III

von Wilkie Collins

Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite’s life had two distinct sides.

To the public, he appeared as a respectable gentleman, known for his eloquence at charity events and his organizational skills, which he generously offered to various charitable societies, mostly those run by women. However, behind closed doors, he led a completely different life—a life of pleasure. He owned a villa in the suburbs, registered under a different name, and shared it with a woman who was also not associated with him publicly.

During my investigation of the villa, I discovered exquisite paintings and sculptures, tastefully chosen furniture, and a conservatory filled with rare flowers that would be hard to match anywhere else in London. My inquiry into the lady revealed a collection of jewels that rivaled the beauty of the flowers, along with carriages and horses that had turned heads in the Park, impressing those who knew a thing or two about quality.

While all of this might seem typical in London life, what struck me as unusual was that everything was not only ordered but also fully paid for. The paintings, sculptures, flowers, jewels, carriages, and horses—astonishingly, there wasn’t a single penny of debt attached to any of them. The villa had been bought outright and settled on the lady.

I might have attempted to unravel this mystery, but my efforts would have been in vain if not for Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite’s untimely death, which prompted an investigation into his financial affairs.

The inquiry revealed some startling facts:

Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite had been entrusted with the care of twenty thousand pounds as one of two trustees for a young man who was still a minor in 1848. The trust was set to expire when the young man turned twenty-one in February 1850, at which point he would receive the entire sum. Until then, he was to receive an income of six hundred pounds, paid semi-annually by his two trustees—at Christmas and Midsummer. Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, the active trustee, had been making these payments regularly. However, the twenty thousand pounds, from which this income was supposed to come, had been completely sold off by the end of 1847.

The power of attorney allowing the bankers to sell the stock, along with various written orders detailing the amounts to be sold, had all been signed by both trustees. Yet, the signature of the second trustee, a retired army officer living in the countryside, had been forged by Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite in every instance.

These facts explained Mr. Godfrey’s seemingly honorable actions in covering the expenses for the villa and the lady—and, as you will soon see, much more.

Now, let’s fast forward to Miss Verinder’s birthday on June 21, 1848.

The day before, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite visited his father’s house and requested a loan of three hundred pounds, as I learned from Mr. Ablewhite, senior. Pay attention to that amount, especially since the half-yearly payment to the young man was due on the twenty-fourth of the month. Remember, by the end of 1847, Mr. Ablewhite had already spent the entirety of the young man’s fortune.

Mr. Ablewhite, senior, refused to lend his son a single penny.

The next day, Mr. Godfrey rode with you to Lady Verinder’s house. A few hours later, he proposed marriage to Miss Verinder. He likely saw this as a way to resolve all his financial troubles, both current and future. But, as fate would have it, Miss Verinder turned him down.

So, on the night of the birthday, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite found himself in a precarious financial situation. He needed to come up with three hundred pounds by the twenty-fourth and twenty thousand pounds by February 1850. If he failed to raise these sums, he would be utterly ruined.

With that in mind, what happened next?

You really got under Mr. Candy’s skin, the doctor, when you brought up his profession. In retaliation, he decided to play a practical joke on you, slipping you a dose of laudanum. He entrusted this little vial to Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, who later admitted his involvement in the scheme under circumstances I’ll explain shortly. Mr. Godfrey was all too eager to join in, having felt the sting of your sharp tongue earlier that evening. He teamed up with Betteredge to persuade you to have a little brandy and water before bed. Unbeknownst to you, he secretly added the laudanum to your drink. You downed the mixture without a second thought.

Now, let’s shift our focus to Mr. Luker’s house in Lambeth. I should mention that Mr. Bruff and I have found a way to make the money-lender confess everything. We’ve carefully examined the statement he provided, and here it is for you.

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Late on the evening of Friday, June 23rd, 1848, Mr. Luker was taken aback by a visit from Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite. His surprise turned to shock when Mr. Godfrey revealed the Moonstone. According to Mr. Luker’s experience, no private individual in Europe possessed a diamond of such magnitude.

Mr. Godfrey had two modest proposals regarding this extraordinary gem. First, would Mr. Luker be interested in buying it? Second, if he wasn’t inclined to purchase it outright, would he consider selling it on commission, with a down payment based on the expected sale?

Mr. Luker examined the diamond, weighed it, and assessed its value before responding. Taking into account the flaw in the stone, he estimated it to be worth thirty thousand pounds.

Once he reached that figure, Mr. Luker finally spoke, asking a simple question: “How did you come by this?” Just six words, but they carried a weight of meaning.

Mr. Godfrey began to tell a story. Mr. Luker interrupted with a curt, “That won’t do!”

Undeterred, Mr. Godfrey started again. But Mr. Luker wasn’t interested in wasting more time. He stood up and rang the bell for the servant to escort Mr. Godfrey out.

Faced with this pressure, Mr. Godfrey made an effort and offered a revised version of events.

After discreetly adding the laudanum to your brandy and water, he wished you goodnight and retreated to his own room, which was adjacent to yours and connected by a door. Upon entering, he thought he had closed his door. However, his financial worries kept him awake. He sat in his dressing gown and slippers for nearly an hour, contemplating his situation. Just as he was about to climb into bed, he heard you talking to yourself in your room. He discovered that he hadn’t shut the connecting door after all.

Curious, he peeked into your room to see what was going on. He found you with a candle in hand, just stepping out of your bedroom. He heard you mumble in a voice that didn’t sound like your own, “How do I know? The Indians may be hidden in the house.”

Until that moment, he had thought that giving you the laudanum was just a harmless prank. Now, he realized the drug had affected you in a way neither the doctor nor he had anticipated. Concerned about what might happen, he quietly followed you to see what you would do.

He trailed you to Miss Verinder’s sitting room and watched as you entered, leaving the door ajar. He peered through the gap before entering the room himself.

From that vantage point, he not only saw you take the diamond from the drawer but also noticed Miss Verinder silently observing you from her bedroom through her open door. His own eyes confirmed that she witnessed you take the diamond as well.

Before you exited the sitting room, you paused for a moment. Mr. Godfrey seized this opportunity to slip back to his bedroom before you could spot him. Just as he made it back, you returned too. You saw him (or so he thought) as he was crossing through the connecting door. In any case, you called out to him in a strange, drowsy voice.

He came back to you. You looked at him with heavy, sleepy eyes. You placed the diamond in his hand and said, “Take it back, Godfrey, to your father’s bank. It’s safe there—it’s not safe here.”

You turned away unsteadily, slipped into your dressing gown, and sank into the large armchair in your room. You sighed heavily and murmured, “I can’t take it back to the bank. My head’s like lead—and I can’t feel my feet under me.” With that, your head fell back against the chair, and you drifted off to sleep.

Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite returned to his room, the Diamond safely in his possession. At that moment, he had no clear plan—only a decision to wait and see what the morning would bring.

When dawn broke, it was evident that you were completely unaware of your actions and words from the night before. Meanwhile, Miss Verinder’s demeanor suggested she was determined to remain silent, out of kindness to you. If Mr. Godfrey chose to keep the Diamond, he could do so without fear of repercussions. The Moonstone was his shield against disaster. He slipped the Moonstone into his pocket.

This was the account your cousin reluctantly shared with Mr. Luker.

Mr. Luker found the story credible, believing it to be true in all significant aspects, simply because he thought Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite was too foolish to have fabricated it. Mr. Bruff and I concur with Mr. Luker, agreeing that this was a solid measure of the story’s authenticity.

The next question was what Mr. Luker planned to do regarding the Moonstone. He laid out his terms, which were the only way he would involve himself in what was, even by his standards, a risky and uncertain venture.

Mr. Luker agreed to lend Mr. Godfrey the sum of two thousand pounds, provided that the Moonstone was used as collateral. If Mr. Godfrey could repay three thousand pounds to Mr. Luker within a year, he would get the Diamond back. However, if he failed to come up with the money by the deadline, the Moonstone would be forfeited to Mr. Luker, who, in that case, would generously gift Mr. Godfrey some promissory notes from previous transactions that were in his possession.

Needless to say, Mr. Godfrey was outraged by these outrageous terms. Mr. Luker then returned the Diamond to him and wished him a good night.

Your cousin hesitated at the door and turned back. How could he be sure that their conversation would remain confidential between them?

Mr. Luker didn’t have an answer. If Mr. Godfrey had accepted his terms, he would have made Mr. Luker an accomplice, ensuring his silence. But given the current situation, Mr. Luker had to look out for his own interests. If uncomfortable questions arose, why should he risk his reputation for someone who refused to engage with him?

Upon hearing this, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite did what any creature, human or otherwise, does when trapped. He scanned his surroundings in despair. His gaze fell on a small card on the money-lender’s mantelpiece, marking the date: June 23rd. The next day, he owed three hundred pounds to a young man for whom he was a trustee, and he had no way to raise the funds except through Mr. Luker’s offer. If it weren’t for this unfortunate predicament, he could have taken the Diamond to Amsterdam and sold it by having it cut into smaller stones. As it stood, he had no choice but to accept Mr. Luker’s terms. After all, he had a year to come up with the three thousand pounds—and a year can stretch out quite a bit.

Mr. Luker quickly prepared the necessary documents. Once they were signed, he handed Mr. Godfrey two checks: one dated June 23rd for three hundred pounds, and another dated a week later for the remaining balance of seventeen hundred pounds.

You already know how the Moonstone was entrusted to Mr. Luker’s bankers and how the Indians dealt with Mr. Luker and Mr. Godfrey afterward.

The next chapter in your cousin’s life involved Miss Verinder once more. He proposed to her again, and after she accepted, he agreed, at her request, to consider the engagement broken. One of his reasons for this concession was uncovered by Mr. Bruff: Miss Verinder had only a life interest in her mother’s estate, which meant there was no way to raise the twenty thousand pounds from that source.

You might say he could have saved the three thousand pounds to reclaim the pledged Diamond if he had chosen to marry. That’s true, of course—assuming neither his wife nor her guardians objected to him accessing more than half of their income for some unknown reason in the first year of their marriage. But even if he managed to navigate that hurdle, another challenge loomed in the background. The woman at the Villa had caught wind of his planned marriage. She was a striking figure, Mr. Blake, the kind of woman who commands respect—the type with a fair complexion and a Roman nose. She held Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite in utter contempt. It would be a silent disdain, provided he made a generous arrangement for her. Otherwise, her contempt would be vocal.

Miss Verinder’s life interest offered him no more hope of securing that “provision” than it did of raising the twenty thousand pounds. He simply couldn’t marry—not under these circumstances.

You already know how he attempted to find luck with another woman, and how that marriage fell apart over financial matters as well. You’re also aware of the five thousand pounds he inherited shortly after, from one of the many admirers he had charmed. That legacy, as fate would have it, led him to his demise.

I’ve confirmed that after receiving his five thousand pounds, he traveled abroad to Amsterdam. There, he arranged for the Diamond to be cut into separate stones. He returned in disguise and redeemed the Moonstone on the agreed day. A few days passed—this was a precaution both parties had agreed upon—before the jewel was actually retrieved from the bank. If he had successfully transported it to Amsterdam, there would have been just enough time between July ’49 and February ’50 (when the young gentleman came of age) to cut the Diamond and turn the separate stones into a marketable product, polished or unpolished. Consider the motivations that drove him to take such a perilous risk. It was a matter of “everything or nothing” for him—if it ever was for anyone.

Before I conclude this report, I want to remind you that there’s still a chance to catch the Indians and recover the Moonstone. They are currently believed to be on their way to Bombay aboard an East Indiaman. The ship, barring any accidents, won’t stop at any other ports on its journey. The authorities in Bombay have already been informed by letter and will be ready to board the vessel as soon as it enters the harbor.

I remain, dear sir, your obedient servant,

RICHARD CUFF

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

*NOTE: For details regarding the events of the birthday and the following three days, please refer to Betteredge’s Narrative, chapters viii to xiii.*