The Moonstone

oing 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
no time for whistling, Mr. Betteredge, as you say. It’s time to take
this business in hand, now, without sparing anybody. We’ll begin with
Rosanna Spearman. Where is Joyce?”

We both called for Joyce, and received no answer. I sent one of the
stable-boys to look for him.

“You heard what I said to Miss Verinder?” remarked the Sergeant, while
we were waiting. “And you saw how she received it? I tell her plainly
that her leaving us will be an obstacle in the way of my recovering her
Diamond—and she leaves, in the face of that statement! Your young lady
has got a travelling companion in her mother’s carriage, Mr.
Betteredge—and the name of it is, the Moonstone.”

I said nothing. I only held on like death to my belief in Miss Rachel.

The stable-boy came back, followed—very unwillingly, as it appeared to
me—by Joyce.

“Where is Rosanna Spearman?” asked Sergeant Cuff.

“I can’t account for it, sir,” Joyce began; “and I am very sorry. But
somehow or other——”

“Before I went to Frizinghall,” said the Sergeant, cutting him short,
“I told you to keep your eyes on Rosanna Spearman, without allowing her
to discover that she was being watched. Do you mean to tell me that you
have let her give you the slip?”

“I am afraid, sir,” says Joyce, beginning to tremble, “that I was
perhaps a little too careful not to let her discover me. There are
such a many passages in the lower parts of this house——”

“How long is it since you missed her?”

“Nigh on an hour since, sir.”

“You can go back to your regular business at Frizinghall,” said the
Sergeant, speaking just as composedly as ever, in his usual quiet and
dreary way. “I don’t think your talents are at all in our line, Mr.
Joyce. Your present form of employment is a trifle beyond you. Good
morning.”

The man slunk off. I find it very difficult to describe how I was
affected by the discovery that Rosanna Spearman was missing. I seemed
to be in fifty different minds about it, all at the same time. In that
state, I stood staring at Sergeant Cuff—and my powers of language quite
failed me.

“No, Mr. Betteredge,” said the Sergeant, as if he had discovered the
uppermost thought in me, and was picking it out to be answered, before
all the rest. “Your young friend, Rosanna, won’t slip through my
fingers so easy as you think. As long as I know where Miss Verinder is,
I have the means at my disposal of tracing Miss Verinder’s accomplice.
I prevented them from communicating last night. Very good. They will
get together at Frizinghall, instead of getting together here. The
present inquiry must be simply shifted (rather sooner than I had
anticipated) from this house, to the house at which Miss Verinder is
visiting. In the meantime, I’m afraid I must trouble you to call the
servants together again.”

I went round with him to the servants’ hall. It is very disgraceful,
but it is not the less true, that I had another attack of the
detective-fever, when he said those last words. I forgot that I hated
Sergeant Cuff. I seized him confidentially by the arm. I said, “For
goodness’ sake, tell us what you are going to do with the servants
now?”

The great Cuff stood stock-still, and addressed himself in a kind of
melancholy rapture to the empty air.

“If this man,” said the Sergeant (apparently meaning me), “only
understood the growing of roses he would be the most completely perfect
character on the face of creation!” After that strong expression of
feeling, he sighed, and put his arm through mine. “This is how it
stands,” he said, dropping down again to business. “Rosanna has done
one of two things. She has either gone direct to Frizinghall (before I
can get there), or she has gone first to visit her hiding-place at the
Shivering Sand. The first thing to find out is, which of the servants
saw the last of her before she left the house.”

On instituting this inquiry, it turned out that the last person who had
set eyes on Rosanna was Nancy, the kitchenmaid.

Nancy had seen her slip out with a letter in her hand, and stop the
butcher’s man who had just been delivering some meat at the back door.
Nancy had heard her ask the man to post the letter when he got back to
Frizinghall. The man had looked at the address, and had said it was a
roundabout way of delivering a letter directed to Cobb’s Hole, to post
it at Frizinghall—and that, moreover, on a Saturday, which would
prevent the letter from getting to its destination until Monday
morning, Rosanna had answered that the delivery of the letter being
delayed till Monday was of no importance. The only thing she wished to
be sure of was that the man would do what she told him. The man had
promised to do it, and had driven away. Nancy had been called back to
her work in the kitchen. And no other person had seen anything
afterwards of Rosanna Spearman.

“Well?” I asked, when we were alone again.

“Well,” says the Sergeant. “I must go to Frizinghall.”

“About the letter, sir?”

“Yes. The memorandum of the hiding-place is in that letter. I must see
the address at the post-office. If it is the address I suspect, I shall
pay our friend, Mrs. Yolland, another visit on Monday next.”

I went with the Sergeant to order the pony-chaise. In the stable-yard
we got a new light thrown on the missing girl.