr. Kyrle before presenting it to the gathered tenants the next day. We also discussed how to present the evidence at the end of the reading. Once those matters were settled, Mr. Kyrle tried to shift the conversation to Laura’s affairs. However, I didn’t want to discuss those matters, as they were tied to past sorrows and troubles we never spoke of among ourselves and instinctively avoided discussing with others.

As evening approached, my final task was to obtain “The Narrative of the Tombstone” by taking a copy of the false inscription on the grave before it was erased.

The day finally arrived—Laura stepped back into the breakfast room at Limmeridge House, a place that felt both familiar and strange. As Marian and I guided her inside, everyone present rose from their seats. A wave of surprise rippled through the room, a soft murmur of interest sparked by the sight of her face.

Mr. Fairlie was there, as I had insisted, with Mr. Kyrle beside him. His valet stood behind, holding a smelling bottle in one hand and a white handkerchief soaked in eau-de-Cologne in the other.

I began by asking Mr. Fairlie to confirm that I was there with his permission and support. With some effort, he extended his arms to Mr. Kyrle and his valet, who helped him to his feet. He then spoke, his voice shaky but clear: “Let me introduce Mr. Hartright. I’m as much of an invalid as ever, and he’s kind enough to speak for me. This is all quite embarrassing. Please listen to him and keep quiet!” With that, he sank back into his chair, retreating behind his scented handkerchief.

I proceeded to reveal the conspiracy, starting with a straightforward explanation. I told everyone that my wife, sitting next to me, was the daughter of the late Mr. Philip Fairlie. I then aimed to prove that the funeral they had attended in the churchyard was for another woman, not her. Finally, I promised to explain how it all unfolded.

Without further ado, I recounted the details of the conspiracy, outlining the key points and focusing on the financial motive to avoid complicating things with Sir Percival’s hidden agenda. I reminded everyone of the date on the inscription in the churchyard—the 25th—and confirmed it with the death certificate. I read Sir Percival’s letter from the 25th, announcing his wife’s planned journey from Hampshire to London on the 26th. I then provided evidence that she had indeed made that journey, supported by the testimony of the fly driver and the order-book from the livery stables. Marian added her account of the meeting between Laura and herself at the asylum and Laura’s escape. I concluded by informing everyone of Sir Percival’s death and my marriage to Laura.

When I took my seat, Mr. Kyrle stood up and, as the family’s legal advisor, declared that my case was supported by the clearest evidence he had ever encountered. As he spoke, I wrapped my arm around Laura and lifted her so everyone could see her clearly. “Do you all agree?” I asked, taking a few steps toward them and pointing to my wife.

The reaction was immediate. At the far end of the room, one of the oldest tenants jumped to his feet, rallying the others to join him. I can still picture him, his honest brown face framed by iron-grey hair, standing on the window seat, waving his heavy riding whip above his head as he led the cheers. “There she is, alive and well—God bless her! Let’s hear it, lads! Let’s hear it!” The response was a chorus of cheers, echoing back to us like the sweetest music I’d ever heard. The villagers and schoolboys gathered on the lawn picked up the chant, their voices rising in celebration.

The farmers’ wives surrounded Laura, eager to be the first to shake her hand, tears streaming down their faces as they urged her to stay strong and not cry. Overwhelmed, Laura needed me to pull her away from them and carry her to the door. There, I entrusted her to Marian’s care—Marian, who had always been there for us, her steady presence reassuring us once again.

Left alone at the door, I thanked everyone on behalf of Laura and myself, inviting them to follow me to the churchyard to witness the removal of the false inscription from the tombstone.

They all left the house, joining the crowd of villagers gathered around the grave, where the stonecutter awaited us. In a tense silence, the first sharp strike of steel rang out against the marble. No one spoke or moved until the words “Laura, Lady Glyde” disappeared from view. A collective sigh of relief swept through the crowd, as if they felt the last remnants of the conspiracy had been lifted from Laura herself. Slowly, the assembly began to disperse.

It was late in the day before the entire inscription was erased. In its place, only one line was engraved: “Anne Catherick, July 25th, 1850.”

I returned to Limmeridge House early enough in the evening to say goodbye to Mr. Kyrle. He, along with his clerk and the driver of the carriage, was heading back to London on the night train. As they left, I received an arrogant message from Mr. Fairlie—who had been taken from the room in a fragile state after the initial cheers that followed my appeal to the tenants. The message conveyed “Mr. Fairlie’s best congratulations” and inquired whether “we planned to stay in the house.”

I replied that our purpose for entering his home had been fulfilled, that I had no intention of staying in anyone's house but my own, and that Mr. Fairlie need not worry about ever seeing or hearing from us again. We returned to our friends at the farm to rest for the night, and the next morning—cheered on by the entire village and all the local farmers—we made our way back to London.

As the view of the Cumberland hills faded into the distance, I reflected on the discouraging circumstances that had marked the long struggle we had just completed. It was odd to look back and realize that the very poverty that had denied us any hope of assistance had ultimately driven our success, forcing me to take matters into my own hands. If we had been wealthy enough to seek legal help, what would have happened? According to Mr. Kyrle, the outcome would have been uncertain at best, while the losses, judging by what had actually transpired, were guaranteed. The law would never have secured my meeting with Mrs. Catherick. The law would never have allowed Pesca to extract a confession from the Count.