The Moonstone
their eyes about them at any rate!”
When we reached Gray’s Inn Square, the second man had arrived there
before us. He had been waiting for more than a quarter of an hour.
“Well!” asked Mr. Bruff. “What’s your news?”
“I am sorry to say, sir,” replied the man, “that I have made a mistake.
I could have taken my oath that I saw Mr. Luker pass something to an
elderly gentleman, in a light-coloured paletot. The elderly gentleman
turns out, sir, to be a most respectable master iron-monger in
Eastcheap.”
“Where is Gooseberry?” asked Mr. Bruff resignedly.
The man stared. “I don’t know, sir. I have seen nothing of him since I
left the bank.”
Mr. Bruff dismissed the man. “One of two things,” he said to me.
“Either Gooseberry has run away, or he is hunting on his own account.
What do you say to dining here, on the chance that the boy may come
back in an hour or two? I have got some good wine in the cellar, and we
can get a chop from the coffee-house.”
We dined at Mr. Bruff’s chambers. Before the cloth was removed, “a
person” was announced as wanting to speak to the lawyer. Was the person
Gooseberry? No: only the man who had been employed to follow Mr. Luker
when he left the bank.
The report, in this case, presented no feature of the slightest
interest. Mr. Luker had gone back to his own house, and had there
dismissed his guard. He had not gone out again afterwards. Towards
dusk, the shutters had been put up, and the doors had been bolted. The
street before the house, and the alley behind the house, had been
carefully watched. No signs of the Indians had been visible. No person
whatever had been seen loitering about the premises. Having stated
these facts, the man waited to know whether there were any further
orders. Mr. Bruff dismissed him for the night.
“Do you think Mr. Luker has taken the Moonstone home with him?” I
asked.
“Not he,” said Mr. Bruff. “He would never have dismissed his two
policemen, if he had run the risk of keeping the Diamond in his own
house again.”
We waited another half-hour for the boy, and waited in vain. It was
then time for Mr. Bruff to go to Hampstead, and for me to return to
Rachel in Portland Place. I left my card, in charge of the porter at
the chambers, with a line written on it to say that I should be at my
lodgings at half past ten, that night. The card was to be given to the
boy, if the boy came back.
Some men have a knack of keeping appointments; and other men have a
knack of missing them. I am one of the other men. Add to this, that I
passed the evening at Portland Place, on the same seat with Rachel, in
a room forty feet long, with Mrs. Merridew at the further end of it.
Does anybody wonder that I got home at half past twelve instead of half
past ten? How thoroughly heartless that person must be! And how
earnestly I hope I may never make that person’s acquaintance!
My servant handed me a morsel of paper when he let me in.
I read, in a neat legal handwriting, these words—“If you please, sir, I
am getting sleepy. I will come back tomorrow morning, between nine and
ten.” Inquiry proved that a boy, with very extraordinary-looking eyes,
had called, and presented my card and message, had waited an hour, had
done nothing but fall asleep and wake up again, had written a line for
me, and had gone home—after gravely informing the servant that “he was
fit for nothing unless he got his night’s rest.”
At nine, the next morning, I was ready for my visitor. At half past
nine, I heard steps outside my door. “Come in, Gooseberry!” I called
out. “Thank you, sir,” answered a grave and melancholy voice. The door
opened. I started to my feet, and confronted—Sergeant Cuff!
“I thought I would look in here, Mr. Blake, on the chance of your being
in town, before I wrote to Yorkshire,” said the Sergeant.
He was as dreary and as lean as ever. His eyes had not lost their old
trick (so subtly noticed in Betteredge’s Narrative) of “looking as if
they expected something more from you than you were aware of yourself.”
But, so far as dress can alter a man, the great Cuff was changed beyond
all recognition. He wore a broad-brimmed white hat, a light shooting
jacket, white trousers, and drab gaiters. He carried a stout oak stick.
His whole aim and object seemed to be to look as if he had lived in the
country all his life. When I complimented him on his Metamorphosis, he
declined to take it as a joke. He complained, quite gravely, of the
noises and the smells of London. I declare I am far from sure that he
did not speak with a slightly rustic accent! I offered him breakfast.
The innocent countryman was quite shocked. _His_ breakfast hour was
half-past six—and _he_ went to bed with the cocks and hens!
“I only got back from Ireland last night,” said the Sergeant, coming
round to the practical object of his visit, in his own impenetrable
manner. “Before I went to bed, I read your letter, telling me what has
happened since my inquiry after the Diamond was suspended last year.
There’s only one thing to be said about the matter on my side. I
completely mistook my case. How any man living was to have seen things
in their true light, in such a situation as mine was at the time, I
don’t profess to know. But that doesn’t alter the facts as they stand.
I own that I made a mess of it. Not the first mess, Mr. Blake, which
has distinguished my professional career! It’s only in books that the
officers of the detective force are superior to the weakness of making
a mistake.”
“You have come in the nick of time to recover your reputation,” I said.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Blake,” rejoined the Sergeant. “Now I have
retired from business, I don’t care a straw about my reputation. I have
done with my reputation, thank God! I am here, sir, in grateful
remembrance of the late Lady Verinder’s liberality to me. I will go
back to my old work—if you want me, and if you will trust me—on that
consideration, and on no other. Not a farthing of money is to pass, if
you please, from you to me. This is on honour. Now tell me, Mr. Blake,
how the case stands since you wrote to me last.”
I told him of the experiment with the opium, and of what had occurred
afterwards at the bank in Lombard Street. He was greatly struck by the
experiment—it was something entirely new in his experience. And he was
particularly interested in the theory of Ezra Jennings, relating to
what I had done with the Diamond, after I had left Rachel’s
sitting-room, on the birthday night.
“I don’t hold with Mr. Jennings that you hid the Moonstone,” said
Sergeant Cuff. “But I agree with him, that you must certainly have
taken it back to your own room.”
“Well?” I asked. “And what happened then?”
“Have you no suspicion yourself of what happened, sir?”
“None whatever.”
“Has Mr. Bruff no suspicion?”
“No more than I have.”
Sergeant Cuff rose, and went to my writing-table. He came back with a
sealed envelope. It was marked “Private;” it was addressed to me; and
it had the Sergeant’s signature in the corner.
“I suspected the wrong person, last year,” he said: “and I may be
suspecting the wrong person now. Wait to open the envelope, Mr. Blake,
till you have got at the truth. And then compare the name of the guilty
person, with the name that I have written in that sealed letter.”
I put the letter into my pocket—and then asked for the Sergeant’s
opinion of the measures which we had taken at the bank.
“Very well intended, sir,” he answered, “and quite the right thing to
do. But there was another person who ought to have been looked after
besides Mr. Luker.”
“The person named in the letter you have just given to me?”
“Yes, Mr. Blake, the person named in the letter. It can’t be helped
now. I shall have something to propose to you and Mr. Bruff, sir, when
the time comes. Let’s wait, first, and see if the boy has anything to
tell us that is worth hearing.”
It was close on ten o’clock, and the boy had not made his appearance.
Sergeant Cuff talked of other matters. He asked after his old friend
Betteredge, and his old enemy the gardener. In a minute more, he would
no doubt have got from this, to the subject of his favourite roses, if
my servant had not interrupted us by announcing that the boy was below.
On being brought into the room, Gooseberry stopped at the threshold of
the door, and looked distrustfully at the stranger who was in my
company. I told the boy to come to me.
“You may speak before this gentleman,” I said. “He is here to assist
me; and he knows all that has happened. Sergeant Cuff,” I added, “this
is the boy from Mr. Bruff’s office.”
In our modern system of civilisation, celebrity (no matter of what
kind) is the lever that will move anything. The fame of the great Cuff
had even reached the ears of the small Gooseberry. The boy’s ill-fixed
eyes rolled, when I mentioned the illustrious name, till I thought they
really must have dropped on the carpet.
“Come here, my lad,” said the Sergeant, “and let’s hear what you have
got to tell us.”
The notice of the great man—the hero of many a famous story in every
lawyer’s office in London—appeared to fascinate the boy. He placed
himself in front of Sergeant Cuff, and put his hands behind him, after
the approved fashion of a neophyte who is examined in his catechism.
“What is your name?” said the Sergeant, beginning with the first
question in the catechism.
“Octavius Guy,” answered the boy. “They call me Gooseberry at the
office because of my eyes.”
“Octavius Guy, otherwise Gooseberry,” pursued the Sergeant, with the
utmost gravity, “you were missed at the bank yesterday. What were you
about?”
“If you please, sir, I was following a man.”
“Who was he?”
“A tall man, sir, with a big black beard, dressed like a sailor.”
“I remember the man!” I broke in. “Mr. Bruff and I thought he was a spy
employed by the Indians.”
Sergeant Cuff did not appear to be much impressed by what Mr. Bruff and
I had thought. He went on catechising Gooseberry.
“Well?” he said—“and why did you follow the sailor?”
“If you please, sir, Mr. Bruff wanted to know whether Mr. Luker passed
anything to anybody on his way out of the bank. I saw Mr. Luker pass
something to the sailor with the black beard.”
“Why didn’t you tell Mr. Bruff what you saw?”
“I hadn’t time to tell anybody, sir, the sailor went out in such a
hurry.”
“And you ran out after him—eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Gooseberry,” said the Sergeant, patting his head, “you have got
something in that small skull of yours—and it isn’t cotton-wool. I am
greatly pleased with you, so far.”
The boy blushed with pleasure. Sergeant Cuff went on.
“Well? and what did the sailor do, when he got into the street?”
“He called a cab, sir.”
“And what did you do?”
“Held on behind, and run after it.”
Before the Sergeant could put his next question, another visitor was
announced—the head clerk from Mr. Bruff’s office.
Feeling the importance of not interrupting Sergeant Cuff’s examination
of the boy, I received the clerk in another room. He came with bad news
of his employer. The agitation and excitement of the last two days had
proved too much for Mr. Bruff. He had awoke that morning with an attack
of gout; he was confined to his room at Hampstead; and, in the present
critical condition of our affairs, he was very uneasy at being
compelled to leave me without the advice and assistance of an
experienced person. The chief clerk had received orders to hold himself
at my disposal, and was willing to do his best to replace Mr. Bruff.
I wrote at once to quiet the old gentleman’s mind, by telling him of
Sergeant Cuff’s visit: adding that Gooseberry was at that moment under
examination; and promising to inform Mr. Bruff, either personally, or
by letter, of whatever might occur later in the day. Having despatched