CHAPTER VI

by Wilkie Collins

I walked to the railway station, accompanied, of course, by Gabriel Betteredge. I had the letter tucked in my pocket and the nightgown carefully packed in a small bag—both of which would be handed over to Mr. Bruff for his examination before I went to bed that night.

We left the house in silence. For the first time, I noticed that Betteredge had nothing to say. I had questions on my mind, so as soon as we were past the lodge gates, I decided to break the silence.

“Before I head to London,” I started, “I have two questions for you. They’re about me, and I think they might surprise you.”

“If they can help me forget that poor creature’s letter, Mr. Franklin, they can do whatever they like with me. Please, surprise me as soon as you can.”

“My first question, Betteredge, is this: Was I drunk on Rachel’s birthday?”

“You drunk?” the old man exclaimed. “That’s the biggest flaw in your character, Mr. Franklin. You only drink with your dinner and never touch a drop afterward!”

“But it was a special occasion. I might have let loose on that night of all nights.”

Betteredge paused to think.

“You did step out of your usual habits, sir,” he said. “I’ll tell you how. You looked terribly unwell, and we convinced you to have a bit of brandy and water to lift your spirits.”

“I’m not used to brandy and water. It’s possible—”

“Hold on a second, Mr. Franklin. I knew you weren’t used to it. I poured you half a wineglass of our fifty-year-old Cognac, and (shame on me!) I drowned that fine liquor in nearly a tumbler of cold water. A child couldn’t get drunk on that—let alone a grown man!”

I trusted his memory on matters like this. It was clear I couldn’t have been intoxicated. I moved on to my second question.

“Before I was sent abroad, Betteredge, you spent a lot of time with me when I was a boy, right? Now, tell me honestly, do you remember anything odd about me after I went to bed at night? Did you ever catch me sleepwalking?”

Betteredge stopped, looked at me for a moment, nodded, and continued walking.

“I see what you’re getting at, Mr. Franklin!” he said. “You’re trying to explain how you got paint on your nightgown without realizing it. But that won’t work, sir. You’re still far from the truth. Sleepwalking? You never did that in your life!”

Once again, I felt he was right. My life had never been solitary, whether at home or abroad. If I had been a sleepwalker, countless people would have noticed and warned me, taking steps to prevent it.

Still, despite all this, I stubbornly clung to one of the two explanations that seemed to make sense of the unbearable situation I found myself in. Noticing my dissatisfaction, Betteredge cleverly shifted the focus to later events in the story of the Moonstone, effectively dismantling both of my theories.

“Let’s approach this differently, sir,” he suggested. “Keep your own opinion and see how far it gets you in uncovering the truth. If we’re to believe the nightgown—which I don’t—you not only wiped the paint off the door without knowing it, but you also took the Diamond without realizing it. Is that correct?”

“Exactly. Go on.”

“Alright, sir. Let’s say you were drunk or sleepwalking when you took the jewel. That explains the night and the morning after the birthday. But how does that explain what’s happened since then? The Diamond has been taken to London since then. It’s been pledged to Mr. Luker since then. Did you do those things without knowing it too? Were you drunk when I saw you off in the pony-chaise that Saturday evening? Did you sleepwalk to Mr. Luker’s after the train brought you to your destination? Excuse me for saying this, Mr. Franklin, but this whole situation has thrown you off balance. You’re not in a fit state to judge for yourself. The sooner you talk to Mr. Bruff, the sooner you’ll find a way out of this deadlock.”

We arrived at the station with only a minute or two to spare.

I quickly gave Betteredge my address in London, so he could write to me if needed. I promised to keep him updated on any news I had. Just as I was about to say goodbye, I noticed Mr. Candy’s unusual assistant again, talking to the stall owner. Our eyes met, and Ezra Jennings tipped his hat to me. I returned the gesture and hopped into a carriage just as the train pulled away. It was a relief to focus on something that didn’t seem personally significant. Absurdly enough, I found myself wondering why I had seen the man with the piebald hair twice in one day.

When I arrived in London, it was too late to hope for finding Mr. Bruff at his office. Instead, I drove to his home in Hampstead and interrupted the old lawyer, who was dozing in his dining room with his favorite pug on his lap and a bottle of wine nearby.

To convey the impact my story had on Mr. Bruff, I’ll recount his actions after he heard it all. He ordered lights and strong tea to be brought into his study and sent a message to his family, instructing them not to disturb us for any reason. Once that was settled, he examined the nightgown and then turned his attention to Rosanna Spearman’s letter.

After finishing the letter, Mr. Bruff finally spoke to me since we had been alone in his study.

“Franklin Blake,” he said, “this is a very serious matter for several reasons. I believe it concerns Rachel just as much as it concerns you. Her strange behavior is no longer a mystery. She thinks you stole the Diamond.”

I had been avoiding that dreadful conclusion, but it had crept into my mind nonetheless. My determination to speak with Rachel was based on the very point Mr. Bruff had just made.

“The first step in this investigation,” the lawyer continued, “is to talk to Rachel. She has been silent for reasons I can easily understand, given her character. After everything that has happened, we can’t allow that silence to continue. She needs to be persuaded—or even forced—to tell us why she believes you took the Moonstone. If we can break through Rachel’s stubbornness and get her to speak, the entire case, serious as it seems now, might just fall apart.”

“That’s a comforting thought for me,” I replied. “I admit I’d like to know—”

“You want to know how I can justify that opinion,” Mr. Bruff interrupted. “I can explain it in two minutes. First, understand that I’m looking at this from a lawyer’s perspective. It’s a matter of evidence for me. Now, the evidence falls apart right at the start on one crucial point.”

“What point is that?”

“You’ll see. I acknowledge that the mark of the name proves the nightgown is yours. I also acknowledge that the paint mark shows the nightgown left a smear on Rachel’s door. But what evidence is there to prove that you were the one who wore it on the night the Diamond went missing?”

His objection hit me hard, especially since it echoed a concern I had felt myself.

“Now, regarding this,” the lawyer said, picking up Rosanna Spearman’s confession, “I can see why the letter would be troubling for you. I understand that you might hesitate to view it objectively. But I’m not in your shoes. I can apply my professional experience to this document just like I would with any other.

Without diving into her past as a thief, I’ll simply point out that her letter shows she was skilled at deception, as she herself admits. From that, I think it’s fair to suspect that she hasn’t told the whole truth. I won’t propose any theories right now about what she may or may not have done. I’ll just say this: if Rachel has suspected you based solely on the nightgown, it’s almost certain that Rosanna Spearman was the one who showed it to her.

In that case, we have Rosanna’s letter, where she admits to being jealous of Rachel, admits to changing the roses, and confesses that she saw a chance for herself in the possibility of a fight between you and Rachel. I won’t speculate on who took the Moonstone—Rosanna would have taken fifty of them if it served her purpose. What I will say is that the jewel’s disappearance gave this reformed thief, who was in love with you, the chance to create a rift between you and Rachel for the rest of your lives. Remember, she hadn’t decided to end her own life at that point; given the opportunity, I firmly believe it was in her character and her situation to take it. What do you think?”

“I had a similar suspicion cross my mind as soon as I opened the letter,” I replied.

“Exactly! And after reading it, you felt pity for her and couldn’t bring yourself to suspect her. Quite commendable, my dear sir—quite commendable!”

“But what if it turns out that I did wear the nightgown? What then?”

“I don’t see how that could be proven,” Mr. Bruff said. “But if it could be, proving your innocence wouldn’t be straightforward. Let’s not get into that now. Let’s wait and see if Rachel has indeed suspected you based solely on the nightgown.”

“Good God, how casually you talk about Rachel suspecting me!” I exclaimed. “What right does she have to suspect me of being a thief based on anything?”

“That’s a very reasonable question, my dear sir. A bit heated, but worth pondering nonetheless. What confuses you also puzzles me. Think back and tell me this: Did anything happen while you were staying at the house—not to shake Rachel’s faith in your honor, but perhaps to shake her confidence in your principles in general?”

I jumped to my feet, overwhelmed with agitation. The lawyer’s question reminded me, for the first time since I had left England, that something had indeed happened.

In the eighth chapter of Betteredge’s Narrative, there’s a mention of a foreign stranger arriving at my aunt’s house, who came to see me about business. The nature of that business was this.

I had been foolish enough—being, as usual, short on cash—to accept a loan from the owner of a small restaurant in Paris, where I was a regular customer. We agreed on a date for me to pay him back, but when the time came, I found it impossible to keep my promise, just like countless other honest people have experienced. I sent him a check, but my name was unfortunately too well known for that to work; he couldn’t cash it.

In the meantime, his own financial situation had worsened, and bankruptcy loomed over him. A relative of his, a French lawyer, traveled to England to track me down and demand payment. He was hot-tempered and approached me in the wrong way. We exchanged harsh words, and my aunt and Rachel, who were in the next room, overheard the whole thing.

Lady Verinder came in, demanding to know what was going on. The Frenchman presented his credentials and accused me of ruining a poor man who had trusted me. My aunt immediately paid him the money and sent him on his way. She knew me well enough not to take the Frenchman’s side, but she was appalled by my carelessness and justifiably angry that I had put myself in a position that could have turned very embarrassing without her intervention.

Either my mother told her or Rachel overheard the conversation—I can’t say which. Rachel took a romantic, dramatic view of the situation. I was “heartless,” “dishonorable,” and had “no principles.” She claimed there was “no telling what I might do next.” In short, she said some of the harshest things I had ever heard from a young woman. The rift between us lasted all of the next day. The day after, I managed to make amends and thought nothing more of it.

But had Rachel brought up this unfortunate incident at a critical moment when my standing in her eyes was again, and much more seriously, challenged? When I mentioned the situation to Mr. Bruff, he confirmed my fears.

“It would affect her perception of you,” he said gravely. “I wish, for your sake, that it hadn’t happened. However, we’ve discovered that there was a preexisting bias against you—and at least one uncertainty has been cleared up. I don’t see anything more we can do at this point. Our next step must involve Rachel.”

He stood up and began pacing the room thoughtfully. Twice, I almost told him I had decided to see Rachel myself, and twice I hesitated, considering his age and character, not wanting to surprise him at a bad moment.

“The main challenge,” he continued, “is how to get her to reveal her true feelings about this situation without holding back. Do you have any ideas?”

“I’ve decided, Mr. Bruff, that I’ll speak to Rachel myself.”

“You?” He stopped abruptly and looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “You, of all people!” He caught himself and resumed his pacing. “Hold on a moment,” he said. “In extraordinary situations like this, sometimes a bold approach is the best approach.” He thought for a moment under this new perspective and ultimately came to a decision in my favor. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” the old gentleman said. “You have a chance that I don’t, and you’ll be the first to try this.”

“A chance in my favor?” I echoed, surprised.

Mr. Bruff’s face softened for the first time, breaking into a smile.

“Here’s the situation,” he explained. “I’ll be honest with you: I don’t trust your judgment, and I don’t trust your temper. But I do believe that Rachel still has, tucked away in some remote corner of her heart, a certain stubborn affection for you. Tap into that—and trust that it will lead to the full revelations that only a woman can provide! The question is—how will you see her?”

“She has been a guest in your home,” I replied. “Could I suggest—if nothing is mentioned about me beforehand—that I could see her here?”

“Bold!” Mr. Bruff remarked, taking another turn around the room.

“In plain terms,” he said, “you want to turn my house into a trap for Rachel, with an invitation from my wife and daughters as bait. If you were anyone else but Franklin Blake, and if this situation were any less serious, I would refuse outright. As it stands, I genuinely believe Rachel will thank me one day for betraying her trust in my old age. Consider me your accomplice. We’ll invite Rachel to spend the day here, and I’ll make sure you get proper notice.”

“When? Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow won’t give us enough time to get her response. Let’s say the day after.”

“How will I hear from you?”

“Stay home all morning and wait for me to visit.”

I expressed my heartfelt thanks for the invaluable help he was offering me, genuinely grateful for his support. After politely declining his kind invitation to stay the night at Hampstead, I made my way back to my lodgings in London.

The following day felt like the longest of my life. Despite knowing my innocence and being certain that the horrible accusation against me would eventually be cleared, I couldn’t shake the feeling of shame that made me reluctant to see any of my friends. We often hear that guilt can appear like innocence, but I believe it’s far more accurate to say that innocence can sometimes look like guilt. I arranged for myself to be denied to every visitor who came by, and I only dared to venture out under the cover of night.

The next morning, Mr. Bruff surprised me at breakfast. He handed me a large key and confessed that he felt ashamed of himself for the first time in his life.

“Is she coming?” I asked, my heart racing.

“She is coming today, for lunch and to spend the afternoon with my wife and daughters.”

“Are Mrs. Bruff and your daughters in on this?”

“Of course. But you know how women are—they don’t have the same principles. My family doesn’t share my feelings of guilt. Their goal is to bring you and Rachel back together, and they overlook the means to achieve it as casually as if they were Jesuits.”

“I’m incredibly grateful to them. What’s this key for?”

“It’s the key to the gate in my back garden wall. Be there at three this afternoon. Let yourself into the garden and enter through the conservatory door. Cross the small drawing room and open the door in front of you that leads into the music room. There, you’ll find Rachel—and you’ll find her alone.”

“How can I thank you?”

“I’ll tell you how. Don’t blame me for what happens next.”

With that, he left.

I had many long hours to wait. To pass the time, I looked through my letters. Among them was one from Betteredge.

I opened it eagerly, but to my surprise and disappointment, it began with an apology, warning me not to expect any important news. In the next sentence, the ever-present Ezra Jennings appeared again! He had stopped Betteredge on his way out of the station and asked about me. Once he learned who I was, he mentioned having seen me to his master, Mr. Candy. Hearing this, Mr. Candy had driven over to Betteredge to express his regret that we had missed each other. He had a specific reason for wanting to speak to me, and when I was next in the Frizinghall area, he asked me to let him know. Aside from a few characteristic remarks from Betteredge, that was the gist of the letter. The warm-hearted, loyal old man admitted he had written “mainly for the pleasure of writing to me.”

I crumpled the letter and shoved it into my pocket, quickly forgetting it in the overwhelming anticipation of my upcoming meeting with Rachel.

As Hampstead church clock struck three, I inserted Mr. Bruff’s key into the lock of the garden gate. When I first stepped into the garden and secured the door behind me, I felt a twinge of guilt and uncertainty about what might happen next. I glanced around, wary of any unexpected witnesses lurking in the shadows. But nothing appeared to justify my fears. The paths were deserted, and the birds and bees were my only witnesses.

I made my way through the garden, entered the conservatory, and crossed the small drawing room. As I placed my hand on the door opposite, I heard a few soft chords being played on the piano in the room beyond. She often idled at the instrument like this when I stayed at her mother’s house. I had to pause for a moment to steady myself. The past and present collided in that moment, and the contrast shook me to my core.

After a minute, I gathered my courage and opened the door.