CHAPTER I

von Wilkie Collins

In the spring of 1849, I found myself wandering in the East, having recently changed my travel plans that I had shared with my lawyer and banker back in London.

This shift meant I had to send one of my servants to collect my letters and money from the English consul in a city that was no longer part of my itinerary. He was supposed to meet me again at a designated time and place. Unfortunately, an unforeseen accident delayed him. For a week, my companions and I waited, camped on the edge of a desert. Finally, the missing man appeared at my tent, carrying the letters and money.

“I’m afraid I bring you bad news, sir,” he said, pointing to one of the letters, which bore a black border. The address was written in Mr. Bruff’s handwriting.

There’s nothing more unbearable than the suspense of waiting for news like this. I opened the letter with the mourning border first.

It informed me that my father had died and that I was now the heir to his considerable fortune. This newfound wealth came with its own set of responsibilities, and Mr. Bruff urged me to return to England without delay.

By dawn the next morning, I was on my way back home.

My old friend Betteredge’s portrayal of me at the time of my departure from England is, I think, a bit exaggerated. He has taken one of his young mistress’s many playful jabs at my foreign education too seriously, convincing himself that he saw the French, German, and Italian influences in my character that my lively cousin only pretended to find in jest. In reality, those traits existed only in Betteredge’s imagination. However, aside from this quirk, I must admit he captured the truth in saying that I was deeply hurt by Rachel’s treatment and that I was leaving England still reeling from the sharpest disappointment of my life.

I traveled abroad, determined—if change and distance could help—to forget her. I believe it’s a misconception to think that change and absence don’t help someone in these situations; they force a person to shift their focus away from their own sorrow. I never truly forgot her, but the pain of remembering dulled gradually as time, distance, and new experiences created a buffer between Rachel and me.

Yet, as I turned my thoughts toward home, the healing I had achieved began to slip away. The closer I got to the country where she lived and the prospect of seeing her again, the more her influence reclaimed its hold on me. When I left England, she was the last person I would have wanted to mention. Now, upon my return, she was the first person I asked about when I met Mr. Bruff again.

Of course, I was informed about everything that had happened in my absence—everything that Betteredge had already recounted—except for one detail. Mr. Bruff didn’t feel it was the right time to explain the reasons behind Rachel and Godfrey Ablewhite’s decision to break off their engagement. I didn’t press him with awkward questions about this sensitive topic. It was enough for me to know, after the sting of jealousy from hearing she had once considered marrying Godfrey, that she had realized her mistake and had freed herself from that promise.

After hearing about the past, my next questions—still about Rachel—naturally turned to the present. Who was taking care of her after she left Mr. Bruff’s house? Where was she living now?

I learned that she was under the care of Mrs. Merridew, a widowed sister of the late Sir John Verinder, whom her mother’s executors had asked to be her guardian. They were said to be getting along wonderfully and were currently settled for the season at Mrs. Merridew’s house in Portland Place.

Half an hour after receiving this information, I found myself on my way to Portland Place—without having the courage to admit it to Mr. Bruff!

The man who answered the door wasn’t sure if Miss Verinder was home. I sent him upstairs with my card, hoping that would quickly resolve the question. He returned with a blank expression and informed me that Miss Verinder was out.

I might have thought that others were deliberately shutting me out, but I could never believe that Rachel would do the same. I left a message saying I’d stop by again at six that evening.

When I returned at six, I was told for the second time that Miss Verinder was not at home. Had she left any message for me? No, there was no message. Had she received my card? The servant apologized—yes, Miss Verinder had received it.

The implication was clear: Rachel didn’t want to see me.

I refused to accept being treated this way without at least trying to understand why. I sent my name up to Mrs. Merridew, asking for a personal meeting at her convenience.

Mrs. Merridew welcomed me without hesitation. I was led into a cozy little sitting room, where I found a pleasant older lady. She expressed her deep regret and surprise, all on my behalf. However, she was unable to provide any explanation or press Rachel on what seemed to be a matter of personal feelings. She repeated this with a polite patience that never wavered, and that was all I gained from my visit with Mrs. Merridew.

My last hope was to write to Rachel. The next day, I had my servant deliver a letter to her, with strict instructions to wait for a reply.

The response came back in a single, blunt sentence.

“Miss Verinder begs to decline entering into any correspondence with Mr. Franklin Blake.”

Despite my affection for her, I felt a surge of indignation at the insult in that reply. Mr. Bruff came by to discuss business just as I was trying to regain my composure. I dismissed the business matter immediately and laid the entire situation before him. He proved just as clueless as Mrs. Merridew. I asked if any rumors had been spread about me in Rachel’s presence. Mr. Bruff was unaware of any such slander. Had she mentioned me at all while staying under his roof? Not once. Had she even asked whether I was alive or dead during my long absence? No such question had crossed her lips.

I pulled out a letter from poor Lady Verinder, written to me from Frizinghall on the day I left her house in Yorkshire. I pointed out two sentences to Mr. Bruff:

“The valuable assistance you provided in the search for the lost jewel is still an unpardonable offense in Rachel’s current state of mind. By acting without understanding, you have only added to her burden of anxiety, innocently threatening her secret with exposure through your efforts.”

“Is it possible,” I asked, “that the feelings described here are still as bitter towards me now?”

Mr. Bruff looked genuinely distressed.

“If you insist on an answer,” he said, “I can’t interpret her behavior any other way.”

I rang the bell and instructed my servant to pack my suitcase and fetch a railway guide. Mr. Bruff looked astonished and asked what I was planning to do.

“I’m going to Yorkshire,” I replied, “on the next train.”

“May I ask why?”

“Mr. Bruff, the help I innocently offered in the investigation of the Diamond was an unpardonable offense in Rachel’s eyes nearly a year ago, and it still is. I refuse to accept that! I’m determined to uncover the reason for her silence towards her mother and her hostility towards me. If time, effort, and money can achieve it, I will find the thief who took the Moonstone!”

The kind old gentleman tried to reason with me, to persuade me to think it through, to fulfill his duty to me, in short. I was deaf to everything he said. Nothing could shake my resolve at that moment.

“I will resume the investigation from where I left off,” I continued, “and I will follow it step by step until I reach the present. There are gaps in the evidence as I left it, which Gabriel Betteredge can fill in, and that’s where I’m headed!”

As the sun began to set that evening, I found myself once again on the familiar terrace, gazing at the peaceful old country house. The gardener was the first person I spotted in the deserted grounds. He had left Betteredge sunning himself in his usual spot in the backyard just an hour earlier. I knew that spot well and decided to go find him myself.

I walked along the familiar paths and looked through the open gate of the yard.

There he was—my dear old friend from those joyful days that would never return. He sat in the familiar corner, perched on the old beehive chair, a pipe resting between his lips and a copy of *Robinson Crusoe* on his lap. His two loyal dogs were curled up on either side of him, peacefully dozing.

As I stood there, my shadow stretched out in front of me, cast by the last warm rays of the setting sun. The dogs must have sensed my presence, either by sight or by their sharp sense of smell, because they suddenly sprang to their feet with a low growl. The old man, startled by their reaction, quickly calmed them with a gentle word. He then shielded his tired eyes with his hand and peered curiously at the figure standing by the gate.

My heart was heavy with emotion, and I had to pause for a moment, fighting back tears before I could find the strength to speak to him.