CHAPTER I

by Wilkie Collins

I owe a lot to my dear parents, both of whom have passed away, for instilling in me the habits of order and routine from a very young age.

Back in those happy days, I was taught to keep my hair neat at all times and to fold every piece of clothing carefully, always in the same way, on the same chair, in the same spot at the foot of my bed before going to sleep. Each night, I would write an entry in my little diary before I folded my clothes. After that came the “Evening Hymn,” which I would recite in bed. And then, the sweet sleep of childhood would follow the hymn.

But as I grew older, that hymn was replaced by sad and bitter thoughts, and the sweet sleep I once knew was traded for restless nights filled with worry. Yet, I’ve held on to my habits of folding clothes and keeping my diary. The first habit connects me to my joyful childhood—before my father lost everything. The latter habit, which has mostly helped me manage the fallen nature we all inherit, has unexpectedly become important to my modest interests in a different way. It has allowed me to serve the whims of a wealthy member of my late uncle's family. I am fortunate to be of use to Mr. Franklin Blake.

I’ve been cut off from news about my relatives by marriage for quite some time. When you’re isolated and poor, it’s easy to be forgotten. Currently, I’m living in a small town in Brittany, surrounded by a close-knit group of serious English friends, enjoying the benefits of a Protestant clergyman and an affordable market.

In this quiet retreat—a kind of Patmos amid the chaos of Catholicism that surrounds us—I finally received a letter from England. To my surprise, Mr. Franklin Blake has remembered my insignificant existence. My wealthy relative—if only I could say my spiritually wealthy relative!—writes to me without even trying to disguise that he wants something. He’s decided to revisit the unfortunate scandal of the Moonstone, and he wants my help in recounting what I witnessed during my visits to Aunt Verinder’s house in London. He offers me financial compensation, showing the kind of insensitivity that often comes with wealth. I’m being asked to reopen wounds that Time has barely healed, to bring back the most painful memories, and in return, I’m supposed to feel compensated by Mr. Blake’s check. My nature is weak. It took a real struggle for my Christian humility to overcome my sinful pride and for self-denial to accept the check.

Without my diary, I honestly doubt I could have earned that money with integrity. But with my diary, the poor laborer (who forgives Mr. Blake for his insult) is deserving of her pay. Nothing escaped me during my visits to dear Aunt Verinder. Everything was recorded, thanks to my upbringing, day by day as it happened, and I will share every detail here. My commitment to the truth is, thankfully, far greater than my respect for individuals. It will be easy for Mr. Blake to suppress anything in these pages that might not be flattering to the person at the center of it all. He has bought my time, but even his wealth cannot buy my conscience.

My diary tells me that I was passing by Aunt Verinder’s house in Montagu Square on Monday, July 3, 1848.

Seeing the shutters open and the blinds drawn up, I thought it would be polite to knock and inquire about them. The person who answered the door informed me that my aunt and her daughter (I can’t really call her my cousin!) had arrived from the countryside a week earlier and planned to stay in London for a while. I immediately sent a message, declining to disturb them and simply asking if I could be of any assistance.

The person who answered the door took my message with a haughty silence and left me standing awkwardly in the hall. She was the daughter of an old man named Betteredge—someone who had been tolerated in my aunt’s family for far too long. I settled into a chair in the hall to wait for a response, and since I always carried a few tracts in my bag, I picked one that seemed fitting for the girl who had answered the door.

The hall was grimy, and the chair was uncomfortable, but the uplifting feeling of doing good in the face of rudeness made me forget about those minor inconveniences. The tract was part of a series aimed at young women, discussing the pitfalls of vanity in dress. It had a familiar, almost conversational tone, titled “A Word With You On Your Cap-Ribbons.”

“My lady is very grateful and asks you to come for lunch tomorrow at two,” she said.

I ignored the way she delivered her message and the audacity in her gaze. I thanked her and added, in a tone of genuine interest, “Would you do me the honor of accepting a tract?”

She glanced at the title. “Is it written by a man or a woman? If it’s by a woman, I’d rather not read it. If it’s by a man, I can assure him he knows nothing about it.” She handed the tract back to me and opened the door. We have to spread the good word somehow. I waited until the door closed behind her and slipped the tract into the letterbox. After dropping another tract through the area railings, I felt a slight relief from the heavy burden of responsibility I felt towards others.

That evening, we had a meeting of the Select Committee of the Mothers’-Small-Clothes-Conversion-Society. The purpose of this wonderful charity, as anyone serious would know, is to rescue unredeemed fathers’ trousers from the pawnbroker and to prevent their return to the unrepentant parent by altering them to fit the innocent son. I was a member of the select committee at that time, and I mention the Society here because my dear friend, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, was involved in our work of moral and material support. I had hoped to see him in the boardroom that Monday evening and planned to tell him about dear Aunt Verinder’s arrival in London. To my great disappointment, he never showed up.

When I expressed my surprise at his absence, my fellow committee members looked up from their work on the trousers (we had a lot to do that night) and asked in disbelief if I hadn’t heard the news. I admitted I hadn’t, and they informed me for the first time about an event that would serve as the starting point for this narrative. On the previous Friday, two gentlemen from very different walks of life had been victims of a shocking incident that had sent ripples through all of London. One was Mr. Septimus Luker from Lambeth, and the other was Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.

Living in my current isolation, I have no way to include the newspaper account of the incident in my story. I also missed the invaluable opportunity to hear the details from the passionate Mr. Godfrey himself. All I can do is recount the facts as they were shared with me that Monday evening, following the method I’ve been taught since childhood for folding my clothes: everything neatly put away in its proper place. These lines are written by a humble woman. What more could a weak woman be expected to produce?

The date—thanks to my dear parents, I am meticulous about dates—was Friday, June 30th, 1848.

Early that significant day, our talented Mr. Godfrey was cashing a check at a bank in Lombard Street. The name of the firm is unfortunately smudged in my diary, and my commitment to truth prevents me from guessing. Luckily, the firm’s name isn’t important. What matters is what happened when Mr. Godfrey finished his business. As he reached the door, he encountered a gentleman—a complete stranger—who happened to be leaving the office at the same time. A brief contest of politeness ensued as they both tried to let the other pass through the door first. The stranger insisted that Mr. Godfrey go ahead, and Mr. Godfrey exchanged a few courteous words before they bowed and parted ways in the street.

Some might dismiss this as a trivial incident, told in an overly detailed manner. But, my young friends and fellow sinners, beware of relying solely on your flawed reasoning. Be morally tidy. Let your faith be like your stockings, and your stockings like your faith. Both should be spotless and ready to wear at a moment’s notice!

I sincerely apologize for my earlier tone. I’ve slipped into my Sunday-school voice, which is completely out of place for this story. Let me try to be more straightforward. It’s often the little things that lead to significant consequences. With that in mind, let’s follow Mr. Godfrey as he makes his way home to Kilburn.

As he entered his house, he was greeted by a small boy who looked fragile and was dressed in worn clothes. The boy handed him a letter, explaining that an elderly lady he didn’t know had given it to him and hadn’t instructed him to wait for a reply. Such occurrences were not unusual for Mr. Godfrey, who was deeply involved in public charities. He let the boy leave and opened the letter.

The handwriting was unfamiliar. It requested his presence within the hour at a house on Northumberland Street in the Strand, a place he had never visited before. The letter explained that an elderly lady wanted to gather information about the Mothers’-Small-Clothes-Conversion-Society. She intended to make a significant donation to the charity, provided her questions were answered satisfactorily. She included her name and mentioned that her short stay in London limited her ability to give more notice to the esteemed philanthropist she was addressing.

Most people might have hesitated to change their plans for a stranger’s convenience, but not Mr. Godfrey. He immediately turned around and headed to Northumberland Street. A respectable, slightly overweight man answered the door and, upon hearing Mr. Godfrey’s name, led him to an empty room at the back of the drawing room floor.

As he entered, he noticed two peculiar things: a faint scent of musk and camphor, and an ancient Oriental manuscript, beautifully illustrated with Indian designs, lying open on a table.

While he was examining the manuscript, standing with his back to the closed folding doors leading to the front room, he was suddenly seized from behind. Before he could react, he felt a strong, bare arm wrap around his neck. He barely registered the tawny-brown color of the arm before his eyes were covered, his mouth gagged, and he was thrown to the floor by what he assumed were two men. A third man rifled through his pockets, searching him thoroughly.

I would love to say something uplifting about the faith that must have supported Mr. Godfrey during such a terrifying ordeal, but perhaps the details of his predicament aren’t suitable for discussion here. Let’s skip ahead to when the intrusive search was finally over. The entire incident had occurred in complete silence. Afterward, he heard the men exchanging words in a language he didn’t understand, their tones clearly expressing disappointment and anger. Suddenly, he was lifted off the ground, placed in a chair, and bound hand and foot. Moments later, he felt a rush of air from the open door and realized he was alone in the room.

After a brief silence, he heard the rustling of a woman’s dress coming up the stairs. It paused, and then a piercing scream shattered the tense atmosphere. A man’s voice called out, “Hullo!” and footsteps followed up the stairs. Mr. Godfrey felt someone untying his blindfold and removing the gag. He blinked in confusion at two respectable strangers and managed to ask, “What does this mean?” They exchanged glances and replied, “That’s exactly what we were going to ask you.”

The inevitable explanation followed. But first, let’s take a moment to calm Mr. Godfrey’s nerves with some sal volatile and water. Then, the explanation would come.

The landlord and landlady of the house, well-respected in the neighborhood, explained that their first and second-floor apartments had been rented the day before by a very respectable-looking gentleman. This was the same man who had answered the door when Mr. Godfrey knocked. He had paid for a week’s stay in advance, mentioning that the apartments were for three Oriental noblemen, friends of his, who were visiting England for the first time.

Early that morning, two of the Oriental guests, along with their respectable English friend, moved into the apartments. The third nobleman was expected to arrive soon, and his bulky luggage was reported to be on its way after clearing customs later that afternoon. Just ten minutes before Mr. Godfrey's visit, the third foreigner had arrived. Until the last five minutes, nothing unusual had occurred, according to the landlord and landlady downstairs. They had seen the three foreigners leave the house together, walking calmly toward the Strand. Noticing that a visitor had come but hadn’t seen him leave, the landlady found it odd that the gentleman was left alone upstairs. After a brief discussion with her husband, she decided it was wise to check if everything was alright. The outcome of that decision, as I have already described, marked the end of their explanation.

An investigation was conducted in the room. Mr. Godfrey’s belongings were found scattered everywhere. However, when everything was gathered, nothing was missing. His watch, chain, purse, keys, pocket handkerchief, notebook, and all loose papers had been thoroughly examined but left untouched. Similarly, not a single item belonging to the landlords had been taken. The Oriental noblemen had only removed their own illuminated manuscript and nothing else.

What did this mean? From a practical standpoint, it suggested that Mr. Godfrey had fallen victim to some baffling mistake made by unknown individuals. A dark conspiracy was unfolding around them, ensnaring their innocent friend. When a virtuous hero, celebrated for countless charitable acts, stumbles into a trap set for him by accident, it serves as a stark reminder for the rest of us to remain vigilant. How quickly our own hidden vices can turn into the Oriental noblemen who catch us off guard!

I could write pages of heartfelt caution on this topic, but alas, I am bound to narrate rather than reflect. My wealthy relative’s check—now a burden I must carry—reminds me that this tale of violence is far from over. We must leave Mr. Godfrey to recover in Northumberland Street and turn our attention to Mr. Luker’s activities later that day.

After leaving the bank, Mr. Luker had attended to various business matters across London. Upon returning home, he found a letter waiting for him, delivered by a boy just a short while earlier. Like Mr. Godfrey’s letter, this one bore unfamiliar handwriting, but it mentioned the name of one of Mr. Luker’s clients. The correspondent, writing in the third person—likely through a proxy—stated that he had been unexpectedly summoned to London. He had just settled into lodgings on Alfred Place, Tottenham Court Road, and wished to see Mr. Luker immediately regarding a potential purchase. This gentleman was an avid collector of Oriental antiquities and had long been a generous supporter of the establishment in Lambeth. Oh, when will we break free from the grip of materialism? Mr. Luker hailed a cab and set off without delay to meet his generous patron.

What had happened to Mr. Godfrey in Northumberland Street now unfolded for Mr. Luker in Alfred Place. Once again, a respectable man answered the door and led the visitor upstairs to the back drawing-room. There, just like before, lay the illuminated manuscript on a table. Mr. Luker became completely absorbed in this stunning piece of Indian art, just as Mr. Godfrey had been.

His focus was abruptly shattered when a strong, tanned arm wrapped around his throat, a bandage was tied over his eyes, and a gag was shoved into his mouth. He was thrown to the ground and searched thoroughly.

More time passed for Mr. Luker than it had for Mr. Godfrey, but the outcome was the same: the residents of the house sensed something was amiss and hurried upstairs to investigate. The landlord in Alfred Place offered Mr. Luker the same explanation that Mr. Godfrey had received from the landlord in Northumberland Street. Both men had been deceived by the smooth talk and well-stuffed wallet of the respectable stranger who claimed to be acting on behalf of his foreign associates.

The only difference in their situations arose when the scattered contents of Mr. Luker’s pockets were gathered from the floor. His watch and purse remained safe, but unlike Mr. Godfrey, he had lost one of the loose papers he carried. This paper acknowledged the receipt of a valuable item that Mr. Luker had entrusted to his bankers that very day. While the document was useless for fraudulent purposes—since it stipulated that the valuable could only be released upon the owner’s personal request—Mr. Luker rushed to the bank, hoping the thieves might unwittingly show up with the receipt.

Upon his arrival, no one had seen them, and they were never spotted afterward. The bankers believed that their respectable English accomplice had reviewed the receipt before they attempted to use it and had issued a timely warning.

Both incidents were reported to the police, who conducted thorough investigations. The authorities concluded that a robbery had been planned based on incomplete information received by the thieves. They seemed unsure whether Mr. Luker had entrusted his precious gem to someone else, and poor, polite Mr. Godfrey had paid the price for being seen speaking to him. Adding to this, Mr. Godfrey’s absence from their Monday evening meeting was due to a consultation with the authorities, where he had been asked to assist. With all the necessary explanations provided, I can now turn to my own simpler experiences in Montagu Square.

I arrived on time for lunch on Tuesday. A glance at my diary reveals that it was a day filled with both regret and gratitude.

Dear Aunt Verinder welcomed me with her usual warmth and kindness. However, I soon noticed that something was off. My aunt cast anxious glances toward her daughter, Rachel. I always found it curious how someone as seemingly ordinary as Rachel could be the child of such distinguished parents as Sir John and Lady Verinder. But on this occasion, she not only disappointed me—she truly shocked me.

There was a complete lack of ladylike restraint in her words and actions that was painful to witness. She seemed consumed by a feverish excitement, laughing too loudly and being reckless with her food and drink at lunch. My heart ached for her poor mother, even before I learned the full truth of the situation.

Once lunch was over, my aunt said, “Remember what the doctor advised, Rachel—try to calm yourself with a book after meals.”

“I’ll go to the library, Mama,” she replied. “But if Godfrey calls, make sure I’m informed. I’m dying to hear more about his adventure in Northumberland Street.” She kissed her mother on the forehead and glanced my way. “Goodbye, Clack,” she said casually. Her insolence didn’t stir any anger in me; instead, I made a mental note to pray for her.

Once we were alone, my aunt shared the entire dreadful tale of the Indian Diamond with me. I was relieved that I didn’t have to recount it myself. She admitted that she would have preferred to keep quiet about it. But with her own staff already aware of the Moonstone’s disappearance, and some details even making it into the newspapers—strangers were speculating about a connection between the incident at Lady Verinder’s estate and the events in Northumberland Street and Alfred Place—hiding the truth was no longer an option. Complete honesty had become both a necessity and a moral obligation.

Some people might have been completely taken aback by what I was hearing. But knowing Rachel’s rebellious spirit since childhood, I was ready for whatever my aunt had to say about her daughter. It could have escalated into something much worse, even murder, and I would still have thought to myself, “Well, that’s just the way it goes! Oh dear, the natural outcome!” What truly shocked me was my aunt’s response to the situation. Surely, this was a case that called for a clergyman! Lady Verinder had deemed it a matter for a doctor. My poor aunt had spent her early years in her father’s irreligious home. There it was again—the inevitable result! Oh dear, the inevitable result once more!

“The doctors suggest that Rachel should get plenty of exercise and find ways to amuse herself, and they strongly advise me to keep her from dwelling on the past,” Lady Verinder said.

“Oh, what terrible advice!” I thought. “In this so-called Christian country, what terrible advice!”

My aunt continued, “I do my best to follow their recommendations. But this strange incident involving Godfrey has come at the worst possible time. Rachel has been restless and agitated ever since she heard about it. She wouldn’t let me rest until I wrote to my nephew, Ablewhite, asking him to come here. She even seems to care about the other person involved—Mr. Luker, or something like that—though he’s a complete stranger to her.”

“Your understanding of the world, dear aunt, is certainly greater than mine,” I said hesitantly. “But there must be a reason for Rachel’s unusual behavior. She’s hiding a sinful secret from you and everyone else. Could there be something in these recent events that threatens to expose her secret?”

“Expose it?” my aunt echoed. “What on earth do you mean? Expose it through Mr. Luker? Or through my nephew?”

Just as she spoke, a twist of fate occurred. The servant opened the door and announced Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.