FIFTH NARRATIVE

von Wilkie Collins

**The Story Resumed by Franklin Blake**

**CHAPTER I**

I don’t need to say much to finish the story that Ezra Jennings has already laid out in his journal.

As for me, I woke up on the morning of the twenty-sixth completely unaware of everything I had said and done while under the influence of opium. From the moment the drug took hold of me until I opened my eyes in Rachel’s sitting room, I had no memory.

I won’t go into detail about what happened after I woke up. I’ll just say that Rachel and I understood each other perfectly before we exchanged a single word of explanation. Neither of us feels the need to explain how quickly we reconciled. Sir and Madam, think back to when you were deeply in love, and you’ll understand what transpired after Ezra Jennings closed the door to the sitting room, just as well as I do.

However, I will mention that we would have certainly been caught by Mrs. Merridew if it hadn’t been for Rachel’s quick thinking. She heard the rustle of the old lady’s dress in the hallway and immediately rushed out to meet her. I heard Mrs. Merridew ask, “What’s the matter?” and Rachel replied, “The explosion!” Mrs. Merridew allowed herself to be led by the arm into the garden, away from the impending shock. When she returned to the house, she encountered me in the hall and remarked on the significant improvement in science since her school days. “Explosions, Mr. Blake, are much milder than they used to be. I barely heard Mr. Jennings’s explosion from the garden. And there’s no smell now that we’re back inside! I really must apologize to your medical friend. He managed it beautifully!”

So, after overcoming Betteredge and Mr. Bruff, Ezra Jennings had also triumphed over Mrs. Merridew. It turns out there’s a lot of untapped progressive sentiment in the world!

At breakfast, Mr. Bruff was quite open about why he wanted me to accompany him to London on the morning train. The watch kept at the bank, and the potential outcomes, piqued Rachel’s curiosity so much that she decided, with Mrs. Merridew’s permission, to join us back to town to stay updated on our progress.

Mrs. Merridew turned out to be quite accommodating and indulgent after the considerate way the explosion had unfolded. Betteredge was informed that the four of us would be traveling back together on the morning train. I expected he would ask to join us, but Rachel had wisely given her loyal old servant a task that kept him engaged. He was busy overseeing the finishing touches on the house and was too absorbed in his responsibilities to feel the “detective fever” he might have experienced otherwise.

The only thing we regretted about going to London was having to part ways, more abruptly than we would have liked, with Ezra Jennings. He wouldn’t be persuaded to come with us. I could only promise to write to him, and Rachel insisted he visit her when she returned to Yorkshire. We had every reason to believe we would meet again in a few months, yet it felt sad to see our closest friend standing alone on the platform as the train pulled away.

When we arrived in London, Mr. Bruff was approached at the station by a small boy dressed in worn black clothes, notable for the unusual bulge of his eyes. They stuck out so far and rolled around so loosely that it made you uneasy wondering how they stayed in their sockets. After listening to the boy, Mr. Bruff asked the ladies if they would mind if we didn’t accompany them back to Portland Place. I barely had time to promise Rachel I would return and tell her everything that had happened before Mr. Bruff grabbed my arm and hurried me into a cab. The boy with the precarious eyes took a seat on the box beside the driver, who was instructed to head to Lombard Street.

“News from the bank?” I asked as we set off.

“News about Mr. Luker,” Mr. Bruff replied. “An hour ago, he was seen leaving his house in Lambeth in a cab, accompanied by two men who my men recognized as plainclothes police officers. If Mr. Luker’s fear of the Indians is behind this precaution, the implication is clear. He’s planning to take the diamond out of the bank.”

“And we’re going to the bank to see what happens next?”

“Yes—or to find out what has already happened if it’s all over by now. Did you notice my boy on the box?”

“I noticed his eyes.”

Mr. Bruff chuckled. “They call the poor kid ‘Gooseberry’ at the office,” he said. “I send him on errands—and I only wish my clerks who nicknamed him were as reliable as he is. Gooseberry is one of the sharpest boys in London, Mr. Blake, despite his eyes.”

It was twenty minutes to five when we pulled up in front of the bank on Lombard Street. Gooseberry looked longingly at his boss as he opened the cab door.

“Do you want to come in too?” Mr. Bruff asked kindly. “Come on then, and stick close to me until I say otherwise. He’s as quick as lightning,” he added, leaning toward me in a whisper. “Two words will do with Gooseberry, where twenty would be needed with another boy.”

We stepped into the bank. The outer office, with its long counter where the cashiers sat, was packed with people, all waiting to withdraw or deposit money before the bank closed at five.

As soon as Mr. Bruff appeared, two men from the crowd approached him.

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

“He passed us about half an hour ago, sir, and went into the inner office,” one of the men replied.

“Has he not come out yet?”

“No, sir.”

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

I scanned the crowd for the three Indians, but there was no sign of them. The only person 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? No way! The man was taller than any of the Indians, and his face, where it wasn’t hidden by a bushy black beard, was at least twice as wide as any of theirs.

“They must have a spy somewhere,” Mr. Bruff said, glancing at the dark sailor. “And he might be the one.”

Before he could say more, Gooseberry tugged at his coat tail. Mr. Bruff followed the boy’s gaze. “Hush!” he said. “Here comes Mr. Luker!”

The money-lender emerged from the inner part of the bank, flanked by two plainclothes policemen.

“Keep an eye on him,” Mr. Bruff whispered. “If he passes the Diamond to anyone, it will be here.”

Without acknowledging either of us, Mr. Luker made his way slowly to the door, weaving through the crowd. I distinctly saw his hand move as he brushed past a short, stout man in a respectable grey suit. The man flinched slightly and looked after him. Mr. Luker continued on, and at the door, his guards positioned themselves on either side. They were followed by one of Mr. Bruff’s men—and then I lost sight of them.

I glanced at the lawyer and then pointedly toward the man in the grey suit. “Yes!” Mr. Bruff whispered, “I saw it too!” He turned around, searching for his second man, but he was nowhere to be found. He looked for Gooseberry, but the boy had vanished.

“What the devil does this mean?” Mr. Bruff said angrily. “They’ve both left us just when we need them most.”

The man in the grey suit stepped up to the counter to conduct his business. He deposited a check, received a receipt, and turned to leave.

“What should we do?” Mr. Bruff asked. “We can’t lower ourselves by following him.”

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

“In that case,” Mr. Bruff said, “I wouldn’t lose sight of you for twice that amount. What a lovely job 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’d be ruined if anyone found out.”

The man in the grey suit boarded an omnibus heading west. We got on after him. I swear there were still traces of youth in Mr. Bruff; when he took his seat in the bus, he blushed!

The man in the grey suit stopped the bus and got off in Oxford Street. We followed him again as he entered a chemist’s shop.

Mr. Bruff jumped. “My chemist!” he exclaimed. “I’m afraid we’ve made a mistake.”

We entered the shop. Mr. Bruff spoke privately with the proprietor for a moment before returning to me with a very disappointed expression.

“It’s quite a feather in our cap,” he said, taking my arm and leading me out—“that’s one comfort!”

“What’s to our credit?” I asked.

“Mr. Blake! You and I are the two worst amateur detectives ever to try their hand at this. The man in the grey suit has been with the chemist for thirty years. He was sent to the bank to deposit money into his master’s account—and he knows no more about the Moonstone than a newborn babe.”

I asked what we should do next.

“Let’s go back to my office,” Mr. Bruff said. “Gooseberry and my second man have clearly followed someone else. Let’s hope they were paying attention at least!”

When we arrived at Gray’s Inn Square, the second man was already there, having waited for over fifteen minutes.

“Well?” Mr. Bruff asked. “What do you have for us?”

“I’m afraid I made a mistake, sir,” the man replied. “I could have sworn I saw Mr. Luker pass something to an older gentleman in a light-colored coat. But it turns out that gentleman is a well-respected ironmonger in Eastcheap.”

“Where’s Gooseberry?” Mr. Bruff asked, sounding defeated.

The man looked confused. “I don’t know, sir. I haven’t seen him since I left the bank.”

Mr. Bruff waved him off. “It could be one of two things,” he said to me. “Either Gooseberry has run away, or he’s off doing his own thing. How about we grab dinner here, just in case the boy comes back in an hour or two? I have some good wine in the cellar, and we can order a chop from the coffee house.”

We had dinner at Mr. Bruff’s chambers. Before we finished, someone was announced, wanting to speak to the lawyer. Was it Gooseberry? No, it was just the man who had been following Mr. Luker after he left the bank.

The report was dull and unremarkable. Mr. Luker had returned home and dismissed his guard. He hadn’t gone out again afterward. By dusk, the shutters were closed, and the doors were bolted. Both the street in front and the alley behind had been carefully monitored. There were no signs of the Indians, and no one had been seen loitering around. After sharing these details, the man waited for further instructions, but Mr. Bruff sent him away for the night.

“Do you think Mr. Luker took the Moonstone home with him?” I asked.

“Not a chance,” Mr. Bruff replied. “He wouldn’t have dismissed his two policemen if he was worried about keeping the Diamond in his own house.”

We waited another half hour for the boy, but he never showed. It was time for Mr. Bruff to head to Hampstead and for me to return to Rachel in Portland Place. I left my card with the porter at the chambers, adding a note to say I’d be at my lodgings by half past ten that night. The card was to be given to the boy if he returned.

Some people are great at keeping appointments, while others, like me, are not. To make matters worse, I spent the evening at Portland Place, sitting next to Rachel in a room that stretched forty feet long, with Mrs. Merridew at the far end. Is it any wonder I got home at half past twelve instead of half past ten? How heartless someone must be to think otherwise! And how earnestly I hope I never meet that person!

When I got home, my servant handed me a small piece of paper.

In neat legal handwriting, it read: “If you please, sir, I am getting sleepy. I will come back tomorrow morning, between nine and ten.” Upon inquiry, I learned that a boy with very unusual eyes had come by, presented my card and message, waited an hour, done nothing but fall asleep and wake up again, written a note for me, and then gone home—after telling the servant that “he was fit for nothing unless he got his night’s rest.”

The next morning, I was ready for my visitor by nine. At half past nine, I heard footsteps outside my door. “Come in, Gooseberry!” I called out. “Thank you, sir,” came a serious and melancholy voice. The door opened, and I jumped to my feet, only to find—Sergeant Cuff!

“I thought I’d stop by here, Mr. Blake, just in case you were in town, before I wrote to Yorkshire,” the Sergeant said.

He looked as dreary and lean as ever. His eyes still had that familiar look, as if they expected something from you that you weren’t even aware of. But, as far as his appearance went, the great Cuff was unrecognizable. He wore a wide-brimmed white hat, a light shooting jacket, white trousers, and drab gaiters. He carried a sturdy oak stick, and everything about him seemed designed to suggest he had lived in the countryside his whole life. When I complimented him on his transformation, he didn’t take it as a joke. He seriously complained about the noises and smells of London. I honestly wondered if he was speaking with a slight country accent! I offered him breakfast, and the innocent countryman looked shocked. His breakfast hour was half-past six—and he went to bed with the chickens!

“I just got back from Ireland last night,” the Sergeant said, shifting to the main reason for his visit in his usual inscrutable way. “Before I went to bed, I read your letter about everything that’s happened since my investigation into the Diamond was put on hold last year. There’s only one thing I can say: I completely misjudged the situation. How any man could have seen things clearly in my position at the time, I really can’t say. But that doesn’t change the facts. I admit I messed it up. It’s not the first time, Mr. Blake, that my career has been marked by such blunders! In books, detectives never make mistakes, but in real life, we’re just as human as anyone else.”

“You’ve come at just the right moment to redeem yourself,” I replied.

“Excuse me, Mr. Blake,” the Sergeant countered. “Now that I’ve retired, I don’t care about my reputation. I’m done with it, thank God! I’m here out of gratitude for the late Lady Verinder’s generosity towards me. I’m willing to return to my old work—if you want me and if you trust me—on that basis, and that alone. I don’t want a single penny from you. This is about honor. Now, tell me, Mr. Blake, what’s the current status of the case since you last wrote to me.”

I explained the experiment with the opium and what had happened afterward at the bank in Lombard Street. He was genuinely intrigued by the experiment; it was something entirely new for him. He was particularly interested in Ezra Jennings’ theory about what I had done with the Diamond after leaving Rachel’s sitting room on her birthday.

“I don’t agree with Mr. Jennings that you hid the Moonstone,” Sergeant Cuff said. “But I do agree with him that you must have taken it back to your own room.”

“Well?” I prompted. “What happened next?”

“Don’t you have any suspicions about what happened, sir?”

“None at all.”

“Does Mr. Bruff have any suspicions?”

“None more than I do.”

Sergeant Cuff stood up and walked over to my writing table. He returned with a sealed envelope. It was marked “Private,” addressed to me, and had the Sergeant’s signature in the corner.

“I suspected the wrong person last year,” he said. “And I might be suspecting the wrong person now. Wait to open the envelope, Mr. Blake, until you’ve uncovered the truth. Then compare the name of the guilty party with the name I’ve written in that sealed letter.”

I tucked the letter into my pocket and then asked for the Sergeant’s thoughts on the actions we had taken at the bank.

“Very well intended, sir, and absolutely the right thing to do. But there was another person we should have looked into besides Mr. Luker.”

“The person mentioned in the letter you just gave me?”

“Yes, Mr. Blake, the person in the letter. There’s nothing we can do about it now. I’ll have a proposal for you and Mr. Bruff when the time is right. For now, let’s wait and see if the boy has anything useful to tell us.”

It was nearly ten o’clock, and the boy still hadn’t shown up. Sergeant Cuff chatted about other topics. He asked about his old friend Betteredge and his old rival, the gardener. In another moment, he would have likely moved on to discussing his favorite roses if my servant hadn’t interrupted to announce that the boy was downstairs.

When Gooseberry was brought into the room, he hesitated at the door, eyeing the stranger with suspicion. I motioned for the boy to come closer.

“You can speak in front of this gentleman,” I said. “He’s here to help me and knows everything that’s happened. Sergeant Cuff,” I added, “this is the boy from Mr. Bruff’s office.”

In our modern world, fame—no matter the kind—can move mountains. The reputation of the great Cuff had even reached the ears of little Gooseberry. The boy’s wide eyes nearly popped out of his head when I mentioned the illustrious name.

“Come here, lad,” Sergeant Cuff said, “and let’s hear what you have to say.”

The boy seemed captivated by the attention of the famous man, the hero of countless stories in every lawyer’s office in London. He stepped forward, hands behind his back, like a student being quizzed.

“What’s your name?” the Sergeant began, starting with the first question in the catechism.

“Octavius Guy,” the boy replied. “They call me Gooseberry at the office because of my eyes.”

“Octavius Guy, otherwise known as Gooseberry,” the Sergeant continued with utmost seriousness, “you were missing from the bank yesterday. What were you doing?”

“If you please, sir, I was following a man.”

“And who was he?”

“A tall man, sir, with a big black beard, dressed like a sailor.”

“I remember the man!” I interrupted. “Mr. Bruff and I thought he was a spy working for the Indians.”

Sergeant Cuff didn’t seem impressed by our theory. He continued questioning Gooseberry.

“Well? Why did you follow the sailor?” he asked.

“If you please, sir, Mr. Bruff wanted to know if Mr. Luker passed anything to anyone when he left the bank. I saw Mr. Luker give something to the sailor with the black beard.”

“Why didn’t you tell Mr. Bruff what you saw?”

“I didn’t have time, sir. The sailor rushed out so quickly.”

“And you ran after him, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gooseberry,” said the Sergeant, giving the boy a gentle pat on the head, “you’ve got something in that little head of yours—and it’s not just fluff. I’m very pleased with you so far.”

The boy blushed with pride. Sergeant Cuff continued.

“And what did the sailor do when he got into the street?”

“He called a cab, sir.”

“And what did you do?”

“I held on behind and ran after it.”

Before the Sergeant could ask his next question, another visitor arrived—the head clerk from Mr. Bruff’s office.

Understanding the importance of not interrupting Sergeant Cuff’s questioning, I took the clerk into another room. He brought bad news about Mr. Bruff. The stress and excitement of the past two days had taken a toll on him. He woke up that morning with a gout attack and was stuck in his room at Hampstead. Given the critical state of our affairs, he was anxious about leaving me without the guidance of an experienced person. The chief clerk had been instructed to assist me as best he could in Mr. Bruff’s absence.

I quickly wrote a note to ease Mr. Bruff’s mind, informing him of Sergeant Cuff’s visit and that Gooseberry was currently being questioned. I promised to update him, either in person or by letter, about any developments later that day. After sending the clerk off to Hampstead with my note, I returned to the room I had left, finding Sergeant Cuff at the fireplace, ringing the bell.

“I apologize, Mr. Blake,” the Sergeant said. “I was just about to send word through your servant that I needed to speak with you. I have no doubt that this boy—this very impressive boy,” he added, patting Gooseberry again, “has followed the right man. We’ve lost precious time, sir, because you weren’t home at half past ten last night. The only thing to do now is to call for a cab immediately.”

Within five minutes, Sergeant Cuff and I, with Gooseberry on the box to direct the driver, were heading east toward the City.

“One of these days,” the Sergeant said, pointing through the front window of the cab, “that boy will achieve great things in my former profession. He’s the brightest and sharpest little lad I’ve encountered in years. You’ll want to hear what he told me while you were out of the room. You were there when he mentioned that he held on behind the cab and chased after it, right?”

“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 set to leave the next morning. He asked if he could board right away and sleep in his berth overnight. The steward said no. They were cleaning the cabins and berths that evening, and no passengers could come on board until morning. The sailor turned and left the wharf. Once back on the street, the boy noticed for the first time a man dressed like a respectable mechanic, walking on the opposite side of the road, seemingly keeping an eye on the sailor. The sailor stopped at a nearby eating house and went inside. The boy, unsure of what to do, lingered with some other kids, staring at the delicious food in the window. He saw the mechanic waiting, just like he was, but still on the other side of the street. After a moment, a cab came by slowly and stopped where the mechanic stood. The boy could only clearly see one person in the cab, who leaned forward to speak to the mechanic. He described that person, Mr. Blake, without any prompting from me, as having a dark face, like an Indian.”

By this point, it was clear that Mr. Bruff and I had made another mistake. The sailor with the black beard was obviously not a spy for the Indian conspiracy. But could he possibly be the man who had taken the Diamond?

After a while, the Sergeant continued, the cab moved slowly down the street. The mechanic crossed the road and entered a diner. The boy waited outside until hunger and fatigue got the better of him, and then he followed the mechanic inside. He had a shilling in his pocket and treated himself to a hearty meal of black pudding, eel pie, and a bottle of ginger beer. What can’t a boy digest? That mystery remains unsolved.

“What did he see in the diner?” I asked.

“Well, Mr. Blake, he spotted the sailor reading a newspaper at one table and the mechanic engrossed in another at a different table. It was getting dark by the time the sailor finally stood up and left. He glanced around suspiciously as he stepped out onto the street. The boy, being just a boy, went unnoticed. The mechanic hadn’t come out yet. The sailor walked on, looking around and seemingly unsure of his next destination. The mechanic reappeared across the street. The sailor continued until he reached Shore Lane, which led into Lower Thames Street. There, he paused in front of a pub called ‘The Wheel of Fortune.’ After checking the place out, he went inside. Gooseberry followed him in.

The bar was bustling with a decent crowd. ‘The Wheel of Fortune’ is quite a respectable establishment, Mr. Blake; known for its porter and pork pies.”

The Sergeant’s tangents were starting to annoy me. He noticed and quickly focused back on Gooseberry’s account.

“The sailor,” he continued, “asked if he could get a room for the night. The landlord said no, they were fully booked. The barmaid corrected him, saying that Number Ten was available. A waiter was called to show the sailor to the room. Just before that, Gooseberry spotted the mechanic among the patrons at the bar. But before the waiter could respond, the mechanic had disappeared. The sailor was taken to his room. Not sure what to do next, Gooseberry wisely decided to wait and see if anything else happened. And something did. The landlord was summoned, and angry voices erupted from upstairs. Suddenly, the mechanic reappeared, being dragged by the landlord and, to Gooseberry’s shock, looking completely drunk. The landlord shoved him out the door, threatening to call the police if he returned. From their argument, it became clear that the man had been found in Number Ten and stubbornly claimed that he had rented the room. Gooseberry was so taken aback by this sudden drunkenness from someone who had seemed sober that he couldn’t help but rush out after the mechanic into the street.

As long as he was in sight of the pub, the man staggered around disgracefully. But the moment he turned the corner, he regained his composure and appeared as sober as anyone could be. Gooseberry returned to ‘The Wheel of Fortune’ feeling quite confused. He hung around, hoping something else would happen. But nothing did, and the sailor was nowhere to be seen. Just as he decided to head back to the office, who should appear across the street but the mechanic again! He looked up at a specific window at the top of the pub, the only one lit up. The light seemed to ease his mind. He left right after that. The boy made his way back to Gray’s Inn, picked up your card and message, stopped by, and unfortunately didn’t find you. That’s where we stand, Mr. Blake.”

“What’s your take on the situation, Sergeant?”

“I think it’s serious, sir. From what the boy observed, the Indians are involved, to start with.”

“Yes. And the sailor is clearly the one to whom Mr. Luker passed the Diamond. It’s strange that Mr. Bruff, I, and the man working for Mr. Bruff all misidentified him.”

“Not at all, Mr. Blake. Given the risk that person was taking, it’s quite possible that Mr. Luker intentionally misled you, as part of a prior arrangement.”

“Do you understand what happened at the pub?” I asked. “The man dressed as a mechanic was clearly working for the Indians. But I’m just as baffled by his sudden act of drunkenness as Gooseberry was.”

“I think I can take a guess at what this means, sir,” the Sergeant said. “If you think about it, it’s clear that the man must have received some very strict instructions from the Indians. They were too noticeable themselves to risk being seen at the bank or in the pub—they had to rely entirely on their deputy.

So, their deputy hears a number mentioned in the pub, which corresponds to the room the sailor is supposed to stay in for the night. That’s also the room—unless we’re completely off base—that the Diamond is supposed to occupy. Given those circumstances, you can bet the Indians insisted on a detailed description of the room—its location in the building, how it could be accessed from outside, and so on. What was the man supposed to do with orders like that? Exactly what he did! He rushed upstairs to get a look at the room before the sailor was taken in. He was caught there, observing, and pretended to be drunk as the easiest way to get out of the situation. That’s how I interpret the riddle. After he was thrown out of the pub, he likely went to report back to where his employers were waiting. And they probably sent him back to confirm that the sailor was really settled in for the night. As for what happened at ‘The Wheel of Fortune’ after the boy left—we should have figured that out last night. It’s eleven in the morning now. Let’s hope for the best and see what we can uncover.”

A little while later, the cab pulled up in Shore Lane, and Gooseberry opened the door for us.

“All good?” the Sergeant asked.

“All good,” the boy replied.

The moment we stepped into “The Wheel of Fortune,” it was obvious, even to my inexperienced eyes, that something was off in the place.

Behind the bar, a confused servant girl stood, completely clueless about the business. A couple of customers waiting for their morning drinks tapped impatiently on the counter with their coins. The barmaid emerged from the back, looking flustered and distracted. When Sergeant Cuff asked for the landlord, she snapped back that her boss was upstairs and didn’t want to be disturbed.

“Come with me, sir,” Sergeant Cuff said calmly, leading the way upstairs and signaling for the boy to follow.

The barmaid called out to her boss, warning him that strangers were intruding. On the first floor, we ran into the landlord, who was rushing down, clearly irritated to see what was going on.

“Who the hell are you? What do you want here?” he demanded.

“Keep your cool,” the Sergeant replied quietly. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Sergeant Cuff.”

The name had an immediate effect. The angry landlord opened the door to a sitting room and apologized to the Sergeant.

“I’m annoyed and out of sorts, sir—that’s the truth,” he admitted. “Something unpleasant has happened in the house this morning. A man in my line of work has a lot that can ruin his mood, Sergeant Cuff.”

“Absolutely,” the Sergeant agreed. “Let’s get straight to the point. This gentleman and I need to ask you a few questions about something that’s of interest to both of us.”

“About what, sir?” the landlord asked.

“A dark man, dressed like a sailor, who stayed here last night.”

“Good God! That’s the man who’s causing chaos in the whole place right now!” the landlord exclaimed. “Do you or this gentleman know anything about him?”

“We can’t be sure until we see him,” the Sergeant replied.

“See him?” the landlord echoed. “That’s the one thing no one has been able to do since seven o’clock this morning. That’s when he left word last night that he was to be called. He was called—and there was no answer from him, and no way to open his door to see what was wrong. They tried again at eight and again at nine. No luck! The door is still locked, and there’s not a sound coming from the room! I’ve been out this morning and just got back a quarter of an hour ago. I’ve knocked on the door myself—and it’s all been for nothing. The potboy has gone to fetch a carpenter. If you can wait a few minutes, gentlemen, we’ll get the door opened and figure out what’s going on.”

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

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

“Did he pay for his room in advance?”

“No.”

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

“The room is a garret,” the landlord explained. “But there’s a trapdoor in the ceiling that leads out onto the roof—and a little further down the street, there’s an empty house being repaired. Do you think, Sergeant, that the scoundrel managed to escape that way without paying?”

“A sailor,” Sergeant Cuff said, “could have done it—early in the morning, before anyone was up. He’d be used to climbing, and he wouldn’t lose his footing on the rooftops.”

Just then, we heard the carpenter arrive. We all headed upstairs to the top floor. I noticed that the Sergeant seemed unusually serious, even for him. It struck me as strange when he told the boy, who he had previously encouraged to follow us, to wait in the room below until we came back down.

The carpenter quickly got to work with his hammer and chisel, breaking through the door in just a few minutes. However, something had been pushed against it from the inside, creating a barricade. With a good shove, we moved the obstacle aside and gained entry to the room. The landlord went in first, followed by Sergeant Cuff, and then me. The others trailed behind us.

We all turned our attention to the bed, and we all gasped.

The man hadn’t left the room. He lay there fully dressed, with a white pillow covering his face, completely obscuring it from view.

“What does that mean?” the landlord asked, pointing at the pillow.

Sergeant Cuff stepped forward, removing the pillow without a word.

The man’s dark face was calm and still; his black hair and beard were only slightly disheveled. His eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling. The vacant look in them horrified me. I turned away and walked to the open window while the others stayed with Sergeant Cuff at the bed.

“He’s having a fit!” I heard the landlord exclaim.

“He’s dead,” the Sergeant replied. “Call for the nearest doctor and notify the police.”

The waiter was sent off on both errands. A strange fascination seemed to keep Sergeant Cuff by the bed, while the others lingered, curious about what he would do next.

I turned back to the window. Just then, I felt a gentle tug at my coat-tails and heard a small voice whisper, “Look here, sir!”

Gooseberry had followed us into the room. His eyes rolled around in a way that was unsettling—not from fear, but from excitement. He had made a little detective discovery of his own. “Look here, sir,” he urged again, leading me to a table in the corner.

On the table sat a small wooden box, open and empty. Next to it lay some jeweler’s cotton, and on the other side was a torn sheet of white paper, partially sealed, with an inscription that was still perfectly readable. It read:

“Deposited with Messrs. Bushe, Lysaught, and Bushe, by Mr. Septimus Luker, of Middlesex Place, Lambeth, a small wooden box, sealed in this envelope, containing a valuable of great price. The box, when claimed, is to be released only to Mr. Luker upon his personal application.”

Those lines cleared up one thing for me: the sailor had been in possession of the Moonstone when he left the bank the day before.

I felt another tug at my coat-tails. Gooseberry wasn’t done with me yet.

“Robbery!” he whispered, pointing at the empty box with glee.

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

“And Murder!” Gooseberry added, pointing with even more enthusiasm at the man on the bed.

There was something so grotesque about the boy’s delight in the horror of the scene that I grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him out of the room.

As I crossed the threshold, I heard Sergeant Cuff calling for me. He met me as I stepped back into the room and insisted I return to the bedside.

“Mr. Blake!” he said. “Look at the man’s face. It’s disguised—and here’s the proof!”

He traced a thin line of pale white running back from the dead man’s forehead, separating it from his dark complexion and slightly disturbed hair. “Let’s see what’s underneath this,” the Sergeant said, suddenly gripping the black hair firmly.

I didn’t have the strength to watch. I turned away from the bed again.

The first thing I saw when I looked back across the room was Gooseberry, perched on a chair, watching with rapt attention over the heads of the adults as the Sergeant continued his work.

“He’s pulling off his wig!” Gooseberry whispered, feeling sorry for me, the only one in the room who couldn’t see anything.

There was a pause, followed by a gasp from those gathered around the bed.

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

There was another brief silence as Sergeant Cuff asked for something. The landlord hurried to the washstand and returned with a basin of water and a towel.

Gooseberry bounced with excitement on his chair. “Come up here with me, sir! He’s washing off his complexion now!”

The Sergeant pushed his way through the crowd, his face twisted in horror as he approached me directly.

“Come back to the bed, sir!” he urged. He studied me for a moment, then hesitated. “No! First, open the sealed letter—the one I gave you this morning.”

I tore open the letter.

“Read the name I wrote inside, Mr. Blake.”

I glanced at the name he had written. It was—Godfrey Ablewhite.

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

I followed him, my heart racing, and looked at the man lying there.

Godfrey Ablewhite!