CHAPTER XVIII

by Wilkie Collins

As I headed down to the front door, I spotted Sergeant Cuff waiting on the steps.

It felt wrong to show any interest in his affairs after everything that had happened between us. Yet, despite my best efforts, I couldn’t help but feel a pull of curiosity. My sense of dignity slipped away, and I found myself asking, “What news from Frizinghall?”

“I’ve seen the Indians,” Sergeant Cuff replied. “And I discovered what Rosanna purchased privately in town last Thursday. The Indians will be released next Wednesday. There’s no doubt in my mind, nor in Mr. Murthwaite’s, that they came here to steal the Moonstone. Their plans were completely thrown off by what happened in the house on Wednesday night, and they’re not responsible for the actual loss of the jewel any more than you are. But I can tell you this, Mr. Betteredge—if we don’t find the Moonstone, they will. You haven’t heard the last of those three jugglers.”

Just then, Mr. Franklin returned from his walk, right as the Sergeant finished his startling statement. Managing his curiosity better than I had mine, he walked past us without a word and headed into the house.

Having already let go of my dignity, I decided to make the most of it. “So much for the Indians,” I said. “What about Rosanna next?”

Sergeant Cuff shook his head.

“The mystery surrounding her is thicker than ever,” he said. “I traced her to a shop in Frizinghall run by a linen draper named Maltby. She didn’t buy anything at any other draper’s, milliner’s, or tailor’s shops; at Maltby’s, she only purchased a piece of long cloth. She was very particular about the quality. As for the quantity, she bought enough to make a nightgown.”

“Whose nightgown?” I asked.

“Her own, of course. Between midnight and three on Thursday morning, she must have slipped into your young lady’s room to hide the Moonstone while the rest of you were asleep. On her way back to her own room, her nightgown must have brushed against the wet paint on the door. She couldn’t wash out the stain, and she couldn’t destroy the nightgown without first getting a replacement to keep her linen inventory complete.”

“What proves it was Rosanna’s nightgown?” I countered.

“The material she bought for the substitute dress,” the Sergeant replied. “If it had been Miss Verinder’s nightgown, she would have needed to buy lace, frills, and who knows what else; plus, she wouldn’t have had time to make it in one night. Plain long cloth means a plain servant’s nightgown. No, Mr. Betteredge, it’s all quite clear. The real question is—why, after preparing the substitute dress, does she hide the stained nightgown instead of destroying it? If the girl won’t speak up, there’s only one way to settle this. We need to search the hiding place at the Shivering Sand, and the truth will be uncovered there.”

“How will you find the place?” I asked.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” the Sergeant said, “but that’s a secret I intend to keep to myself.”

(Not to tease your curiosity as he teased mine, I should mention that he had returned from Frizinghall with a search warrant. His experience told him that Rosanna likely carried a note detailing the hiding place, which would guide her if she ever returned to it under different circumstances. Armed with this note, the Sergeant would have everything he needed.)

“Now, Mr. Betteredge,” he continued, “let’s set aside speculation and get to work. I told Joyce to keep an eye on Rosanna. Where is Joyce?”

Joyce was the Frizinghall policeman assigned to Sergeant Cuff by Superintendent Seegrave. Just as he asked the question, the clock struck two, and the carriage arrived to take Miss Rachel to her aunt’s.

“One thing at a time,” the Sergeant said, stopping me as I was about to send someone to find Joyce. “I need to attend to Miss Verinder first.”

With the rain still threatening, a closed carriage had been arranged to take Miss Rachel to Frizinghall. Sergeant Cuff signaled for Samuel to come down from the rumble behind.

“You’ll see a friend of mine waiting among the trees on this side of the lodge gate,” he instructed. “My friend will get up into the rumble with you without stopping the carriage. All you have to do is keep quiet and close your eyes. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself in trouble.”

With that advice, he sent the footman back to his post. I couldn’t guess what Samuel was thinking, but it was clear to me that Miss Rachel was to be kept under close watch from the moment she left our house—if she even did leave it. A watch set on my young lady! A spy hidden in the rumble of her mother’s carriage! I could have kicked myself for having spoken to Sergeant Cuff.

The first person to emerge from the house was my lady. She stood on the top step, watching intently to see what would happen. Not a word escaped her lips, neither to the Sergeant nor to me. With her arms crossed and her lips pressed together, wrapped in a light garden cloak, she stood there like a statue, waiting for her daughter to appear.

Moments later, Miss Rachel came down the stairs, beautifully dressed in a soft yellow fabric that complemented her dark complexion, hugging her waist in a stylish jacket form. A chic little straw hat adorned her head, with a white veil twisted around it. She wore primrose-colored gloves that fit her hands like a second skin. Her lovely black hair gleamed like satin beneath her hat, and her small ears, resembling rosy shells, were adorned with dangling pearls. She approached us swiftly, as straight as a lily on its stem, moving with the grace and agility of a young cat. Nothing seemed to have changed in her pretty face, except for her eyes and lips. Her eyes sparkled with an intensity I didn’t like, and her lips had lost their color and smile to the point where I barely recognized them. She kissed her mother quickly on the cheek and said, “Try to forgive me, mamma,” before pulling her veil down over her face so forcefully that it tore. In an instant, she dashed down the steps and jumped into the carriage as if seeking refuge.

Sergeant Cuff was just as quick. He stepped in front of Miss Rachel, holding the open carriage door as she settled into her seat.

“What do you want?” Miss Rachel asked from behind her veil.

“I just need to say one word to you, miss,” the Sergeant replied. “I can’t stop you from visiting your aunt, but I must point out that leaving us now complicates my efforts to recover your diamond. Please understand that, and decide for yourself whether you go or stay.”

Miss Rachel didn’t respond. “Drive on, James!” she called to the coachman.

Without another word, the Sergeant closed the carriage door. Just as he did, Mr. Franklin came rushing down the steps. “Goodbye, Rachel,” he said, extending his hand.

“Drive on!” Miss Rachel shouted, louder than before, ignoring Mr. Franklin just as she had ignored Sergeant Cuff.

Mr. Franklin stepped back, stunned, as anyone would be. The coachman, unsure of what to do, glanced at my lady, who remained motionless on the top step. With a mix of anger, sorrow, and shame etched on her face, she signaled for the horses to start moving, then hurried back into the house. Mr. Franklin, regaining his composure, called after her as the carriage pulled away, “Aunt! You were right. Thank you for all your kindness—and let me go.”

My lady turned as if to speak to him, but then, as if doubting herself, waved her hand kindly. “Let me see you before you leave us, Franklin,” she said, her voice breaking, and then she retreated to her room.

“Do me one last favor, Betteredge,” Mr. Franklin said, turning to me with tears in his eyes. “Get me to the train as soon as you can!”

He too went back into the house. For that moment, Miss Rachel had completely shaken him. That should tell you how much he cared for her.

Sergeant Cuff and I were left standing at the bottom of the steps. The Sergeant faced a gap in the trees, which provided a view of the winding drive leading away from the house. He had his hands in his pockets, softly whistling “The Last Rose of Summer” to himself.

“There’s a time for everything,” I said, my tone sharp. “This isn’t a time for whistling.”

Just then, the carriage appeared in the distance, visible through the gap, making its way to the lodge gate. Another man, besides Samuel, was clearly visible in the rumble behind.

“All right!” the Sergeant murmured to himself. He turned to me. “As you say, it’s no time for whistling, Mr. Betteredge. It’s time to take charge of this situation, without holding back. We’ll start with Rosanna Spearman. Where is Joyce?”

We both called for Joyce but received no answer. I sent one of the stable boys to look for him.

“You heard what I said to Miss Verinder?” Sergeant Cuff remarked as we waited. “And did you see how she reacted? I told her clearly that her leaving would make it harder for me to recover her Diamond—and she still walks away! Your young lady has a travel companion in her mother’s carriage, Mr. Betteredge—and that companion is the Moonstone.”

I didn’t respond. I just clung to my belief in Miss Rachel like it was a lifeline.

The stable-boy returned, reluctantly followed by Joyce.

“Where’s Rosanna Spearman?” Sergeant Cuff asked.

“I can’t explain, sir,” Joyce began, looking nervous. “But somehow—”

“Before I went to Frizinghall,” the Sergeant interrupted, “I told you to keep an eye on Rosanna Spearman without letting her know she was being watched. Are you telling me you let her slip away?”

“I’m afraid so, sir,” Joyce admitted, trembling. “I might have been a bit too careful not to let her see me. There are so many passages in the lower parts of this house—”

“How long has it been since you noticed she was gone?”

“Almost an hour, sir.”

“You can return to your regular duties at Frizinghall,” the Sergeant said, maintaining his usual calm and dreary demeanor. “I don’t think your skills are suited for our needs, Mr. Joyce. This line of work seems a bit beyond you. Good morning.”

Joyce slinked away. I struggled to process the news that Rosanna Spearman was missing. My thoughts were a chaotic jumble, and I stood there, staring at Sergeant Cuff, completely at a loss for words.

“No, Mr. Betteredge,” the Sergeant said, as if he could read my mind and was addressing my most pressing concern. “Your friend Rosanna won’t be slipping through my fingers as easily as you think. As long as I know where Miss Verinder is, I can track down her accomplice. I prevented them from communicating last night. Very good. They’ll meet at Frizinghall instead of here. The investigation will simply shift—sooner than I expected—from this house to the one where Miss Verinder is visiting. In the meantime, I’m afraid I’ll need you to gather the servants again.”

I followed him to the servants’ hall. I hate to admit it, but I felt another wave of detective fever wash over me when he said that. I forgot my disdain for Sergeant Cuff and grabbed his arm. “For goodness’ sake, tell us what you plan to do with the servants now?”

Sergeant Cuff stood still, addressing the empty air with a kind of melancholy enthusiasm.

“If this man,” he said, apparently referring to me, “only understood the growing of roses, he would be the most perfect character on earth!” After that outburst, he sighed and linked his arm with mine. “Here’s the situation,” he said, returning to business. “Rosanna has done one of two things. She’s either gone straight to Frizinghall before I can catch up with her, or she’s gone to visit her hiding place at the Shivering Sand first. The first step is to find out which of the servants last saw her before she left the house.”

As we began this inquiry, we discovered that the last person to see Rosanna was Nancy, the kitchen maid.

Nancy had seen her slip out with a letter in hand and stop the butcher’s boy who had just delivered some meat at the back door. She heard Rosanna ask him to post the letter when he returned to Frizinghall. The boy had looked at the address and said it was a roundabout way to deliver a letter addressed to Cobb’s Hole, especially on a Saturday, which would mean it wouldn’t arrive until Monday morning. Rosanna had replied that the delay didn’t matter; she just wanted to make sure he would do as she asked. The boy promised he would and drove away. After that, Nancy was called back to her work in the kitchen, and no one else had seen Rosanna Spearman.

“Well?” I asked when we were alone again.

“Well,” said the Sergeant, “I need to go to Frizinghall.”

“About the letter, sir?”

“Yes. The details of the hiding place are in that letter. I need to see the address at the post office. If it’s the address I suspect, I’ll pay our friend, Mrs. Yolland, another visit on Monday.”

I accompanied the Sergeant to order the pony-chaise. In the stable yard, we gained a new insight into the missing girl.