CHAPTER I

But few words are needed, on my part, to complete the narrative that

has been presented in the Journal of Ezra Jennings.

Of myself, I have only to say that I awoke on the morning of the

twenty-sixth, perfectly ignorant of all that I had said and done under

the influence of the opium—from the time when the drug first laid its

hold on me, to the time when I opened my eyes, in Rachel’s

sitting-room.

Of what happened after my waking, I do not feel called upon to render

an account in detail. Confining myself merely to results, I have to

report that Rachel and I thoroughly understood each other, before a

single word of explanation had passed on either side. I decline to

account, and Rachel declines to account, for the extraordinary rapidity

of our reconciliation. Sir and Madam, look back at the time when you

were passionately attached to each other—and you will know what

happened, after Ezra Jennings had shut the door of the sitting-room, as

well as I know it myself.

I have, however, no objection to add, that we should have been

certainly discovered by Mrs. Merridew, but for Rachel’s presence of

mind. She heard the sound of the old lady’s dress in the corridor, and

instantly ran out to meet her; I heard Mrs. Merridew say, “What is the

matter?” and I heard Rachel answer, “The explosion!” Mrs. Merridew

instantly permitted herself to be taken by the arm, and led into the

garden, out of the way of the impending shock. On her return to the

house, she met me in the hall, and expressed herself as greatly struck

by the vast improvement in Science, since the time when she was a girl

at school. “Explosions, Mr. Blake, are infinitely milder than they

were. I assure you, I barely heard Mr. Jennings’s explosion from the

garden. And no smell afterwards, that I can detect, now we have come

back to the house! I must really apologise to your medical friend. It

is only due to him to say that he has managed it beautifully!”

So, after vanquishing Betteredge and Mr. Bruff, Ezra Jennings

vanquished Mrs. Merridew herself. There is a great deal of undeveloped

liberal feeling in the world, after all!

At breakfast, Mr. Bruff made no secret of his reasons for wishing that

I should accompany him to London by the morning train. The watch kept

at the bank, and the result which might yet come of it, appealed so

irresistibly to Rachel’s curiosity, that she at once decided (if Mrs.

Merridew had no objection) on accompanying us back to town—so as to be

within reach of the earliest news of our proceedings.

Mrs. Merridew proved to be all pliability and indulgence, after the

truly considerate manner in which the explosion had conducted itself;

and Betteredge was accordingly informed that we were all four to travel

back together by the morning train. I fully expected that he would have

asked leave to accompany us. But Rachel had wisely provided her

faithful old servant with an occupation that interested him. He was

charged with completing the refurnishing of the house, and was too full

of his domestic responsibilities to feel the “detective-fever” as he

might have felt it under other circumstances.

Our one subject of regret, in going to London, was the necessity of

parting, more abruptly than we could have wished, with Ezra Jennings.

It was impossible to persuade him to accompany us. I could only promise

to write to him—and Rachel could only insist on his coming to see her

when she returned to Yorkshire. There was every prospect of our meeting

again in a few months—and yet there was something very sad in seeing

our best and dearest friend left standing alone on the platform, as the

train moved out of the station.

On our arrival in London, Mr. Bruff was accosted at the terminus by a

small boy, dressed in a jacket and trousers of threadbare black cloth,

and personally remarkable in virtue of the extraordinary prominence of

his eyes. They projected so far, and they rolled about so loosely, that

you wondered uneasily why they remained in their sockets. After

listening to the boy, Mr. Bruff asked the ladies whether they would

excuse our accompanying them back to Portland Place. I had barely time

to promise Rachel that I would return, and tell her everything that had

happened, before Mr. Bruff seized me by the arm, and hurried me into a

cab. The boy with the ill-secured eyes took his place on the box by the

driver, and the driver was directed to go to Lombard Street.

“News from the bank?” I asked, as we started.

“News of Mr. Luker,” said Mr. Bruff. “An hour ago, he was seen to leave

his house at Lambeth, in a cab, accompanied by two men, who were

recognised by _my_ men as police officers in plain clothes. If Mr.

Luker’s dread of the Indians is at the bottom of this precaution, the

inference is plain enough. He is going to take the Diamond out of the

bank.”

“And we are going to the bank to see what comes of it?”

“Yes—or to hear what has come of it, if it is all over by this time.

Did you notice my boy—on the box, there?”

“I noticed his eyes.”

Mr. Bruff laughed. “They call the poor little wretch ‘Gooseberry’ at

the office,” he said. “I employ him to go on errands—and I only wish my

clerks who have nicknamed him were as thoroughly to be depended on as

he is. Gooseberry is one of the sharpest boys in London, Mr. Blake, in

spite of his eyes.”

It was twenty minutes to five when we drew up before the bank in

Lombard Street. Gooseberry looked longingly at his master, as he opened

the cab door.

“Do you want to come in too?” asked Mr. Bruff kindly. “Come in then,

and keep at my heels till further orders. He’s as quick as lightning,”

pursued Mr. Bruff, addressing me in a whisper. “Two words will do with

Gooseberry, where twenty would be wanted with another boy.”

We entered the bank. The outer office—with the long counter, behind

which the cashiers sat—was crowded with people; all waiting their turn

to take money out, or to pay money in, before the bank closed at five

o’clock.

Two men among the crowd approached Mr. Bruff, as soon as he showed

himself.

“Well,” asked the lawyer. “Have you seen him?”

“He passed us here half an hour since, sir, and went on into the inner

office.”

“Has he not come out again yet?”

“No, sir.”

Mr. Bruff turned to me. “Let us wait,” he said.

I looked round among the people about me for the three Indians. Not a

sign of them was to be seen anywhere. The only person present with a

noticeably dark complexion was a tall man in a pilot coat, and a round

hat, who looked like a sailor. Could this be one of them in disguise?

Impossible! The man was taller than any of the Indians; and his face,

where it was not hidden by a bushy black beard, was twice the breadth

of any of their faces at least.

“They must have their spy somewhere,” said Mr. Bruff, looking at the

dark sailor in his turn. “And he may be the man.”

Before he could say more, his coat-tail was respectfully pulled by his

attendant sprite with the gooseberry eyes. Mr. Bruff looked where the

boy was looking. “Hush!” he said. “Here is Mr. Luker!”

The money-lender came out from the inner regions of the bank, followed

by his two guardian policemen in plain clothes.

“Keep your eye on him,” whispered Mr. Bruff. “If he passes the Diamond

to anybody, he will pass it here.”

Without noticing either of us, Mr. Luker slowly made his way to the

door—now in the thickest, now in the thinnest part of the crowd. I

distinctly saw his hand move, as he passed a short, stout man,

respectably dressed in a suit of sober grey. The man started a little,

and looked after him. Mr. Luker moved on slowly through the crowd. At

the door his guard placed themselves on either side of him. They were

all three followed by one of Mr. Bruff’s men—and I saw them no more.

I looked round at the lawyer, and then looked significantly towards the

man in the suit of sober grey. “Yes!” whispered Mr. Bruff, “I saw it

too!” He turned about, in search of his second man. The second man was

nowhere to be seen. He looked behind him for his attendant sprite.

Gooseberry had disappeared.

“What the devil does it mean?” said Mr. Bruff angrily. “They have both

left us at the very time when we want them most.”

It came to the turn of the man in the grey suit to transact his

business at the counter. He paid in a cheque—received a receipt for

it—and turned to go out.

“What is to be done?” asked Mr. Bruff. “_We_ can’t degrade ourselves by

following him.”

“_I_ can!” I said. “I wouldn’t lose sight of that man for ten thousand

pounds!”

“In that case,” rejoined Mr. Bruff, “I wouldn’t lose sight of _you_,

for twice the money. A nice occupation for a man in my position,” he

muttered to himself, as we followed the stranger out of the bank. “For

Heaven’s sake don’t mention it. I should be ruined if it was known.”

The man in the grey suit got into an omnibus, going westward. We got in

after him. There were latent reserves of youth still left in Mr. Bruff.

I assert it positively—when he took his seat in the omnibus, he

blushed!

The man in the grey suit stopped the omnibus, and got out in Oxford

Street. We followed him again. He went into a chemist’s shop.

Mr. Bruff started. “My chemist!” he exclaimed. “I am afraid we have

made a mistake.”

We entered the shop. Mr. Bruff and the proprietor exchanged a few words

in private. The lawyer joined me again, with a very crestfallen face.

“It’s greatly to our credit,” he said, as he took my arm, and led me

out—“that’s one comfort!”

“What is to our credit?” I asked.

“Mr. Blake! you and I are the two worst amateur detectives that ever

tried their hands at the trade. The man in the grey suit has been

thirty years in the chemist’s service. He was sent to the bank to pay

money to his master’s account—and he knows no more of the Moonstone

than the babe unborn.”

I asked what was to be done next.

“Come back to my office,” said Mr. Bruff. “Gooseberry, and my second

man, have evidently followed somebody else. Let us hope that _they_ had

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

the clerk to Hampstead with my note, I returned to the room which I had

left, and found Sergeant Cuff at the fireplace, in the act of ringing

the bell.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Blake,” said the Sergeant. “I was just going to

send word by your servant that I wanted to speak to you. There isn’t a

doubt on my mind that this boy—this most meritorious boy,” added the

Sergeant, patting Gooseberry on the head, “has followed the right man.

Precious time has been lost, sir, through your unfortunately not being

at home at half past ten last night. The only thing to do, now, is to

send for a cab immediately.”

In five minutes more, Sergeant Cuff and I (with Gooseberry on the box

to guide the driver) were on our way eastward, towards the City.

“One of these days,” said the Sergeant, pointing through the front

window of the cab, “that boy will do great things in my late

profession. He is the brightest and cleverest little chap I have met

with, for many a long year past. You shall hear the substance, Mr.

Blake, of what he told me while you were out of the room. You were

present, I think, when he mentioned that he held on behind the cab, and

ran after it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, sir, the cab went from Lombard Street to the Tower Wharf. The

sailor with the black beard got out, and spoke to the steward of the

Rotterdam steamboat, which was to start next morning. He asked if he

could be allowed to go on board at once, and sleep in his berth

over-night. The steward said, No. The cabins, and berths, and bedding

were all to have a thorough cleaning that evening, and no passenger

could be allowed to come on board, before the morning. The sailor

turned round, and left the wharf. When he got into the street again,

the boy noticed for the first time, a man dressed like a respectable

mechanic, walking on the opposite side of the road, and apparently

keeping the sailor in view. The sailor stopped at an eating-house in

the neighbourhood, and went in. The boy—not being able to make up his

mind, at the moment—hung about among some other boys, staring at the

good things in the eating-house window. He noticed the mechanic

waiting, as he himself was waiting—but still on the opposite side of

the street. After a minute, a cab came by slowly, and stopped where the

mechanic was standing. The boy could only see plainly one person in the

cab, who leaned forward at the window to speak to the mechanic. He

described that person, Mr. Blake, without any prompting from me, as

having a dark face, like the face of an Indian.”

It was plain, by this time, that Mr. Bruff and I had made another

mistake. The sailor with the black beard was clearly not a spy in the

service of the Indian conspiracy. Was he, by any possibility, the man

who had got the Diamond?

“After a little,” pursued the Sergeant, “the cab moved on slowly down

the street. The mechanic crossed the road, and went into the

eating-house. The boy waited outside till he was hungry and tired—and

then went into the eating-house, in his turn. He had a shilling in his

pocket; and he dined sumptuously, he tells me, on a black-pudding, an

eel-pie, and a bottle of ginger-beer. What can a boy _not_ digest? The

substance in question has never been found yet.”

“What did he see in the eating-house?” I asked.

“Well, Mr. Blake, he saw the sailor reading the newspaper at one table,

and the mechanic reading the newspaper at another. It was dusk before

the sailor got up, and left the place. He looked about him suspiciously

when he got out into the street. The boy—_being_ a boy—passed

unnoticed. The mechanic had not come out yet. The sailor walked on,

looking about him, and apparently not very certain of where he was

going next. The mechanic appeared once more, on the opposite side of

the road. The sailor went on, till he got to Shore Lane, leading into

Lower Thames Street. There he stopped before a public-house, under the

sign of ‘The Wheel of Fortune,’ and, after examining the place outside,

went in. Gooseberry went in too. There were a great many people, mostly

of the decent sort, at the bar. ‘The Wheel of Fortune’ is a very

respectable house, Mr. Blake; famous for its porter and pork-pies.”

The Sergeant’s digressions irritated me. He saw it; and confined

himself more strictly to Gooseberry’s evidence when he went on.

“The sailor,” he resumed, “asked if he could have a bed. The landlord

said ‘No; they were full.’ The barmaid corrected him, and said ‘Number

Ten was empty.’ A waiter was sent for to show the sailor to Number Ten.

Just before that, Gooseberry had noticed the mechanic among the people

at the bar. Before the waiter had answered the call, the mechanic had

vanished. The sailor was taken off to his room. Not knowing what to do

next, Gooseberry had the wisdom to wait and see if anything happened.

Something did happen. The landlord was called for. Angry voices were

heard upstairs. The mechanic suddenly made his appearance again,

collared by the landlord, and exhibiting, to Gooseberry’s great

surprise, all the signs and tokens of being drunk. The landlord thrust

him out at the door, and threatened him with the police if he came

back. From the altercation between them, while this was going on, it

appeared that the man had been discovered in Number Ten, and had

declared with drunken obstinacy that he had taken the room. Gooseberry

was so struck by this sudden intoxication of a previously sober person,

that he couldn’t resist running out after the mechanic into the street.

As long as he was in sight of the public-house, the man reeled about in

the most disgraceful manner. The moment he turned the corner of the

street, he recovered his balance instantly, and became as sober a

member of society as you could wish to see. Gooseberry went back to

‘The Wheel of Fortune’ in a very bewildered state of mind. He waited

about again, on the chance of something happening. Nothing happened;

and nothing more was to be heard, or seen, of the sailor. Gooseberry

decided on going back to the office. Just as he came to this

conclusion, who should appear, on the opposite side of the street as

usual, but the mechanic again! He looked up at one particular window at

the top of the public-house, which was the only one that had a light in

it. The light seemed to relieve his mind. He left the place directly.

The boy made his way back to Gray’s Inn—got your card and

message—called—and failed to find you. There you have the state of the

case, Mr. Blake, as it stands at the present time.”

“What is your own opinion of the case, Sergeant?”

“I think it’s serious, sir. Judging by what the boy saw, the Indians

are in it, to begin with.”

“Yes. And the sailor is evidently the person to whom Mr. Luker passed

the Diamond. It seems odd that Mr. Bruff, and I, and the man in Mr.

Bruff’s employment, should all have been mistaken about who the person

was.”

“Not at all, Mr. Blake. Considering the risk that person ran, it’s

likely enough that Mr. Luker purposely misled you, by previous

arrangement between them.”

“Do you understand the proceedings at the public-house?” I asked. “The

man dressed like a mechanic was acting of course in the employment of

the Indians. But I am as much puzzled to account for his sudden

assumption of drunkenness as Gooseberry himself.”

“I think I can give a guess at what it means, sir,” said the Sergeant.

“If you will reflect, you will see that the man must have had some

pretty strict instructions from the Indians. They were far too

noticeable themselves to risk being seen at the bank, or in the

public-house—they were obliged to trust everything to their deputy.

Very good. Their deputy hears a certain number named in the

public-house, as the number of the room which the sailor is to have for

the night—that being also the room (unless our notion is all wrong)

which the Diamond is to have for the night, too. Under those

circumstances, the Indians, you may rely on it, would insist on having

a description of the room—of its position in the house, of its

capability of being approached from the outside, and so on. What was

the man to do, with such orders as these? Just what he did! He ran

upstairs to get a look at the room, before the sailor was taken into

it. He was found there, making his observations—and he shammed drunk,

as the easiest way of getting out of the difficulty. That’s how I read

the riddle. After he was turned out of the public-house, he probably

went with his report to the place where his employers were waiting for

him. And his employers, no doubt, sent him back to make sure that the

sailor was really settled at the public-house till the next morning. As

for what happened at ‘The Wheel of Fortune,’ after the boy left—we

ought to have discovered that last night. It’s eleven in the morning,

now. We must hope for the best, and find out what we can.”

In a quarter of an hour more, the cab stopped in Shore Lane, and

Gooseberry opened the door for us to get out.

“All right?” asked the Sergeant.

“All right,” answered the boy.

The moment we entered “The Wheel of Fortune” it was plain even to my

inexperienced eyes that there was something wrong in the house.

The only person behind the counter at which the liquors were served,

was a bewildered servant girl, perfectly ignorant of the business. One

or two customers, waiting for their morning drink, were tapping

impatiently on the counter with their money. The barmaid appeared from

the inner regions of the parlour, excited and preoccupied. She answered

Sergeant Cuff’s inquiry for the landlord, by telling him sharply that

her master was upstairs, and was not to be bothered by anybody.

“Come along with me, sir,” said Sergeant Cuff, coolly leading the way

upstairs, and beckoning to the boy to follow him.

The barmaid called to her master, and warned him that strangers were

intruding themselves into the house. On the first floor we were

encountered by the landlord, hurrying down, in a highly irritated

state, to see what was the matter.

“Who the devil are you? and what do you want here?” he asked.

“Keep your temper,” said the Sergeant, quietly. “I’ll tell you who I am

to begin with. I am Sergeant Cuff.”

The illustrious name instantly produced its effect. The angry landlord

threw open the door of a sitting-room, and asked the Sergeant’s pardon.

“I am annoyed and out of sorts, sir—that’s the truth,” he said.

“Something unpleasant has happened in the house this morning. A man in

my way of business has a deal to upset his temper, Sergeant Cuff.”

“Not a doubt of it,” said the Sergeant. “I’ll come at once, if you will

allow me, to what brings us here. This gentleman and I want to trouble

you with a few inquiries, on a matter of some interest to both of us.”

“Relating to what, sir?” asked the landlord.

“Relating to a dark man, dressed like a sailor, who slept here last

night.”

“Good God! that’s the man who is upsetting the whole house at this

moment!” exclaimed the landlord. “Do you, or does this gentleman know

anything about him?”

“We can’t be certain till we see him,” answered the Sergeant.

“See him?” echoed the landlord. “That’s the one thing that nobody has

been able to do since seven o’clock this morning. That was the time

when he left word, last night, that he was to be called. He _was_

called—and there was no getting an answer from him, and no opening his

door to see what was the matter. They tried again at eight, and they

tried again at nine. No use! There was the door still locked—and not a

sound to be heard in the room! I have been out this morning—and I only

got back a quarter of an hour ago. I have hammered at the door

myself—and all to no purpose. The potboy has gone to fetch a carpenter.

If you can wait a few minutes, gentlemen, we will have the door opened,

and see what it means.”

“Was the man drunk last night?” asked Sergeant Cuff.

“Perfectly sober, sir—or I would never have let him sleep in my house.”

“Did he pay for his bed beforehand?”

“No.”

“Could he leave the room in any way, without going out by the door?”

“The room is a garret,” said the landlord. “But there’s a trap-door in

the ceiling, leading out on to the roof—and a little lower down the

street, there’s an empty house under repair. Do you think, Sergeant,

the blackguard has got off in that way, without paying?”

“A sailor,” said Sergeant Cuff, “might have done it—early in the

morning, before the street was astir. He would be used to climbing, and

his head wouldn’t fail him on the roofs of the houses.”

As he spoke, the arrival of the carpenter was announced. We all went

upstairs, at once, to the top story. I noticed that the Sergeant was

unusually grave, even for _him_. It also struck me as odd that he told

the boy (after having previously encouraged him to follow us), to wait

in the room below till we came down again.

The carpenter’s hammer and chisel disposed of the resistance of the

door in a few minutes. But some article of furniture had been placed

against it inside, as a barricade. By pushing at the door, we thrust

this obstacle aside, and so got admission to the room. The landlord

entered first; the Sergeant second; and I third. The other persons

present followed us.

We all looked towards the bed, and all started.

The man had not left the room. He lay, dressed, on the bed—with a white

pillow over his face, which completely hid it from view.

“What does that mean?” said the landlord, pointing to the pillow.

Sergeant Cuff led the way to the bed, without answering, and removed

the pillow.

The man’s swarthy face was placid and still; his black hair and beard

were slightly, very slightly, discomposed. His eyes stared wide-open,

glassy and vacant, at the ceiling. The filmy look and the fixed

expression of them horrified me. I turned away, and went to the open

window. The rest of them remained, where Sergeant Cuff remained, at the

bed.

“He’s in a fit!” I heard the landlord say.

“He’s dead,” the Sergeant answered. “Send for the nearest doctor, and

send for the police.”

The waiter was despatched on both errands. Some strange fascination

seemed to hold Sergeant Cuff to the bed. Some strange curiosity seemed

to keep the rest of them waiting, to see what the Sergeant would do

next.

I turned again to the window. The moment afterwards, I felt a soft pull

at my coat-tails, and a small voice whispered, “Look here, sir!”

Gooseberry had followed us into the room. His loose eyes rolled

frightfully—not in terror, but in exultation. He had made a

detective-discovery on his own account. “Look here, sir,” he

repeated—and led me to a table in the corner of the room.

On the table stood a little wooden box, open, and empty. On one side of

the box lay some jewellers’ cotton. On the other side, was a torn sheet

of white paper, with a seal on it, partly destroyed, and with an

inscription in writing, which was still perfectly legible. The

inscription was in these words:

“Deposited with Messrs. Bushe, Lysaught, and Bushe, by Mr. Septimus

Luker, of Middlesex Place, Lambeth, a small wooden box, sealed up in

this envelope, and containing a valuable of great price. The box, when

claimed, to be only given up by Messrs. Bushe and Co. on the personal

application of Mr. Luker.”

Those lines removed all further doubt, on one point at least. The

sailor had been in possession of the Moonstone, when he had left the

bank on the previous day.

I felt another pull at my coat-tails. Gooseberry had not done with me

yet.

“Robbery!” whispered the boy, pointing, in high delight, to the empty

box.

“You were told to wait downstairs,” I said. “Go away!”

“And Murder!” added Gooseberry, pointing, with a keener relish still,

to the man on the bed.

There was something so hideous in the boy’s enjoyment of the horror of

the scene, that I took him by the two shoulders and put him out of the

room.

At the moment when I crossed the threshold of the door, I heard

Sergeant Cuff’s voice, asking where I was. He met me, as I returned

into the room, and forced me to go back with him to the bedside.

“Mr. Blake!” he said. “Look at the man’s face. It is a face

disguised—and here’s the proof of it!”

He traced with his finger a thin line of livid white, running backward

from the dead man’s forehead, between the swarthy complexion, and the

slightly-disturbed black hair. “Let’s see what is under this,” said the

Sergeant, suddenly seizing the black hair, with a firm grip of his

hand.

My nerves were not strong enough to bear it. I turned away again from

the bed.

The first sight that met my eyes, at the other end of the room, was the

irrepressible Gooseberry, perched on a chair, and looking with

breathless interest, over the heads of his elders, at the Sergeant’s

proceedings.

“He’s pulling off his wig!” whispered Gooseberry, compassionating my

position, as the only person in the room who could see nothing.

There was a pause—and then a cry of astonishment among the people round

the bed.

“He’s pulled off his beard!” cried Gooseberry.

There was another pause—Sergeant Cuff asked for something. The landlord

went to the wash-hand-stand, and returned to the bed with a basin of

water and a towel.

Gooseberry danced with excitement on the chair. “Come up here, along

with me, sir! He’s washing off his complexion now!”

The Sergeant suddenly burst his way through the people about him, and

came, with horror in his face, straight to the place where I was

standing.

“Come back to the bed, sir!” he began. He looked at me closer, and

checked himself “No!” he resumed. “Open the sealed letter first—the

letter I gave you this morning.”

I opened the letter.

“Read the name, Mr. Blake, that I have written inside.”

I read the name that he had written. It was—_Godfrey Ablewhite_.

“Now,” said the Sergeant, “come with me, and look at the man on the

bed.”

I went with him, and looked at the man on the bed.

GODFREY ABLEWHITE!

SIXTH NARRATIVE.

_Contributed by Sergeant Cuff._

I

Dorking, Surrey, July 30th, 1849. To Franklin Blake, Esq. Sir,—I beg to

apologise for the delay that has occurred in the production of the

Report, with which I engaged to furnish you. I have waited to make it a

complete Report; and I have been met, here and there, by obstacles

which it was only possible to remove by some little expenditure of

patience and time.

The object which I proposed to myself has now, I hope, been attained.

You will find, in these pages, answers to the greater part—if not

all—of the questions, concerning the late Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, which

occurred to your mind when I last had the honour of seeing you.

I propose to tell you—in the first place—what is known of the manner in

which your cousin met his death; appending to the statement such

inferences and conclusions as we are justified (according to my

opinion) in drawing from the facts.

I shall then endeavour—in the second place—to put you in possession of

such discoveries as I have made, respecting the proceedings of Mr.

Godfrey Ablewhite, before, during and after the time, when you and he

met as guests at the late Lady Verinder’s country house.

II

As to your cousin’s death, then, first.

It appears to be established, beyond any reasonable doubt, that he was

killed (while he was asleep, or immediately on his waking) by being

smothered with a pillow from his bed—that the persons guilty of

murdering him are the three Indians—and that the object contemplated

(and achieved) by the crime, was to obtain possession of the diamond,

called the Moonstone.

The facts from which this conclusion is drawn, are derived partly from

an examination of the room at the tavern; and partly from the evidence

obtained at the Coroner’s Inquest.

On forcing the door of the room, the deceased gentleman was discovered,

dead, with the pillow of the bed over his face. The medical man who

examined him, being informed of this circumstance, considered the

post-mortem appearances as being perfectly compatible with murder by

smothering—that is to say, with murder committed by some person, or

persons, pressing the pillow over the nose and mouth of the deceased,

until death resulted from congestion of the lungs.

Next, as to the motive for the crime.

A small box, with a sealed paper torn off from it (the paper containing

an inscription) was found open, and empty, on a table in the room. Mr.

Luker has himself personally identified the box, the seal, and the

inscription. He has declared that the box did actually contain the

diamond, called the Moonstone; and he has admitted having given the box

(thus sealed up) to Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite (then concealed under a

disguise), on the afternoon of the twenty-sixth of June last. The fair

inference from all this is, that the stealing of the Moonstone was the

motive of the crime.

Next, as to the manner in which the crime was committed.

On examination of the room (which is only seven feet high), a trap-door

in the ceiling, leading out on to the roof of the house, was discovered

open. The short ladder, used for obtaining access to the trap-door (and

kept under the bed), was found placed at the opening, so as to enable

any person or persons, in the room, to leave it again easily. In the

trap-door itself was found a square aperture cut in the wood,

apparently with some exceedingly sharp instrument, just behind the bolt

which fastened the door on the inner side. In this way, any person from

the outside could have drawn back the bolt, and opened the door, and

have dropped (or have been noiselessly lowered by an accomplice) into

the room—its height, as already observed, being only seven feet. That

some person, or persons, must have got admission in this way, appears

evident from the fact of the aperture being there. As to the manner in

which he (or they) obtained access to the roof of the tavern, it is to

be remarked that the third house, lower down in the street, was empty,

and under repair—that a long ladder was left by the workmen, leading

from the pavement to the top of the house—and that, on returning to

their work, on the morning of the 27th, the men found the plank which

they had tied to the ladder, to prevent anyone from using it in their

absence, removed, and lying on the ground. As to the possibility of

ascending by this ladder, passing over the roofs of the houses, passing

back, and descending again, unobserved—it is discovered, on the

evidence of the night policeman, that he only passes through Shore Lane

twice in an hour, when out on his beat. The testimony of the

inhabitants also declares, that Shore Lane, after midnight, is one of

the quietest and loneliest streets in London. Here again, therefore, it

seems fair to infer that—with ordinary caution, and presence of

mind—any man, or men, might have ascended by the ladder, and might have

descended again, unobserved. Once on the roof of the tavern, it has

been proved, by experiment, that a man might cut through the trap-door,

while lying down on it, and that in such a position, the parapet in

front of the house would conceal him from the view of anyone passing in

the street.

Lastly, as to the person, or persons, by whom the crime was committed.

It is known (1) that the Indians had an interest in possessing

themselves of the Diamond. (2) It is at least probable that the man

looking like an Indian, whom Octavius Guy saw at the window of the cab,

speaking to the man dressed like a mechanic, was one of the three

Hindoo conspirators. (3) It is certain that this same man dressed like

a mechanic, was seen keeping Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite in view, all through

the evening of the 26th, and was found in the bedroom (before Mr.

Ablewhite was shown into it) under circumstances which lead to the

suspicion that he was examining the room. (4) A morsel of torn gold

thread was picked up in the bedroom, which persons expert in such

matters, declare to be of Indian manufacture, and to be a species of

gold thread not known in England. (5) On the morning of the 27th, three

men, answering to the description of the three Indians, were observed

in Lower Thames Street, were traced to the Tower Wharf, and were seen

to leave London by the steamer bound for Rotterdam.

There is here, moral, if not legal, evidence, that the murder was

committed by the Indians.

Whether the man personating a mechanic was, or was not, an accomplice

in the crime, it is impossible to say. That he could have committed the

murder alone, seems beyond the limits of probability. Acting by

himself, he could hardly have smothered Mr. Ablewhite—who was the

taller and stronger man of the two—without a struggle taking place, or

a cry being heard. A servant girl, sleeping in the next room, heard

nothing. The landlord, sleeping in the room below, heard nothing. The

whole evidence points to the inference that more than one man was

concerned in this crime—and the circumstances, I repeat, morally

justify the conclusion that the Indians committed it.

I have only to add, that the verdict at the Coroner’s Inquest was

Wilful Murder against some person, or persons, unknown. Mr. Ablewhite’s

family have offered a reward, and no effort has been left untried to

discover the guilty persons. The man dressed like a mechanic has eluded

all inquiries. The Indians have been traced. As to the prospect of

ultimately capturing these last, I shall have a word to say to you on

that head, when I reach the end of the present Report.

In the meanwhile, having now written all that is needful on the subject

of Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite’s death, I may pass next to the narrative of

his proceedings before, during, and after the time, when you and he met

at the late Lady Verinder’s house.

III

With regard to the subject now in hand, I may state, at the outset,

that Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite’s life had two sides to it.

The side turned up to the public view, presented the spectacle of a

gentleman, possessed of considerable reputation as a speaker at

charitable meetings, and endowed with administrative abilities, which

he placed at the disposal of various Benevolent Societies, mostly of

the female sort. The side kept hidden from the general notice,

exhibited this same gentleman in the totally different character of a

man of pleasure, with a villa in the suburbs which was not taken in his

own name, and with a lady in the villa, who was not taken in his own

name, either.

My investigations in the villa have shown me several fine pictures and

statues; furniture tastefully selected, and admirably made; and a

conservatory of the rarest flowers, the match of which it would not be

easy to find in all London. My investigation of the lady has resulted

in the discovery of jewels which are worthy to take rank with the

flowers, and of carriages and horses which have (deservedly) produced a

sensation in the Park, among persons well qualified to judge of the

build of the one, and the breed of the others.

All this is, so far, common enough. The villa and the lady are such

familiar objects in London life, that I ought to apologise for

introducing them to notice. But what is not common and not familiar (in

my experience), is that all these fine things were not only ordered,

but paid for. The pictures, the statues, the flowers, the jewels, the

carriages, and the horses—inquiry proved, to my indescribable

astonishment, that not a sixpence of debt was owing on any of them. As

to the villa, it had been bought, out and out, and settled on the lady.

I might have tried to find the right reading of this riddle, and tried

in vain—but for Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite’s death, which caused an inquiry

to be made into the state of his affairs.

The inquiry elicited these facts:—

That Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite was entrusted with the care of a sum of

twenty thousand pounds—as one of two Trustees for a young gentleman,

who was still a minor in the year eighteen hundred and forty-eight.

That the Trust was to lapse, and that the young gentleman was to

receive the twenty thousand pounds on the day when he came of age, in

the month of February, eighteen hundred and fifty. That, pending the

arrival of this period, an income of six hundred pounds was to be paid

to him by his two Trustees, half-yearly—at Christmas and Midsummer Day.

That this income was regularly paid by the active Trustee, Mr. Godfrey

Ablewhite. That the twenty thousand pounds (from which the income was

supposed to be derived) had every farthing of it been sold out of the

Funds, at different periods, ending with the end of the year eighteen

hundred and forty-seven. That the power of attorney, authorising the

bankers to sell out the stock, and the various written orders telling

them what amounts to sell out, were formally signed by both the

Trustees. That the signature of the second Trustee (a retired army

officer, living in the country) was a signature forged, in every case,

by the active Trustee—otherwise Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.

In these facts lies the explanation of Mr. Godfrey’s honourable

conduct, in paying the debts incurred for the lady and the villa—and

(as you will presently see) of more besides.

We may now advance to the date of Miss Verinder’s birthday (in the year

eighteen hundred and forty-eight)—the twenty-first of June.

On the day before, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite arrived at his father’s house,

and asked (as I know from Mr. Ablewhite, senior, himself) for a loan of

three hundred pounds. Mark the sum; and remember at the same time, that

the half-yearly payment to the young gentleman was due on the

twenty-fourth of the month. Also, that the whole of the young

gentleman’s fortune had been spent by his Trustee, by the end of the

year ’forty-seven.

Mr. Ablewhite, senior, refused to lend his son a farthing.

The next day Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite rode over, with you, to Lady

Verinder’s house. A few hours afterwards, Mr. Godfrey (as you yourself

have told me) made a proposal of marriage to Miss Verinder. Here, he

saw his way no doubt—if accepted—to the end of all his money anxieties,

present and future. But, as events actually turned out, what happened?

Miss Verinder refused him.

On the night of the birthday, therefore, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite’s

pecuniary position was this. He had three hundred pounds to find on the

twenty-fourth of the month, and twenty thousand pounds to find in

February eighteen hundred and fifty. Failing to raise these sums, at

these times, he was a ruined man.

Under those circumstances, what takes place next?

You exasperate Mr. Candy, the doctor, on the sore subject of his

profession; and he plays you a practical joke, in return, with a dose

of laudanum. He trusts the administration of the dose, prepared in a

little phial, to Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite—who has himself confessed the

share he had in the matter, under circumstances which shall presently

be related to you. Mr. Godfrey is all the readier to enter into the

conspiracy, having himself suffered from your sharp tongue in the

course of the evening. He joins Betteredge in persuading you to drink a

little brandy and water before you go to bed. He privately drops the

dose of laudanum into your cold grog. And you drink the mixture.

Let us now shift the scene, if you please to Mr. Luker’s house at

Lambeth. And allow me to remark, by way of preface, that Mr. Bruff and

I, together, have found a means of forcing the money-lender to make a

clean breast of it. We have carefully sifted the statement he has

addressed to us; and here it is at your service.

IV

Late on the evening of Friday, the twenty-third of June (’forty-eight),

Mr. Luker was surprised by a visit from Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite. He was

more than surprised, when Mr. Godfrey produced the Moonstone. No such

Diamond (according to Mr. Luker’s experience) was in the possession of

any private person in Europe.

Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite had two modest proposals to make, in relation to

this magnificent gem. First, Would Mr. Luker be so good as to buy it?

Secondly, Would Mr. Luker (in default of seeing his way to the

purchase) undertake to sell it on commission, and to pay a sum down, on

the anticipated result?

Mr. Luker tested the Diamond, weighed the Diamond and estimated the

value of the Diamond, before he answered a word. _His_ estimate

(allowing for the flaw in the stone) was thirty thousand pounds.

Having reached that result, Mr. Luker opened his lips, and put a

question: “How did you come by this?” Only six words! But what volumes

of meaning in them!

Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite began a story. Mr. Luker opened his lips again,

and only said three words, this time. “That won’t do!”

Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite began another story. Mr. Luker wasted no more

words on him. He got up, and rang the bell for the servant to show the

gentleman out.

Upon this compulsion, Mr. Godfrey made an effort, and came out with a

new and amended version of the affair, to the following effect.

After privately slipping the laudanum into your brandy and water, he

wished you good-night, and went into his own room. It was the next room

to yours; and the two had a door of communication between them. On

entering his own room Mr. Godfrey (as he supposed) closed his door. His

money troubles kept him awake. He sat, in his dressing-gown and

slippers, for nearly an hour, thinking over his position. Just as he

was preparing to get into bed, he heard you, talking to yourself, in

your own room, and going to the door of communication, found that he

had not shut it as he supposed.

He looked into your room to see what was the matter. He discovered you

with the candle in your hand, just leaving your bedchamber. He heard

you say to yourself, in a voice quite unlike your own voice, “How do I

know? The Indians may be hidden in the house.”

Up to that time, he had simply supposed himself (in giving you the

laudanum) to be helping to make you the victim of a harmless practical

joke. It now occurred to him, that the laudanum had taken some effect

on you, which had not been foreseen by the doctor, any more than by

himself. In the fear of an accident happening he followed you softly to

see what you would do.

He followed you to Miss Verinder’s sitting-room, and saw you go in. You

left the door open. He looked through the crevice thus produced,

between the door and the post, before he ventured into the room

himself.

In that position, he not only detected you in taking the Diamond out of

the drawer—he also detected Miss Verinder, silently watching you from

her bedroom, through her open door. His own eyes satisfied him that

_she_ saw you take the Diamond, too.

Before you left the sitting-room again, you hesitated a little. Mr.

Godfrey took advantage of this hesitation to get back again to his

bedroom before you came out, and discovered him. He had barely got

back, before you got back too. You saw him (as he supposes) just as he

was passing through the door of communication. At any rate, you called

to him in a strange, drowsy voice.

He came back to you. You looked at him in a dull sleepy way. You put

the Diamond into his hand. You said to him, “Take it back, Godfrey, to

your father’s bank. It’s safe there—it’s not safe here.” You turned

away unsteadily, and put on your dressing-gown. You sat down in the

large arm-chair in your room. You said, “_I_ can’t take it back to the

bank. My head’s like lead—and I can’t feel my feet under me.” Your head

sank on the back of the chair—you heaved a heavy sigh—and you fell

asleep.

Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite went back, with the Diamond, into his own room.

His statement is, that he came to no conclusion, at that time—except

that he would wait, and see what happened in the morning.

When the morning came, your language and conduct showed that you were

absolutely ignorant of what you had said and done overnight. At the

same time, Miss Verinder’s language and conduct showed that she was

resolved to say nothing (in mercy to you) on her side. If Mr. Godfrey

Ablewhite chose to keep the Diamond, he might do so with perfect

impunity. The Moonstone stood between him and ruin. He put the

Moonstone into his pocket.

V

This was the story told by your cousin (under pressure of necessity) to

Mr. Luker.

Mr. Luker believed the story to be, as to all main essentials, true—on

this ground, that Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite was too great a fool to have

invented it. Mr. Bruff and I agree with Mr. Luker, in considering this

test of the truth of the story to be a perfectly reliable one.

The next question, was the question of what Mr. Luker would do in the

matter of the Moonstone. He proposed the following terms, as the only

terms on which he would consent to mix himself up with, what was (even

in _his_ line of business) a doubtful and dangerous transaction.

Mr. Luker would consent to lend Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite the sum of two

thousand pounds, on condition that the Moonstone was to be deposited

with him as a pledge. If, at the expiration of one year from that date,

Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite paid three thousand pounds to Mr. Luker, he was

to receive back the Diamond, as a pledge redeemed. If he failed to

produce the money at the expiration of the year, the pledge (otherwise

the Moonstone) was to be considered as forfeited to Mr. Luker—who

would, in this latter case, generously make Mr. Godfrey a present of

certain promissory notes of his (relating to former dealings) which

were then in the money-lender’s possession.

It is needless to say, that Mr. Godfrey indignantly refused to listen

to these monstrous terms. Mr. Luker thereupon, handed him back the

Diamond, and wished him good-night.

Your cousin went to the door, and came back again. How was he to be

sure that the conversation of that evening would be kept strictly

secret between his friend and himself?

Mr. Luker didn’t profess to know how. If Mr. Godfrey had accepted his

terms, Mr. Godfrey would have made him an accomplice, and might have

counted on his silence as on a certainty. As things were, Mr. Luker

must be guided by his own interests. If awkward inquiries were made,

how could he be expected to compromise himself, for the sake of a man

who had declined to deal with him?

Receiving this reply, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite did, what all animals

(human and otherwise) do, when they find themselves caught in a trap.

He looked about him in a state of helpless despair. The day of the

month, recorded on a neat little card in a box on the money-lender’s

chimney-piece, happened to attract his eye. It was the twenty-third of

June. On the twenty-fourth he had three hundred pounds to pay to the

young gentleman for whom he was trustee, and no chance of raising the

money, except the chance that Mr. Luker had offered to him. But for

this miserable obstacle, he might have taken the Diamond to Amsterdam,

and have made a marketable commodity of it, by having it cut up into

separate stones. As matters stood, he had no choice but to accept Mr.

Luker’s terms. After all, he had a year at his disposal, in which to

raise the three thousand pounds—and a year is a long time.

Mr. Luker drew out the necessary documents on the spot. When they were

signed, he gave Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite two cheques. One, dated June

23rd, for three hundred pounds. Another, dated a week on, for the

remaining balance—seventeen hundred pounds.

How the Moonstone was trusted to the keeping of Mr. Luker’s bankers, and

how the Indians treated Mr. Luker and Mr. Godfrey (after that had been

done) you know already.

The next event in your cousin’s life refers again to Miss Verinder. He

proposed marriage to her for the second time—and (after having being

accepted) he consented, at her request, to consider the marriage as

broken off. One of his reasons for making this concession has been

penetrated by Mr. Bruff. Miss Verinder had only a life interest in her

mother’s property—and there was no raising the twenty thousand pounds

on _that_.

But you will say, he might have saved the three thousand pounds, to

redeem the pledged Diamond, if he had married. He might have done so

certainly—supposing neither his wife, nor her guardians and trustees,

objected to his anticipating more than half of the income at his

disposal, for some unknown purpose, in the first year of his marriage.

But even if he got over this obstacle, there was another waiting for

him in the background. The lady at the Villa, had heard of his

contemplated marriage. A superb woman, Mr. Blake, of the sort that are

not to be trifled with—the sort with the light complexion and the Roman

nose. She felt the utmost contempt for Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite. It would

be silent contempt, if he made a handsome provision for her. Otherwise,

it would be contempt with a tongue to it. Miss Verinder’s life interest

allowed him no more hope of raising the “provision” than of raising the

twenty thousand pounds. He couldn’t marry—he really couldn’t marry,

under all the circumstances.

How he tried his luck again with another lady, and how _that_ marriage

also broke down on the question of money, you know already. You also

know of the legacy of five thousand pounds, left to him shortly

afterwards, by one of those many admirers among the soft sex whose good

graces this fascinating man had contrived to win. That legacy (as the

event has proved) led him to his death.

I have ascertained that when he went abroad, on getting his five

thousand pounds, he went to Amsterdam. There he made all the necessary

arrangements for having the Diamond cut into separate stones. He came

back (in disguise), and redeemed the Moonstone, on the appointed day. A

few days were allowed to elapse (as a precaution agreed to by both

parties) before the jewel was actually taken out of the bank. If he had

got safe with it to Amsterdam, there would have been just time between

July ’forty-nine, and February ’fifty (when the young gentleman came of

age) to cut the Diamond, and to make a marketable commodity (polished

or unpolished) of the separate stones. Judge from this, what motives he

had to run the risk which he actually ran. It was “neck or nothing”

with him—if ever it was “neck or nothing” with a man yet.

I have only to remind you, before closing this Report, that there is a

chance of laying hands on the Indians, and of recovering the Moonstone

yet. They are now (there is every reason to believe) on their passage

to Bombay, in an East Indiaman. The ship (barring accidents) will touch

at no other port on her way out; and the authorities at Bombay (already

communicated with by letter, overland) will be prepared to board the

vessel, the moment she enters the harbour.

I have the honour to remain, dear sir, your obedient servant, RICHARD

CUFF (late sergeant in the Detective Force, Scotland Yard, London).*

* NOTE.—Wherever the Report touches on the events of the birthday, or

of the three days that followed it, compare with Betteredge’s

Narrative, chapters viii. to xiii.

SEVENTH NARRATIVE.

_In a Letter from Mr. Candy._

Frizinghall, Wednesday, September 26th, 1849.—Dear Mr. Franklin Blake,

you will anticipate the sad news I have to tell you, on finding your

letter to Ezra Jennings returned to you, unopened, in this enclosure.

He died in my arms, at sunrise, on Wednesday last.

I am not to blame for having failed to warn you that his end was at

hand. He expressly forbade me to write to you. “I am indebted to Mr.

Franklin Blake,” he said, “for having seen some happy days. Don’t

distress him, Mr. Candy—don’t distress him.”

His sufferings, up to the last six hours of his life, were terrible to

see. In the intervals of remission, when his mind was clear, I

entreated him to tell me of any relatives of his to whom I might write.

He asked to be forgiven for refusing anything to _me_. And then he

said—not bitterly—that he would die as he had lived, forgotten and

unknown. He maintained that resolution to the last. There is no hope

now of making any discoveries concerning him. His story is a blank.

The day before he died, he told me where to find all his papers. I

brought them to him on his bed. There was a little bundle of old

letters which he put aside. There was his unfinished book. There was

his Diary—in many locked volumes. He opened the volume for this year,

and tore out, one by one, the pages relating to the time when you and

he were together. “Give those,” he said, “to Mr. Franklin Blake. In

years to come, he may feel an interest in looking back at what is

written there.” Then he clasped his hands, and prayed God fervently to

bless you, and those dear to you. He said he should like to see you

again. But the next moment he altered his mind. “No,” he answered when

I offered to write. “I won’t distress him! I won’t distress him!”

At his request I next collected the other papers—that is to say, the

bundle of letters, the unfinished book and the volumes of the Diary—and

enclosed them all in one wrapper, sealed with my own seal. “Promise,”

he said, “that you will put this into my coffin with your own hand; and

that you will see that no other hand touches it afterwards.”

I gave him my promise. And the promise has been performed.

He asked me to do one other thing for him—which it cost me a hard

struggle to comply with. He said, “Let my grave be forgotten. Give me

your word of honour that you will allow no monument of any sort—not

even the commonest tombstone—to mark the place of my burial. Let me

sleep, nameless. Let me rest, unknown.” When I tried to plead with him

to alter his resolution, he became for the first, and only time,

violently agitated. I could not bear to see it; and I gave way. Nothing

but a little grass mound marks the place of his rest. In time, the

tombstones will rise round it. And the people who come after us will

look and wonder at the nameless grave.

As I have told you, for six hours before his death his sufferings

ceased. He dozed a little. I think he dreamed. Once or twice he smiled.

A woman’s name, as I suppose—the name of “Ella”—was often on his lips

at this time. A few minutes before the end he asked me to lift him on

his pillow, to see the sun rise through the window. He was very weak.

His head fell on my shoulder. He whispered, “It’s coming!” Then he

said, “Kiss me!” I kissed his forehead. On a sudden he lifted his head.

The sunlight touched his face. A beautiful expression, an angelic

expression, came over it. He cried out three times, “Peace! peace!

peace!” His head sank back again on my shoulder, and the long trouble

of his life was at an end.

So he has gone from us. This was, as I think, a great man—though the

world never knew him. He had the sweetest temper I have ever met with.

The loss of him makes me feel very lonely. Perhaps I have never been

quite myself since my illness. Sometimes, I think of giving up my

practice, and going away, and trying what some of the foreign baths and

waters will do for me.

It is reported here, that you and Miss Verinder are to be married next

month. Please to accept my best congratulations.

The pages of my poor friend’s Journal are waiting for you at my

house—sealed up, with your name on the wrapper. I was afraid to trust

them to the post.

My best respects and good wishes attend Miss Verinder. I remain, dear

Mr. Franklin Blake, truly yours,

THOMAS CANDY.

EIGHTH NARRATIVE.

_Contributed by Gabriel Betteredge._

I am the person (as you remember no doubt) who led the way in these

pages, and opened the story. I am also the person who is left behind,

as it were, to close the story up.

Let nobody suppose that I have any last words to say here concerning

the Indian Diamond. I hold that unlucky jewel in abhorrence—and I refer

you to other authority than mine, for such news of the Moonstone as you

may, at the present time, be expected to receive. My purpose, in this

place, is to state a fact in the history of the family, which has been

passed over by everybody, and which I won’t allow to be disrespectfully

smothered up in that way. The fact to which I allude is—the marriage of

Miss Rachel and Mr. Franklin Blake. This interesting event took place

at our house in Yorkshire, on Tuesday, October ninth, eighteen hundred

and forty-nine. I had a new suit of clothes on the occasion. And the

married couple went to spend the honeymoon in Scotland.

Family festivals having been rare enough at our house, since my poor

mistress’s death, I own—on this occasion of the wedding—to having

(towards the latter part of the day) taken a drop too much on the

strength of it.

If you have ever done the same sort of thing yourself you will

understand and feel for me. If you have not, you will very likely say,

“Disgusting old man! why does he tell us this?” The reason why is now

to come.

Having, then, taken my drop (bless you! you have got your favourite

vice, too; only your vice isn’t mine, and mine isn’t yours), I next

applied the one infallible remedy—that remedy being, as you know,

_Robinson Crusoe_. Where I opened that unrivalled book, I can’t say.

Where the lines of print at last left off running into each other, I

know, however, perfectly well. It was at page three hundred and

eighteen—a domestic bit concerning Robinson Crusoe’s marriage, as

follows:

“With those Thoughts, I considered my new Engagement, that I had a

Wife”—(Observe! so had Mr. Franklin!)—“one Child born”—(Observe again!

that might yet be Mr. Franklin’s case, too!)—“and my Wife then”—What

Robinson Crusoe’s wife did, or did not do, “then,” I felt no desire to

discover. I scored the bit about the Child with my pencil, and put a

morsel of paper for a mark to keep the place; “Lie you there,” I said,

“till the marriage of Mr. Franklin and Miss Rachel is some months

older—and then we’ll see!”

The months passed (more than I had bargained for), and no occasion

presented itself for disturbing that mark in the book. It was not till

this present month of November, eighteen hundred and fifty, that Mr.

Franklin came into my room, in high good spirits, and said,

“Betteredge! I have got some news for you! Something is going to happen

in the house, before we are many months older.”

“Does it concern the family, sir?” I asked.

“It decidedly concerns the family,” says Mr. Franklin.

“Has your good lady anything to do with it, if you please, sir?”

“She has a great deal to do with it,” says Mr. Franklin, beginning to

look a little surprised.

“You needn’t say a word more, sir,” I answered. “God bless you both!

I’m heartily glad to hear it.”

Mr. Franklin stared like a person thunderstruck. “May I venture to

inquire where you got your information?” he asked. “I only got mine

(imparted in the strictest secrecy) five minutes since.”

Here was an opportunity of producing _Robinson Crusoe_! Here was a

chance of reading that domestic bit about the child which I had marked

on the day of Mr. Franklin’s marriage! I read those miraculous words

with an emphasis which did them justice, and then I looked him severely

in the face. “_Now_, sir, do you believe in _Robinson Crusoe_?” I

asked, with a solemnity suitable to the occasion.

“Betteredge!” says Mr. Franklin, with equal solemnity, “I’m convinced

at last.” He shook hands with me—and I felt that I had converted him.

With the relation of this extraordinary circumstance, my reappearance

in these pages comes to an end. Let nobody laugh at the unique anecdote

here related. You are welcome to be as merry as you please over

everything else I have written. But when I write of _Robinson Crusoe_,

by the Lord it’s serious—and I request you to take it accordingly!

When this is said, all is said. Ladies and gentlemen, I make my bow,

and shut up the story.

EPILOGUE.

THE FINDING OF THE DIAMOND.

I

THE STATEMENT OF SERGEANT CUFF’S MAN. (1849.)

On the twenty-seventh of June last, I received instructions from

Sergeant Cuff to follow three men; suspected of murder, and described

as Indians. They had been seen on the Tower Wharf that morning,

embarking on board the steamer bound for Rotterdam.

I left London by a steamer belonging to another company, which sailed

on the morning of Thursday the twenty-eighth. Arriving at Rotterdam, I

succeeded in finding the commander of the Wednesday’s steamer. He

informed me that the Indians had certainly been passengers on board his

vessel—but as far as Gravesend only. Off that place, one of the three

had inquired at what time they would reach Calais. On being informed

that the steamer was bound to Rotterdam, the spokesman of the party

expressed the greatest surprise and distress at the mistake which he

and his two friends had made. They were all willing (he said) to

sacrifice their passage money, if the commander of the steamer would

only put them ashore. Commiserating their position, as foreigners in a

strange land, and knowing no reason for detaining them, the commander

signalled for a shore boat, and the three men left the vessel.

This proceeding of the Indians having been plainly resolved on

beforehand, as a means of preventing their being traced, I lost no time

in returning to England. I left the steamer at Gravesend, and

discovered that the Indians had gone from that place to London. Thence,

I again traced them as having left for Plymouth. Inquiries made at

Plymouth proved that they had sailed, forty-eight hours previously, in

the _Bewley Castle_, East Indiaman, bound direct to Bombay.

On receiving this intelligence, Sergeant Cuff caused the authorities at

Bombay to be communicated with, overland—so that the vessel might be

boarded by the police immediately on her entering the port. This step

having been taken, my connection with the matter came to an end. I have

heard nothing more of it since that time.

II

THE STATEMENT OF THE CAPTAIN. (1849.)

I am requested by Sergeant Cuff to set in writing certain facts,

concerning three men (believed to be Hindoos) who were passengers, last

summer, in the ship _Bewley Castle_, bound for Bombay direct, under my

command.

The Hindoos joined us at Plymouth. On the passage out I heard no

complaint of their conduct. They were berthed in the forward part of

the vessel. I had but few occasions myself of personally noticing them.

In the latter part of the voyage, we had the misfortune to be becalmed

for three days and nights, off the coast of India. I have not got the

ship’s journal to refer to, and I cannot now call to mind the latitude

and longitude. As to our position, therefore, I am only able to state

generally that the currents drifted us in towards the land, and that

when the wind found us again, we reached our port in twenty-four hours

afterwards.

The discipline of a ship (as all seafaring persons know) becomes

relaxed in a long calm. The discipline of my ship became relaxed.

Certain gentlemen among the passengers got some of the smaller boats

lowered, and amused themselves by rowing about, and swimming, when the

sun at evening time was cool enough to let them divert themselves in

that way. The boats when done with ought to have been slung up again in

their places. Instead of this they were left moored to the ship’s side.

What with the heat, and what with the vexation of the weather, neither

officers nor men seemed to be in heart for their duty while the calm

lasted.

On the third night, nothing unusual was heard or seen by the watch on

deck. When the morning came, the smallest of the boats was missing—and

the three Hindoos were next reported to be missing, too.

If these men had stolen the boat shortly after dark (which I have no

doubt they did), we were near enough to the land to make it vain to

send in pursuit of them, when the discovery was made in the morning. I

have no doubt they got ashore, in that calm weather (making all due

allowance for fatigue and clumsy rowing), before day-break.

On reaching our port, I there learnt, for the first time, the reason

these passengers had for seizing their opportunity of escaping from the

ship. I could only make the same statement to the authorities which I

have made here. They considered me to blame for allowing the discipline

of the vessel to be relaxed. I have expressed my regret on this score

to them, and to my owners.

Since that time, nothing has been heard to my knowledge of the three

Hindoos. I have no more to add to what is here written.

III

THE STATEMENT OF MR. MURTHWAITE. (1850.)

_(In a letter to Mr. Bruff.)_

Have you any recollection, my dear sir, of a semi-savage person whom

you met out at dinner, in London, in the autumn of ’forty-eight? Permit

me to remind you that the person’s name was Murthwaite, and that you

and he had a long conversation together after dinner. The talk related

to an Indian Diamond, called the Moonstone, and to a conspiracy then in

existence to get possession of the gem.

Since that time, I have been wandering in Central Asia. Thence I have

drifted back to the scene of some of my past adventures in the north

and north-west of India. About a fortnight since, I found myself in a

certain district or province (but little known to Europeans) called

Kattiawar.

Here an adventure befell me, in which (incredible as it may appear) you

are personally interested.

In the wild regions of Kattiawar (and how wild they are, you will

understand, when I tell you that even the husbandmen plough the land,

armed to the teeth), the population is fanatically devoted to the old

Hindoo religion—to the ancient worship of Bramah and Vishnu. The few

Mahometan families, thinly scattered about the villages in the

interior, are afraid to taste meat of any kind. A Mahometan even

suspected of killing that sacred animal, the cow, is, as a matter of

course, put to death without mercy in these parts by the pious Hindoo

neighbours who surround him. To strengthen the religious enthusiasm of

the people, two of the most famous shrines of Hindoo pilgrimage are

contained within the boundaries of Kattiawar. One of them is Dwarka,

the birthplace of the god Krishna. The other is the sacred city of

Somnauth—sacked, and destroyed as long since as the eleventh century,

by the Mahometan conqueror, Mahmoud of Ghizni.

Finding myself, for the second time, in these romantic regions, I

resolved not to leave Kattiawar, without looking once more on the

magnificent desolation of Somnauth. At the place where I planned to do

this, I was (as nearly as I could calculate it) some three days

distant, journeying on foot, from the sacred city.

I had not been long on the road, before I noticed that other people—by

twos and threes—appeared to be travelling in the same direction as

myself.

To such of these as spoke to me, I gave myself out as a

Hindoo-Boodhist, from a distant province, bound on a pilgrimage. It is

needless to say that my dress was of the sort to carry out this

description. Add, that I know the language as well as I know my own,

and that I am lean enough and brown enough to make it no easy matter to

detect my European origin—and you will understand that I passed muster

with the people readily: not as one of themselves, but as a stranger

from a distant part of their own country.

On the second day, the number of Hindoos travelling in my direction had

increased to fifties and hundreds. On the third day, the throng had

swollen to thousands; all slowly converging to one point—the city of

Somnauth.

A trifling service which I was able to render to one of my

fellow-pilgrims, during the third day’s journey, proved the means of

introducing me to certain Hindoos of the higher caste. From these men I

learnt that the multitude was on its way to a great religious ceremony,

which was to take place on a hill at a little distance from Somnauth.

The ceremony was in honour of the god of the Moon; and it was to be

held at night.

The crowd detained us as we drew near to the place of celebration. By

the time we reached the hill the moon was high in the heaven. My Hindoo

friends possessed some special privileges which enabled them to gain

access to the shrine. They kindly allowed me to accompany them. When we

arrived at the place, we found the shrine hidden from our view by a

curtain hung between two magnificent trees. Beneath the trees a flat

projection of rock jutted out, and formed a species of natural

platform. Below this, I stood, in company with my Hindoo friends.

Looking back down the hill, the view presented the grandest spectacle

of Nature and Man, in combination, that I have ever seen. The lower

slopes of the eminence melted imperceptibly into a grassy plain, the

place of the meeting of three rivers. On one side, the graceful winding

of the waters stretched away, now visible, now hidden by trees, as far

as the eye could see. On the other, the waveless ocean slept in the

calm of the night. People this lovely scene with tens of thousands of

human creatures, all dressed in white, stretching down the sides of the

hill, overflowing into the plain, and fringing the nearer banks of the

winding rivers. Light this halt of the pilgrims by the wild red flames

of cressets and torches, streaming up at intervals from every part of

the innumerable throng. Imagine the moonlight of the East, pouring in

unclouded glory over all—and you will form some idea of the view that

met me when I looked forth from the summit of the hill.

A strain of plaintive music, played on stringed instruments and flutes,

recalled my attention to the hidden shrine.

I turned, and saw on the rocky platform the figures of three men. In

the central figure of the three I recognised the man to whom I had

spoken in England, when the Indians appeared on the terrace at Lady

Verinder’s house. The other two who had been his companions on that

occasion were no doubt his companions also on this.

One of the spectators, near whom I was standing, saw me start. In a

whisper, he explained to me the apparition of the three figures on the

platform of rock.

They were Brahmins (he said) who had forfeited their caste in the

service of the god. The god had commanded that their purification

should be the purification by pilgrimage. On that night, the three men

were to part. In three separate directions, they were to set forth as

pilgrims to the shrines of India. Never more were they to look on each

other’s faces. Never more were they to rest on their wanderings, from

the day which witnessed their separation, to the day which witnessed

their death.

As those words were whispered to me, the plaintive music ceased. The

three men prostrated themselves on the rock, before the curtain which

hid the shrine. They rose—they looked on one another—they embraced.

Then they descended separately among the people. The people made way

for them in dead silence. In three different directions I saw the crowd

part, at one and the same moment. Slowly the grand white mass of the

people closed together again. The track of the doomed men through the

ranks of their fellow mortals was obliterated. We saw them no more.

A new strain of music, loud and jubilant, rose from the hidden shrine.

The crowd around me shuddered, and pressed together.

The curtain between the trees was drawn aside, and the shrine was

disclosed to view.

There, raised high on a throne—seated on his typical antelope, with his

four arms stretching towards the four corners of the earth—there,

soared above us, dark and awful in the mystic light of heaven, the god

of the Moon. And there, in the forehead of the deity, gleamed the

yellow Diamond, whose splendour had last shone on me in England, from

the bosom of a woman’s dress!

Yes! after the lapse of eight centuries, the Moonstone looks forth once

more, over the walls of the sacred city in which its story first began.

How it has found its way back to its wild native land—by what accident,

or by what crime, the Indians regained possession of their sacred gem,

may be in your knowledge, but is not in mine. You have lost sight of it

in England, and (if I know anything of this people) you have lost sight

of it for ever.

So the years pass, and repeat each other; so the same events revolve in

the cycles of time. What will be the next adventures of the Moonstone?

Who can tell?

FINIS