It was the third Sunday of March 1894 when a wire from the Trinity House at Bridport called us by the early train.
The Wreckstone Light, twelve miles off the Dorset coast, had been the post of three keepers - Mr Trew, Mr Caple, and a third man, Mr Bell. The relief vessel had taken them off on the Saturday morning; Mr Bell was dead; Mr Trew (the senior) and Mr Caple (the junior) had been brought ashore in a state of shock. They told different but plausible stories of how Mr Bell had died - the senior's account precise and detailed, the junior's broadly in agreement but uncertain in particulars. The body had been laid out at the Bridport Mortuary; the magistrate awaited a verdict.
We arrived at Bridport at three. Coming up the platform for the up-train I observed a young clerk in a threadbare dark suit, brown leather portfolio under his arm, his left middle finger ink-stained as black as printer's ink; he boarded a third-class carriage and did not look out as we left. The Crown Inn at Bridport's harbour gave us upon a small parlour where the two survivors sat - Mr Trew composed, Mr Caple shaken - and the dead man's effects were upon a long deal table.