CHAPTER VIII

by Wilkie Collins

That evening, I was taken aback when Mr. Bruff showed up at my place.

His demeanor was noticeably different. The usual confidence and energy he carried had vanished. For the first time, he shook my hand in silence.

“Are you heading back to Hampstead?” I asked, trying to break the awkwardness.

“I just left Hampstead,” he replied. “I know, Mr. Franklin, that you’ve finally uncovered the truth. But I have to be honest with you: if I had known the cost of this revelation, I would have preferred to leave you in the dark.”

“You’ve seen Rachel?”

“I came here after taking her back to Portland Place. It wouldn’t have been right to let her return alone in the carriage. I can hardly hold you responsible—given that you met her in my home and with my permission—for the shock this unfortunate encounter has caused her. All I can do now is ensure it doesn’t happen again. She’s young and strong-willed; she’ll recover with time and rest. I need your assurance that you won’t do anything to hinder her healing. Can I count on you to refrain from trying to see her again without my approval?”

“After what she’s been through, and what I’ve endured,” I said, “you can count on me.”

“Do I have your promise?”

“You have my promise.”

Mr. Bruff looked relieved. He set his hat down and moved his chair closer to mine.

“That’s settled! Now, let’s talk about the future—your future, specifically. In my view, the unexpected turn of events has led us to a clear conclusion. First, we can be certain that Rachel has told you the whole truth, as clearly as she could. Second, even though we know there’s been some terrible mistake, we can hardly blame her for believing you guilty based on her own observations, especially since those observations have been supported by circumstances that seem to point against you.”

I interjected, “I don’t blame Rachel. I just wish she could have found a way to be clearer with me at the time.”

“You might as well wish Rachel were someone else,” Mr. Bruff replied. “Even then, I doubt any girl of sensitivity, whose heart was set on marrying you, could have confronted you directly with such an accusation. It simply wasn’t in Rachel’s nature. In a different situation—though it was not entirely unlike yours—I know she was influenced by a similar motive. Besides, she told me on our way to town tonight that if she had spoken plainly, she wouldn’t have believed your denial then any more than she believes it now. What can you say to that? There’s really nothing to say. Look, Mr. Franklin, I admit my perspective on this has been completely wrong, but that doesn’t mean my advice isn’t still valuable. We’d be wasting our time trying to untangle this mess from the beginning. Let’s put aside everything that happened last year at Lady Verinder’s country house and focus on what we can discover moving forward, rather than what we can’t uncover from the past.”

“Surely you realize,” I said, “that this whole situation is fundamentally rooted in the past—at least for me?”

“Answer me this,” Mr. Bruff shot back. “Is the Moonstone at the heart of all this trouble or not?”

“It is—of course.”

“Good. What do we believe happened to the Moonstone when it was taken to London?”

“It was pawned to Mr. Luker.”

“We know you weren’t the one who pawned it. Do we know who did?”

“No.”

“Where do we think the Moonstone is now?”

“Kept by Mr. Luker’s bankers.”

“Exactly. Now, consider this: we’re already in June. By the end of the month—though I can’t specify a day—a year will have passed since we believe the jewel was pawned. There’s a chance, at the very least, that the person who pawned it might be ready to redeem it when the year is up. If that happens, Mr. Luker will have to retrieve the Diamond from his banker, according to the terms of his arrangement. Given this, I suggest we keep watch at the bank as the month wraps up to find out who Mr. Luker returns the Moonstone to. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

I had to admit, albeit reluctantly, that it was a fresh idea.

“It was as much Mr. Murthwaite’s idea as mine,” Mr. Bruff said. “I probably wouldn’t have thought of it if we hadn’t had a conversation a while back. If Mr. Murthwaite is correct, the Indians will likely be watching the bank toward the end of the month, and something significant could come of it. What happens next doesn’t really concern us, except that it might help us find the mysterious person who pawned the Diamond. That person, I assure you, is responsible—though I can’t say how—for the predicament you’re in right now, and only they can clear your name in Rachel’s eyes.”

“I can’t deny,” I replied, “that your plan addresses the issue in a bold, clever, and entirely new way. But—”

“But you have a concern?”

“Yes. My concern is that your proposal requires us to wait.”

“Fair enough. As I see it, it means you’ll need to wait about two weeks—give or take. Is that really such a long time?”

“It feels like a lifetime, Mr. Bruff, given my situation. My life will be unbearable unless I do something to clear my name right away.”

“I understand that. Have you thought about what you can do?”

“I’ve considered consulting Sergeant Cuff.”

“He’s retired from the police. It’s pointless to expect him to help you.”

“I know where to find him; I can at least try.”

“Try,” Mr. Bruff said after a moment’s thought. “The case has taken such an unusual turn since Sergeant Cuff’s time that you might just rekindle his interest in the investigation. Try, and let me know what you find out. In the meantime,” he added, standing up, “if you don’t make any discoveries between now and the end of the month, can I go ahead and keep an eye on the bank?”

“Of course,” I replied, “unless I manage to relieve you of the need to try that in the meantime.”

Mr. Bruff smiled and picked up his hat.

“Tell Sergeant Cuff that I believe the key to uncovering the truth lies in finding the person who pawned the Diamond. I’d like to hear what the Sergeant thinks about that.”

With that, we parted ways.

Early the next morning, I set off for Dorking, the town where Sergeant Cuff had retired, as Betteredge had informed me.

At the hotel, I got directions to the Sergeant’s cottage. It was located on a quiet side road just outside of town, nestled comfortably in its own garden, surrounded by a sturdy brick wall on the sides and back, and a tall hedge in front. The gate, adorned with neatly painted trellis-work, was locked. After ringing the bell, I peered through the trellis and saw Cuff’s favorite flowers blooming everywhere—climbing over his door and peeking in at his windows. Far removed from the crimes and mysteries of the city, the famous detective was peacefully enjoying the last luxurious years of his life, surrounded by roses.

An elderly woman opened the gate for me, instantly crushing any hopes I had of getting Sergeant Cuff’s assistance. He had left just the day before for a trip to Ireland.

“Is he there on business?” I asked.

She smiled. “He has only one business now, sir,” she replied. “And that’s roses. A renowned gardener in Ireland has discovered something new about growing roses, and Mr. Cuff has gone to check it out.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“It’s uncertain, sir. Mr. Cuff mentioned he’d return quickly or be gone for a while, depending on whether the discovery was worth anything or not. If you have a message for him, I’ll make sure he gets it.”

I handed her my card, writing on it in pencil: “I have something to discuss about the Moonstone. Please let me know as soon as you hear from him.” With that done, I had no choice but to accept the situation and head back to London.

In the agitated state of mind I was in at that moment, the disappointing outcome of my trip to the Sergeant’s cottage only intensified my restless urge to take action. On the day I returned from Dorking, I resolved that the next morning would find me determined to make a new effort to push through all obstacles, from darkness into light.

What form would my next attempt take?

If Betteredge had been there while I wrestled with my thoughts, he would have undoubtedly claimed that my German side was taking the lead this time. Honestly, I couldn't help but think that my German upbringing had a hand in the tangled web of pointless theories I found myself caught in. For most of the night, I sat there smoking, constructing one improbable theory after another. When I finally managed to sleep, my waking thoughts chased me through my dreams. I woke up the next morning with the concepts of Objective-Subjective and Subjective-Objective hopelessly intertwined in my mind. I began the day, which would lead to my next attempt at taking some sort of action, by questioning whether I had any right—on purely philosophical grounds—to consider anything, including the Diamond, as existing at all.

I can’t say how long I would have remained lost in my own metaphysical fog if I had been left to find my way out alone. As fate would have it, a fortunate accident intervened and pulled me back to reality. That morning, I happened to wear the same coat I had on during my meeting with Rachel. While searching for something else in one of the pockets, I stumbled upon a crumpled piece of paper. Pulling it out, I realized it was Betteredge’s forgotten letter.

It felt unfair to leave my good old friend without a response. I went to my writing desk and read his letter again.

A letter that holds no significant importance can be surprisingly difficult to reply to. Betteredge’s latest attempt at correspondence fell into this category. Mr. Candy’s assistant, Ezra Jennings, had informed his employer that he had seen me, and Mr. Candy wanted to speak with me the next time I was near Frizinghall. What could I possibly say in response that would be worth writing down? I found myself idly sketching Mr. Candy’s striking assistant from memory on the very sheet of paper I had intended for Betteredge—until it suddenly hit me that Ezra Jennings was getting in my way again! I tossed at least a dozen sketches of the man with the piebald hair—each one strikingly similar—into the wastebasket, and then I sat down to write my reply to Betteredge. It was a perfectly ordinary letter, but it had one remarkable effect on me. The simple act of writing a few sentences in plain English cleared the fog of confusion that had clouded my mind since the day before.

Once again focused on unraveling the impenetrable puzzle of my situation, I decided to approach the problem from a practical standpoint. The events of that unforgettable night still eluded my understanding, so I looked back further to see if anything from earlier in the day could provide a clue.

Had anything noteworthy happened while Rachel and I were finishing the painted door? Or later, when I rode over to Frizinghall? Or after that, when I returned with Godfrey Ablewhite and his sisters? Or when I handed the Moonstone to Rachel? Or even later, when everyone gathered around the dinner table? My memory quickly dismissed those earlier questions until I reached the last one. Reflecting on the birthday dinner, I found myself stuck right at the beginning of that inquiry. I couldn’t even accurately recall how many guests had sat at the table with me.

Feeling completely at a loss here, I concluded that the events of the dinner might be worth investigating. I believe others in a similar situation would have thought the same way. When our own interests turn us into subjects of inquiry, we naturally become suspicious of what we don’t remember. Once I had the names of the people who had been at the dinner, I decided to enrich my own memory by reaching out to the other guests. I would write down everything they could recall about the social events of the birthday and then compare their accounts with what happened afterward when the guests had left the house.

This latest experiment in my ongoing quest for answers—something Betteredge would probably attribute to my more rational, or French, side being in charge—deserves a mention here, based on its own merits. As unlikely as it may seem, I had finally stumbled upon the heart of the matter. All I needed was a hint to point me in the right direction. Before the day was out, that hint came from one of the guests at the birthday celebration.

To proceed with my plan, I first needed a complete list of the attendees. I could easily get that from Gabriel Betteredge. I decided to head back to Yorkshire that very day and start my investigation the following morning.

Unfortunately, I had missed the train that left London just before noon. I had no choice but to wait nearly three hours for the next one. Was there anything I could do in London to fill that time productively?

My thoughts stubbornly returned to the birthday dinner.

Though I had forgotten the exact numbers and many of the names, I clearly recalled that most of the guests were from Frizinghall or its surroundings. However, not everyone was a local resident. I was one of the few exceptions. Mr. Murthwaite was another. Godfrey Ablewhite made three. Mr. Bruff—no, I remembered that business had kept Mr. Bruff from attending. Were there any ladies present who usually lived in London? The only one I could think of was Miss Clack. At the very least, I needed to see these three guests before leaving town. I immediately headed to Mr. Bruff’s office, unsure of the addresses of the others but hoping he could help me track them down.

Mr. Bruff was too busy to spare more than a minute of his time. In that brief moment, he managed to dismiss all my questions in the most discouraging way.

First, he dismissed my new method for uncovering the mystery as something too fanciful to take seriously. Then, he informed me that Mr. Murthwaite was on his way back to his past adventures, Miss Clack had suffered some losses and moved to France for economic reasons, and Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite might or might not be somewhere in London. He suggested I check his club and excused himself, wishing me good morning before returning to his work.

With my inquiry in London now narrowed down to finding Godfrey’s address, I took the lawyer’s advice and drove to his club.

In the lobby, I ran into a member who was an old friend of my cousin’s and an acquaintance of mine. After he provided me with Godfrey’s address, he shared some recent developments in Godfrey’s life that I hadn’t heard before.

It turned out that Godfrey, far from being disheartened by Rachel’s breaking off their engagement, had quickly pursued another young woman, rumored to be a wealthy heiress. His advances had been successful, and their marriage seemed like a done deal. However, that engagement had also been abruptly called off, reportedly due to a serious disagreement between Godfrey and the lady’s father over the marriage settlements.

As a consolation for this second setback, Godfrey soon found himself the beneficiary of a generous legacy from one of his many admirers. A wealthy old lady, well-respected at the Mothers’ Small-Clothes-Conversion-Society and a close friend of Miss Clack’s (to whom she left only a mourning ring), had bequeathed him five thousand pounds. After receiving this substantial boost to his finances, he had mentioned needing a break from his charitable work, with his doctor recommending “a trip to the Continent, which would likely be beneficial for his health.” If I wanted to see him, I needed to act quickly.

So, I went to pay my visit right away.

The same unfortunate timing that had made me miss Sergeant Cuff by a day had now caused me to miss Godfrey by another day. He had left London the previous morning on the tidal train to Dover. From there, he was set to cross to Ostend, and his servant believed he was heading on to Brussels. His return was uncertain, but I could count on him being away for at least three months.

Feeling a bit down, I returned to my lodgings. Three of the guests from the birthday dinner—three exceptionally bright individuals—were now out of reach at the very moment I needed to speak with them most. My last hope rested on Betteredge and the friends of the late Lady Verinder who might still be living near Rachel’s country house.

This time, I headed straight to Frizinghall, as it had become the focal point of my investigation. I arrived too late in the evening to meet with Betteredge, so the next morning, I sent a messenger with a letter asking him to join me at the hotel as soon as he could.

To save time and make it easier for Betteredge, I had my messenger take a cab. If all went well, I expected to see the old man within two hours of sending for him. In the meantime, I decided to start my inquiry with the guests from the birthday dinner who I knew personally and could easily reach. These included my relatives, the Ablewhites, and Mr. Candy. The doctor had expressed a particular desire to see me, and he lived just down the street. So, I headed to Mr. Candy first.

Given what Betteredge had told me, I expected to see some signs of the severe illness that had affected the doctor. However, I was completely unprepared for the transformation I witnessed when he entered the room and shook my hand. His eyes were dull, his hair had turned completely gray, his face was drawn, and his figure had shrunk. I looked at the once lively, humorous little doctor—who I remembered for his social blunders and endless jokes—and saw nothing left of his former self except for his usual flashy style. The man was a shell of his former self, yet his clothes and jewelry were as bright and gaudy as ever, a cruel reminder of the change he had undergone.

“I’ve thought about you often, Mr. Blake,” he said, his voice hurried and eager. “I’m so glad to see you again. If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know—please let me know!”

He spoke those few common phrases with an urgency that made it clear he was curious about why I had come to Yorkshire, a curiosity he couldn’t hide.

Knowing I would need to explain myself to get the help I sought from people who were mostly strangers, I had prepared a statement during my journey to Frizinghall. Now, I seized the chance to test it out on Mr. Candy.

“I was in Yorkshire recently, and I’m back now for a rather romantic reason,” I began. “It’s something that the late Lady Verinder’s friends all cared about. Do you remember the mysterious loss of the Indian Diamond nearly a year ago? Recent events have given me hope that it might still be found, and as part of the family, I’m trying to recover it. One of the challenges I face is gathering all the evidence that was collected at the time, and more if possible. There are specific details in this case that make it essential to refresh my memory of everything that happened in the house on Miss Verinder’s birthday. I’m reaching out to her mother’s friends who were there that night, hoping they can help me remember—”

I hadn’t gotten far into my explanation when I realized, from the look on Mr. Candy’s face, that my attempt was a complete failure.

The little doctor sat there, fidgeting with his fingers as I spoke. His dim, watery eyes were fixed on me with a vacant, wistful expression that was painful to witness. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. The one thing that was clear was that I had lost his attention after the first couple of sentences. It seemed my only chance to bring him back to the present was to change the subject. I quickly shifted to a new topic.

“So much for what brought me to Frizinghall!” I said cheerfully. “Now, Mr. Candy, it’s your turn. You sent me a message through Gabriel Betteredge—”

He stopped fiddling with his fingers and suddenly perked up.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” he exclaimed eagerly. “That’s it! I sent you a message!”

“And Betteredge delivered it in a letter,” I continued. “You had something to say to me the next time I was in your area. Well, Mr. Candy, here I am!”

“Here you are!” echoed the doctor. “And Betteredge was right. I did have something to say to you. That was my message. Betteredge is a remarkable man. What a memory! At his age, what a memory!”

He fell silent again, returning to his fingers. Remembering what Betteredge had told me about the fever affecting Mr. Candy’s memory, I tried to steer the conversation in a way that might help him get started.

“It’s been a long time since we last met,” I said. “We last saw each other at my poor aunt’s last birthday dinner.”

“That’s it!” Mr. Candy exclaimed. “The birthday dinner!” He jumped up impulsively and looked at me. A deep flush spread across his faded face, and he abruptly sat down again, as if he realized he had revealed a vulnerability he wanted to hide. It was painfully clear that he was aware of his memory issues and was determined to conceal them from his friends.

Until now, my sympathy had been the only thing driving our conversation. But his few words sparked my curiosity to a new height. The birthday dinner had become a significant event in my past, filled with mixed feelings of hope and distrust. And here it was, clearly the topic Mr. Candy wanted to discuss with me!

I tried to help him again, but this time my own interests pushed me forward a bit too eagerly.

“It’s nearly been a year since we sat at that lovely table. Have you made any notes—in your diary or elsewhere—about what you wanted to tell me?”

Mr. Candy understood my suggestion, but he took it as an insult.

“I don’t need a note, Mr. Blake,” he replied, a bit stiffly. “I’m not that old yet—and my memory (thank God) is perfectly reliable!”

I chose to ignore the fact that he was offended.

“I wish I could say the same about my memory,” I replied. “When I try to recall things from a year ago, I often find my recollections aren’t as clear as I’d like them to be. Take the dinner at Lady Verinder’s, for example—”

Mr. Candy perked up again the moment I mentioned it.

“Ah! The dinner at Lady Verinder’s!” he exclaimed, more eagerly than before. “I have something to say to you about that.”

His eyes turned to me, filled with a painful expression of inquiry—so wistful, so vacant, so helpless. He was clearly trying hard, and failing, to recover the lost memory. “It was a very pleasant dinner,” he suddenly declared, as if he had finally found the words he wanted. “A very pleasant dinner, Mr. Blake, wasn’t it?” He nodded and smiled, convinced that he had successfully masked his memory lapse with a quick display of his presence of mind.

It was so distressing that I quickly shifted the conversation—despite my deep interest in helping him remember—to local topics.

Here, he spoke easily enough. Trivial scandals and quarrels from the town, some as old as a month, seemed to come back to him readily. He chatted on with the smooth, gossipy fluency of his earlier self. But there were moments, even in the midst of his chatter, when he suddenly hesitated, looked at me with that vacant inquiry in his eyes again, controlled himself, and continued talking. I endured this with patience—after all, it’s a form of martyrdom for someone with a broader worldview to silently absorb the mundane news of a small town—until the clock on the mantelpiece indicated that my visit had stretched beyond half an hour. Feeling I had endured enough, I stood to leave. As we shook hands, Mr. Candy brought up the birthday dinner again on his own.

“I’m so glad we’ve met again,” he said. “I really wanted to talk to you. About the dinner at Lady Verinder’s, you know? A pleasant dinner—really a pleasant dinner, wasn’t it?”

As I repeated the phrase, I sensed that he was no more certain about keeping me from noticing his lapse of memory than he had been the first time. A wistful expression crossed his face again. He seemed ready to walk me to the front door, but then abruptly changed his mind. Instead, he rang for the servant and stayed behind in the drawing room.

I made my way slowly down the doctor's stairs, weighed down by the unsettling feeling that he had something important to tell me, something I desperately needed to hear, yet he was somehow unable to express it. It was painfully clear that the only effort his fading memory could muster was the struggle to remember that he wanted to speak to me.

Just as I reached the bottom of the stairs and turned a corner toward the outer hall, a door opened quietly somewhere on the ground floor. A soft voice called out behind me, "I’m afraid, sir, you find Mr. Candy sadly changed?"

I turned around and came face to face with Ezra Jennings.