A fortnight later, we returned to London, and I began to prepare for my battle with the Count. It was now early May and the rental agreement for his house ended in June. In my new happiness with Laura (to whom we never mentioned the Count's name), I was sometimes tempted to change my mind and to leave things as they were. But she still had dreams, terrible dreams that made her cry out in her sleep, and I knew I had to go on.
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First, I tried to find out more about the Count. Marian told me that he had not been back to Italy for many years. Had he been obliged to leave Italy for political reasons, I wondered? But Marian also said that at Blackwater Park he had received official-looking letters with Italian stamps on, which would seem to contradict this idea. Perhaps he was a spy, I thought. That might explain why he had stayed in England so long after the successful completion of his plot. Who could I ask who might know something? Another Italian, perhaps -- and I suddenly thought of my old friend, Professor Pesca.
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Near Oxford Street he stopped to read a sign announcing an opera, and then went into the opera ticket office, which was nearby. I went over to read the sign. The opera was being performed that evening, and it seemed likely that the Count would be in the audience.
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If I invite Pesca to the opera, I thought, I can point the Count out to him and find out if he knows him. So I bought two tickets myself, sent Pesca a note, and that evening called to take him with me to the opera.
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Before I did that, I decided to have a look at the Count, as up to this time I had never once set eyes on him. So one morning I went to Forest Road, St John's Wood, and waited near his house. Eventually, he came out and I followed behind him as he walked towards the centre of London. Marian had prepared me for his enormous size and fashionable clothes, but not for the horrible freshness and cheerfulness and energy of the man.
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The music had already started when we went in, and all the seats were filled. However, there was room to stand at the sides. I looked around and saw the Count sitting in a seat half-way down, so I placed myself exactly on a line with him, with Pesca standing at my side. When the first part finished, the audience, including the Count, rose to look about them.
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Not only knew him, but -- more surprising still -- feared him as well. The Count's face had frozen into a dreadful stillness, the cheeks as pale as death, the cold grey eyes staring in terror.
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When the Count was looking in our direction, I nudged Pesca with my elbow. "You see that tall fat man? Do you know him?"
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"No," said Pesca. "Is he famous? Why do you point him out?"
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"Because I have a reason for wanting to know more about him. He's an Italian, and his name is Count Fosco. Do you know that name? Look -- stand on this step so that you can see him better."
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The eyes of the two Italians met.
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A slim, fair-haired man, with a scar on his left cheek, was standing near us. I saw him look at Pesca, and then follow the direction of his eyes to the Count. Pesca repeated that he did not know him, and as he spoke, the Count looked our way again.
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In that second I was suddenly convinced that, while Pesca may not have known the Count, the Count certainly knew Pesca!
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Nearby, the man with the scar also seemed to be watching with interest the effect that Pesca had had on the Count.
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As Pesca looked away, the Count turned, moving quickly towards the back of the theatre, where the crowd was thickest. I caught Pesca's arm and, to his great surprise, hurried him with me after the Count. The slim man with the scar had apparently also decided to leave, and was already ahead of us. By the time Pesca and I reached the entrance, neither the Count nor the slim man was in sight.
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"Pesca," I said urgently, "I must speak to you in private. May we go to your lodgings to talk?"
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"He knows you -- he's afraid of you. He left the theatre to escape you," I said. "There must be a reason, Pesca! Think of your own life before you came to England. You left Italy for political reasons. I don't ask what they were. But could that man's terror be connected with your past in some way?"
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I hurried him on without answering. The way the Count had left the theatre, his extraordinary anxiety to avoid Pesca, made me fear that he might go even further -- and out of my reach.
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"What on earth is the matter?" cried Pesca.
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"How the fat man stares!" Pesca said, looking round at me. "But I've never seen him before in my life."
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In Pesca's lodgings, I explained everything as fast as I could, while Pesca stared at me in great confusion and amazement.
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"Walter!" he whispered. "You don't know what you ask."
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To my inexpressible surprise, these harmless words seemed to terrify Pesca. His face went white and he started to tremble.
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I rose to go. He stopped me before I reached the door.
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I stared at him. "Pesca, forgive me. I didn't mean to cause you pain. I spoke only because of what my wife has suffered from that man's cruel actions. You must forgive me."
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Then, his face still pale as the memories of the past crowded in on him, he told me the story.
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"In my youth I belonged -- and still belong -- to a secret political society. Let's call it the Brotherhood, I can't tell you its real name. But I took too many risks and did something which put other members in danger. So I was ordered to go and live in England and to wait. I went -- I have waited -- I still wait. I could be called away tomorrow, or in ten years. I cannot know.
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"Wait," he said. "You saved my life once. You have a right to hear from me what you want to know, even though I could be killed for it. I only ask that, if you find the connection between my past and that man Fosco, you do not tell me."
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He rolled up his sleeve and showed me his own mark.
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"The purpose of the Brotherhood is to fight for the rights of the people. There is a president in Italy, and presidents abroad. Each of these has his secretary. The presidents and secretaries know the members, but members don't know each other, until it's considered necessary. Every member of the Brotherhood is identified by a small round mark burnt into the skin, high up on the inside of their left arm."
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"If anyone betrays the Brotherhood," he went on, "he is a dead man. Another member, a distant stranger or a neighbour, will be ordered to kill him. No one can leave the society -- ever."
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"I do not know the man at the opera," he said finally. "If he knows me, he is so changed, or disguised, that I do not know him. Leave me now, Walter. I have said enough."
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Pesca paused, then continued. "In Italy I was chosen to be secretary. The members at that time were brought face to face with the president, and were also brought face to face with me. You understand me -- I see it in your face. But tell me nothing, I beg you! Let me stay free of a responsibility which horrifies me.
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Walking home, my heart beat with excitement. Here at last, surely, was my weapon against the Count! I was convinced he was a member of the Brotherhood, had betrayed it, and believed that he had been recognized tonight. His life was now in danger. What else could explain his extreme terror at seeing Pesca?
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And what would he do next? Leave London as fast as he could. If I went to his house and tried to stop him, he would not hesitate to kill me. To protect myself, I had to make his safety depend on mine. I hurried home and wrote this letter to Pesca:
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"I thank you with all my heart, Pesca," I said. "You will never, never regret the trust you have placed in me."
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I signed and dated the letter, and wrote on the envelope: Keep until nine o'clock tomorrow morning. If you do not hear from me before then, open the envelope and read the contents.
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The man at the opera, Fosco, is a member of your society and has betrayed it. Go instantly to his house at 5 Forest Road, St John's Wood. I am already dead. Use your power against him without delay.
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"It's tonight, isn't it?" she said. "You're going to the Count."
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I then found a messenger, told him to deliver the letter and bring back a note from Professor Pesca to say he had received it. Twenty minutes later I had the note, and as I was leaving, Marian came to the door, looking anxious.
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As I approached the Count's house, I passed the man with the scar on his cheek, whom I had noticed earlier at the opera. What was he doing here, I wondered?
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"Yes, it's the last chance, and the best."
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"Oh, Walter, not alone! Let me go with you. Don't go alone?"
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He was still in his evening suit, and there was a travelling case on the floor, with books, papers, and clothes all around him. My guess had been right.
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"No, Marian. You must stay here and guard Laura for me. Then I will be easy in my mind when I face the Count."
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I sent in my card, and I still do not know why the Count let me into his house at half past eleven at night. Was he just curious to see me? He would not have known that I was at the opera with Pesca, and I suppose he thought he had nothing to fear from me.
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"You come here on business, Mr Hartright?" he said, looking at me with curiosity. "I cannot think what that might be."
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"You are obviously preparing for a journey," I said. "That is my business. I know why you are leaving London."
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"So you know why I am leaving London?" He went over to a table and opened a drawer." Tell me the reason, if you please."
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"I can show you the reason," I said. "Roll up the sleeve on your left arm, and you will see it."
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His cold grey eyes stared into mine. There was a long heartbeat of silence. I was as certain as if I had seen it that he had a gun hidden in the drawer, and that my life hung by a thread.
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"Wait a little," I said. "Before you act, I advise you to read this note." Moving slowly and carefully, I passed him Pesca's note.
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He read the lines aloud.
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Your letter is received. If I don't hear from you before nine o'clock, I will open the envelope when the clock strikes.
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Another man might have needed an explanation, but not the Count. His expression changed, and he closed the drawer.
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"And that unsigned note you showed me -- who wrote it?"
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"A man whom you have every reason to fear."
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"You are cleverer than I thought," he said. "I cannot leave before nine as I have to wait for a passport to be delivered. Your information may be true or may be false -- where did you get it?"
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A pause. "What do you want of me, Mr Hartright? Is it to do with a lady, perhaps?"
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"I refuse to tell you."
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"Good!" he said. "Those are your conditions; here are mine. One, Madame Fosco and I leave the house when we please and you do not try to stop us. Two, you wait here until my agent comes early tomorrow morning and you give him an order to get back your letter unopened. You then allow us half an hour to leave the house. Three, you agree to fight me at a place to be arranged later abroad. Do you accept my conditions -- yes or no?"
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"Yes, my wife," I answered.
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"You are guilty of a wicked crime," I went on. "But you can keep the money. All I want is a signed confession of the plot and a proof of the date my wife travelled to London."
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He looked at me in real amazement, and I saw at once that he no longer considered me a dangerous man. He folded his arms and listened to me with a cold smile.
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His quick decision, his cleverness and force of character amazed me. For a second I hesitated. Should I let him escape? Yes, the evidence I needed to prove Laura's identity was far more important than revenge.
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"I accept your conditions," I said.
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The Count then called in Madame Fosco to watch me while he slept. Early in the morning his agent arrived and I wrote a note for Pesca. An hour later, the agent returned with my unopened letter and the Count's passport.
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At once, he called for coffee and sat down to write. He wrote quickly for quite some time. Finally, he jumped up, declared that he had finished and read out his statement, which I accepted as satisfactory. He gave me the address of the company from whom he had hired the cab to collect Laura, and also gave me a letter signed by Sir Percival. It was dated 25th July, and announced the journey of Lady Glyde to London on 26th July. So there it was. On 25th July, the date of her death certificate in London, Laura was alive in Hampshire, about to make a journey the next day.
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As I watched them leave, another cab went by and I saw inside the man with the scar on his cheek. What was his business with the Count, I wondered? I had seen him too often now for it to be chance. Perhaps I had fought my own battle with the Count just in time. You cannot get a signed confession out of a dead man.
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"Remember the third condition!" the Count said as he left. "You will hear from me, Mr Hartright." Then he and the Countess got into the agent's cab with their bags and drove away, leaving the agent with me to make sure I did not follow.
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Statement by Isidor Ottavio Baldassare Fosco
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While I waited for the agreed half hour, I read the document that the Count had written for me.
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In the summer of 1850 I arrived in England on delicate political business and stayed with my friend, Sir Percival Glyde. We both urgently needed large amounts of money. The only person who had such money was his wife, from whom not a penny could be obtained until her death. To make matters worse, my friend had other private problems. A woman called Anne Catherick was hidden in the neighbourhood, was communicating with Lady Glyde, and knew a secret which could ruin him. And if he was ruined, what would happen to our financial interests?
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Next, we sent Mrs Michelson away for a few days, and one night Madame Fosco, Mrs Rubelle and I moved the sleeping Miss Halcombe to an unused part of the house. I left for London in the morning with my wife, leaving Sir Percival to persuade Lady Glyde that her sister had gone to Limmeridge and that she should follow her, breaking her journey in London at my house.
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The first thing to do was to find Anne Catherick, who, I was told, looked very much like Lady Glyde and who had escaped from a mad-house. I had the fantastic idea of changing the names, places and lives of Lady Glyde and Anne Catherick, the one with the other. The wonderful results of this change would be the gain of £ 30,000 and the keeping of Sir Percival's secret.
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I found Anne Catherick and persuaded her and her friend to return to London. I rented a house in St John's Wood for myself, and obtained from Mr Fairlie in Limmeridge an invitation for Lady Glyde to visit. For my plan to work, it was necessary for Lady Glyde to leave Blackwater Park alone and stay a night at my house on her way to Limmeridge. This plan was made easier by Miss Halcombe's illness. I returned to Blackwater Park, and when Miss Halcombe was out of danger, I got rid of the doctor and instructed Sir Percival to get rid of the servants.
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It was too late to change the plan. I remained calm and carried on. On the 26th, leaving the false Lady Glyde dead in my house, I collected the true Lady Glyde from the railway station and took her to Mrs Rubelle's house. The two medical men I had hired (shall we say) were easily persuaded to certify the confused and frightened Lady Glyde as mentally ill. Then I gave her a drug and had Mrs Rubelle dress her in Anne Catherick's clothes. The next day, the 27th, she was delivered to the asylum, where she was received with great surprise, but without suspicion. The false Lady Glyde was buried at Limmeridge. I attended the funeral with suitable expressions of deep sympathy.
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One final question remains. If Anne Catherick had not died when she did, what would I have done? I would, of course, have given her a happy release from the prison of life.
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On 24th July, with my wife's help, I got hold of Anne Catherick, and took her to my house as Lady Glyde. However, when she saw no one she recognized, she screamed with fear and, to my horror, the shock to her weak heart caused her to collapse. By the end of the following day, she was dead. Dead on the 25th, and Lady Glyde was not due to arrive in London till the 26th!
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