CHAPTER II

by Wilkie Collins

“Betteredge!” I called, pointing to the familiar book resting on his knee. “Has _Robinson Crusoe_ told you that you might expect to see Franklin Blake tonight?”

“By the Lord, Mr. Franklin!” the old man exclaimed, “that’s exactly what _Robinson Crusoe_ has done!”

With my help, he struggled to his feet and paused, glancing back and forth between the book and me, seemingly unsure which of us had startled him more. In the end, his attention settled on the book. Holding it open in both hands, he gazed at the pages with a look of sheer anticipation—as if he expected Robinson Crusoe himself to step out and greet us.

“Here’s the part, Mr. Franklin!” he said, finally regaining his voice. “As I live and breathe, sir, here’s the passage I was reading just before you walked in! Page one hundred fifty-six says: ‘I stood like one Thunderstruck, or as if I had seen an Apparition.’ If that doesn’t mean: ‘Expect the sudden appearance of Mr. Franklin Blake,’ then I don’t know what English means!” Betteredge exclaimed, slamming the book shut and finally freeing one hand to shake mine.

I had anticipated that he would bombard me with questions, but instead, the old servant’s instinct to be hospitable took over when a family member appeared—regardless of the circumstances.

“Come in, Mr. Franklin,” he said, opening the door behind him with a charming, old-fashioned bow. “I’ll ask what brings you here later—I need to make you comfortable first. There have been some sad changes since you left. The house is closed up, and the staff is gone. But don’t worry! I’ll cook your dinner, and the gardener’s wife will make your bed. And if there’s a bottle of our famous Latour claret left in the cellar, that will be yours, Mr. Franklin. You’re most welcome here! I welcome you with all my heart!” The poor old fellow fought against the gloom of the empty house, receiving me with the warmth and courtesy of a bygone era.

It pained me to let him down. But this house now belonged to Rachel. How could I eat or sleep here after everything that had happened in London? My sense of self-respect firmly told me I couldn’t cross that threshold.

I took Betteredge by the arm and led him out into the garden. I had no choice but to tell him the truth. Caught between his loyalty to Rachel and his loyalty to me, he looked deeply troubled by the turn of events. When he finally spoke, his words came out in his usual straightforward manner, infused with the unmistakable philosophy of the Betteredge school.

“Miss Rachel has her faults—I’ve never denied it,” he began. “And being a bit high-handed is one of them. She’s been trying to push you around—and you’ve let her. Good heavens, Mr. Franklin, don’t you know women better by now? You’ve heard me talk about the late Mrs. Betteredge?”

I had indeed heard him mention the late Mrs. Betteredge often—he always used her as his prime example of the inherent flaws and quirks of the female gender. And now, he was doing just that.

“Alright, Mr. Franklin. Listen up. Different women have their own ways of throwing a fit. My late wife, Mrs. Betteredge, would always go on a rampage whenever I denied her something she wanted. It was like clockwork: I’d come home from work, and she’d call me from the kitchen, saying that after my awful treatment, she just couldn’t bring herself to make dinner for me.

I put up with it for a while—just like you’re putting up with Miss Rachel right now. But eventually, my patience ran out. I marched downstairs, scooped up Mrs. Betteredge—affectionately, of course—and carried her straight into the best parlor where she entertained her guests. I said, ‘This is where you belong, my dear,’ and went back to the kitchen.

I locked the door, took off my coat, rolled up my sleeves, and cooked my own dinner. When it was ready, I served it up nicely and enjoyed every bite. Afterward, I had my pipe and a drink, cleared the table, washed the dishes, cleaned the utensils, and tidied up the hearth. Once everything was spotless, I opened the door and let Mrs. Betteredge back in. ‘I’ve had my dinner, my dear,’ I told her, ‘and I hope you’ll find the kitchen meets all your expectations.’ From that day on, Mr. Franklin, I never had to cook for myself again!

Moral of the story: You’ve put up with Miss Rachel in London; don’t let her get away with it in Yorkshire. Come back to the house!”

I had no response to that. I could only tell my good friend that even his persuasive skills wouldn’t change my mind this time.

“It’s a beautiful evening,” I said. “I’ll walk to Frizinghall and stay at the hotel. You should come for breakfast with me tomorrow morning. I have something important to discuss.”

Betteredge shook his head solemnly.

“I’m truly sorry to hear this,” he said. “I had hoped, Mr. Franklin, that things were back to normal between you and Miss Rachel. But if you insist on doing things your way,” he added after a moment’s thought, “there’s no need to go all the way to Frizinghall for a bed tonight. There’s a place much closer—Hotherstone’s Farm, just two miles from here. You can hardly object to that, considering it’s on Miss Rachel’s account,” he added with a sly grin. “Hotherstone owns his land, Mr. Franklin.”

As soon as Betteredge mentioned it, I remembered the place. The farmhouse was nestled in a cozy valley along the prettiest stream in that part of Yorkshire. The farmer had a spare bedroom and parlor that he rented out to artists, anglers, and tourists. I couldn’t have asked for a better place to stay.

“Are the rooms available?” I asked.

“Mrs. Hotherstone herself asked me to recommend the rooms just yesterday.”

“I’ll take them, Betteredge, with pleasure.”

We headed back to the yard where I had left my travel bag. After sticking a stick through the handle and slinging the bag over his shoulder, Betteredge seemed to fall back into the confusion my sudden appearance had caused when I surprised him in the beehive chair. He looked at the house in disbelief, then turned to me, still incredulous.

“I’ve been around long enough,” he said, “but I never expected to see this. There’s the house, and here’s Mr. Franklin Blake—and, by God, one of them is turning his back on the other and heading off to sleep in a lodging!”

He led the way out, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. “There’s only one miracle left that can happen,” he said over his shoulder. “The next thing you’ll do, Mr. Franklin, is pay me back that seven-and-sixpence you borrowed when you were a boy.”

This jab of sarcasm lightened his mood, and we left the house, passing through the lodge gates. Once we were clear of the grounds, Betteredge’s sense of hospitality faded, and his curiosity kicked in.

He fell back to walk alongside me. “Lovely evening for a stroll, Mr. Franklin,” he said, as if we had just bumped into each other by chance. “What if you had gone to the hotel in Frizinghall?”

“Yes?”

“I would have had the honor of joining you for breakfast tomorrow.”

“Why not come and have breakfast with me at Hotherstone’s Farm instead?”

“Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Franklin. But I wasn’t really talking about breakfast. You mentioned you had something to discuss with me? If it’s not a secret, I’m eager to know what’s brought you here so suddenly,” Betteredge said, dropping the roundabout way and getting straight to the point.

“What brought me here before?” I asked.

“The Moonstone, Mr. Franklin. But what brings you here now?”

“The Moonstone again, Betteredge.”

The old man stopped in his tracks, looking at me in the dim twilight as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“If that’s a joke, sir,” he said, “I’m afraid I’m getting a bit slow in my old age. I don’t get it.”

“It’s no joke,” I replied. “I’ve come back to continue the investigation that was left hanging when I left England. I’m here to do what no one has managed to do yet—to find out who took the Diamond.”

“Leave the Diamond alone, Mr. Franklin! Take my advice and let it be! That cursed Indian jewel has led everyone astray who’s come near it. Don’t waste your money and your temper—in the prime of your life—by getting involved with the Moonstone. How can you expect to succeed, with all due respect, when even Sergeant Cuff couldn’t crack the case? Sergeant Cuff!” Betteredge repeated, shaking his finger at me sternly. “The greatest policeman in England!”

“I’ve made up my mind, my old friend. Even Sergeant Cuff doesn’t scare me. By the way, I might want to talk to him sooner or later. Have you heard anything about him lately?”

“The Sergeant won’t be of any help, Mr. Franklin.”

“Why not?”

“There’s been a development in the police world since you left. The great Cuff has retired. He’s settled into a little cottage in Dorking and is completely absorbed in growing roses. I have it in his own handwriting, Mr. Franklin. He’s managed to grow the white moss rose without grafting it onto a dog-rose first. And Mr. Begbie, the gardener, is going to Dorking to admit that the Sergeant has finally beaten him.”

“That doesn’t matter much,” I said. “I’ll have to manage without Sergeant Cuff’s help. I’ll have to rely on you to start with.”

I might have sounded a bit careless when I said that.

At any rate, Betteredge seemed a little offended by my response. “You could do worse than trust me, Mr. Franklin—I can assure you of that,” he said, a bit sharply.

His tone and the slight disturbance I noticed in his manner suggested he had some information he was hesitant to share.

“I expect you to help me gather the bits of evidence that Sergeant Cuff left behind. I know you can do that. Can you do more?”

“What more can you expect from me, sir?” Betteredge asked, feigning utmost humility.

“I expect more—from what you just said.”

“Mere boasting, Mr. Franklin,” the old man insisted stubbornly. “Some people are just born boasters, and they never change. I’m one of them.”

There was only one way to approach him. I appealed to his concern for Rachel and his loyalty to me.

“Betteredge, would you be pleased to hear that Rachel and I are friends again?”

“I’ve served your family, sir, to little purpose if you doubt it!”

“Do you remember how Rachel treated me before I left England?”

“As well as if it was yesterday! Your lady herself wrote you a letter about it, and you were kind enough to show it to me. It said that Miss Rachel was deeply offended with you for the role you played in trying to recover her jewel. And neither my lady, nor you, nor anyone else could figure out why.”

“That’s true, Betteredge! I return from my travels to find her still deeply offended with me. I knew the Diamond was at the heart of it last year, and I know it still is. I’ve tried to speak to her, but she won’t see me. I’ve tried to write to her, but she won’t respond. How on earth am I supposed to clear this up? The chance to investigate the loss of the Moonstone is the only opportunity Rachel has left me.”

His expression shifted as he processed my words, and he asked a question that showed I had unsettled him.

“There’s no ill-will on your part, is there, Mr. Franklin?”

“There was some anger when I left London,” I admitted, “but that’s all faded now. I want to reach an understanding with Rachel—and nothing more.”

“You don’t have any fears, sir—if you make any discoveries—about what you might find out regarding Miss Rachel?”

I recognized the jealousy in his concern for his young mistress.

“I’m as certain of her as you are,” I replied. “Whatever her secret is, it won’t change how I see her or how you see her.”

Betteredge’s last reservations melted away at that.

“If I’m wrong to help you, Mr. Franklin,” he said, “I can honestly say I’m as clueless about it as an unborn child! I can guide you toward the truth, but you’ll have to take the steps yourself. Do you remember our poor girl, Rosanna Spearman?”

“Of course!”

“You always thought she had some kind of confession about the Moonstone that she wanted to share with you?”

“I certainly couldn’t explain her strange behavior any other way.”

“You can put that doubt to rest, Mr. Franklin, whenever you want.”

Now it was my turn to pause. I strained to see his face in the dim light. Caught off guard, I asked a bit impatiently what he meant.

“Hold on, sir!” Betteredge continued. “I mean what I say. Rosanna Spearman left a sealed letter behind—a letter addressed to you.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s with a friend of hers at Cobb’s Hole. You must have heard about Limping Lucy when you were here last—a girl with a crutch.”

“The fisherman’s daughter?”

“That’s right, Mr. Franklin.”

“Why wasn’t the letter sent to me?”

“Limping Lucy has her own way of doing things, sir. She wouldn’t give it to anyone but you. And you had already left England before I could write to you.”

“Let’s go back and get it now!”

“It’s too late for that tonight, sir. They’re very frugal with candles along our coast, and they go to bed early in Cobb’s Hole.”

“That’s nonsense! We could get there in half an hour.”

“You might, sir. But when you arrived, you’d find the door locked.” He pointed to a light flickering below us, and at that moment, I heard the gentle sound of a stream flowing in the stillness of the evening. “There’s the Farm, Mr. Franklin! Settle in for the night, and come see me in the morning—if you wouldn’t mind?”

“You’ll come with me to the fisherman’s cottage?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Early?”

“As early as you’d like, Mr. Franklin.”

We made our way down the path that led to the Farm.