CHAPTER VI

von Wilkie Collins

Keeping my thoughts to myself, I politely urged Mr. Franklin to continue. He responded with a casual, “Don’t fidget, Betteredge,” and pressed on.

The first thing our young gentleman revealed was that his investigation into the devious Colonel and the Diamond had started with a visit he made to the family lawyer in Hampstead before arriving at our doorstep. A casual comment from Mr. Franklin, during a private moment with the lawyer after dinner one evening, unveiled that he had been tasked by his father to deliver a birthday gift to Miss Rachel. This led to a series of revelations, culminating in the lawyer disclosing the true nature of the gift and the backstory of the relationship between the late Colonel and Mr. Blake, senior. The details are so remarkable that I worry my own words might not do them justice. Instead, I’ll recount Mr. Franklin’s findings as closely as possible in his own words.

“You remember, Betteredge,” he began, “when my father was trying to prove his claim to that cursed Dukedom? That was also when my uncle Herncastle returned from India. My father learned that his brother-in-law possessed certain papers that could help him in his legal battle. He visited the Colonel under the guise of welcoming him back to England. But the Colonel wasn’t fooled. ‘You want something,’ he said, ‘or you wouldn’t have compromised your reputation by coming to see me.’ Realizing he had no choice, my father confessed that he needed the papers. The Colonel asked for a day to think it over. His response came in the form of a bizarre letter, which my lawyer friend showed me.

The Colonel started by stating that he needed something from my father and proposed a mutual exchange of favors. He claimed that fortune had placed him in possession of one of the largest Diamonds in the world, and he believed that neither he nor his precious jewel was safe anywhere they went together. Given these alarming circumstances, he decided to entrust his Diamond to someone else. This person wouldn’t be expected to take any risks. They could store the valuable gem in a secure location—like a bank or a jeweler’s vault. The only responsibility they would have was to receive a note from the Colonel at a prearranged address on specific dates each year, simply confirming that he was alive. If the date passed without a note, it would mean the Colonel had been murdered. In that case, certain sealed instructions regarding the Diamond’s fate, which would be kept with it, were to be opened and followed without question. If my father accepted this strange task, the Colonel’s papers would be his in return. That was the gist of the letter.”

“What did your father do, sir?” I asked.

“Do?” Mr. Franklin replied. “I’ll tell you what he did. He applied a little common sense to the Colonel’s letter. He declared the whole thing absurd. Somewhere in his travels in India, the Colonel must have picked up some worthless crystal that he mistook for a diamond. As for the threat of murder and the precautions he devised to protect his life and his piece of crystal, this was the nineteenth century—any sensible person would just go to the police. The Colonel had been a notorious opium addict for years, and if the only way to get the valuable papers was to accept his opium-induced fantasies as reality, my father was more than willing to take on the ridiculous responsibility, especially since it involved no effort on his part. The Diamond and the sealed instructions were placed in his banker’s vault, and the Colonel’s letters, which periodically confirmed he was alive, were received and opened by our family lawyer, Mr. Bruff, acting on my father’s behalf. No rational person in a similar situation could have seen it any other way. Nothing in this world seems likely unless it aligns with our own limited experiences, and we only believe in a story when we read it in the newspaper.”

From this, it was clear to me that Mr. Franklin thought his father’s views on the Colonel were hasty and misguided.

“What’s your own opinion on the matter, sir?” I asked.

“Let’s wrap up the story about the Colonel first,” Mr. Franklin said. “There’s a strange lack of organization in the English mind, Betteredge, and your question is a perfect example of that. When we’re not busy building machines, we tend to be the most disorganized people in the world.”

I couldn’t help but think, “This must be what a foreign education does! He’s picked up that way of poking fun at us from France, I suppose.”

Mr. Franklin picked up the narrative again.

“My father managed to get the papers he needed and never saw his brother-in-law again after that. Year after year, on the scheduled dates, a letter from the Colonel arrived, opened by Mr. Bruff. I’ve seen those letters stacked together, all written in the same brief, business-like style: ‘Sir,—This is to certify that I am still alive. Let the Diamond be. John Herncastle.’ That was all he ever wrote, and it came like clockwork, until about six or eight months ago, when the letter changed for the first time. It read: ‘Sir,—They tell me I am dying. Come to me and help me make my will.’ Mr. Bruff went to see him and found him in a small suburban villa, surrounded by his own grounds, where he had lived alone since leaving India. He had dogs, cats, and birds for company, but no other humans nearby, except for the person who came daily to clean and the doctor at his bedside.

The will was straightforward. The Colonel had spent most of his fortune on his chemical experiments. It consisted of three clauses, which he dictated from his bed, fully aware of what he was doing. The first clause took care of his animals’ safety and support. The second established a professorship of experimental chemistry at a northern university. The third bequeathed the Moonstone as a birthday gift to his niece, on the condition that my father would act as executor. Initially, my father refused to take on the role. But after some thought, he changed his mind, partly because he was assured that being the executor wouldn’t be a hassle, and partly because Mr. Bruff suggested that, for Rachel’s sake, the Diamond might actually be worth something.”

“Did the Colonel give any reason for leaving the Diamond to Miss Rachel?” I asked.

“He not only provided a reason—he had it written in his will,” Mr. Franklin replied. “I have an excerpt that you’ll see shortly. Don’t be disorganized, Betteredge! One thing at a time. You’ve heard about the Colonel’s Will; now you need to know what happened after his death. It was necessary to have the Diamond appraised before the Will could be validated. All the jewelers consulted confirmed the Colonel’s claim that he owned one of the largest diamonds in the world. Determining its exact value proved to be quite challenging. Its size made it a standout in the diamond market; its color placed it in a league of its own; and to complicate matters further, there was a flaw right in the heart of the stone. Even with that significant drawback, the lowest estimate was twenty thousand pounds. Imagine my father’s shock! He had been on the verge of refusing to act as executor, which would have meant losing this incredible jewel to the family. His newfound interest led him to open the sealed instructions that had been kept with the Diamond. Mr. Bruff showed me this document along with the other papers, and it suggests, to me, a clue about the conspiracy that threatened the Colonel’s life.”

“So you do believe there was a conspiracy?” I asked.

“Not having my father’s remarkable common sense,” Mr. Franklin replied, “I believe the Colonel’s life was indeed in danger, just as he said. I think the sealed instructions explain how it was that he ended up dying peacefully in his bed. If he had died violently (meaning if he didn’t send his usual letter on the appointed date), my father was instructed to secretly send the Moonstone to Amsterdam. It was to be placed with a renowned diamond cutter there, and cut into four to six separate stones. Those stones were then to be sold for whatever they could fetch, and the proceeds would fund that professorship of experimental chemistry that the Colonel established in his Will. Now, Betteredge, use those sharp wits of yours and see where the Colonel’s instructions lead!”

I immediately tried to engage my wits. They were the typical disorganized English kind, and they ended up muddling everything until Mr. Franklin stepped in and pointed out what I should be seeing.

“Notice,” Mr. Franklin said, “how the integrity of the Diamond, as a complete stone, is cleverly tied to the Colonel’s survival. He doesn’t just tell his enemies, ‘Kill me, and you won’t get any closer to the Diamond; it’s locked away in a bank’s strongroom where you can’t reach it.’ Instead, he says, ‘Kill me, and the Diamond will lose its identity; it won’t be the same anymore.’ What does that imply?”

In that moment, a sudden realization struck me, like a flash of brilliant insight.

“I know,” I replied. “It means that it would lower the stone’s value and trick the thieves!”

“Not at all,” Mr. Franklin countered. “I’ve looked into that. A flawed Diamond, cut into pieces, would actually be worth more than it is now. The reason is simple: from it, four to six perfect gems could be cut, which would collectively fetch a higher price than the large, but imperfect, single stone. If the motive behind the conspiracy was theft for profit, the Colonel’s instructions actually made the Diamond more valuable to steal. They could have made more money from it, and selling it in the diamond market would have been much easier if it had gone through the hands of the craftsmen in Amsterdam.”

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “What was the plot, then?”

“A scheme devised by the Indians who originally owned the jewel,” Mr. Franklin explained. “A plot rooted in some ancient Hindu superstition. That’s my belief, supported by a family document I have with me right now.”

I finally understood why Mr. Franklin had taken note of the three Indian jugglers who had appeared at our house.

“I don’t want to impose my views on you,” Mr. Franklin continued. “The idea of certain chosen servants of an old Hindu superstition dedicating themselves, through all sorts of challenges and dangers, to reclaiming their sacred gem seems entirely consistent with what we know about the patience of Eastern cultures and the influence of their religions. But then again, I’m an imaginative person; I don’t see the butcher, the baker, and the tax collector as the only credible realities in the world. Let my speculation about the truth be what it is, and let’s focus on the only practical question that matters. Does the conspiracy against the Moonstone continue after the Colonel’s death? And was the Colonel aware of it when he left the birthday gift for his niece?”

I began to envision my lady and Miss Rachel in the midst of all this. I hung on every word he said.

“I wasn’t particularly eager to bring the story of the Moonstone here,” Mr. Franklin admitted. “But Mr. Bruff reminded me that someone had to pass my cousin’s legacy to her—and I might as well be the one to do it. After I took the Diamond out of the bank, I thought I noticed a shabby, dark-complexioned man following me in the streets. I went to my father’s house to collect my luggage and found a letter that unexpectedly kept me in London longer than I planned. I returned to the bank with the Diamond, and I thought I saw the shabby man again. This morning, when I took the Diamond out of the bank again, I spotted him for the third time, managed to lose him, and took the morning train instead of the afternoon. Here I am, with the Diamond safe, and what’s the first news I hear? Three wandering Indians have been at the house, and my arrival from London, along with whatever I’m supposed to have with me, are two things they’re particularly interested in when they think they’re alone. I won’t waste time on their antics, like pouring ink into a boy’s hand and telling him to look for a man at a distance and something in that man’s pocket. That trick, which I’ve seen many times in the East, is just ‘hocus-pocus’ in my opinion, as I’m sure it is in yours. The question we need to answer is whether I’m mistakenly attributing significance to a mere coincidence, or if we truly have evidence that the Indians are on the trail of the Moonstone the moment it leaves the bank’s protection.”

Neither of us seemed keen to tackle that part of the investigation. We exchanged glances, then turned our eyes to the tide, steadily rising over the Shivering Sand.

“What are you thinking?” Mr. Franklin asked suddenly.

“I was thinking,” I replied, “that I’d like to toss the Diamond into the quicksand and settle the matter that way.”

“If you’ve got the value of the stone in your pocket,” Mr. Franklin said, “then say so, Betteredge, and in it goes!”

It’s interesting to see how a small joke can lighten the mood when your mind is racing with anxiety. At the time, we found a strange kind of humor in the idea of taking Miss Rachel’s rightful inheritance and getting Mr. Blake, as the executor, into serious trouble. Looking back, I can’t quite understand what was funny about it.

Mr. Franklin was the first to steer the conversation back to its main purpose. He pulled an envelope from his pocket, opened it, and handed me the paper inside.

“Betteredge,” he said, “we need to confront the question of why the Colonel left this legacy to his niece, for my aunt’s sake. Remember how Lady Verinder treated her brother from the moment he returned to England until he mentioned remembering his niece’s birthday. Now, read this.”

He handed me an excerpt from the Colonel’s Will. I still have it with me as I write, and I’ll share it here for your understanding:

“Thirdly, and lastly, I give and bequeath to my niece, Rachel Verinder, daughter and only child of my sister, Julia Verinder, widow—if her mother, the said Julia Verinder, is alive on Rachel Verinder’s next birthday after my death—the yellow diamond known in the East as The Moonstone. This is conditional upon her mother, Julia Verinder, being alive at that time. I instruct my executor to deliver my diamond, either personally or through a trustworthy representative, into the hands of my niece Rachel on her next birthday after my death, ideally in the presence of my sister, Julia Verinder. I also wish for my sister to be informed, through a true copy of this clause of my Will, that I give the diamond to her daughter Rachel as a sign of my complete forgiveness for the damage her actions have caused to my reputation during my life; particularly as a testament to my pardon for the insult I suffered as an officer and a gentleman when her servant, at her command, closed the door of her house against me on her daughter’s birthday.”

The document continued with provisions for what should happen if either my lady or Miss Rachel had passed away at the time of the Colonel’s death, stating that the diamond should be sent to Holland according to sealed instructions originally filed with it. The proceeds from its sale would then be added to the funds already designated in the Will for a chemistry professorship at the university in the north.

I returned the paper to Mr. Franklin, feeling deeply troubled about what to say. Until that moment, I had believed, as you know, that the Colonel had lived and died in wickedness. I can’t say the Will changed my mind entirely, but it certainly shook my convictions.

“Well,” Mr. Franklin said, “now that you’ve read the Colonel’s own words, what do you think? By bringing the Moonstone to my aunt’s house, am I blindly serving his vengeance, or am I honoring him as a remorseful and Christian man?”

“It’s hard to say, sir,” I replied. “It seems unlikely that he died with revenge in his heart and a lie on his lips. Only God knows the truth. Please don’t ask me.”

Mr. Franklin sat there, twisting the extract from the Will in his fingers, as if he hoped to extract the truth from it. He changed remarkably in that moment. Where he had been lively and bright, he now appeared slow, solemn, and deep in thought.

“This question has two sides,” he said. “An objective side and a subjective side. Which should we consider?”

He had received both a German and a French education, and it seemed that one had been dominating his thoughts until now, while the other was starting to take over. I’ve always believed in ignoring what I don’t understand, so I found a middle ground between the two sides. In plain terms, I stared at him and said nothing.

“Let’s dig deeper into this,” Mr. Franklin continued. “Why did my uncle leave the diamond to Rachel? Why not to my aunt?”

“That’s not too hard to guess, sir,” I replied. “Colonel Herncastle knew my lady well enough to realize she would have refused any legacy from him.”

“How could he be sure Rachel wouldn’t refuse it as well?”

“Is there any young lady alive who could resist the allure of such a birthday present as The Moonstone?”

"That's the subjective view," Mr. Franklin said. "It's impressive, Betteredge, that you can take such a subjective stance. But there's still a mystery surrounding the Colonel's legacy that we haven't addressed. Why did he only give Rachel her birthday present on the condition that her mother was alive?"

"I don't want to speak ill of the dead, sir," I replied. "But if he intentionally left a legacy of trouble and danger for his sister through her child, it seems he meant for it to be a burden only if she was around to feel its weight."

"Oh, so that's your interpretation of his motive? Back to the subjective view again! Have you ever been to Germany, Betteredge?"

"No, sir. What’s your interpretation, if you don’t mind sharing?"

"I think," Mr. Franklin said, "that the Colonel's intention might have been not to benefit his niece, whom he had never even met, but rather to show his sister that he had died forgiving her. He could have done this beautifully by leaving a gift for her child. There’s a completely different explanation from yours, Betteredge, one that arises from a subjective-objective perspective. From what I can see, either interpretation could be equally valid."

Having wrapped up the discussion in such a pleasant and reassuring way, Mr. Franklin seemed to think he had done all that was necessary. He lay back on the sand and asked what we should do next.

He had been so sharp and clear-headed before he started talking in that foreign gibberish, and he had taken charge of the situation so completely that I was caught off guard by this sudden shift to relying on me. It wasn’t until later, with Miss Rachel’s help—she was the first to notice—that I learned these puzzling changes in Mr. Franklin were due to the effects of his foreign education. At an age when we are most influenced by those around us, he had been sent abroad and shuffled from one country to another, leaving no single influence to settle on him. As a result, he returned with so many conflicting aspects to his character that he seemed to live in a constant state of contradiction. He could be industrious one moment and lazy the next; his mind could be clear or clouded; he could show fierce determination or utter helplessness, all at once. He had his French side, his German side, and his Italian side, with his original English foundation occasionally peeking through, as if to say, "Here I am, transformed as you see, but there’s still something of me left." Miss Rachel often noted that his Italian side came out when he unexpectedly surrendered and sweetly asked someone else to take on his responsibilities. I think it’s fair to say that his Italian side was in charge now.

"Isn't it your job, sir," I asked, "to know what to do next? Surely it can't be mine?"

Mr. Franklin didn’t seem to grasp the point of my question; he was too focused on the sky above him.

"I don't want to alarm my aunt without reason," he said. "And I don’t want to leave her without a necessary warning. If you were in my position, Betteredge, what would you do?"

In one word, I told him: "Wait."

"With all my heart," Mr. Franklin replied. "How long?"

I took a moment to clarify my thoughts.

"As I see it, sir," I explained, "someone has to give this troublesome Diamond to Miss Rachel on her birthday—and you might as well be the one to do it. Today is May 25th, and her birthday is June 21st. We have nearly four weeks ahead of us. Let’s wait and see what unfolds during that time, and we can decide whether to warn my lady based on the circumstances."

"Perfect, Betteredge, as far as it goes!" Mr. Franklin said. "But what should we do with the Diamond between now and the birthday?"

"What your father did with it, of course!" I replied. "Your father kept it in a bank in London. You can keep it in the bank at Frizinghall." (Frizinghall was our nearest town, and the local bank was just as secure as the Bank of England.) "If I were you, sir," I added, "I would ride straight to Frizinghall with it before the ladies return."

The thought of doing something—especially if it involved riding a horse—shot Mr. Franklin up from the ground like a bolt of lightning. He jumped to his feet and pulled me up without any hesitation. “Betteredge, you’re worth your weight in gold,” he said. “Come on, let’s saddle the best horse in the stables right away.”

At that moment, the true English spirit of him broke through all the foreign polish he had acquired. This was the Master Franklin I remembered, the one who came alive at the thought of a ride, bringing back memories of the good old days. Saddle a horse for him? I would have saddled a dozen if it meant he could ride them all!

We rushed back to the house, quickly saddled the fastest horse in the stables, and Mr. Franklin took off in a hurry, determined to secure the cursed Diamond in the bank’s strongroom once again. As I listened to the fading sound of his horse’s hooves on the driveway and turned around to find myself alone in the yard, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had just woken up from a dream.