CHAPTER XIX

by Wilkie Collins

The news of Rosanna’s disappearance had quickly spread among the outdoor staff. They had started their own search and had just caught a quick little boy, nicknamed “Duffy,” who sometimes helped with weeding in the garden. He had seen Rosanna Spearman just half an hour ago. Duffy was certain that he had spotted her running through the fir plantation, heading toward the shore.

“Does this boy know the area?” Sergeant Cuff asked.

“He was born and raised here,” I replied.

“Duffy!” the Sergeant called. “Do you want to earn a shilling? If so, come with me. Mr. Betteredge, keep the pony-chaise ready until I return.”

He set off toward the Shivering Sand at a pace that my legs—though still in decent shape for my age—couldn’t hope to match. Little Duffy, like many spirited kids in our part of the world, let out a whoop and scampered after the Sergeant.

After Sergeant Cuff left, I found it hard to describe the whirlwind of thoughts racing through my mind. A strange, unsettling restlessness took hold of me. I busied myself with a dozen pointless tasks around the house, none of which I can recall now. I don’t even know how long it was after the Sergeant had gone when Duffy returned with a message for me. Sergeant Cuff had given him a leaf torn from his pocketbook, on which he had written in pencil: “Send me one of Rosanna Spearman’s boots, and be quick about it.”

I quickly sent the first woman-servant I could find to Rosanna’s room, and I instructed Duffy to tell the Sergeant that I would follow him with the boot.

I knew this wasn’t the fastest way to follow the Sergeant’s instructions, but I was determined to see what was happening before I handed over Rosanna’s boot. My old instinct to protect her resurfaced, just when I thought I had put it aside. This feeling—combined with a surge of detective fever—prompted me to hurry off, as fast as a man nearing seventy could manage, once I had the boot in hand.

As I approached the shore, dark clouds rolled in, and rain began to pour, sweeping across the landscape in thick sheets. I could hear the thunder of the waves crashing against the sandbank at the bay’s mouth. A little further along, I spotted Duffy crouched for shelter behind the sandhills. Then I saw the wild sea, the waves crashing onto the sandbank, the rain driving across the water like a shroud, and the desolate beach where one solitary figure stood—Sergeant Cuff.

He waved at me when he first saw me. “Stay on that side!” he shouted. “Come down here to me!”

I hurried to him, gasping for breath, my heart racing as if it might leap from my chest. I had a hundred questions swirling in my mind, but none came out. The look on his face terrified me. There was a horror in his eyes that I couldn’t shake. He snatched the boot from my hand and placed it in a footprint on the sand, leading south toward the rocky ledge known as the South Spit. The mark was still clear, not yet washed away by the rain—and the boot fit it perfectly.

Without saying a word, the Sergeant pointed to the boot in the footprint.

I grabbed his arm, trying to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. He continued, following the footprints down to where the rocks met the sand. The South Spit was just submerged by the rising tide, the water surging over the hidden face of the Shivering Sand. With a grim determination that was painful to watch, Sergeant Cuff tried the boot in the footprints, always finding them leading straight toward the rocks. No matter how hard he searched, he couldn’t find any sign of footsteps coming back from them.

Finally, he gave up. Still silent, he looked at me, then back out at the churning waters. I followed his gaze—and I could see the realization dawning in his expression. A chilling dread washed over me. I dropped to my knees on the beach.

“She has been back at the hiding place,” I heard the Sergeant mutter to himself. “Some terrible accident must have happened to her on those rocks.”

The girl’s changed appearance, her words, and the way she acted—how numb and distant she seemed when she listened to me and spoke to me—came flooding back to my mind as the Sergeant spoke. It was a warning that his guess was far from the terrible truth. I wanted to tell him about the fear that had gripped me. I tried to say, “The death she faced, Sergeant, was one she sought herself.” But the words wouldn’t come. I was frozen, trembling, unable to feel the pouring rain or see the rising tide. Like a haunting vision, the poor lost girl appeared before me again. I remembered her as I had seen her before—on the morning I went to bring her into the house. I heard her voice again, saying that the Shivering Sand seemed to pull her in against her will, wondering if her grave was waiting for her there. The horror of it struck me deeply, especially as I thought of my own daughter. She was the same age as Rosanna. My girl, just as Rosanna had been, could have lived that miserable life and faced this dreadful end.

The Sergeant gently helped me up and turned me away from the spot where she had died.

With that small relief, I began to catch my breath and see things as they truly were. Looking toward the sandhills, I saw the men from the estate and a fisherman named Yolland running toward us, all of them alarmed and calling out to ask if the girl had been found. In just a few words, the Sergeant pointed out the evidence of the footprints and told them that a tragic accident must have occurred. He then singled out the fisherman and asked him, turning back toward the sea, “Tell me, could a boat have taken her away in weather like this from those rocks where her footprints stop?”

The fisherman gestured toward the crashing waves and the foam rising against the headlands on either side of us.

“No boat ever built could have reached her through that,” he replied.

Sergeant Cuff took one last look at the footprints in the sand, which the rain was quickly erasing.

“There’s the proof that she couldn’t have left this place by land,” he said. “And here,” he continued, looking at the fisherman, “is the proof that she couldn’t have escaped by sea.” He paused to think for a moment. “She was seen running toward this spot half an hour before I arrived from the house,” he told Yolland. “Let’s say it was about an hour ago. How high would the water have been on this side of the rocks then?” He pointed to the south side, the area not covered by quicksand.

“With the tide as it is today,” the fisherman said, “there wouldn’t have been enough water to drown a kitten on that side of the Spit an hour ago.”

Sergeant Cuff turned to face the north side, toward the quicksand.

“And how much on this side?” he asked.

“Even less,” Yolland replied. “The Shivering Sand would have just been at the surface, and nothing more.”

The Sergeant turned to me and said that the accident must have happened on the side of the quicksand. That was when I found my voice. “No accident!” I told him. “When she came here, she was tired of her life and came to end it.”

He stepped back, surprised. “How do you know?” he asked. The others gathered around us. The Sergeant quickly regained his composure. He pushed them back, saying I was an old man, that the discovery had shaken me, and urged them, “Give him a moment.” Then he turned to Yolland and asked, “Is there any chance of finding her when the tide goes out again?”

Yolland shook his head. “None. What the Sand takes, it keeps forever.” After saying that, the fisherman stepped closer to me.

“Mr. Betteredge,” he said, “I need to talk to you about the young woman’s death. Four feet out, broadwise, along the side of the Spit, there’s a ledge of rock about half a fathom down beneath the sand. My question is—why didn’t she hit that? If she slipped off the Spit by accident, she would have fallen where there’s enough footing at the bottom to barely cover her waist. She must have waded out or jumped into the deeper waters beyond—or she wouldn’t be missing now. No accident, sir! The Deeps of the Quicksand have her. And they have her by her own choice.”

After hearing that from a man whose knowledge I trusted, the Sergeant fell silent. The rest of us, like him, held our tongues. In unison, we turned back up the slope of the beach.

At the sandhills, we were met by the under-groom, running toward us from the house. He was a good lad, with a genuine respect for me. He handed me a small note, sorrow etched on his face. “Penelope sent me with this, Mr. Betteredge,” he said. “She found it in Rosanna’s room.”

It was her final goodbye to the old man who had always tried his best—thankfully, he had always tried his best—to be a friend to her.

“You’ve forgiven me many times before, Mr. Betteredge. When you next see the Shivering Sand, please forgive me once more. I’ve found my resting place where it was meant to be. I’ve lived and died, sir, grateful for your kindness.”

That was all she said. It was so little, yet I didn’t have the strength to withstand it. Tears come easily when you’re young and just starting out in life. They come just as easily when you’re old and saying goodbye. I couldn’t help but cry.

Sergeant Cuff stepped closer to me—his intentions were kind, I’m sure. But I recoiled from him. “Don’t touch me,” I said. “It’s your presence that has driven her to this.”

“You’re mistaken, Mr. Betteredge,” he replied calmly. “But we’ll have plenty of time to discuss it once we’re back inside.”

I followed the others, leaning on the groom’s arm. We trudged through the pouring rain, heading back to face the trouble and fear that awaited us at the house.