CHAPTER XII

von Wilkie Collins

Thursday night came and went without incident. When Friday morning arrived, two pieces of news broke the silence.

First, the baker’s delivery man claimed he had seen Rosanna Spearman the previous afternoon, veiled and walking towards Frizinghall along the moor’s footpath. It was odd that anyone could mistake Rosanna, whose distinctive shoulder made her easily recognizable, poor thing. But the man must have been mistaken; after all, Rosanna had spent the entire Thursday afternoon sick in her room.

The second piece of news came from the postman. Mr. Candy, our well-meaning doctor, had made yet another unfortunate comment the night of the birthday celebration, joking about how a doctor’s skin was waterproof. Despite his bravado, the rain had gotten to him, and he had caught a chill that night. Now, he was down with a fever. The latest reports from the postman indicated that he was delirious, rambling nonsensically as he often did even when he was in his right mind. We all felt sorry for the little doctor, but Mr. Franklin seemed particularly concerned about his illness, mostly for Miss Rachel’s sake. From what he said to my lady during breakfast, it was clear he thought that if the uncertainty surrounding the Moonstone continued, Miss Rachel might soon need the best medical advice we could find.

Breakfast had barely finished when a telegram arrived from Mr. Blake, the elder, in response to his son. It informed us that he had managed to secure the right person to assist us, with the help of his friend, the Commissioner. The man’s name was Sergeant Cuff, and we could expect him to arrive on the morning train from London.

Upon reading the name of the new police officer, Mr. Franklin perked up. He had heard some intriguing stories about Sergeant Cuff from his father’s lawyer during his time in London.

“I’m starting to feel hopeful that our worries might soon come to an end,” he said. “If even half of what I’ve heard is true, there’s no one in England better at solving a mystery than Sergeant Cuff!”

As the time for the arrival of this renowned officer approached, excitement and impatience filled the air. Superintendent Seegrave, returning at his scheduled time, learned that the Sergeant was expected and immediately locked himself in a room with pen, ink, and paper to prepare notes for the report he would surely need to provide. I had wished to go to the station myself to fetch the Sergeant, but my lady’s carriage was off-limits, even for someone as celebrated as Cuff. The pony-chaise was also needed later for Mr. Godfrey, who regretted having to leave his aunt during such a tense time. He had kindly postponed his departure until the last possible moment, eager to hear what the clever London officer had to say about the case. However, he had to be in town by Friday night for a charity event that required his attention on Saturday morning.

When the time for the Sergeant’s arrival finally came, I went down to the gate to look for him.

A carriage from the railway pulled up just as I reached the lodge, and out stepped a grizzled, elderly man. He was so painfully thin that he seemed to lack any flesh on his bones. Dressed in respectable black with a white cravat, his face was sharp as a hatchet, and his skin was yellow, dry, and withered like an autumn leaf. His steely grey eyes had a disconcerting way of looking at you, as if they expected something more than you were prepared to give. He walked softly, spoke in a melancholy tone, and his long, bony fingers curled like claws. He could have been a clergyman, an undertaker, or anything else you might imagine—except for what he truly was. I defy anyone to find a more complete contrast to Superintendent Seegrave than Sergeant Cuff, or a less reassuring figure for a family in distress.

“Is this Lady Verinder’s?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“I am Sergeant Cuff.”

“This way, sir, if you please.”

As we walked to the house, I introduced myself and my position in the family, hoping to assure him that he could discuss the case with me. However, he didn’t mention the business at all. Instead, he admired the grounds and remarked on how refreshing the sea air felt. I privately wondered how the celebrated Cuff had earned his reputation. We reached the house, both of us feeling like two strange dogs, awkwardly linked together for the first time by the same chain.

After inquiring about my lady and learning that she was in one of the conservatories, we made our way to the gardens at the back and sent a servant to find her. While we waited, Sergeant Cuff glanced through the evergreen arch to our left, spotted the rose garden, and walked right in, showing the first hint of interest I had seen from him. To the gardener’s surprise and my annoyance, this renowned detective turned out to be quite knowledgeable about the seemingly trivial subject of rose gardens.

“Ah, you’ve got the perfect exposure here to the south and southwest,” the Sergeant said, nodding his grizzled head with a touch of pleasure in his otherwise somber voice. “This is the ideal shape for a rose garden—nothing beats a circle set within a square. Yes, yes; with paths between all the beds. But they shouldn’t be gravel paths like these. Grass, Mr. Gardener—grass paths between your roses; gravel is too harsh for them. That’s a lovely bed of white and blush roses. They always complement each other nicely, don’t they? Here’s the white musk rose, Mr. Betteredge—our classic English rose standing proud alongside the best and the newest. Such a dear!” he said, gently stroking the Musk Rose with his long fingers, as if he were addressing a child.

What a peculiar man to be tasked with recovering Miss Rachel’s diamond and uncovering the thief who took it!

“You seem to have a fondness for roses, Sergeant?” I remarked.

“I don’t have much time to be fond of anything,” Sergeant Cuff replied. “But when I do have a moment to spare, more often than not, Mr. Betteredge, the roses get my attention. I started my life among them in my father’s nursery garden, and I hope to end my life among them too, if I can. Yes. One of these days, God willing, I’ll retire from catching thieves and try my hand at growing roses. There will be grass paths, Mr. Gardener, between my beds,” he added, clearly bothered by the gravel paths in our rose garden.

“That seems like an unusual preference for someone in your line of work,” I ventured.

“If you take a look around you (which most people won’t),” Sergeant Cuff said, “you’ll see that a man’s tastes are often the complete opposite of his profession. Show me two things more different than a rose and a thief, and I’ll reconsider my tastes—if it’s not too late for me at my age. You find the damask rose to be a good stock for most of the tender varieties, don’t you, Mr. Gardener? Ah! I thought so. Here comes a lady. Is it Lady Verinder?”

He spotted her before either I or the gardener did, even though we knew where to look and he didn’t. I began to think he was sharper than he first appeared.

The Sergeant’s presence, or perhaps his purpose, seemed to make my lady a bit uneasy. For the first time in all my experiences with her, she seemed uncertain about what to say in front of a stranger. But Sergeant Cuff quickly put her at ease. He asked if anyone else had been involved in the investigation before we called him, and upon learning that another person was already in the house, he requested to speak with him before proceeding further.

My lady led the way back. Before following her, the Sergeant took a moment to express his thoughts about the gravel paths to the gardener. “Get her ladyship to try grass,” he said, casting a disapproving glance at the paths. “No gravel! No gravel!”

I can’t explain why Superintendent Seegrave appeared to shrink in stature when introduced to Sergeant Cuff; I can only state that it was a fact. They went off together and remained behind closed doors for what felt like an eternity. When they finally emerged, Mr. Seegrave looked excited, while Sergeant Cuff seemed to be yawning.

“The Sergeant wishes to see Miss Verinder’s sitting room,” Mr. Seegrave announced to me with great pomp and eagerness. “The Sergeant may have some questions to ask. Please attend to him!”

As I was being ordered around, I glanced at the formidable Cuff. He, in turn, regarded Superintendent Seegrave with a quietly expectant look that I had noticed before. I can’t say for certain that he was waiting for his fellow officer to make a fool of himself—I can only admit that I strongly suspected it.

I led the way upstairs, and the Sergeant moved quietly around the Indian cabinet and through the “boudoir,” asking questions that seemed equally puzzling to both Mr. Superintendent and me. Eventually, he reached the door and came face to face with the decorative painting you’re familiar with. He touched a small smear just under the lock, which Superintendent Seegrave had already pointed out when he scolded the women-servants for crowding into the room.

“That’s unfortunate,” Sergeant Cuff remarked. “How did that happen?”

He directed the question at me. I explained that the women had crowded into the room the previous morning, and some of their petticoats had caused the damage. “Superintendent Seegrave ordered them out, sir,” I added, “before they could do any more harm.”

“Right!” Mr. Superintendent replied in his authoritative tone. “I ordered them out. The petticoats did it, Sergeant—the petticoats did it.”

“Did you notice which petticoat caused it?” Sergeant Cuff asked, still looking at me instead of his fellow officer.

“No, sir.”

He turned to Superintendent Seegrave and said, “You noticed, I suppose?”

Mr. Superintendent looked a bit caught off guard but tried to recover. “I can’t quite recall, Sergeant. Just a minor detail—a minor detail.”

Sergeant Cuff regarded Mr. Seegrave with the same intensity he had shown when examining the gravel paths in the garden, giving us a glimpse of his serious nature.

“I conducted a private inquiry last week, Mr. Superintendent,” he said. “At one end, there was a murder, and at the other, a spot of ink on a tablecloth that no one could explain. In all my experience through the murkiest corners of this world, I’ve never encountered anything that could be dismissed as a mere trifle. Before we proceed any further, we need to see the petticoat that made the smear, and we must determine exactly when that paint was wet.”

Mr. Superintendent, taking the reprimand somewhat sulkily, asked if he should summon the women. After a moment’s thought, Sergeant Cuff sighed and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Let’s deal with the paint first. It’s a straightforward Yes or No question about the paint, which is quick. The matter of the petticoats involves more complexity. What time was it when the servants were in this room yesterday morning? Eleven o’clock, right? Is there anyone in the house who can confirm whether that paint was wet or dry at eleven yesterday morning?”

“Her ladyship’s nephew, Mr. Franklin Blake, would know,” I replied.

“Is he in the house?”

Mr. Franklin was nearby, waiting for his chance to be introduced to the esteemed Sergeant Cuff. In less than a minute, he entered the room and began to share his account.

“That door, Sergeant,” he said, “was painted by Miss Verinder, with my supervision and assistance, using a medium of my own formulation. The medium dries whatever colors are used with it in twelve hours.”

“Do you remember when the smeared part was painted?” the Sergeant asked.

“Absolutely,” Mr. Franklin responded. “That was the last section of the door to be finished. We aimed to complete it last Wednesday, and I finished it myself by three in the afternoon, or shortly thereafter.”

“Today is Friday,” Sergeant Cuff noted, addressing Superintendent Seegrave. “Let’s calculate this, sir. At three on Wednesday afternoon, that section of the painting was completed. The medium dried it in twelve hours, meaning it was dry by three o’clock Thursday morning. At eleven on Thursday morning, you held your inquiry here. Subtract three from eleven, and you have eight. That paint had been dry for eight hours, Mr. Superintendent, when you assumed the women-servants’ petticoats caused the smear.”

That was a significant blow for Mr. Seegrave! If he hadn’t suspected poor Penelope, I might have felt sorry for him.

With the question of the paint settled, Sergeant Cuff shifted his focus from Mr. Seegrave, whom he deemed unhelpful, to Mr. Franklin, who seemed a more promising ally.

“It’s quite possible, sir,” he said, “that you’ve provided us with the clue we need.”

Just as he spoke, the bedroom door swung open, and Miss Rachel stepped out among us unexpectedly.

She turned to the Sergeant, seemingly unaware that he was a complete stranger to her.

“Did you say,” she asked, pointing at Mr. Franklin, “that he had put the clue into your hands?”

(“This is Miss Verinder,” I whispered behind the Sergeant.)

“That gentleman, miss,” the Sergeant replied, his steely-grey eyes carefully assessing her face, “has possibly put the clue into our hands.”

She turned for a moment, trying to catch Mr. Franklin’s eye. I say “trying” because she quickly looked away before their gazes met. There was something unsettling in her expression. She flushed, then went pale again. With that paleness came a new look on her face—one that startled me.

“Now that I’ve answered your question, Miss,” the Sergeant said, “may I ask one in return? There’s a smear on the painting of your door. Do you know when it happened or who might have done it?”

Instead of responding, Miss Rachel continued with her own questions, as if she hadn’t heard him at all.

“Are you another police officer?” she asked.

“I’m Sergeant Cuff, of the Detective Police,” he replied.

“Do you think a young lady’s advice is worth having?”

“I’d be glad to hear it,” he said.

“Do your duty by yourself—and don’t let Mr. Franklin Blake help you!”

She said those words with such venom, such an outburst of anger toward Mr. Franklin, that despite having known her since she was a child, despite my deep affection and respect for her, I felt ashamed of Miss Rachel for the first time.

Sergeant Cuff’s steady gaze remained fixed on her. “Thank you, Miss. Do you know anything about the smear? Could you have done it by accident?”

“I know nothing about the smear,” she replied curtly.

With that, she turned and retreated to her bedroom. I heard her, just as Penelope had before, break down in tears as soon as she was alone.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at the Sergeant; instead, I glanced at Mr. Franklin, who stood closest to me. He seemed even more distressed by the exchange than I was.

“I told you I was worried about her,” he said. “And now you see why.”

“Miss Verinder seems a bit out of sorts over the loss of her diamond,” the Sergeant remarked. “It’s a valuable jewel. Quite understandable, really.”

Here was the excuse I had made for her when she lost her composure in front of Superintendent Seegrave, now echoed by a man who had no personal stake in it—he was a complete stranger! A cold shiver ran through me, one I couldn’t explain at the time. Now I realize it was the first hint that Sergeant Cuff had begun to see the case in a new, troubling light, all because of what he had observed in Miss Rachel during their first meeting.

“A young lady’s tongue is a privileged thing, sir,” the Sergeant said to Mr. Franklin. “Let’s put this behind us and focus on the matter at hand. Thanks to you, we know when the paint was dry. The next step is to figure out when the paint was last seen without that smear. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders—you understand what I mean.”

Mr. Franklin composed himself, making an effort to shift his focus from Miss Rachel back to the investigation.

“I think I do understand,” he said. “The more we narrow down the timeline, the more we also limit our search.”

“That’s right, sir,” the Sergeant agreed. “Did you notice your work here on Wednesday afternoon after you finished?”

Mr. Franklin shook his head. “I can’t say I did.”

“And you?” Sergeant Cuff turned to me.

“I can’t say I did either, sir.”

“Who was the last person in the room on Wednesday night?”

“Miss Rachel, I suppose, sir.”

Mr. Franklin interjected, “Or possibly your daughter, Betteredge.” He turned to Sergeant Cuff and explained that my daughter was Miss Verinder’s maid.

“Mr. Betteredge, ask your daughter to come up. Wait!” the Sergeant said, pulling me aside to the window, out of earshot. “Your Superintendent has given me a detailed report on how he’s handled this case. Among other things, he’s admitted to ruffling the servants’ feathers. It’s crucial we smooth things over. Tell your daughter and the others these two things, with my compliments: First, I have no evidence yet that the diamond has been stolen; I only know it’s lost. Second, my business with the servants is simply to ask them to come together and help me find it.”

My experience with the women servants, when Superintendent Seegrave restricted their access to their rooms, came in handy.

“May I be bold enough, Sergeant, to tell the women a third thing?” I asked. “Are they free, with your compliments, to move about as they please, if they feel like it?”

“Perfectly free,” the Sergeant replied.

“That will definitely smooth things over, sir,” I said, “from the cook to the scullion.”

“Go and do it at once, Mr. Betteredge.”

I finished the task in under five minutes. The only challenge arose when I reached the part about the bedrooms. It took a firm display of my authority as the chief to keep the entire female household from trailing behind me and Penelope upstairs, eager to help Sergeant Cuff in a frenzy of anxiety.

The Sergeant seemed to take a liking to Penelope. He became slightly less gloomy, and his expression brightened, reminiscent of the moment he noticed the white musk rose in the garden. Here’s what my daughter had to say, as drawn out by the Sergeant. She delivered her testimony beautifully—though, of course, she’s my child through and through; there’s nothing of her mother in her, bless her.

When questioned, Penelope showed a keen interest in the painted door, having helped mix the colors. She pointed out the work done beneath the lock, as it was the last part completed. She had seen it hours later without a single smear. She had left the room as late as midnight, again without a mark. At that time, she had wished her young lady goodnight in the bedroom, heard the clock strike in the boudoir, and had her hand on the handle of the painted door. She knew the paint was wet—having helped mix the colors, as I mentioned—and she made a point of not touching it. She could swear she held up the skirts of her dress, and at that moment, there was no smear on the paint. However, she couldn’t guarantee that her dress hadn’t brushed against it accidentally while leaving. She remembered the dress she wore because it was new, a gift from Miss Rachel; her father could confirm that too. He could, and would, and did fetch it. He recognized it as the dress she wore that night. Examining the skirts took a while, given their size, but not a trace of paint was found anywhere. That was the end of Penelope’s testimony—very charming and convincing, I must say. Signed, Gabriel Betteredge.

Next, the Sergeant turned his attention to me, inquiring about any large dogs in the house that might have gotten into the room and caused the mess with a wag of their tails. After I confirmed that was impossible, he called for a magnifying glass to examine the smear more closely. There were no skin marks, like those of a human hand, on the paint. All the signs indicated that the smear had been made by some loose article of clothing brushing against it. That person—piecing together Penelope’s and Mr. Franklin’s testimonies—must have been in the room and caused the mess between midnight and three o’clock that Thursday morning.

Having reached this point in his investigation, Sergeant Cuff noticed that Superintendent Seegrave was still in the room. He summarized the proceedings for his fellow officer’s benefit:

“This little issue of yours, Mr. Superintendent,” he said, gesturing toward the mark on the door, “has taken on a bit more significance since you last observed it. At this stage, there are three discoveries to make, starting from that smear. First, find out if there’s any article of clothing in this house with paint on it. Second, determine who that dress belongs to. Third, figure out how that person can explain being in this room and smearing the paint between midnight and three in the morning. If they can’t provide a satisfactory answer, you won’t have to look far for the hand that has the Diamond. I’ll handle this myself, if you don’t mind, and I won’t keep you from your regular duties in town. I see you have one of your men here. Leave him at my disposal, just in case I need him—and allow me to wish you good morning.”

Superintendent Seegrave held a great deal of respect for the Sergeant, but his self-respect was even greater. Stung by the renowned Cuff, he retaliated as best he could on his way out.

“I’ve refrained from voicing any opinion so far,” he said, his military tone still intact. “I have just one remark to make as I leave this case in your hands. There is such a thing, Sergeant, as making a mountain out of a molehill. Good morning.”

“And there’s also the possibility of making nothing out of a molehill because your head is too high to see it.” With that, Sergeant Cuff returned the compliment and turned away, walking to the window by himself.

Mr. Franklin and I waited, anticipation hanging in the air. The Sergeant stood by the window, hands tucked into his pockets, gazing outside while softly whistling “The Last Rose of Summer.” As the events unfolded, I realized that he only let his manners slip to the point of whistling when he was deep in thought, methodically working through his own plans. It seemed that the tune somehow resonated with him, perhaps reminding him of his beloved roses. When he whistled it, the melody took on a particularly somber tone.

After a minute or two, the Sergeant turned away from the window and walked to the center of the room, lost in contemplation, his gaze fixed on Miss Rachel’s bedroom door. Eventually, he shook himself from his reverie, nodded as if to signal that he was ready, and then turned to me, requesting a brief ten-minute conversation with my mistress at her earliest convenience.

As I left to deliver the message, I heard Mr. Franklin pose a question to the Sergeant and paused at the threshold to catch the response.

“Can you guess yet,” Mr. Franklin asked, “who has stolen the Diamond?”

“_Nobody has stolen the Diamond_,” Sergeant Cuff replied.

Both of us were taken aback by his unexpected assertion, and we eagerly pressed him to explain what he meant.

“Just wait a moment,” the Sergeant said. “The pieces of the puzzle aren’t all in place yet.”