CHAPTER XV

by Wilkie Collins

The Sergeant fell silent, lost in his own thoughts, until we reached the grove of fir trees that led to the quicksand. Suddenly, he seemed to snap out of it, like someone who had made a decision, and turned to me again.

“Mr. Betteredge,” he said, “since you’ve kindly taken an oar in my boat and might be able to help me before the night is over, I see no point in keeping things vague any longer. I’ll be straightforward with you. You’re determined not to give me any information that might harm Rosanna Spearman because she’s been good to you and you feel sorry for her. Those are admirable sentiments, but in this case, they’re misplaced. Rosanna Spearman isn’t in any real danger—not even if I can prove she’s involved in the disappearance of the Diamond with evidence as clear as day!”

“Are you saying my lady won’t prosecute?” I asked.

“I’m saying your lady can’t prosecute,” the Sergeant replied. “Rosanna Spearman is merely a tool in someone else’s hands, and she’ll be protected because of that.”

He spoke with such seriousness that I couldn’t dismiss it. Still, something in my mind stirred uneasily against him. “Can’t you at least tell me who that other person is?” I asked.

“Can’t you, Mr. Betteredge?”

“No.”

Sergeant Cuff stood there, studying me with a look of somber curiosity.

“I always find it important to show compassion for human weakness,” he said. “And right now, Mr. Betteredge, I feel particularly sympathetic towards you. And you, with the same noble intention, feel particularly sympathetic towards Rosanna Spearman, don’t you? Do you happen to know if she’s gotten a new set of linens recently?”

I was baffled by the suddenness of his question. Not wanting to harm Rosanna by telling the truth, I replied that she had come to us with very few linens, and that my lady, recognizing her good behavior (I emphasized her good behavior), had given her a new set just a couple of weeks ago.

“This world is a miserable place,” the Sergeant said. “Human life, Mr. Betteredge, is like a target—misfortune is always taking aim and hitting its mark. If it weren’t for that new outfit, we would have found a nightgown or petticoat among Rosanna’s things and caught her that way. You’re following me, aren’t you? You’ve questioned the servants yourself, and you know what two of them discovered outside Rosanna’s door. Surely you know what she was up to yesterday after she fell ill? Can’t guess? Oh dear, it’s as obvious as the light shining at the end of those trees.

At eleven on Thursday morning, Superintendent Seegrave—who is quite the embodiment of human frailty—points out the smear on the door to all the women servants. Rosanna has her own reasons for being suspicious about her belongings; she seizes the first chance to get to her room, finds the paint stain on her nightgown or petticoat, pretends to be ill, and sneaks off to town. She gets the materials to make a new petticoat or nightgown, makes it alone in her room that Thursday night, lights a fire (not to destroy it; two of her fellow servants are snooping outside her door, and she’s smart enough not to create a burning smell or have a pile of ash to dispose of)—she lights a fire, I say, to dry and iron the new dress after wringing it out, keeps the stained dress hidden (probably on her), and is now busy getting rid of it somewhere on that lonely stretch of beach ahead of us. I’ve tracked her this evening to your fishing village and to one specific cottage we might need to visit before heading back. She lingered in that cottage for a while and came out with something concealed under her cloak. A cloak on a woman is a symbol of charity—it hides a multitude of sins. I saw her head north along the coast after leaving the cottage. Is your shoreline here considered a fine example of marine beauty, Mr. Betteredge?”

I replied, “Yes,” as briefly as I could.

“Tastes differ,” Sergeant Cuff remarked. “From my perspective, I’ve never seen a marine landscape I admired less. If you’re following someone along the coast and that person turns around, there’s nowhere to hide. I had to decide whether to take Rosanna into custody on suspicion or leave her to her own devices for now. For reasons I won’t bother you with, I chose to make any sacrifice rather than raise an alarm tonight to a certain unnamed individual. I came back to ask you to take me to the north end of the beach by a different route. Sand, in terms of tracking people’s footsteps, is one of the best detectives I know. If we don’t find Rosanna Spearman by approaching her this way, the sand might tell us what she’s been up to, as long as the light holds. Here’s the sand. If you don’t mind, let me go first and keep quiet.”

If there’s such a thing as a detective fever, I was definitely suffering from it. Sergeant Cuff moved between the sand dunes toward the beach, and I followed him, my heart racing, waiting at a distance for what would happen next.

As it turned out, I found myself standing almost in the same spot where Rosanna Spearman and I had talked when Mr. Franklin suddenly appeared, arriving from London. While I watched the Sergeant, my mind drifted back to that earlier moment with Rosanna. I could almost feel her slip her hand into mine again, giving it a little grateful squeeze for my kindness. I could almost hear her voice telling me how the Shivering Sand seemed to pull her in against her will whenever she went out—almost see her face light up as it had when she first spotted Mr. Franklin coming toward us from the dunes. My spirits sank lower as I recalled these memories, and the view of the lonely little bay only deepened my unease.

The last light of day was fading, leaving a still and eerie calm over the desolate landscape. The ocean’s swell on the distant sandbank was soundless. The inner sea lay dim and lost, with not a breath of wind to stir it. Patches of foul ooze floated, yellow-white, on the still surface of the water. Scum and slime glimmered faintly in places where the last light caught them on the two great rock outcrops jutting into the sea. It was the time of the tide’s turn, and as I stood there waiting, the broad brown face of the quicksand began to ripple and tremble—the only movement in that dreadful place.

I noticed the Sergeant flinch as the sand shivered beneath his gaze. After observing it for a moment, he turned back to me.

“A treacherous spot, Mr. Betteredge,” he said. “And no sign of Rosanna Spearman anywhere on the beach, no matter where you look.”

He led me further down the shore, and I saw for myself that our footprints were the only ones marked in the sand.

“How does the fishing village look from where we are now?” Sergeant Cuff asked.

“Cobb’s Hole,” I replied, naming the place, “is roughly due south.”

“I saw the girl earlier this evening, walking north along the shore from Cobb’s Hole,” the Sergeant said. “So she must have been heading this way. Is Cobb’s Hole on the other side of that point of land? Can we reach it by the beach now that it’s low tide?”

I answered “Yes” to both questions.

“If you don’t mind, let’s move quickly,” the Sergeant suggested. “I want to find the spot where she left the shore before it gets dark.”

We had walked a couple of hundred yards toward Cobb’s Hole when Sergeant Cuff suddenly dropped to his knees on the beach, seemingly overcome with a sudden urge to pray.

“There’s definitely something to appreciate about this marine landscape,” the Sergeant said, glancing around. “Look at these footprints, Mr. Betteredge! Let’s assume they belong to Rosanna until we find something that proves otherwise. They’re quite muddled, as you can see—deliberately muddled, I’d say. Poor thing, she knows how to use the sand to her advantage, just like I do! But hasn’t she rushed a bit too much to cover her tracks? I think so. Here’s one footprint leading away from Cobb’s Hole, and another coming back. Isn’t that the toe of her shoe pointing right toward the water? And don’t I see two heel marks further down the beach, also near the water? I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I’m afraid Rosanna is being clever. It looks like she tried to get to that spot we just came from without leaving any evidence behind. Shall we say she walked through the water from here to that ledge of rocks behind us, then returned the same way, and only stepped back onto the beach where those two heel marks are? Yes, that seems reasonable. It fits with my idea that she had something hidden under her cloak when she left the cottage. Not something to destroy—if that were the case, why would she go to such lengths to cover her tracks? No, I think it’s better to assume she had something to hide. Perhaps if we head to the cottage, we’ll discover what that something is?”

At this suggestion, my enthusiasm for detective work suddenly faded. “You don’t really need me,” I replied. “What good can I do?”

“The longer I know you, Mr. Betteredge,” the Sergeant said, “the more I appreciate your qualities. Modesty—oh, how rare it is in this world! And you possess so much of it! If I go to the cottage alone, the locals will clam up at my first question. But if I go with you, I’ll have the advantage of being introduced by a respected neighbor, and that will open up the conversation. That’s how I see it; what do you think?”

Not having a clever response ready, I stalled by asking him which cottage he wanted to visit.

When the Sergeant described the place, I recognized it as the home of a fisherman named Yolland, who lived there with his wife and two grown children, a son and a daughter. If you recall, when I first introduced Rosanna Spearman, I mentioned that she sometimes varied her walks to the Shivering Sand by visiting friends at Cobb’s Hole. Those friends were the Yollands—decent, respectable people who were a credit to the neighborhood. Rosanna’s connection with them began through their daughter, known as Limping Lucy, who had a misshapen foot. I suppose the two girls felt a bond over their shared struggles. Regardless, the Yollands and Rosanna always seemed to get along well whenever they met. The fact that Sergeant Cuff had traced Rosanna to their cottage changed how I viewed my role in his investigation. Rosanna had simply gone where she often did, and proving she had been with the fisherman and his family suggested she had been innocently occupied, at least up to that point. Helping Sergeant Cuff would actually be doing her a favor rather than causing her harm. I decided to go along with his reasoning.

We continued on to Cobb’s Hole, following the footprints in the sand as long as the light allowed.

When we reached the cottage, we found that the fisherman and his son were out on the boat, and Limping Lucy, always tired and frail, was resting in her bed upstairs. Good Mrs. Yolland welcomed us into her kitchen. When she learned that Sergeant Cuff was a well-known figure from London, she quickly set a bottle of Dutch gin and a couple of clean pipes on the table, staring at him as if she couldn’t get enough of his presence.

I sat quietly in a corner, waiting to see how the Sergeant would steer the conversation toward Rosanna Spearman. His usual roundabout way of approaching things was, on this occasion, more convoluted than ever. How he managed it then, and how he still does, is beyond me. But one thing is clear: he started with the Royal Family, moved on to the Primitive Methodists, and even the price of fish. Somehow, he wound his way from that to the loss of the Moonstone, the spitefulness of our first housemaid, and the harsh treatment Rosanna received from the other women in the house.

Once he finally reached his point, he explained that he was making inquiries about the missing diamond, partly to find it and partly to clear Rosanna of the unjust suspicions that her enemies held against her. After about fifteen minutes of this, good Mrs. Yolland was convinced she was speaking to Rosanna’s best friend and was urging Sergeant Cuff to ease his stomach and lift his spirits with a drink from the Dutch bottle.

Convinced that the Sergeant was wasting his time with Mrs. Yolland, I leaned back and enjoyed their conversation as if I were watching a play unfold. The great Cuff displayed remarkable patience, trying his luck in various ways, taking aim at random, hoping to hit the mark. He ended up saying everything positive about Rosanna and nothing negative, despite his efforts, while Mrs. Yolland chatted away, completely trusting him. Just as we were checking our watches and preparing to leave, he made one last attempt.

“I wish you goodnight, ma’am,” the Sergeant said. “And I’ll just add, as we part, that Rosanna Spearman has a sincere well-wisher in me, your obedient servant. But, oh dear, she’ll never thrive in her current position; my advice to her is to leave.”

“Bless your heart! She is going to leave!” exclaimed Mrs. Yolland. (Just so you know, I’m translating Mrs. Yolland from her Yorkshire dialect into plain English. The ever-capable Cuff was occasionally puzzled by her until I stepped in to help, which should give you an idea of how confusing her speech could be.)

Rosanna Spearman was planning to leave us? That caught my attention. It seemed odd that she hadn’t given any warning to either my lady or me. A nagging doubt crept into my mind—could it be that Sergeant Cuff’s last random shot had actually hit the target? I started to wonder if my involvement in this situation was as innocent as I had thought. While it might be part of the Sergeant’s job to confuse an honest woman with a web of lies, I had a duty to remember, as a good Protestant, that the father of lies is the Devil—and mischief and the Devil are never far apart. Sensing trouble in the air, I tried to get Sergeant Cuff to leave. He immediately sat back down and asked for a little comfort from the Dutch bottle. Mrs. Yolland took a seat across from him and poured him a drink. I lingered by the door, feeling increasingly uneasy, and said I thought I should say goodnight—but I didn’t leave.

“So she means to leave?” the Sergeant asked. “What will she do when she does? It’s sad, really. The poor thing has no friends in the world except you and me.”

“Oh, but she does!” Mrs. Yolland replied. “She came in here this evening, as I told you, and after chatting a bit with my girl Lucy and me, she asked to go upstairs by herself, into Lucy’s room. It’s the only room in our house with pen and ink. ‘I want to write a letter to a friend,’ she said, ‘but I can’t do it with the servants snooping around up at the house.’ I can’t tell you who the letter was for, but judging by how long she was upstairs, it must have been quite a lengthy one. I offered her a postage stamp when she came down, but she didn’t have the letter with her and didn’t take the stamp. She’s a bit secretive, poor soul, as you know, but she definitely has a friend somewhere, and you can bet she’ll go to that friend.”

“Soon?” the Sergeant asked.

“As soon as she can,” Mrs. Yolland replied.

At this point, I stepped in from the door. As the head of my lady’s household, I couldn’t let this kind of loose talk about one of our servants going or not going continue without addressing it.

“You must be mistaken about Rosanna Spearman,” I said. “If she were planning to leave her current position, she would have mentioned it to me first.”

“‘Mistaken?’” Mrs. Yolland exclaimed, her voice rising in disbelief. “Just an hour ago, she bought some things she needed for her trip—right here in this very room, Mr. Betteredge. And speaking of that,” she continued, her hand digging into her pocket, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss regarding Rosanna and her money. Are either of you planning to see her when you head back to the house?”

“I’d be happy to take a message to her,” Sergeant Cuff replied, cutting me off before I could speak.

Mrs. Yolland pulled out a handful of coins, carefully counting them in her palm with an exasperating level of precision. She offered the money to the Sergeant, her reluctance evident.

“Could you please return this to Rosanna for me, along with my love and respect?” she asked. “She insisted on paying me for a couple of things she fancied this evening—and I won’t deny that money is tight in our household. Still, I feel uneasy about taking the poor girl’s little savings. Honestly, I don’t think my husband would be pleased to hear that I accepted Rosanna Spearman’s money when he comes home tomorrow morning. Please tell her she’s more than welcome to the things she bought from me—as a gift. And please don’t leave the money on the table,” she added, suddenly placing it down in front of the Sergeant as if it burned her fingers. “Don’t, for goodness’ sake! Times are tough, and I might be tempted to pocket it again.”

“Let’s go!” I urged. “I can’t wait any longer; I need to get back to the house.”

“I’ll catch up with you shortly,” Sergeant Cuff said.

For the second time, I approached the door, and once again, I found myself unable to step outside.

“It’s a delicate situation, ma’am,” I heard the Sergeant say. “You charged her fairly for the items, I trust?”

“Fairly?” Mrs. Yolland replied. “Come and see for yourself.”

She picked up a candle and led the Sergeant to a corner of the kitchen. I couldn’t help but follow them. In the corner lay a jumble of odds and ends—mostly old metal scraps that the fisherman had salvaged from wrecked ships but hadn’t found a buyer for yet. Mrs. Yolland rummaged through the mess and pulled out an old tin case, complete with a cover and a hasp for hanging. It was the kind of thing used on ships to keep maps and charts dry.

“There!” she exclaimed. “When Rosanna came in this evening, she bought the matching case. ‘This will be perfect,’ she said, ‘for keeping my cuffs and collars neat in my box.’ One and ninepence, Mr. Cuff. I swear, not a halfpenny more!”

“Dirt cheap!” the Sergeant replied, letting out a heavy sigh.

He weighed the case in his hand, and I could almost hear him humming a few notes of “The Last Rose of Summer” as he examined it. There was no doubt now—he had uncovered another detail that could tarnish Rosanna Spearman’s reputation, and it was all my doing! I can’t express how I felt or how deeply I regretted introducing Mrs. Yolland to Sergeant Cuff.

“That’s enough,” I said firmly. “We really need to go.”

Ignoring me entirely, Mrs. Yolland dove back into the pile and emerged with a dog chain.

“Feel this one, sir,” she said to the Sergeant. “We had three of these, and Rosanna took two. ‘What do you need with two dog chains?’ I asked her. ‘If I link them together, they’ll fit around my box just fine,’ she replied. ‘Rope’s cheaper,’ I said. ‘Chain’s more reliable,’ she insisted. ‘Who ever heard of a box secured with chain?’ I questioned. ‘Oh, Mrs. Yolland, please don’t argue!’ she said; ‘just let me have my chains!’ A peculiar girl, Mr. Cuff—good-hearted and kinder than a sister to my Lucy, but always a bit odd. So, I indulged her. Three and sixpence. On my word, three _and_ sixpence, Mr. Cuff!”

“Each?” the Sergeant asked.

“Together!” Mrs. Yolland corrected. “Three and sixpence for both.”

“Given away, ma’am,” the Sergeant said, shaking his head. “Completely given away!”

“There’s the money,” Mrs. Yolland said, inching back toward the small pile of coins on the table as if it were pulling her in against her will. “The tin case and the dog chains were all she bought and took away. One and ninepence and three and sixpence—totaling five and three. With my love and respects—and I can’t bring myself to take a poor girl’s savings when she might need them.”

“I can’t bring myself to return the money, ma’am,” Sergeant Cuff replied. “You’ve practically given her those items as a gift.”

“Is that your honest opinion, sir?” Mrs. Yolland asked, her face lighting up.

“There’s no doubt about it,” the Sergeant replied. “Just ask Mr. Betteredge.”

It was pointless to ask me. All I could manage was a simple, “Good night.”

“Forget the money!” Mrs. Yolland exclaimed. With that, she seemed to lose all control, suddenly grabbing the pile of coins and shoving it into her pocket. “It’s enough to ruin your mood, seeing it just sitting there, untouched,” she huffed, plopping down with a thud and glaring at Sergeant Cuff, as if to say, “It’s mine now—good luck getting it back!”

This time, I didn’t just step to the door; I walked right out onto the road. I can’t explain it, but I felt like one or both of them had seriously offended me. Just three steps down the village path, I heard the Sergeant calling after me.

“Thank you for the introduction, Mr. Betteredge,” he said. “I owe Mrs. Yolland for a completely new experience. She’s left me puzzled.”

I almost snapped back at him, not for any real reason other than my own irritation with myself. But when he admitted to being puzzled, a flicker of hope crossed my mind that maybe nothing too terrible had happened after all. I stayed quiet, waiting to hear more.

“Yes,” the Sergeant continued, as if he could read my thoughts in the dark. “Instead of leading me in the right direction, you might find it comforting to know, Mr. Betteredge (given your interest in Rosanna), that you’ve actually thrown me off the scent. What the girl did tonight is clear enough. She joined the two chains and secured them to the hasp in the tin case. She’s sunk the case, either in the water or in the quicksand. She’s tied the loose end of the chain to some spot under the rocks, known only to her. She’ll leave the case anchored until this whole situation blows over, after which she can pull it up again whenever she wants. That part is straightforward. But,” the Sergeant added, his voice finally tinged with impatience, “the real mystery is—what on earth has she hidden in that tin case?”

I thought to myself, “The Moonstone!” But all I said was, “Can’t you guess?”

“It’s not the Diamond,” the Sergeant replied. “If Rosanna Spearman has the Diamond, then my entire experience has led me astray.”

Hearing that, the familiar itch of detective fever began to flare up in me again. I lost myself in the thrill of trying to solve this new puzzle. I blurted out, “The stained dress!”

Sergeant Cuff stopped abruptly in the dark and placed his hand on my arm.

“Is anything that goes into your quicksand ever brought back up?” he asked.

“Never,” I replied. “Light or heavy, whatever goes into the Shivering Sand is pulled down and never seen again.”

“Does Rosanna Spearman know that?”

“She knows it as well as I do.”

“Then,” the Sergeant said, “what on earth could she have done but tie a stone in the stained dress and toss it into the quicksand? There’s no reason for her to hide it—and yet she must have hidden it. The question is,” he continued, resuming his walk, “is the paint-stained dress a petticoat or a nightgown? Or is it something else that she has a reason to protect at all costs? Mr. Betteredge, if nothing stops me, I need to go to Frizinghall tomorrow and find out what she bought in town when she secretly got the materials for that substitute dress. It’s risky to leave the house as things stand, but it’s even riskier to proceed in the dark. Forgive my irritation; I feel degraded—I’ve let Rosanna Spearman outsmart me.”

When we returned, the servants were having supper. The first person we spotted in the outer yard was the policeman Superintendent Seegrave had left with the Sergeant. The Sergeant asked if Rosanna Spearman had come back. Yes. When? Nearly an hour ago. What had she done? She’d gone upstairs to take off her bonnet and cloak—and now she was quietly having supper with the others.

Without saying a word, Sergeant Cuff walked on, sinking further into his own disappointment as he headed to the back of the house. He missed the entrance in the dark and continued on (despite my calls) until he was stopped by a small gate leading into the garden. When I caught up to him to guide him back, I found him staring intently at one particular window on the bedroom floor at the back of the house.

Looking up myself, I realized he was focused on Miss Rachel’s room, where lights were moving back and forth, suggesting something unusual was happening.

“Isn’t that Miss Verinder’s room?” Sergeant Cuff asked.

I confirmed that it was indeed supper time and invited him to join me. The Sergeant stayed put, remarking that he enjoyed the scent of the garden at night. I left him to his thoughts. Just as I was about to step inside, I heard “The Last Rose of Summer” drifting from the gate. Sergeant Cuff had made another discovery, and this time it involved my young lady’s window.

That thought drew me back to the Sergeant, and I felt it would be rude to leave him alone. “Is there anything up there you don’t understand?” I asked, gesturing toward Miss Rachel’s window.

From the tone of his voice, it seemed Sergeant Cuff had regained some confidence. “You Yorkshire folks are quite the gamblers, aren’t you?” he inquired.

“Well?” I replied. “What if we are?”

“If I were a Yorkshireman,” he continued, taking my arm, “I’d bet you a sovereign that your young lady has suddenly decided to leave the house. If I win, I’d wager another sovereign that she came up with the idea in the last hour.” His first guess took me by surprise, and the second one tangled in my mind with the news we’d heard from the policeman—that Rosanna Spearman had returned from the sands just an hour ago. The two pieces of information stirred a strange feeling in me as we headed in for supper. I shook off Sergeant Cuff’s arm, forgetting my manners, and pushed past him to make my own inquiries.

Samuel, the footman, was the first person I encountered in the hallway.

“Her ladyship is waiting to see you and Sergeant Cuff,” he said before I could ask him anything.

“How long has she been waiting?” the Sergeant’s voice came from behind me.

“For the last hour, sir.”

There it was again! Rosanna had returned, Miss Rachel had made some unusual decision, and my lady had been waiting to see the Sergeant—all within the last hour! It was unsettling to see these disparate elements connecting in such a way. I continued upstairs without looking at Sergeant Cuff or speaking to him. My hand trembled as I raised it to knock on my mistress’s door.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” the Sergeant whispered over my shoulder, “if a scandal erupted in the house tonight. Don’t worry! I’ve handled worse family troubles than this before.”

As he spoke, I heard my mistress’s voice calling for us to come in.