CHAPTER XXIII

by Wilkie Collins

I had the pony-chaise ready, just in case Mr. Franklin decided to leave us by train that night. When I saw the luggage come down the stairs, followed closely by Mr. Franklin himself, it was clear he had made up his mind for once.

“So, you really are going through with it?” I asked as we met in the hall. “Why not wait a day or two longer and give Miss Rachel another chance?”

The polished exterior Mr. Franklin had worn seemed to have faded now that it was time to say goodbye. Instead of answering me, he handed me the letter that her ladyship had written to him. Most of it repeated what had already been said in the previous correspondence I had received. But there was a new part about Miss Rachel at the end, which explained Mr. Franklin’s unwavering determination, if nothing else did.

“You might wonder,” her ladyship wrote, “why I allow my own daughter to keep me completely in the dark. A diamond worth twenty thousand pounds has been lost, and I can only assume that Rachel knows more about its disappearance than she’s letting on. It seems she has been placed under some strange obligation of silence by someone I don’t know, for reasons I can’t even begin to guess. Can you imagine that I would let myself be toyed with like this? It’s entirely possible, given Rachel’s current state. She’s in a state of nervous agitation that’s painful to witness. I can’t bring up the subject of the Moonstone again until time has calmed her down. To help with this, I’ve dismissed the police officer. The mystery that confounds us also confounds him. This isn’t something a stranger can help us with. His presence only adds to my suffering and drives Rachel to distraction whenever she hears his name.

“My plans for the future are as settled as they can be. I intend to take Rachel to London—not only to give her mind a break with a complete change of scenery, but also to seek the best medical advice. Can I ask you to meet us in town? My dear Franklin, you must show the same patience I am trying to have and wait for a better time. The valuable help you provided in the search for the lost jewel is still an unpardonable offense in Rachel’s current state of mind. By acting without understanding the full situation, you’ve unintentionally added to her burden, threatening her secret with exposure through your efforts. I can’t excuse the stubbornness that holds you responsible for consequences neither of us could have foreseen. She can’t be reasoned with—she can only be pitied. I’m sorry to say it, but for now, you and Rachel are better off apart. The only advice I can give you is to give her time.”

I handed the letter back, genuinely feeling for Mr. Franklin, knowing how much he cared for my young lady. I could see that her mother’s words had struck him deeply. “You know the saying, sir,” I said gently. “When things are at their worst, they’re bound to get better. It can’t get much worse than it is now, Mr. Franklin.”

Mr. Franklin folded his aunt’s letter, though he didn’t seem comforted by my words.

“When I came here from London with that dreadful diamond,” he said, “I don’t think there was a happier household in England than this one. Look at it now! Scattered, divided—the very air poisoned with mystery and suspicion! Do you remember that morning at the Shivering Sand when we talked about my uncle Herncastle and his birthday gift? The Moonstone has served the Colonel’s vengeance in ways he never even imagined!”

With that, he shook my hand and walked out to the pony-chaise.

I followed him down the steps, feeling a deep sense of sadness as I watched him leave the old place where he had spent the happiest years of his life. Penelope, clearly upset by everything that had happened in the house, came around in tears to say goodbye. Mr. Franklin kissed her gently. I waved my hand, as if to say, “You’re always welcome here, sir.” A few of the other female servants peeked around the corner, watching him go. He was the kind of man that everyone liked.

At the last moment, I stopped the pony-chaise and asked him, as a favor, to keep in touch by letter. He didn’t seem to hear me; he was looking around, taking a final glance at the house and grounds. “Tell us where you’re going, sir!” I called out, holding onto the chaise and trying to get a sense of his plans. Mr. Franklin suddenly pulled his hat down over his eyes. “Going?” he echoed. “I’m going to the devil!” The pony flinched at the word, as if it felt a moral shock. “God bless you, sir, wherever you go!” was all I had time to say before he disappeared from sight and sound. A truly charming gentleman! Despite his flaws and follies, he was a sweet and pleasant man. His departure left a significant void in my lady’s house.

As the long summer evening settled in on that Saturday night, the atmosphere felt dull and dreary.

I kept my spirits up by sticking to my pipe and my copy of *Robinson Crusoe*. The women, except for Penelope, passed the time discussing Rosanna’s suicide. They all stubbornly believed that the poor girl had stolen the Moonstone and had taken her own life out of fear of being discovered. My daughter, of course, held firmly to her previous beliefs. Oddly enough, her understanding of the motive behind the suicide fell short in the same way that Miss Rachel’s claim of innocence did. It left Rosanna’s secret trip to Frizinghall and her actions regarding the nightgown completely unexplained. There was no point in trying to convince Penelope of this; my objections made about as much impact on her as rain on a waterproof coat. The truth is, my daughter has inherited my tendency to dismiss reason—and, in that regard, she has surpassed her father by a long way.

The next day, Sunday, the close carriage that had been at Mr. Ablewhite’s returned to us empty. The coachman brought a message for me, along with written instructions for my lady’s maid and for Penelope.

The message informed me that my mistress had decided to take Miss Rachel to her house in London on Monday. The written instructions detailed the clothing needed and directed the two maids to meet their mistresses in town at a specified time. Most of the other servants were to follow. My lady had found Miss Rachel so reluctant to return to the house after the recent events that she decided to go directly to London from Frizinghall. I was to remain in the country until further notice, looking after things both indoors and out. The servants left with me were to be put on board wages.

This reminded me of what Mr. Franklin had said about our household being scattered and disunited, and my thoughts naturally turned to him. The more I considered his situation, the more uneasy I felt about what he might do next. In the end, I wrote to his father’s valet, Mr. Jeffco, whom I had known in the past, asking him to let me know what Mr. Franklin planned to do upon arriving in London.

Sunday evening was, if anything, even duller than Saturday evening. We ended the day of rest like countless others across the country—looking forward to bedtime and dozing off in our chairs.

I don’t know how Monday affected the rest of the household, but it certainly shook me up. The first of Sergeant Cuff’s predictions came true that day—I heard from the Yollands.

I had seen Penelope and my lady’s maid off on the train to London with the luggage and was wandering around the grounds when I heard someone call my name. Turning around, I found myself face to face with Limping Lucy, the fisherman’s daughter. Aside from her lame foot and her thinness—both of which I found unfortunate—she had some appealing qualities. She had a dark, sharp face, a clear voice, and a beautiful head of brown hair. A crutch was among her misfortunes, and her temper was a notable flaw.

“Well, my dear,” I said, “what do you want with me?”

“Where’s the man you call Franklin Blake?” she asked, fixing me with a fierce look as she leaned on her crutch.

"That's not a respectful way to talk about any gentleman," I replied. "If you want to ask about my lady’s nephew, please refer to him as Mr. Franklin Blake."

She hobbled a step closer, her eyes blazing with anger. "Mr. Franklin Blake?" she echoed, her voice dripping with disdain. "Murderer Franklin Blake would be a more fitting name for him."

I remembered my experience with the late Mrs. Betteredge. When a woman tries to provoke you, the best strategy is to turn the tables and provoke her instead. They’re usually ready for any defense you might offer, but not for that. A single word can do the trick just as well as a hundred, and that’s exactly what I did with Limping Lucy. I looked her in the eye and simply said, "Pooh!"

Her temper flared immediately. She balanced on her good foot, raised her crutch, and struck it against the ground three times with furious determination. "He’s a murderer! He’s a murderer! He’s a murderer! He’s the reason Rosanna Spearman is dead!" She shouted, her voice ringing out. A couple of people working nearby glanced over, recognized Limping Lucy, and quickly turned their attention back to their tasks.

"He’s the reason Rosanna Spearman is dead?" I repeated, trying to understand. "What makes you say that, Lucy?"

"What do you care? What does any man care? If only she had thought of men the way I do, she might still be alive!"

"She always thought kindly of me, poor soul," I said gently. "And I did my best to treat her kindly in return."

I spoke as soothingly as I could. The truth was, I didn’t want to provoke her further with another sharp retort. I had initially noticed her anger, but now I saw her sorrow—and I knew that sorrow can often come across as insolence, especially among those who struggle. My words seemed to soften Limping Lucy. She lowered her head and rested it on her crutch.

"I loved her," she said quietly. "She lived a miserable life, Mr. Betteredge—terrible people mistreated her and led her astray—but it never dulled her sweet nature. She was an angel. She could have been happy with me. I had a plan for us to go to London together like sisters and make a living with our sewing. Then he came along and ruined everything. He enchanted her. Don’t tell me he didn’t mean to or didn’t realize it. He should have known better. He should have had compassion for her. 'I can’t live without him—and, oh, Lucy, he never even looks at me,' that’s what she said. It was so cruel. I told her, 'No man is worth that kind of heartache.' And she replied, 'There are men worth dying for, Lucy, and he is one of them.' I had saved up some money. I had talked things over with my parents. I wanted to take her away from the humiliation she was enduring here. We could have had a little place in London and lived together like sisters. She had a good education, as you know, and she wrote beautifully. She was quick with her needle. I have a good education too, and I write well. I’m not as fast with a needle as she was, but I could have managed. We could have made a decent living. And then, what happens this morning? What happens this morning? Her letter arrives, telling me she’s done with the burden of her life. Her letter says goodbye forever. Where is he?" she cried, lifting her head from the crutch, her tears igniting her anger again. "Where’s this gentleman I’m supposed to speak of with respect? Ha, Mr. Betteredge, the day is coming when the poor will rise against the rich. I pray to Heaven they start with him. I pray to Heaven they start with him."

Here was another example of a good Christian, and here was the usual breakdown that comes when that average faith is pushed too far! Even the parson himself (though I admit that’s saying a lot) could hardly have lectured her in her current state. All I could do was keep her focused, hoping for some revelation that might be worth hearing.

"What do you want with Mr. Franklin Blake?" I asked.

"I want to see him."

"For any particular reason?"

"I have a letter for him."

"From Rosanna Spearman?"

"Yes."

"Sent to you in your own letter?"

"Yes."

Was the darkness about to lift? Were all the discoveries I was desperate to make finally coming to me? I had to pause for a moment. Sergeant Cuff had left his mark on me. Certain signs, personal to me, warned that the detective fever was starting to rise again.

"You can’t see Mr. Franklin," I said.

"I must, and I will see him."

"He went to London last night."

Limping Lucy studied my face closely and realized I was telling the truth. Without another word, she turned and headed back toward Cobb’s Hole.

"Wait!" I called out. "I expect news of Mr. Franklin Blake tomorrow. Give me your letter, and I’ll send it to him by post."

Limping Lucy steadied herself on her crutch and glanced back at me over her shoulder.

“I have to give it directly from my hands to his,” she said. “And I can’t do it any other way.”

“Should I write to him and tell him what you’ve said?”

“Tell him I hate him. That will be the truth.”

“Yes, yes. But what about the letter?”

“If he wants the letter, he has to come back here and get it from me.”

With that, she limped off toward Cobb’s Hole. The urgency of the situation stripped me of my dignity in an instant. I followed her, trying to get her to talk, but it was no use. It was my misfortune to be a man, and Limping Lucy took pleasure in frustrating me. Later that day, I tried my luck with her mother. Good Mrs. Yolland could only cry and suggest a drink from the Dutch bottle for comfort. I found the fisherman on the beach. He muttered it was “a bad job” and went back to mending his net. Neither parent knew more than I did. The only option left was to wait for the morning and the chance to write to Mr. Franklin Blake.

You can imagine how I watched for the postman on Tuesday morning. He delivered two letters. One was from Penelope, which I barely had the patience to read. It announced that my lady and Miss Rachel were safely settled in London. The other was from Mr. Jeffco, informing me that his master’s son had already left England.

Upon arriving in the city, Mr. Franklin had gone straight to his father’s house. He arrived at an inconvenient time. Mr. Blake, the elder, was deep in his work with the House of Commons, entertaining himself at home that night with what they call “a private bill.” Mr. Jeffco himself escorted Mr. Franklin into his father’s study.

“My dear Franklin! Why do you surprise me like this? Is something wrong?”

“Yes, something is wrong with Rachel. I’m terribly worried about it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But I can’t listen to you right now.”

“When can you listen?”

“My dear boy! I won’t lie to you. I can listen at the end of the session, not a moment before. Goodnight.”

“Thank you, sir. Goodnight.”

That was the conversation inside the study, as reported to me by Mr. Jeffco. The conversation outside the study was even shorter.

“Jeffco, what time does the tidal train leave tomorrow morning?”

“At six-forty, Mr. Franklin.”

“Wake me at five.”

“Are you going abroad, sir?”

“Going, Jeffco, wherever the railway takes me.”

“Should I inform your father, sir?”

“Yes; tell him at the end of the session.”

The next morning, Mr. Franklin had set off for parts unknown. Where exactly he was headed, no one could guess, not even him. He could turn up next in Europe, Asia, Africa, or America. In Mr. Jeffco’s opinion, the chances were evenly split among the four corners of the globe.

This news—closing off any chance of bringing Limping Lucy and Mr. Franklin together—halted my progress toward any discovery. Penelope’s belief that her fellow servant had taken her own life out of unrequited love for Mr. Franklin Blake was confirmed, and that was all I had. Whether the letter Rosanna had left to be given to him after her death contained the confession Mr. Franklin suspected she had tried to make during her life was impossible to determine. It might have been just a farewell note, revealing nothing but her secret longing for someone beyond her reach. Or it could have revealed the whole truth about the strange events Sergeant Cuff had uncovered, from the time the Moonstone was lost to the moment she rushed to her own destruction at the Shivering Sand.

It had been a sealed letter placed in Limping Lucy’s hand, and it remained sealed to me and everyone around her, including her own parents. We all suspected she had been in the dead woman’s confidence; we all tried to get her to speak, and we all failed. One by one, the servants—still clinging to the belief that Rosanna had stolen the Diamond and hidden it—searched the rocks where she had been traced, but they found nothing. The tide ebbed and flowed; summer passed, and autumn arrived. The quicksand that concealed her body also hid her secret.

The news of Mr. Franklin’s departure from England on Sunday morning and the news of my lady’s arrival in London with Miss Rachel on Monday afternoon reached me by Tuesday’s post. Wednesday came and brought nothing. Thursday produced another batch of news from Penelope.

My girl’s letter told me that a prominent doctor from London had been consulted about her young lady, and he had made a quick guinea by suggesting that she should be entertained. There was a whole lineup of activities ahead—flower shows, operas, balls—and to her mother’s surprise, Miss Rachel eagerly embraced it all. Mr. Godfrey had visited; he was still as charming as ever with his cousin, despite the chilly reception he had received during the birthday celebration. To Penelope’s dismay, he had been welcomed warmly and had even added Miss Rachel’s name to one of his charitable organizations right then and there.

My mistress was said to be feeling down and had held two lengthy meetings with her lawyer. This sparked some speculation about a distant relative of the family—Miss Clack, whom I had mentioned during the birthday dinner, sitting next to Mr. Godfrey and showing a fine taste for champagne. Penelope was shocked to discover that Miss Clack hadn’t paid a visit yet. Surely, it wouldn’t be long before she attached herself to my lady as she usually did. This kind of gossip, the way women tend to jab at each other, was nothing new. I wouldn’t mention it at all, except for one reason: I hear you might be handed over to Miss Clack after I leave. If that happens, please do me a favor and don’t believe a word she says about me.

On Friday, nothing much happened—except that one of the dogs started showing signs of irritation behind his ears. I gave him a dose of syrup of buckthorn and put him on a diet of broth and vegetables until further notice. I apologize for bringing this up; it slipped in somehow. Please overlook it. I’m almost done with my offenses against your refined modern taste. Besides, the dog was a good creature and deserved some care.

Saturday, the last day of the week, is also the final day of my story.

The morning post brought me a surprise in the form of a London newspaper. The handwriting on the envelope puzzled me. I compared it with the money-lender’s name and address in my pocketbook and quickly recognized it as Sergeant Cuff’s writing.

Eagerly flipping through the paper after this revelation, I found an ink mark circling one of the police reports. Here it is, ready for you. Read it as I did, and you’ll understand the significance of the Sergeant’s thoughtful gesture in sending me the day’s news:

“LAMBETH—Just before the court closed, Mr. Septimus Luker, a well-known dealer in ancient gems, carvings, intaglios, and so on, approached the magistrate for advice. He stated that he had been bothered throughout the day by a group of wandering Indians who loiter in the streets. There were three of them. After being sent away by the police, they returned repeatedly, trying to enter his house under the pretense of asking for charity. Warned off at the front, they had been spotted again at the back of the property.

Aside from the annoyance, Mr. Luker expressed concern that a robbery might be in the works. His collection included many unique gems, both classical and Oriental, of immense value. Just the day before, he had been forced to dismiss a skilled ivory carver (a native of India, as we understood) due to suspicions of attempted theft, and he wasn’t sure if this man and the street performers were working together. Their aim might be to gather a crowd and create a distraction, allowing them to sneak into the house amidst the chaos.

In response to the magistrate, Mr. Luker admitted he had no proof of any robbery plot. He could only speak to the annoyance and interruptions caused by the Indians, but nothing more. The magistrate noted that if the disturbances continued, Mr. Luker could summon the Indians to court, where they could be dealt with under the law. As for Mr. Luker’s valuables, he needed to take the best precautions for their safety himself. It might be wise for him to contact the police and follow any additional advice they could provide. The applicant thanked the magistrate and left.”

One of the wise ancients once advised his fellow humans to “look to the end.” As I sit here, pondering how to wrap up these pages, I find that my straightforward account is naturally reaching its conclusion. We’ve journeyed through one astonishing event after another regarding the Moonstone, and now we arrive at the most incredible revelation of all—Sergeant Cuff’s three predictions have all come true in less than a week since he made them.

After hearing from the Yollands on Monday, I’ve now learned about the Indians and the money-lender from the news in London—Miss Rachel was also in London at that time, just to remind you. I tend to present things in the worst light, even when it contradicts my own perspective. If you choose to side with the Sergeant based on the evidence available—if the only logical explanation you can find is that Miss Rachel and Mr. Luker must have met, and that the Moonstone is now secured in the money-lender’s possession—I can’t fault you for reaching that conclusion. I’ve led you this far in the dark, and now I must leave you in the same darkness, with my best regards.

You might wonder why I can’t take those who have followed me into the brighter realms of understanding where I currently reside.

The answer is simple: I’m following orders, and these orders, as I understand them, serve the cause of truth. I’m not allowed to share more in this narrative than what I knew at the time. To put it more plainly, I must stick strictly to my own experiences and not reveal what others have told me. The reason for this is that you will hear directly from those other individuals themselves. In this matter of the Moonstone, the goal is not to present hearsay but to provide witnesses. I can imagine a family member reading these pages fifty years from now. What a compliment it will be for them to be asked to rely solely on firsthand accounts, treated like a judge in a courtroom.

So, at this point, we part ways—for now, at least—after traveling together for quite some time, hopefully with a sense of camaraderie on both sides. The chaotic dance of the Indian Diamond has made its way to London, and now you must follow it there, leaving me behind at the country house. Please forgive the flaws in my writing—my tendency to speak too much about myself, and perhaps my overly familiar tone with you. I mean no offense, and I raise a tankard of her ladyship’s ale to toast your health and success. May you find in these pages of mine what Robinson Crusoe discovered on his deserted island—something to comfort you and to add to the balance of good and evil in your life. Farewell.

THE END OF THE FIRST PERIOD.