CHAPTER X

by Wilkie Collins

I couldn’t say how the two hours of waiting would have affected someone else in my position. All I knew was that I felt physically restless, unable to stay in one place, and emotionally paralyzed, unable to talk to anyone until I had heard everything Ezra Jennings had to say.

In this state of mind, I abandoned my plans to visit Mrs. Ablewhite and even hesitated to face Gabriel Betteredge.

As I returned to Frizinghall, I left a note for Betteredge, explaining that I had been unexpectedly called away for a few hours but would definitely be back around three in the afternoon. I asked him to order dinner at the usual time and to entertain himself as he wished. I knew he had plenty of friends in Frizinghall, so he wouldn’t have trouble filling his time until I returned to the hotel.

With that taken care of, I made my way out of town again and wandered through the desolate moorland surrounding Frizinghall until my watch indicated it was finally time to head back to Mr. Candy’s house.

When I arrived, Ezra Jennings was waiting for me.

He sat alone in a small, bare room connected to a surgery through a glass door. The walls were painted a dull yellow and adorned with grotesque diagrams depicting the horrors of various diseases. A bookcase filled with tattered medical texts topped with a skull instead of a bust stood in one corner. A large table, stained with ink, occupied the center, surrounded by wooden chairs that looked more at home in a kitchen than a medical office. A worn rug lay in the middle of the floor, and a sink with a basin and waste pipe crudely installed in the wall hinted at its connection to surgical procedures. Outside, bees buzzed around a few potted flowers, birds chirped in the garden, and the faint, off-key tinkling of a piano from a nearby house occasionally broke the silence. In any other setting, these everyday sounds might have been comforting, but here they felt like unwelcome intrusions, disturbing a silence that only human suffering had the right to interrupt. I glanced at the mahogany instrument case and the large roll of lint on the shelves, shuddering at the thought of the sounds that were all too familiar in Ezra Jennings’ room.

“I won’t apologize for the setting, Mr. Blake,” he said. “It’s the only room in the house where we can be sure we won’t be disturbed at this hour. I have my papers ready for you, and there are two books we might need to refer to. Please bring your chair to the table, and we can consult them together.”

I moved to the table, and Ezra handed me his manuscript notes. They consisted of two large sheets of paper. One was sparsely written on, while the other was filled with dense writing in red and black ink. Frustrated by my curiosity, I set aside the second sheet in despair.

“Have some mercy on me!” I pleaded. “Just tell me what to expect before I try to read this.”

“Of course, Mr. Blake! Do you mind if I ask you a couple more questions?”

“Ask me anything you want!”

He looked at me with a sad smile and genuine interest in his soft brown eyes.

“You’ve already told me,” he began, “that you’ve never—at least to your knowledge—tasted opium in your life.”

“To my knowledge,” I echoed.

“You’ll see why I phrase it that way shortly. Let’s continue. You don’t recall ever having taken opium. Last year at this time, you were dealing with nervous irritation and had trouble sleeping at night. However, on the night of your birthday, you slept soundly. Am I correct?”

“Absolutely right!”

“Can you identify any cause for your nervousness and sleeplessness?”

“I can’t pinpoint a cause. Old Betteredge had a theory, but it’s hardly worth mentioning.”

“On the contrary, anything is worth mentioning in a case like this. What did Betteredge attribute your sleeplessness to?”

“To my quitting smoking.”

“Were you a regular smoker?”

“Yes.”

“Did you stop suddenly?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Blake, Betteredge is absolutely right. When smoking becomes a habit, it takes a strong constitution to quit suddenly without causing some damage to your nervous system. Your sleepless nights make perfect sense to me. Now, I need to ask about Mr. Candy. Do you recall having any sort of disagreement with him—either at the birthday dinner or afterward—regarding his profession?”

The question triggered a memory from the birthday celebration that had been buried in my mind. The silly argument I had with Mr. Candy that night was described in much more detail than it warranted in the tenth chapter of Betteredge’s Narrative. I hadn’t thought about it much since then, and the specifics of the dispute completely escaped me. All I could remember was that I had criticized the practice of medicine at the dinner table with enough boldness and persistence to momentarily irritate Mr. Candy. I also recalled that Lady Verinder had stepped in to stop the argument, and that Mr. Candy and I had made up, as kids would say, and were back to being good friends before we parted ways that night.

“There’s one more thing I need to know,” Ezra Jennings continued, “and it’s crucial. Did you have any particular reason to feel anxious about the Diamond around this time last year?”

“I had strong reasons to be concerned about the Diamond. I knew it was the target of a conspiracy, and I had been warned to take precautions for Miss Verinder’s safety as the owner of the stone.”

“Did you discuss the safety of the Diamond with anyone just before you went to bed on the night of the birthday celebration?”

“Yes, I spoke about it with Lady Verinder and her daughter.”

“That conversation took place while you were present?”

“Yes.”

Ezra Jennings picked up his notes from the table and handed them to me.

“Mr. Blake,” he said, “if you read these notes now, with the context my questions and your answers provide, you’ll uncover two shocking truths about yourself. First, you entered Miss Verinder’s sitting room and took the Diamond while in a trance induced by opium. Second, Mr. Candy administered the opium to you—without your knowledge—as a way to counter the opinions you expressed during the birthday dinner.”

I sat there, holding the papers, utterly stunned.

“Try to forgive poor Mr. Candy,” the assistant said gently. “He caused serious trouble, I admit, but he did so innocently. If you look at the notes, you’ll see that, had it not been for his illness, he would have returned to Lady Verinder’s the morning after the party and confessed the trick he played on you. Miss Verinder would have learned about it, questioned him, and the truth that has been hidden for a year would have come to light in a day.”

Gradually, I began to regain my composure. “Mr. Candy is beyond my anger,” I said, my voice tense. “But the trick he played on me is still an act of betrayal, regardless. I may forgive, but I won’t forget.”

“Every doctor commits that act of betrayal, Mr. Blake, at some point in their practice. The common distrust of opium in England isn’t limited to the less educated. Every physician in a busy practice finds themselves, now and then, forced to deceive their patients, just as Mr. Candy deceived you. I’m not defending his foolishness in playing a trick on you under those circumstances. I’m simply asking you to consider a more nuanced and compassionate view of his motives.”

“How did it happen?” I pressed. “Who gave me the laudanum without my knowledge?”

“I can’t tell you that. Mr. Candy never mentioned anything about that during his illness. Perhaps your own memory might hint at who to suspect.”

“No.”

“In that case, there’s no point in continuing this line of questioning. The laudanum was given to you secretly. Let’s leave it at that and move on to more pressing matters. Read my notes if you can. Familiarize yourself with what happened in the past. I have something bold and startling to propose regarding the future.”

Those last words jolted me awake.

I glanced at the papers in the order Ezra Jennings had handed them to me. The sheet with less writing was on top. On it were the fragmented words and phrases that had slipped from Mr. Candy’s lips during his delirium, appearing as follows:

“Mr. Franklin Blake is a clever and agreeable man, but he needs to be brought down a peg when he talks about medicine. He admits he’s been struggling to sleep at night. I tell him his nerves are out of whack and that he should take some medicine. He responds that taking medicine and groping in the dark are essentially the same thing. This was said in front of everyone at the dinner table. I tell him he’s groping for sleep, and only medicine can help him find it. He quips about the blind leading the blind, and now he understands what that means. It’s witty, but I can help him get a good night’s rest despite his discomfort. He truly needs sleep, and Lady Verinder’s medicine cabinet is available to me. I plan to give him twenty-five drops of laudanum tonight without him knowing, and then I’ll check on him tomorrow morning. ‘So, Mr. Blake, will you try a little medicine today? You won’t sleep without it.’—‘You’re mistaken, Mr. Candy. I had an excellent night’s rest without it.’ Then I’ll hit him with the truth! ‘You had something more than just a good night’s sleep; you had a dose of laudanum before bed. What do you think about the art of medicine now?’”

As I handed the manuscript back to Ezra Jennings, I couldn’t help but admire the cleverness that had turned this tangled mess into something coherent. He interrupted my initial surprise with a question about whether my conclusion matched his.

“Do you agree with me,” he asked, “that you were under the influence of laudanum when you did everything you did on Miss Verinder’s birthday at Lady Verinder’s house?”

“I’m not knowledgeable enough about laudanum to have my own opinion,” I replied. “I can only trust your judgment, and I believe you’re right.”

“Good. Now, here’s the next question. We’re both convinced, but how do we convince others?”

I gestured toward the two manuscripts lying on the table between us. Ezra Jennings shook his head.

“Mr. Blake, this is utterly pointless! There are three solid reasons for that. First, these notes were taken under circumstances that most people have never experienced. That’s a strike against them right there. Second, they represent a medical and metaphysical theory, which is another strike. And third, these notes are my own creation; the only thing backing them up is my word, and we both know how much that’s worth. Remember what I told you on the moor? Think about it—what does my word really mean? No, my notes only hold value when it comes to the outside world’s judgment. We need to prove your innocence, and they show us how to do that. We have to test our belief—and you are the one who can make it happen!”

“How?” I asked, curiosity piqued.

He leaned forward, his eyes bright with excitement as he crossed the table that separated us.

“Are you ready to try a daring experiment?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to clear my name,” I replied.

“Are you willing to endure some personal discomfort for a while?”

“I’ll face any inconvenience, no matter what it is.”

“Will you follow my guidance without question? It might expose you to the mockery of fools and the disapproval of friends whose opinions you value.”

“Just tell me what to do!” I exclaimed, impatience bubbling over. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

“Here’s what you’ll do, Mr. Blake,” he said. “You will steal the Diamond again, but this time, you’ll do it without realizing it, in front of witnesses whose credibility is beyond doubt.”

I jumped to my feet, stunned. I tried to speak, but words failed me; I could only stare at him.

“I truly believe it can be done,” he continued. “And it will be done—if you’re willing to help me. Try to calm yourself—sit down and listen to what I have to say. I’ve noticed you’ve picked up smoking again; I can see that for myself. How long has it been since you started?”

“Almost a year.”

“Do you smoke more or less than before?”

“More.”

“Will you quit again? Suddenly, just like you did before.”

I began to grasp his plan. “I’ll quit, starting now,” I said firmly.

“If you experience the same effects as last June,” Ezra Jennings said, “if you suffer again from sleepless nights, we’ll have made our first step. We’ll have put you back into a state similar to how you felt on the night of your birthday. If we can recreate the domestic circumstances surrounding you, and if we can fill your mind with the same questions about the Diamond that troubled you before, we’ll have returned you, as closely as possible, to the same physical and moral state that the opium found you in last year. In that case, we can reasonably hope that repeating the dose will lead to a similar outcome. That’s my proposal, laid out in a few quick words. Now, let me show you the reasons behind it.”

He turned to one of the books beside him and opened it to a page marked by a small slip of paper.

“Don’t think I’m going to bore you with a lecture on physiology,” he said. “I feel it’s only fair to prove, for both our sakes, that I’m not asking you to try this experiment based on some theory of my own. Accepted principles and recognized authorities support my perspective. Just give me five minutes of your time, and I’ll show you that science backs my proposal, no matter how fanciful it may seem. First, here’s the physiological principle I’m relying on, stated by none other than Dr. Carpenter. Read it for yourself.”

He handed me the slip of paper that marked the page in the book. It contained a few lines that read:

“There appears to be substantial evidence that every sensory impression recognized by the conscious mind is registered in the brain and may be recalled at a later time, even if there’s no awareness of its existence during the intervening period.”

“Is that clear so far?” Ezra Jennings asked.

“Absolutely clear.”

He slid the open book across the table to me and pointed to a passage marked with pencil lines.

“Now,” he said, “read this account of a case that I believe directly relates to your situation and the experiment I’m proposing. Before you start, Mr. Blake, note that I’m referring you to one of the leading English physiologists. The book you’re holding is Dr. Elliotson’s *Human Physiology*, and the case he cites is based on the well-known authority of Mr. Combe.”

The passage he indicated was written as follows:

“Dr. Abel told me,” Mr. Combe began, “about an Irish porter who worked at a warehouse. When he was sober, he couldn’t remember what he’d done while drunk. But when he was drunk, he could recall the things he’d done during his previous drunken state. One time, he lost a valuable parcel, and when he was sober, he couldn’t explain where it had gone. The next time he got drunk, he remembered that he had left the parcel at a particular house. Since there was no address on it, it had stayed there safely until he went back to claim it.”

“Is that clear?” Ezra Jennings asked.

“Clear enough.”

He tucked the slip of paper back into its place and closed the book.

“Are you convinced that I’m not speaking without solid evidence?” he asked. “If you’re not, I can point you to the bookshelves, and you can read the relevant passages yourself.”

“I’m satisfied,” I replied, “without needing to read anything more.”

“In that case, let’s return to your personal stake in this situation. I must tell you that there are arguments for and against this experiment. If we could recreate the exact conditions from last year in your case, we would undoubtedly get the same result. But—there’s no denying it—that’s simply impossible. We can only hope to get close to those conditions, and if we can’t bring you back to where you were, this endeavor will fail. If we do succeed—and I’m hopeful—we may at least allow you to repeat your actions from the night of your birthday enough to convince any reasonable person that you’re innocent of stealing the Diamond. I believe I’ve presented both sides of the issue as clearly as I can, given the limits I’ve set for myself. If there’s anything I haven’t clarified, just let me know, and I’ll do my best to explain.”

“I understand everything you’ve explained,” I said, “but I’m still confused about one point that you haven’t clarified yet.”

“What’s the point?”

“I don’t understand how the laudanum affected me. I don’t get how I was able to walk downstairs, move through corridors, open and close drawers, and then return to my room. Those are all active actions. I thought opium first numbs you and then puts you to sleep.”

“That’s a common misconception about opium, Mr. Blake! Right now, I’m using my intellect—whatever little I have—while under the influence of a dose of laudanum that’s ten times stronger than what Mr. Candy gave you. But don’t just take my word for it—even on something I’ve personally experienced. I anticipated the question you just raised, and I’ve gathered independent evidence that should hold weight in your mind and in the minds of your friends.”

He handed me the second of the two books he had on the table.

“There,” he said, “are the famous _Confessions of an English Opium Eater_. Take it with you and read it. In the passage I’ve marked, you’ll find that when De Quincey indulged in what he called ‘a debauch of opium,’ he either went to the opera to enjoy the music or wandered through the London markets on Saturday night, observing how the poor managed to prepare for their Sunday dinner. This shows that a person can actively engage and move around under the influence of opium.”

“I see your point,” I said, “but I still don’t understand how the opium affected me specifically.”

“I’ll try to keep this brief,” Ezra Jennings said. “Opium has two main effects: first, it stimulates, and then it sedates. When you’re under the stimulating influence, the most recent and vivid thoughts in your mind—specifically, those about the Diamond—are likely to become amplified in your sensitive state. They would take control of your judgment and will, much like a dream does. Gradually, any worries you had about the Diamond’s safety during the day would shift from uncertainty to certainty. This would drive you to take action to protect the jewel, leading you to the room you entered and guiding your hand to the cabinet drawers until you found the one that held the stone. In that heightened state of opium intoxication, you would do all of this.

Later, as the sedative effects began to overpower the stimulant ones, you would start to feel sluggish and dazed. Eventually, you would fall into a deep sleep. When morning arrived and the effects of the opium had worn off, you would wake up completely unaware of what you had done during the night, as if you had been living on the other side of the world. Does that make sense so far?”

“It’s clear enough,” I replied. “But I want you to go further. You’ve explained how I entered the room and took the Diamond. But Miss Verinder saw me leave with the jewel in my hand. Can you trace my actions from that moment? Can you guess what I did next?”

“That’s exactly what I was getting to,” he said. “I’m wondering if the experiment I propose to prove your innocence might also help us recover the lost Diamond. When you left Miss Verinder’s sitting room with the jewel, you likely returned to your own room—”

“Yes? And then what?”

“It’s possible, Mr. Blake—I can’t say for sure—that your intention to protect the Diamond naturally led you to consider hiding it, and that you concealed it somewhere in your bedroom. If that’s the case, your situation might mirror that of the Irish porter. Under the influence of the second dose of opium, you might remember where you hid the Diamond after the first dose.”

Now it was my turn to clarify things for Ezra Jennings. I interrupted him before he could continue.

“You’re speculating about something that can’t be true. The Diamond is currently in London.”

He looked at me, startled.

“In London?” he echoed. “How did it get there from Lady Verinder’s house?”

“Nobody knows.”

“You took it from Miss Verinder’s room yourself. How was it taken from you?”

“I have no idea how it was taken from me.”

“Did you see it when you woke up in the morning?”

“No.”

“Has Miss Verinder gotten it back?”

“No.”

“Mr. Blake! There’s something here that needs clarification. How do you know the Diamond is, at this moment, in London?”

I had asked the same question to Mr. Bruff when I first inquired about the Moonstone upon my return to England. So, in answering Ezra Jennings, I repeated what I had heard from the lawyer himself, which is already familiar to anyone who has read this story.

He clearly wasn’t satisfied with my answer.

“With all due respect to you and your legal advisor,” he said, “I stand by my earlier opinion. I know it’s based on an assumption, but I must remind you that your belief is also based on an assumption.”

His perspective was entirely new to me. I waited, anxious to hear how he would defend it.

“I assume,” Ezra Jennings continued, “that the influence of the opium—after driving you to take the Diamond to protect it—might also lead you, under the same influence and motive, to hide it somewhere in your own room. You believe the Indian conspirators could never make a mistake. They went to Mr. Luker’s house after the Diamond, so it must be in Mr. Luker’s possession! But do you have any proof that the Moonstone was even taken to London? You can’t even guess how or by whom it was removed from Lady Verinder’s house! Do you have any evidence that the jewel was pledged to Mr. Luker? He claims he’s never heard of the Moonstone, and his banker’s receipt only acknowledges a valuable deposit. The Indians think Mr. Luker is lying, and you assume they’re right. All I’m saying, in disagreement with you, is that my view is possible. What more, Mr. Blake, can be said for yours, either logically or legally?”

His argument was strong, and there was no denying its truth.

“I have to admit, you’ve thrown me off balance,” I replied. “Do you mind if I write to Mr. Bruff and tell him what you’ve said?”

“On the contrary, I’d be glad if you did. Consulting his experience might give us a fresh perspective. For now, let’s return to our experiment with the opium. We’ve decided that you’ll stop smoking starting now.”

“From this moment.”

“That’s the first step. The next step is to recreate, as closely as we can, the domestic circumstances that surrounded you last year.”

How were we going to do that? Lady Verinder was dead. Rachel and I were irrevocably separated as long as the suspicion of theft hung over me. Godfrey Ablewhite was traveling in Europe. It was simply impossible to gather the people who had lived in the house when I last slept there. Ezra Jennings didn’t seem troubled by this objection. He said it wasn’t necessary to have the same people back, since it would be unrealistic to expect them to take the same positions they once held toward me. However, he believed it was crucial for the success of the experiment that I see the same objects around me that I had seen when I was last in the house.

“Above all,” he insisted, “you must sleep in the same room you did on your birthday, and it needs to be furnished the same way. The stairs, the corridors, and Miss Verinder’s sitting room must also be restored to what they were when you last saw them. It’s absolutely necessary, Mr. Blake, to replace every piece of furniture in that part of the house that might now be stored away. The sacrifice of your cigars will be pointless unless we can get Miss Verinder’s permission to do that.”

“Who’s going to ask her for permission?” I inquired.

“Can’t you do it yourself?”

“Not a chance. After everything that’s happened regarding the lost Diamond, I can’t see her or write to her, not in the current situation.”

Ezra Jennings paused, contemplating for a moment.

“May I ask you a sensitive question?” he said.

I nodded for him to continue.

“Am I correct, Mr. Blake, in thinking—based on a few things you’ve said—that you once had a special interest in Miss Verinder?”

“You’re right.”

“Did she feel the same way?”

“She did.”

“Do you think Miss Verinder would have a strong interest in helping prove your innocence?”

“I’m certain of it.”

“In that case, I’ll write to Miss Verinder—if you give me permission.”

“You’ll tell her about the proposal you’ve made to me?”

“I’ll tell her everything that’s been discussed between us today.”

Needless to say, I eagerly accepted his offer.

“I’ll have time to write before today’s post,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Don’t forget to lock up your cigars when you get back to the hotel! I’ll come by tomorrow morning to see how you fared through the night.”

I stood to say goodbye, trying to express my gratitude for his kindness.

He gently squeezed my hand. “Remember what I told you on the moor,” he replied. “If I can do you this small service, Mr. Blake, it will feel like a final ray of sunshine breaking through a long, cloudy day.”

We parted ways. It was the fifteenth of June. The events of the next ten days—each one more or less directly connected to the experiment of which I was the passive subject—are all documented exactly as they happened in the journal kept by Mr. Candy’s assistant. In the pages of Ezra Jennings, nothing is hidden, and nothing is forgotten. Let Ezra Jennings recount how the experiment with the opium was conducted and how it concluded.