CHAPTER XXII

by Wilkie Collins

With my mistress gone, I finally had some time to think about Sergeant Cuff. I found him tucked away in a cozy corner of the hall, flipping through his notebook and curling his lips in annoyance.

“Taking notes on the case?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “Just checking my schedule for my next job.”

“Oh!” I said, surprised. “So you think it’s all over here?”

“I believe,” Sergeant Cuff said, “that Lady Verinder is one of the smartest women in England. I also think a rose is far more beautiful than a diamond. Where’s the gardener, Mr. Betteredge?”

That was the end of his interest in the Moonstone. He seemed to have completely lost focus on the investigation and was now fixated on finding the gardener. An hour later, I heard them arguing loudly in the conservatory, with the dog-rose once again at the center of their dispute.

Meanwhile, I needed to find out if Mr. Franklin was still planning to leave on the afternoon train. After hearing about the meeting in my lady’s room and how it had concluded, he decided to wait for news from Frizinghall. This change of plans, which would have meant little to most people, had one unfortunate effect on Mr. Franklin. It left him restless, with too much time on his hands, and it caused all the different sides of his personality to emerge, one after another, like rats escaping from a bag.

One moment he was Italian-English, the next German-English, and then French-English, drifting in and out of the sitting rooms, with nothing to discuss but Miss Rachel’s treatment of him, and only me to talk to. I found him, for instance, in the library, sitting beneath a map of Modern Italy, completely unaware that he had only one way to deal with his troubles—by talking about them. “I have so many good aspirations, Betteredge, but what can I do with them now? I’m full of untapped potential, if only Rachel would help me bring it out!” He was so passionate in describing his neglected qualities and so sorrowful when he finished that I was at a loss for how to comfort him. Then it hit me that this was the perfect opportunity for a little dose of _Robinson Crusoe_. I hobbled to my room and returned with that timeless book.

The library was empty! The map of Modern Italy seemed to stare back at me as I stared at it.

I tried the drawing-room next. There was his handkerchief on the floor, evidence that he had been there, but the room was empty, showing he had left again.

I moved on to the dining room, where I found Samuel, quietly nibbling on a biscuit and sipping sherry, lost in thought. Just a moment ago, Mr. Franklin had called for a light snack. Samuel had rushed to bring it, but Mr. Franklin had vanished before the bell had even finished ringing.

Finally, I checked the morning room and found him there at last. He was at the window, tracing hieroglyphics with his finger on the damp glass.

“Your sherry is ready for you, sir,” I said to him. It felt like I was talking to the walls; he was lost in his own thoughts, too deep to be pulled back. “How do you explain Rachel’s behavior, Betteredge?” was the only response I got. Not having a ready answer, I pulled out *Robinson Crusoe*, convinced that if we searched long enough, we might find some insight there.

Mr. Franklin closed the book and immediately launched into his usual mix of German and English. “Why not look into it?” he said, as if I had suggested we ignore it. “Why lose your patience, Betteredge, when patience is exactly what we need to uncover the truth? Don’t interrupt me. Rachel’s behavior makes perfect sense if you first consider the Objective view, then the Subjective view, and finally the Objective-Subjective view. What do we know? We know that the loss of the Moonstone last Thursday threw her into a state of nervous excitement that she hasn’t shaken off yet. Do you deny the Objective view? Fine, then don’t interrupt me. Now, in this state of nervous excitement, how can we expect her to act normally towards anyone around her? If we reason from the inside out, what do we conclude? We reach the Subjective view. I challenge you to argue against the Subjective view. So what follows? Good heavens! The Objective-Subjective explanation follows, of course! Rachel, in essence, is not Rachel; she’s someone else. Do I mind being treated poorly by someone else? You’re being unreasonable, Betteredge, but you can hardly accuse me of that. So how does it end? It ends, despite your narrow English views, with me feeling perfectly happy and comfortable. Where’s the sherry?”

At this point, my head was in such a state that I wasn’t sure if I was thinking my own thoughts or Mr. Franklin’s. In this muddled condition, I managed to accomplish three clear tasks: I got Mr. Franklin his sherry, I retreated to my own room, and I enjoyed the most soothing pipe of tobacco I could remember.

But don’t think I was free from Mr. Franklin so easily. He drifted from the morning room into the hall and then found his way to the offices, where he caught a whiff of my pipe and was reminded that he had foolishly given up smoking for Miss Rachel’s sake. In an instant, he burst in on me with his cigar case and launched into his favorite topic in his sharp, witty, French style. “Give me a light, Betteredge. Can you believe a man can smoke as long as I have without realizing there’s a whole system for dealing with women at the bottom of his cigar case? Follow me closely, and I’ll prove it in two words. You pick a cigar, you try it, and it disappoints you. What do you do? You toss it aside and try another. Now, here’s the application! You pick a woman, you try her, and she breaks your heart. Fool! Learn from your cigar case. Toss her aside and try another!”

I shook my head. It was clever, no doubt, but my own experience told me otherwise. “In the time of the late Mrs. Betteredge,” I said, “I often felt tempted to try your philosophy, Mr. Franklin. But the law insists you smoke your cigar once you’ve chosen it.” I punctuated my remark with a wink. Mr. Franklin burst out laughing, and we were as cheerful as could be until another side of his character emerged.

And so it went with my young master and me, while the Sergeant and the gardener argued over the roses, as we passed the time waiting for news from Frizinghall.

The pony-chaise returned a good half hour earlier than I had expected. My lady had decided to stay for the time being at her sister’s house. The groom brought back two letters from her; one for Mr. Franklin and one for me.

I sent Mr. Franklin’s letter to him in the library, where he had drifted for the second time. I opened my own letter in my room. A check fell out as I opened it, revealing before I even read the contents that Sergeant Cuff’s dismissal from the investigation into the Moonstone was now official.

I reached out to the conservatory, asking to speak directly to Sergeant Cuff. He arrived, his mind clearly preoccupied with thoughts of the gardener and the dog-rose, insisting that no one could match Mr. Begbie's stubbornness. I urged him to set aside such trivial matters and focus on something genuinely serious. At that, he finally noticed the letter I was holding.

“Ah,” he said, sounding weary, “you’ve heard from her ladyship. Am I involved in this, Mr. Betteredge?”

“You’ll see for yourself, Sergeant.” I then read the letter to him, emphasizing the important parts:

“MY GOOD GABRIEL,—Please inform Sergeant Cuff that I have fulfilled my promise to him, with this outcome regarding Rosanna Spearman. Miss Verinder firmly states that she has never spoken privately to Rosanna since that troubled woman first came into my home. They didn’t even cross paths accidentally on the night the Diamond was lost, and there was no communication between them from Thursday morning, when the alarm was raised, to this Saturday afternoon, when Miss Verinder left us. After suddenly informing my daughter about Rosanna Spearman’s suicide, this is the result.”

I paused, looking up to gauge Sergeant Cuff’s reaction to the letter so far.

“I’d only upset you if I shared my thoughts,” he replied. “Please continue, Mr. Betteredge,” he said, with an infuriating calmness.

Remembering his audacity in complaining about our gardener’s stubbornness, I felt a strong urge to respond differently than my mistress had. But this time, I held my tongue and continued with her ladyship’s letter:

“After appealing to Miss Verinder in a way the officer deemed best, I spoke to her again in a manner I believed would resonate more with her. On two separate occasions, before my daughter left my home, I privately warned her that she was putting herself under suspicion of the most unbearable and degrading kind. I have now told her plainly that my fears have been confirmed.

“Her response, as she solemnly affirms, is straightforward. First, she owes no money to anyone. Second, the Diamond is not in her possession now, nor has it ever been since she placed it in her cabinet on Wednesday night.

“The trust my daughter has in me doesn’t extend beyond this. She remains stubbornly silent when I ask her to explain the Diamond’s disappearance. She refuses to speak, even with tears, when I plead with her for my sake. ‘The day will come when you’ll understand why I don’t care about being suspected, and why I’m silent even with you. I’ve done much to earn my mother’s pity—nothing to make her ashamed of me.’ Those are my daughter’s own words.

“After my discussions with the officer, I believe—stranger though he is—that he should be informed of what Miss Verinder has said, just as you are. Read my letter to him, and then give him the enclosed cheque. In resigning all claims on his services, I want to express my belief in his honesty and intelligence; however, I am more convinced than ever that the circumstances in this case have misled him.”

The letter concluded there. Before handing over the cheque, I asked Sergeant Cuff if he had any comments.

“It’s not my place, Mr. Betteredge,” he replied, “to comment on a case once I’m done with it.”

I tossed the cheque across the table to him. “Do you believe that part of her ladyship’s letter?” I asked, feeling indignant.

The Sergeant glanced at the cheque, raising his gloomy eyebrows in acknowledgment of her ladyship’s generosity.

“This is such a generous assessment of my time,” he said, “that I feel compelled to reciprocate. I’ll keep the amount in mind, Mr. Betteredge, when the time comes to remember it.”

“What do you mean?” I pressed.

“Her ladyship has cleverly smoothed things over for now,” the Sergeant said. “But this family scandal has a way of resurfacing when you least expect it. We’ll have more detective work on our hands, sir, before the Moonstone is many months older.”

If those words meant anything, and if the way he said them meant anything, it came down to this: My mistress’s letter had convinced him that Miss Rachel was tough enough to ignore the strongest appeal anyone could make to her. He believed she had deceived her own mother—good God, under what circumstances!—with a string of terrible lies. I didn’t know how others in my position might have responded to the Sergeant, but I replied to him directly.

“Sergeant Cuff, I take your last comment as an insult to my lady and her daughter!”

“Mr. Betteredge, consider it a warning for yourself, and you’ll be closer to the truth.”

As furious as I was, the sheer arrogance in his response left me speechless.

I walked to the window to gather my thoughts. The rain had stopped, and who should I see in the courtyard but Mr. Begbie, the gardener, waiting to continue his argument about dog-roses with Sergeant Cuff.

“My compliments to the Sergeant,” Mr. Begbie called out as soon as he spotted me. “If he’s planning to walk to the station, I’m happy to go with him.”

“What!” the Sergeant exclaimed from behind me. “Are you still not convinced?”

“Not a bit!” Mr. Begbie shot back.

“Then I’ll walk to the station!” the Sergeant declared.

“Then I’ll meet you at the gate!” Mr. Begbie replied.

I was angry enough, as you know, but how could anyone stay angry with such an interruption? Sergeant Cuff noticed my change in mood and seized the moment. “Come on! Why not consider my view like her ladyship does? Why not say that the circumstances have misled me?”

To see things as her ladyship did was a privilege worth having—even if it was offered by Sergeant Cuff. Gradually, I calmed down to my usual self. I regarded any opinion about Miss Rachel that wasn’t my lady’s or mine with a sense of superiority. The only thing I couldn’t do was avoid the topic of the Moonstone! My common sense should have told me to let it go, but the virtues of the present generation weren’t around in my time. Sergeant Cuff had struck a nerve, and even though I looked down on him, that sensitive spot still throbbed. In the end, I stubbornly brought him back to the subject of her ladyship’s letter. “I’m satisfied myself,” I said. “But never mind that! Go on, as if I’m still open to persuasion. You think Miss Rachel can’t be trusted, and you say we’ll hear about the Moonstone again. Back your opinion, Sergeant,” I added casually.

Instead of getting offended, Sergeant Cuff took my hand and shook it until my fingers ached.

“I swear,” he said solemnly, “I would take a domestic job tomorrow if I had the chance to work with you, Mr. Betteredge! To say you’re as transparent as a child is to compliment children who don’t deserve it. There! We won’t start arguing again. I’ll give you my thoughts on easier terms. I won’t say another word about her ladyship or Miss Verinder—I’ll just make a prediction for your sake. I’ve already warned you that you haven’t seen the last of the Moonstone. Now, I’ll tell you three things that will happen in the future, and I believe they’ll demand your attention, whether you like it or not.”

“Go on!” I said, feeling unbothered and just as casual as before.

“First,” the Sergeant said, “you’ll hear something from the Yollands when the postman delivers Rosanna’s letter at Cobb’s Hole next Monday.”

If he had dumped a bucket of cold water on me, I doubt I could have felt it any more unpleasantly than I did at those words. Miss Rachel’s claim of innocence left Rosanna’s actions—the new nightgown, the hidden stained nightgown, and everything else—completely unexplained. I hadn’t even thought of that until Sergeant Cuff forced it into my mind all at once!

“Secondly,” the Sergeant continued, “you’ll hear about the three Indians again. You’ll hear about them in the area if Miss Rachel stays nearby, and you’ll hear about them in London if she goes there.”

Having lost all interest in the three jugglers and convinced myself of my young lady’s innocence, I took this second prediction in stride. “So that’s two of the three things that are going to happen,” I said. “Now, what’s the third?”

“Third and finally,” Sergeant Cuff said, “you’re going to hear about that money-lender in London I’ve mentioned a couple of times. Hand me your pocketbook, and I’ll jot down his name and address for you—just in case you need it later.”

He wrote on a blank page: “Mr. Septimus Luker, Middlesex Place, Lambeth, London.”

“There you go,” he said, gesturing to the address. “These are the last words I’ll share with you about the Moonstone for now. Time will tell if I’m right or wrong. In the meantime, I want you to know that I genuinely like you, and I think that reflects well on both of us. If we don’t cross paths again before I retire, I hope you’ll come visit me at a little house near London that I’ve got my eye on. I promise you, there will be grassy walks in my garden. And as for the white moss rose—”

“You won’t get that white moss rose to grow unless you graft it onto a dog-rose first!” a voice shouted from the window.

We both turned to see Mr. Begbie, unable to contain his eagerness for the debate any longer. The Sergeant shook my hand and rushed out into the courtyard, his temper flaring. “When he comes back, ask him about the moss rose and see if I’ve left him a leg to stand on!” Cuff called back to me through the window.

“Gentlemen, please!” I interjected, trying to calm them down as I had before. “There’s a lot to consider on both sides regarding the moss rose!” I might as well have been whistling to a stone wall. They stormed off together, locked in their argument about roses, neither willing to concede an inch. The last I saw of them, Mr. Begbie was shaking his stubborn head, while Sergeant Cuff had him by the arm like a prisoner.

Ah, well! I couldn’t help but like the Sergeant, even though I secretly resented him.

Try to make sense of that feeling if you can. Soon, I’ll be done with my contradictions. Once I report Mr. Franklin’s departure, the events of that Saturday will finally come to a close. And when I recount the strange occurrences of the following week, I’ll have completed my part of the story and pass the pen to the next person in line. If you’re as weary of reading this as I am of writing it—oh, how we’ll enjoy ourselves a few pages from now!