CHAPTER X

by Wilkie Collins

One after another, the rest of the guests followed the Ablewhites until we had the complete picture of the gathering. Including the family, there were twenty-four of us in total. It was a magnificent sight as they settled around the dinner table, and the Rector of Frizinghall, with his eloquent speech, stood to say grace.

There’s no need to bore you with a list of the guests. You won’t encounter any of them again in my part of the story, except for two.

Those two sat on either side of Miss Rachel, who, as the guest of honor, was the main attraction of the evening. This time, she was particularly the focus of everyone’s attention because, to her mother’s secret annoyance, she wore her stunning birthday gift—the Moonstone. It had been given to her without any setting, but the ever-resourceful Mr. Franklin had managed, with his nimble fingers and a bit of silver wire, to attach it as a brooch on her white dress. Naturally, everyone marveled at the size and beauty of the diamond. However, only the two guests beside Miss Rachel—one on her right and the other on her left—had anything unusual to say about it.

The man on her left was Mr. Candy, our local doctor.

He was a pleasant, sociable little fellow, though I must admit he had a tendency to make jokes at the most inappropriate times and often dove headfirst into conversations with strangers without gauging the mood first. In social settings, he frequently made blunders, unintentionally stirring up trouble among people. However, in his medical practice, he was more cautious, picking up his discretion (as his critics put it) almost instinctively, often being right when more careful doctors were wrong. What he said about the diamond to Miss Rachel was typical of him—meant as a joke. He earnestly suggested, “For the sake of science, Miss Rachel, let me take it home and burn it. We’ll heat it to a certain temperature, then expose it to a current of air, and little by little—poof!—we’ll evaporate the diamond, saving you the worry of keeping such a valuable stone safe!” My lady, listening with a slightly anxious expression, seemed to wish the doctor were serious and that Miss Rachel would be enthusiastic enough about science to part with her birthday gift.

The other guest, sitting on Miss Rachel’s right, was a well-known figure—none other than the famous Indian traveler, Mr. Murthwaite, who had risked his life to explore places where no European had ever set foot.

He was a tall, lean, wiry man with a weary look and a steady, watchful gaze. Rumor had it that he was tired of the mundane life in our area and longed to return to the wilds of the East. Aside from his comments to Miss Rachel about her jewel, I doubt he spoke more than six words or drank even a single glass of wine throughout the dinner. The Moonstone was the only thing that seemed to capture his interest. Its fame had evidently reached him in some of the perilous regions he had traversed. After staring at it for so long that Miss Rachel began to feel uncomfortable, he said to her in his calm, unflappable manner, “If you ever go to India, Miss Verinder, don’t take your uncle’s birthday gift with you. A Hindu diamond can sometimes be part of a Hindu religion. I know a certain city and a certain temple there where, dressed as you are now, your life wouldn’t be worth five minutes.” Safe in England, Miss Rachel was thrilled to hear of her supposed danger in India. The Bouncers were even more excited; they dropped their knives and forks with a clatter and exclaimed together, “Oh! How interesting!” My lady fidgeted in her seat and quickly changed the subject.

As dinner progressed, I began to realize that this celebration was not going as smoothly as similar gatherings had in the past.

Looking back on that birthday, especially in light of everything that happened afterward, I can’t help but think that the cursed Diamond cast a shadow over the entire gathering. I made sure to keep everyone well supplied with wine, and since I had a bit of leeway, I went around the table encouraging people to try the less popular dishes. “Please, give it a chance; I promise it’ll be good for you,” I’d whisper. More often than not, they obliged—out of respect for their old friend Betteredge, they claimed—but it was all in vain.

As the dinner progressed, there were awkward silences that made me feel uneasy. When conversation resumed, it often took a turn for the worse. Mr. Candy, the doctor, for instance, made more unfortunate comments than I had ever heard from him before. One example of his blunders will give you an idea of what I had to endure while trying to keep the festivities alive.

Among our dinner guests was the ever-chatty Mrs. Threadgall, the widow of the late Professor Threadgall. She had a habit of bringing up her deceased husband in conversation without ever mentioning that he had passed away. I suppose she thought everyone in England should already know that. During one of the awkward pauses, someone brought up the rather dry topic of human anatomy, and, predictably, Mrs. Threadgall chimed in about her late husband’s passion for it, as if he were still alive.

Unfortunately, Mr. Candy, sitting across from her and unaware of the situation, overheard her. Being the polite man he was, he took the opportunity to suggest that the Professor might enjoy a visit to the College of Surgeons.

“They’ve got some remarkably fine skeletons there now,” Mr. Candy said cheerfully, his voice carrying across the table. “I highly recommend that the Professor pay them a visit when he has an hour to spare.”

You could have heard a pin drop. Out of respect for the Professor’s memory, the entire table fell silent. I was behind Mrs. Threadgall, pouring her another glass of hock when she lowered her head and murmured, “My beloved husband is no more.”

Sadly, Mr. Candy, oblivious to the truth, continued, louder and more cheerful than ever. “The Professor may not know that a member of the College can admit him any day except Sunday, between ten and four.”

Mrs. Threadgall buried her face in her napkin and repeated, even more quietly, “My beloved husband is no more.”

I shot a desperate look at Mr. Candy across the table. Miss Rachel touched his arm, and my lady shot him a look that could kill. But it was all in vain. He pressed on, his enthusiasm unshakeable. “I’d be happy to send the Professor my card if you could just tell me his current address.”

“His current address, sir, is the grave,” Mrs. Threadgall snapped, suddenly losing her composure, her voice rising with such intensity that the glasses rattled. “The Professor has been dead for ten years!”

“Oh, good heavens!” Mr. Candy exclaimed. Aside from the Bouncers, who erupted in laughter, a heavy silence fell over the rest of the company, as if we were all heading in the same direction as the Professor, lost in our own thoughts of mortality.

Mr. Candy was just the beginning of the trouble. The others were almost as irritating in their own ways as he was. When they should have spoken up, they stayed silent; and when they did decide to talk, they often seemed to misunderstand each other completely. Mr. Godfrey, despite being so articulate in public, chose to keep his thoughts to himself in private. I couldn’t tell if he was sulking or just shy after his awkward moment in the rose garden. He reserved all his conversation for the lady sitting next to him, a member of our family. She was one of his committee members—spiritual and thoughtful, with a lovely collarbone and a refined taste for champagne; she preferred it dry and in generous amounts.

Standing just behind them at the sideboard, I could overhear snippets of their conversation. The gathering lost out on some enlightening dialogue while I was busy popping corks and carving the mutton. I didn’t catch what they said about their charities, but by the time I tuned in, they had moved far beyond their discussions about women needing to be confined or rescued. They were deep into serious topics. I heard Mr. Godfrey declare, between cork pops and slices of meat, that religion was love. And love was religion. Earth was just heaven a bit worn down, and heaven was earth, polished up to look brand new. Sure, earth had its share of unpleasant people, but in heaven, all the women would be part of a massive committee that never argued, with all the men serving as their ministering angels. Beautiful thoughts, indeed! But why on earth was Mr. Godfrey keeping all this to himself and his lady?

And then there was Mr. Franklin—surely, you’d think he would liven things up for everyone?

Not at all! He had regained his composure and was in high spirits, likely thanks to Penelope, who had filled him in on Mr. Godfrey’s reception in the rose garden. But despite his enthusiasm, he often chose the wrong topics or addressed the wrong people, leaving some offended and others confused. His foreign background—those influences from France, Germany, and Italy that I had mentioned before—came out in the most bewildering ways at our lady’s hospitable table.

For instance, imagine him discussing how far a married woman could go in admiring a man who wasn’t her husband, and doing so in his sharp, witty French style to the maiden aunt of the Vicar of Frizinghall. Or picture him switching to his German side and telling the lord of the manor, who was sharing his expertise on breeding bulls, that experience didn’t matter at all. The right way to breed bulls, he insisted, was to delve deep into your own mind, conjure up the idea of the perfect bull, and then create it.

And when our county member, heated over cheese and salad, exclaimed, “If we lose our ancient safeguards, Mr. Blake, what will we have left?” Mr. Franklin responded, from his Italian perspective, “We have three things left, sir—Love, Music, and Salad.” His outbursts not only shocked the guests but, when his English side emerged, he lost his foreign charm. While discussing the medical profession, he made such blunt remarks about doctors that he actually sent the usually good-natured Mr. Candy into a fit of rage.

The argument between Mr. Franklin and Mr. Candy kicked off when Mr. Franklin, for reasons I can’t quite recall, admitted that he had been sleeping poorly lately. Mr. Candy quickly jumped in, declaring that his nerves were out of whack and that he should start a course of medicine right away.

Mr. Franklin shot back, saying that taking medicine felt just as aimless as stumbling around in the dark. Mr. Candy, not one to back down, retorted that Mr. Franklin was essentially groping in the dark for sleep, and only medicine could help him find it. Mr. Franklin, keeping the banter alive, remarked that he had often heard of the blind leading the blind, and now, for the first time, he understood what that really meant.

Their exchange continued, lively and sharp, until both of them became quite heated—Mr. Candy especially, who lost his cool in defense of his profession. It got so intense that my lady had to step in and put a stop to it. Her intervention drained the energy from the room, leaving a dull atmosphere. Conversation flickered back to life here and there, but it lacked the vibrancy it once had. The mood felt heavy, as if the Devil—or perhaps the Diamond—had cast a shadow over the dinner party. Everyone sighed with relief when my mistress stood up and signaled for the ladies to leave the gentlemen to their wine.

I had just lined up the decanters in front of old Mr. Ablewhite, who was representing the master of the house, when a sound from the terrace jolted me out of my polite demeanor. Mr. Franklin and I exchanged glances; it was the unmistakable beat of an Indian drum. I couldn’t believe it—the jugglers were back, returning to us with the Moonstone!

As they rounded the corner of the terrace and came into view, I hurried out to warn them off. But, as luck would have it, the two Bouncers were quicker than I was. They dashed onto the terrace like rockets, eager to see the Indians perform their tricks. The other ladies followed suit, and the gentlemen came out from their side. Before anyone could even say, “Goodness gracious!” the rogues were bowing and the Bouncers were fawning over the charming little boy.

Mr. Franklin positioned himself beside Miss Rachel, and I took my place behind her. If our suspicions were correct, there she stood, blissfully unaware of the truth, showing the Indians the Diamond nestled in her dress!

I can’t recall the tricks they performed or how they managed it. Between the frustration from the dinner and the irritation of the rogues returning just in time to see the jewel, I admit I lost my composure. The first thing that caught my attention was the sudden appearance of the Indian traveler, Mr. Murthwaite. He quietly approached the jugglers from behind, skirting the half-circle of guests, and spoke to them in their own language.

If he had stabbed them with a bayonet, I doubt the Indians could have reacted with more alarm than they did when they heard his first words. In an instant, they were bowing and salaaming to him in their most polite, slithery manner. After a brief exchange in their unfamiliar tongue, Mr. Murthwaite slipped away just as quietly as he had come.

The chief Indian, who acted as the interpreter, turned back to the guests. I noticed that his coffee-colored face had gone pale since Mr. Murthwaite had spoken. He bowed to my lady and announced that the performance was over. The Bouncers, utterly disappointed, let out a loud “Oh!” directed at Mr. Murthwaite for interrupting the show. The chief Indian humbly placed his hand on his chest and repeated that the juggling was finished. The little boy went around with the hat, and the ladies retreated to the drawing room while the gentlemen—except for Mr. Franklin and Mr. Murthwaite—returned to their wine. I followed the Indians and made sure they left the premises safely.

As I walked back through the shrubbery, I caught the scent of tobacco and found Mr. Franklin and Mr. Murthwaite strolling slowly among the trees, the latter smoking a cheroot. Mr. Franklin waved me over to join them.

“This,” Mr. Franklin said, introducing me to the esteemed traveler, “is Gabriel Betteredge, the old servant and friend of our family I mentioned earlier. Please tell him what you just told me.”

Mr. Murthwaite removed the cheroot from his mouth and leaned against the trunk of a tree, looking weary.

“Mr. Betteredge,” he began, “those three Indians are no more jugglers than you and I are.”

This revelation took me by surprise! Naturally, I asked the traveler if he had encountered the Indians before.

“Never,” Mr. Murthwaite replied. “But I know what real Indian juggling is. What you witnessed tonight was a poor and clumsy imitation. Unless I’m completely mistaken, those men are high-caste Brahmins. I accused them of being in disguise, and you saw how it affected them, despite how skilled the Hindus are at hiding their emotions. There’s something mysterious about their behavior that I can’t quite put my finger on. They’ve made a double sacrifice to their caste—first by crossing the ocean, and second by pretending to be jugglers. In their culture, that’s a huge sacrifice. There must be a serious reason behind it, and some extraordinary justification for them to reclaim their caste when they return home.”

I was left speechless. Mr. Murthwaite continued to smoke his cheroot. Mr. Franklin, after what seemed like a brief internal struggle, broke the silence.

“I hesitate to bring up family matters, Mr. Murthwaite, especially since you have no stake in them and I’m not keen on discussing them outside our circle. But after what you’ve just said, I feel compelled to share something that might give you a clue. I trust you’ll keep this between us?”

With that, he recounted everything he had shared with me at the Shivering Sand. Even the usually stoic Mr. Murthwaite was so intrigued that he let his cheroot go out.

“Now,” Mr. Franklin said when he finished, “what does your experience tell you?”

“My experience,” the traveler replied, “tells me that you’ve had more close calls in your life, Mr. Franklin Blake, than I have in mine—and that’s saying something.”

Now it was Mr. Franklin’s turn to be surprised.

“Is it really that serious?” he asked.

“In my opinion, yes,” Mr. Murthwaite answered. “I can’t help but believe that the restoration of the Moonstone to its place on the forehead of the Indian idol is the reason behind that sacrifice of caste I mentioned earlier. Those men will wait patiently for their chance and strike with the ferocity of tigers. I can’t fathom how you’ve managed to escape them,” he said, relighting his cheroot and staring intently at Mr. Franklin. “You’ve been carrying the Diamond back and forth, here and in London, and you’re still alive! Let’s try to figure this out. It was daylight both times when you took the jewel out of the bank in London, right?”

“Broad daylight,” Mr. Franklin confirmed.

“And there were plenty of people on the streets?”

“Absolutely.”

“You must have planned to arrive at Lady Verinder’s house at a specific time? It’s a desolate stretch of countryside between here and the station. Did you keep your appointment?”

“No. I arrived four hours earlier than scheduled.”

“I must congratulate you on that decision! When did you take the Diamond to the bank here in town?”

“I took it an hour after I brought it to this house—and three hours before anyone expected to see me around here.”

“Congratulations again! Did you come back here alone?”

“No. I rode back with my cousins and the groom.”

“Congratulations for the third time! If you ever feel like traveling beyond civilized borders, Mr. Blake, let me know. I’d be happy to accompany you. You’re a lucky man.”

At this point, I interjected. This didn’t sit well with my English sensibilities.

“You can’t be serious,” I asked. “You really think they would have taken Mr. Franklin’s life to get their Diamond if he had given them the chance?”

“Do you smoke, Mr. Betteredge?” the traveler asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you care much about the ashes left in your pipe when you empty it?”

“No, sir.”

“In the country those men come from, they care just as much about taking a life as you care about emptying the ashes from your pipe. If a thousand lives stood between them and their Diamond—and they thought they could take those lives without being caught—they would do it without hesitation. The sacrifice of caste is significant in India, if you like. But the sacrifice of life means nothing at all.”

I expressed my opinion that they were a bunch of murderous thieves. Mr. Murthwaite countered that they were a remarkable people. Mr. Franklin, without offering an opinion, redirected us back to the pressing issue.

“They’ve seen the Moonstone on Miss Verinder’s dress,” he said. “What should we do?”

“What your uncle threatened to do,” Mr. Murthwaite replied. “Colonel Herncastle knew the people he was dealing with. Tomorrow, send the Diamond—under the watch of more than one man—to be cut in Amsterdam. Split it into half a dozen smaller diamonds instead of keeping it as one. That will put an end to its identity as The Moonstone—and to the conspiracy as well.”

Mr. Franklin turned to me.

“There’s no other choice,” he said. “We need to speak to Lady Verinder tomorrow.”

“What about tonight, sir?” I asked. “What if the Indians come back?”

Mr. Murthwaite answered before Mr. Franklin could respond.

“The Indians won’t risk returning tonight,” he said. “They rarely take the direct route, especially in a situation like this, where even the smallest mistake could jeopardize their plans.”

“But what if they’re bolder than you think?” I pressed.

“In that case,” Mr. Murthwaite said, “let the dogs loose. Do you have any big dogs in the yard?”

“Two, sir. A mastiff and a bloodhound.”

“They’ll do. In this situation, Mr. Betteredge, the mastiff and the bloodhound have one significant advantage—they’re not likely to be troubled by your concerns about the sanctity of human life.”

As he made that remark, the sound of the piano drifted in from the drawing room. He tossed aside his cheroot and took Mr. Franklin’s arm to head back to the ladies. I noticed the sky was quickly becoming overcast as I followed them into the house. Mr. Murthwaite noticed it too. He glanced back at me in his dry, monotone way and said,

“The Indians will need their umbrellas tonight, Mr. Betteredge!”

It was easy for him to joke. But I wasn’t a seasoned traveler, and my life hadn’t led me to play fast and loose with my own safety among thieves and murderers in distant lands. I retreated to my small room, sat down in my chair, drenched in sweat, and wondered helplessly what to do next. In this anxious state, while others might have worked themselves into a frenzy, I took a different approach. I lit my pipe and turned to _Robinson Crusoe_.

Just five minutes in, I came across this remarkable passage on page one hundred sixty-one:

“Fear of danger is ten thousand times more terrifying than danger itself when it’s right in front of you; and we find the burden of anxiety far heavier than the actual evil we fear.”

Anyone who doesn’t believe in _Robinson Crusoe_ after that is either a bit off in their thinking or lost in their own arrogance! There’s no point in arguing with them; pity is better saved for someone with a more vibrant faith.

I was deep into my second pipe, still captivated by that incredible book, when Penelope, who had been serving tea, came in with her report from the drawing room. She had left the Bouncers singing a duet—words starting with a big “O” and music to match. She noted that my lady had made mistakes in her whist game for the first time we’d ever seen. She had spotted the great traveler asleep in a corner. She overheard Mr. Franklin sharpening his wit at Mr. Godfrey’s expense, poking fun at Ladies’ Charities in general; and she noticed that Mr. Godfrey had fired back rather more sharply than was fitting for a gentleman of his charitable nature. She had seen Miss Rachel seemingly trying to appease Mrs. Threadgall by showing her some photographs, while really stealing glances at Mr. Franklin, which no sharp-eyed lady’s maid could misinterpret for a second. Lastly, she mentioned that Mr. Candy, the doctor, had mysteriously vanished from the drawing room, only to return just as mysteriously and engage Mr. Godfrey in conversation. Overall, things were going better than we had any right to expect after the dinner debacle. If we could just hold on for another hour, Father Time would bring their carriages and relieve us of them entirely.

Everything fades in this world, and even the comforting effect of _Robinson Crusoe_ wore off after Penelope left. I grew restless again and decided to survey the grounds before the rain hit. Instead of taking the footman, whose nose was human and therefore useless in an emergency, I took the bloodhound with me. His nose for strangers was reliable. We patrolled the premises and ventured out onto the road, returning none the wiser, having found no sign of any lurking intruders.

As the carriages rolled up, the rain began to pour down, as if determined to keep falling all night long. Everyone except the doctor, whose gig was waiting for him, climbed into their cozy carriages and headed home, sheltered from the storm. I mentioned to Mr. Candy that I was worried he might get soaked. He chuckled and replied that he was surprised I had made it this far in life without realizing that a doctor’s skin was waterproof. With that, he drove off into the rain, still laughing at his own little joke, and just like that, our dinner guests were gone.

Now, let me tell you about the night that followed.