CHAPTER III

by Wilkie Collins

I can barely remember what happened at Hotherstone’s Farm.

What stands out is the warm welcome I received, the enormous supper that could have fed an entire village back East, and the surprisingly tidy bedroom—though I regretted the feather bed, a relic of our ancestors’ foolishness. That night was restless, filled with the flickering of matches and the lighting of a single candle. When dawn finally broke, I felt an immense relief at the thought of getting up.

The night before, I had arranged with Betteredge to pick him up on our way to Cobb’s Hole, as early as I wanted—which, given my eagerness to get my hands on the letter, meant as early as possible. Skipping breakfast at the Farm, I grabbed a crust of bread and set off, unsure if I would catch the ever-reliable Betteredge still in bed. To my great relief, he was just as excited about the day ahead as I was. He was ready and waiting for me, stick in hand.

“How are you this morning, Betteredge?” I asked.

“Not so well, sir.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. What’s bothering you?”

“I’ve come down with a new illness of my own making, Mr. Franklin. I don’t want to alarm you, but you’re bound to catch it before the morning is over.”

“Really? Is that so?”

“Do you feel a strange heat in your stomach and a pounding in your head? Not yet? Just wait until we get to Cobb’s Hole, Mr. Franklin. I call it detective fever, and I first caught it when I was with Sergeant Cuff.”

“Ah, and I suppose the cure is to open Rosanna Spearman’s letter? Let’s get to it.”

Even at this early hour, we found the fisherman’s wife busy in her kitchen. When Betteredge introduced me, Mrs. Yolland performed a social ritual reserved for distinguished guests, as I later learned. She placed a bottle of Dutch gin and a couple of clean pipes on the table and opened the conversation with, “What news from London, sir?”

Before I could respond to such a broad question, a figure emerged from a dark corner of the kitchen. A pale, wild girl with strikingly beautiful hair and a fierce intensity in her eyes approached me, limping on a crutch. She looked at me as if I were both fascinating and horrifying.

“Mr. Betteredge,” she said, keeping her gaze fixed on me, “please say his name again.”

“This gentleman’s name,” Betteredge replied, emphasizing the word “gentleman,” “is Mr. Franklin Blake.”

The girl turned her back on me and abruptly left the room. Mrs. Yolland offered some apologies for her daughter’s odd behavior, and Betteredge likely translated them into polite English. I can’t say for sure; my attention was captured by the sound of the girl’s crutch. Thump-thump, up the wooden stairs; thump-thump across the room above us; thump-thump down the stairs again—and there she stood at the open door, letter in hand, beckoning me outside.

I left behind a flurry of apologies and followed this strange girl, who limped ahead of me, moving faster and faster down the slope of the beach. She led me behind some boats, away from the few people in the fishing village, and then stopped, finally facing me.

“Stand there,” she commanded. “I want to look at you.”

There was no mistaking the expression on her face. I inspired in her a mix of abhorrence and disgust. I won’t claim that no woman had ever looked at me that way before, but I can modestly say that I had never sensed it until now. There’s only so long a man can endure such scrutiny in certain situations. I tried to redirect Limping Lucy’s attention to something less revolting than my face.

“I think you have a letter for me,” I began. “Is it the one in your hand?”

“Say that again,” was her only response.

I repeated the words, like a dutiful child reciting a lesson.

“No,” she said, speaking to herself but still locking her gaze on me. “I can’t figure out what she saw in his face. I can’t understand what she heard in his voice.” She suddenly looked away, resting her head wearily on her crutch. “Oh, my poor dear!” she said, her tone softening for the first time. “Oh, my lost darling! What could you see in this man?” She lifted her head again, fierce determination in her eyes. “Can you eat and drink?” she asked.

I tried to maintain my composure and replied, “Yes.”

“Can you sleep?”

“Yes.”

“When you see a poor girl in service, do you feel no remorse?”

“Not at all. Why should I?”

She suddenly shoved the letter in my face.

“Take it!” she shouted, her anger palpable. “I’ve never seen you before. God forbid I ever see you again.”

With those final words, she hobbled away as fast as she could. The only explanation I could come up with for her behavior was that she must be out of her mind.

Once I reached that conclusion, I turned my attention to the more intriguing mystery presented by Rosanna Spearman’s letter. The address was written clearly: “For Franklin Blake, Esq. To be given into his own hands (and not to be trusted to anyone else), by Lucy Yolland.”

I broke the seal and pulled out the letter, which contained a slip of paper. I read the letter first:

“Sir, if you’re curious about my behavior towards you while you were staying at my mistress Lady Verinder’s house, follow the instructions in the enclosed memorandum—and do it without anyone watching. Your humble servant,

“ROSANNA SPEARMAN.”

Next, I turned to the slip of paper. Here’s the exact wording:

“Memorandum: Go to the Shivering Sand at the turn of the tide. Walk out on the South Spit until I have the South Spit Beacon and the flagstaff at the Coast-guard station above Cobb’s Hole lined up. Lay down a stick or any straight object to guide my hand, exactly in line with the beacon and the flagstaff. Make sure that one end of the stick is at the edge of the rocks, overlooking the quicksand. Feel along the stick, among the seaweed (starting from the end pointing towards the beacon), for the Chain. Run my hand along the Chain, when found, until I reach the part that hangs over the edge of the rocks into the quicksand. And then, pull the chain.”

Just as I finished reading the last underlined words, I heard Betteredge’s voice behind me. The man who had sparked the detective craze was now completely caught up in it. “I can’t take it anymore, Mr. Franklin. What does her letter say? Please, tell me, what does it say?”

I handed him the letter and the memorandum. He read the letter first, seeming uninterested. But the memorandum struck him hard.

“The Sergeant said it!” Betteredge exclaimed. “From start to finish, sir, the Sergeant said she had a memorandum about the hiding place. And here it is! Good heavens, Mr. Franklin, here’s the secret that puzzled everyone, from the great Cuff down to the rest of us, just waiting for _you!_ It’s low tide now, as anyone can see. How long until the tide turns?” He glanced up and spotted a boy nearby, mending a net. “Tammie Bright!” he shouted.

“I hear you!” Tammie called back.

“When’s the tide turning?”

“In an hour!”

We both checked our watches.

“We can take the coastal path, Mr. Franklin,” Betteredge suggested. “We’ll reach the quicksand with plenty of time to spare. What do you think?”

“Let’s go!”

As we made our way to the Shivering Sand, I asked Betteredge to help me remember the events surrounding Rosanna Spearman during Sergeant Cuff’s investigation. With his assistance, the sequence of events quickly came back to me. Rosanna’s trip to Frizinghall, when everyone thought she was sick in her room; her secretive late-night activities with her door locked and a candle burning until dawn; her suspicious purchase of the japanned tin case and two dog chains from Mrs. Yolland; the Sergeant’s firm belief that Rosanna had hidden something at the Shivering Sand, along with his complete ignorance of what that something might be—all these puzzling aspects of the failed inquiry into the Moonstone’s disappearance were fresh in my mind by the time we reached the quicksand and stepped onto the low ledge of rocks known as the South Spit.

With Betteredge’s help, I positioned myself to align the Beacon and the Coast-guard flagstaff. Following the memorandum, we carefully laid my stick in the correct direction on the uneven rocks. Then we checked our watches again.

There were still nearly twenty minutes until the tide turned. I suggested we wait on the beach instead of on the slippery rocks. Once we reached the dry sand, I prepared to sit down, but to my surprise, Betteredge started to walk away.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Look at the letter again, sir, and you’ll see.”

A quick glance at the letter reminded me that I was supposed to handle this discovery on my own.

“It’s tough for me to leave you at a time like this,” Betteredge said, his voice heavy with emotion. “But she died such a terrible death, poor thing—and I feel a strong urge to honor her wishes. Besides,” he added, lowering his voice, “there’s nothing in the letter that says you can’t reveal the secret later. I’ll hang around in the fir plantation and wait for you to pick me up. Don’t take too long, sir. The detective fever isn’t easy to shake off, especially not now.”

With that final piece of advice, he left me.

The wait, though brief in terms of minutes, felt endless in terms of anxiety. This was one of those moments when the comforting habit of smoking became invaluable. I lit a cigar and settled down on the slope of the beach.

The sunlight bathed everything in its clear, warm glow. The fresh air made every breath feel like a luxury. Even the quiet little bay seemed to greet the morning with a cheerful spirit; the wet surface of the quicksand sparkled like gold, hiding its sinister nature beneath a fleeting smile. It was the most beautiful day I had experienced since returning to England.

Before I finished my cigar, the tide began to turn. I noticed the sand shifting beneath the surface, and then a chilling tremor rippled across it—as if some lurking spirit of fear was stirring in the depths below. I tossed my cigar aside and returned to the rocks.

According to the instructions in the memorandum, I was to feel along the line traced by the stick, starting from the end closest to the beacon.

I moved along the stick, covering more than half its length without finding anything but the edges of the rocks. Then, just a couple of inches further, my patience paid off. In a narrow crevice, within reach of my fingertips, I felt the chain. As I tried to follow it by touch toward the quicksand, I found my way blocked by a thick tangle of seaweed that had likely settled in the fissure since Rosanna Spearman had hidden it.

I couldn’t pull up the seaweed or force my hand through it. After marking the spot indicated by the end of the stick nearest to the quicksand, I decided to change my approach. My plan was to “sound” directly beneath the rocks, hoping to find the chain where it entered the sand. I picked up the stick and knelt at the edge of the South Spit.

From this position, my face was just a few feet away from the quicksand. The sight of it, still trembling with its grotesque shivers, made my nerves jangle. A terrifying thought crossed my mind—that the dead woman might appear at the scene of her suicide to help me search. The dread of seeing her rise through the heaving surface of the sand and point to the spot sent chills down my spine, even in the warm sunlight. I admit I closed my eyes just as the tip of the stick first touched the quicksand.

In the next moment, before the stick could sink more than a few inches, I shook off my superstitious fear and felt a rush of excitement. Blindly probing, I struck something solid on my very first attempt—the chain.

Gripping the roots of the seaweed with my left hand, I leaned over the edge and reached under the overhanging rock with my right. My fingers found the chain.

I pulled it up easily, and there it was—the japanned tin case attached to the end of it.

The water had rusted the chain so badly that I couldn’t unfasten it from the hasp holding it to the case. I wedged the case between my knees and used all my strength to pull off the cover. Inside, I found it filled with a white substance. I reached in and discovered it was linen.

As I pulled out the linen, I also retrieved a crumpled letter that had been tucked inside. When I saw my name on the envelope, I slipped the letter into my pocket and removed the linen completely. It came out in a thick roll, molded to the shape of the case, perfectly preserved from any damage by the sea.

I carried the linen to the dry sand of the beach, where I unrolled and smoothed it out. There was no mistaking it for anything other than an article of clothing. It was a nightgown.

As I spread out the fabric, I was met with countless folds and creases, but nothing more. I turned it over and quickly spotted the smear of paint from the door of Rachel’s boudoir.

My gaze locked onto the stain, and in an instant, my mind leaped from the present to the past. Sergeant Cuff's words echoed in my head, as if he were standing right beside me, pointing out the undeniable conclusion he had drawn from that smear on the door.

“Find out if there’s any clothing in this house with paint on it. Discover who it belongs to. Figure out how that person can explain being in the room and getting paint on themselves between midnight and three in the morning. If they can’t give you a satisfactory answer, you won’t have to look far to find the hand that took the Diamond.”

One by one, those words replayed in my mind, repeating themselves in a tedious, mechanical loop. I was jolted from what felt like a trance that had lasted hours—though it was likely just a few moments—by a voice calling my name. I looked up to see Betteredge, his patience finally wearing thin, making his way back from the sandhills toward the beach.

The sight of the old man brought me back to reality, reminding me that my investigation was still far from complete. I had found the smear on the nightgown, but whose nightgown was it?

My first instinct was to check the letter in my pocket—the one I had discovered in the case.

As I reached for it, I suddenly realized there was a quicker way to find out. The nightgown itself would likely hold the answer, probably marked with its owner’s name.

I picked it up from the sand and searched for the label.

When I found it, the letters jumped out at me—MY OWN NAME.

There it was, unmistakably mine. I looked up from the fabric. The sun was shining, the bay sparkled with light, and Betteredge was getting closer. I glanced back at the letters. My own name, staring back at me.

“If time, effort, and money can achieve it, I will find the thief who took the Moonstone.” Those words had left my lips as I departed London. I had unraveled the secret that the quicksand had kept hidden from everyone else. And, based on the undeniable evidence of the paint stain, I had discovered that I was the thief.