The Moonstone
I only told her Mr. Franklin had gone out for a walk.
“It doesn’t matter,” she answered. “I shan’t trouble Mr. Franklin,
today.”
“Why not speak to my lady?” I said. “The way to relieve your mind is to
speak to the merciful and Christian mistress who has always been kind
to you.”
She looked at me for a moment with a grave and steady attention, as if
she was fixing what I said in her mind. Then she took the broom out of
my hands and moved off with it slowly, a little way down the corridor.
“No,” she said, going on with her sweeping, and speaking to herself; “I
know a better way of relieving my mind than that.”
“What is it?”
“Please to let me go on with my work.”
Penelope followed her, and offered to help her.
She answered, “No. I want to do my work. Thank you, Penelope.” She
looked round at me. “Thank you, Mr. Betteredge.”
There was no moving her—there was nothing more to be said. I signed to
Penelope to come away with me. We left her, as we had found her,
sweeping the corridor, like a woman in a dream.
“This is a matter for the doctor to look into,” I said. “It’s beyond
me.”
My daughter reminded me of Mr. Candy’s illness, owing (as you may
remember) to the chill he had caught on the night of the dinner-party.
His assistant—a certain Mr. Ezra Jennings—was at our disposal, to be
sure. But nobody knew much about him in our parts. He had been engaged
by Mr. Candy under rather peculiar circumstances; and, right or wrong,
we none of us liked him or trusted him. There were other doctors at
Frizinghall. But they were strangers to our house; and Penelope
doubted, in Rosanna’s present state, whether strangers might not do her
more harm than good.
I thought of speaking to my lady. But, remembering the heavy weight of
anxiety which she already had on her mind, I hesitated to add to all
the other vexations this new trouble. Still, there was a necessity for
doing something. The girl’s state was, to my thinking, downright
alarming—and my mistress ought to be informed of it. Unwilling enough,
I went to her sitting-room. No one was there. My lady was shut up with
Miss Rachel. It was impossible for me to see her till she came out
again.
I waited in vain till the clock on the front staircase struck the
quarter to two. Five minutes afterwards, I heard my name called, from
the drive outside the house. I knew the voice directly. Sergeant Cuff
had returned from Frizinghall.
CHAPTER XVIII
Going down to the front door, I met the Sergeant on the steps.
It went against the grain with me, after what had passed between us, to
show him that I felt any sort of interest in his proceedings. In spite
of myself, however, I felt an interest that there was no resisting. My
sense of dignity sank from under me, and out came the words: “What news
from Frizinghall?”
“I have seen the Indians,” answered Sergeant Cuff. “And I have found
out what Rosanna bought privately in the town, on Thursday last. The
Indians will be set free on Wednesday in next week. There isn’t a doubt
on my mind, and there isn’t a doubt on Mr. Murthwaite’s mind, that they
came to this place to steal the Moonstone. Their calculations were all
thrown out, of course, by what happened in the house on Wednesday
night; and they have no more to do with the actual loss of the jewel
than you have. But I can tell you one thing, Mr. Betteredge—if _we_
don’t find the Moonstone, _they_ will. You have not heard the last of
the three jugglers yet.”
Mr. Franklin came back from his walk as the Sergeant said those
startling words. Governing his curiosity better than I had governed
mine, he passed us without a word, and went on into the house.
As for me, having already dropped my dignity, I determined to have the
whole benefit of the sacrifice. “So much for the Indians,” I said.
“What about Rosanna next?”
Sergeant Cuff shook his head.
“The mystery in that quarter is thicker than ever,” he said. “I have
traced her to a shop at Frizinghall, kept by a linen draper named
Maltby. She bought nothing whatever at any of the other drapers’ shops,
or at any milliners’ or tailors’ shops; and she bought nothing at
Maltby’s but a piece of long cloth. She was very particular in choosing
a certain quality. As to quantity, she bought enough to make a
nightgown.”
“Whose nightgown?” I asked.
“Her own, to be sure. Between twelve and three, on the Thursday
morning, she must have slipped down to your young lady’s room, to
settle the hiding of the Moonstone while all the rest of you were in
bed. In going back to her own room, her nightgown must have brushed the
wet paint on the door. She couldn’t wash out the stain; and she
couldn’t safely destroy the night-gown without first providing another
like it, to make the inventory of her linen complete.”
“What proves that it was Rosanna’s nightgown?” I objected.
“The material she bought for making the substitute dress,” answered the
Sergeant. “If it had been Miss Verinder’s nightgown, she would have had
to buy lace, and frilling, and Lord knows what besides; and she
wouldn’t have had time to make it in one night. Plain long cloth means
a plain servant’s nightgown. No, no, Mr. Betteredge—all that is clear
enough. The pinch of the question is—why, after having provided the
substitute dress, does she hide the smeared nightgown, instead of
destroying it? If the girl won’t speak out, there is only one way of
settling the difficulty. The hiding-place at the Shivering Sand must be
searched—and the true state of the case will be discovered there.”
“How are you to find the place?” I inquired.
“I am sorry to disappoint you,” said the Sergeant—“but that’s a secret
which I mean to keep to myself.”
(Not to irritate your curiosity, as he irritated mine, I may here
inform you that he had come back from Frizinghall provided with a
search-warrant. His experience in such matters told him that Rosanna
was in all probability carrying about her a memorandum of the
hiding-place, to guide her, in case she returned to it, under changed
circumstances and after a lapse of time. Possessed of this memorandum,
the Sergeant would be furnished with all that he could desire.)
“Now, Mr. Betteredge,” he went on, “suppose we drop speculation, and
get to business. I told Joyce to have an eye on Rosanna. Where is
Joyce?”
Joyce was the Frizinghall policeman, who had been left by
Superintendent Seegrave at Sergeant Cuff’s disposal. The clock struck
two, as he put the question; and, punctual to the moment, the carriage
came round to take Miss Rachel to her aunt’s.
“One thing at a time,” said the Sergeant, stopping me as I was about to
send in search of Joyce. “I must attend to Miss Verinder first.”
As the rain was still threatening, it was the close carriage that had
been appointed to take Miss Rachel to Frizinghall. Sergeant Cuff
beckoned Samuel to come down to him from the rumble behind.
“You will see a friend of mine waiting among the trees, on this side of
the lodge gate,” he said. “My friend, without stopping the carriage,
will get up into the rumble with you. You have nothing to do but to
hold your tongue, and shut your eyes. Otherwise, you will get into
trouble.”
With that advice, he sent the footman back to his place. What Samuel
thought I don’t know. It was plain, to my mind, that Miss Rachel was to
be privately kept in view from the time when she left our house—if she
did leave it. A watch set on my young lady! A spy behind her in the
rumble of her mother’s carriage! I could have cut my own tongue out for
having forgotten myself so far as to speak to Sergeant Cuff.
The first person to come out of the house was my lady. She stood aside,
on the top step, posting herself there to see what happened. Not a word
did she say, either to the Sergeant or to me. With her lips closed, and
her arms folded in the light garden cloak which she had wrapped round
her on coming into the air, there she stood, as still as a statue,
waiting for her daughter to appear.
In a minute more, Miss Rachel came downstairs—very nicely dressed in
some soft yellow stuff, that set off her dark complexion, and clipped
her tight (in the form of a jacket) round the waist. She had a smart
little straw hat on her head, with a white veil twisted round it. She
had primrose-coloured gloves that fitted her hands like a second skin.
Her beautiful black hair looked as smooth as satin under her hat. Her
little ears were like rosy shells—they had a pearl dangling from each
of them. She came swiftly out to us, as straight as a lily on its stem,
and as lithe and supple in every movement she made as a young cat.
Nothing that I could discover was altered in her pretty face, but her
eyes and her lips. Her eyes were brighter and fiercer than I liked to
see; and her lips had so completely lost their colour and their smile
that I hardly knew them again. She kissed her mother in a hasty and
sudden manner on the cheek. She said, “Try to forgive me, mamma”—and
then pulled down her veil over her face so vehemently that she tore it.
In another moment she had run down the steps, and had rushed into the
carriage as if it was a hiding-place.
Sergeant Cuff was just as quick on his side. He put Samuel back, and
stood before Miss Rachel, with the open carriage-door in his hand, at
the instant when she settled herself in her place.
“What do you want?” says Miss Rachel, from behind her veil.
“I want to say one word to you, miss,” answered the Sergeant, “before
you go. I can’t presume to stop your paying a visit to your aunt. I can
only venture to say that your leaving us, as things are now, puts an
obstacle in the way of my recovering your Diamond. Please to understand
that; and now decide for yourself whether you go or stay.”
Miss Rachel never even answered him. “Drive on, James!” she called out
to the coachman.
Without another word, the Sergeant shut the carriage-door. Just as he
closed it, Mr. Franklin came running down the steps. “Good-bye,
Rachel,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Drive on!” cried Miss Rachel, louder than ever, and taking no more
notice of Mr. Franklin than she had taken of Sergeant Cuff.
Mr. Franklin stepped back thunderstruck, as well he might be. The
coachman, not knowing what to do, looked towards my lady, still
standing immovable on the top step. My lady, with anger and sorrow and
shame all struggling together in her face, made him a sign to start the
horses, and then turned back hastily into the house. Mr. Franklin,
recovering the use of his speech, called after her, as the carriage
drove off, “Aunt! you were quite right. Accept my thanks for all your
kindness—and let me go.”
My lady turned as though to speak to him. Then, as if distrusting
herself, waved her hand kindly. “Let me see you, before you leave us,
Franklin,” she said, in a broken voice—and went on to her own room.
“Do me a last favour, Betteredge,” says Mr. Franklin, turning to me,
with the tears in his eyes. “Get me away to the train as soon as you
can!”
He too went his way into the house. For the moment, Miss Rachel had
completely unmanned him. Judge from that, how fond he must have been of
her!
Sergeant Cuff and I were left face to face, at the bottom of the steps.
The Sergeant stood with his face set towards a gap in the trees,
commanding a view of one of the windings of the drive which led from
the house. He had his hands in his pockets, and he was softly whistling
“The Last Rose of Summer” to himself.
“There’s a time for everything,” I said savagely enough. “This isn’t a
time for whistling.”
At that moment, the carriage appeared in the distance, through the gap,
on its way to the lodge-gate. There was another man, besides Samuel,
plainly visible in the rumble behind.
“All right!” said the Sergeant to himself. He turned round to me. “It’s