III

by Wilkie Collins

**The Statement of Mr. Murthwaite**

Dear Mr. Bruff,

Do you remember that wild man you met at dinner in London back in the autumn of ’48? His name was Murthwaite, and you two had quite a lengthy conversation afterward. You discussed an Indian diamond known as the Moonstone and a conspiracy surrounding it.

Since then, I’ve been wandering through Central Asia. Recently, I found my way back to some familiar places in northern India. About two weeks ago, I ended up in a little-known region called Kattiawar.

It was here that I had an adventure that, as unbelievable as it sounds, involves you directly.

In the untamed areas of Kattiawar—where even farmers plow their fields armed to the teeth—the locals are fiercely devoted to the ancient Hindu faith, worshipping gods like Brahma and Vishnu. The few scattered Muslim families in the interior villages are so fearful that they avoid eating any kind of meat. If a Muslim is even suspected of killing a cow, which is sacred, they face immediate and merciless punishment from their Hindu neighbors.

To fuel the fervor of the people, Kattiawar is home to two of the most revered Hindu pilgrimage sites. One is Dwarka, the birthplace of Krishna, and the other is the holy city of Somnauth, which was pillaged and destroyed by the Muslim conqueror Mahmoud of Ghazni back in the eleventh century.

Determined not to leave Kattiawar without witnessing the magnificent ruins of Somnauth again, I set out on foot, estimating that I was about three days away from the sacred city.

Not long into my journey, I noticed that others were traveling in the same direction. To those who spoke to me, I introduced myself as a Hindu-Buddhist from a distant province on a pilgrimage. My attire fit this description perfectly, and with my fluency in the language and my lean, sun-kissed appearance, it was easy for me to blend in as a stranger from their own land.

By the second day, the number of Hindus journeying with me had swelled to dozens, and by the third day, it had grown to thousands, all moving toward Somnauth.

During the third day’s trek, I helped one of my fellow pilgrims, which led me to connect with some higher-caste Hindus. They informed me that the crowd was headed to a significant religious ceremony on a hill near Somnauth, dedicated to the Moon god, and it was to take place at night.

As we approached the site, the crowd slowed our progress. By the time we reached the hill, the moon was high in the sky. My Hindu companions had special privileges that allowed them access to the shrine, and they graciously invited me to join them. When we arrived, we found the shrine obscured by a curtain hanging between two magnificent trees. Beneath those trees, a flat rock jutted out, forming a natural platform where I stood with my friends.

Looking back down the hill, I was met with the most breathtaking view of nature and humanity I had ever seen. The lower slopes of the hill gently transitioned into a grassy plain where three rivers converged. On one side, the graceful curves of the rivers wound away, sometimes visible, sometimes hidden by trees, stretching as far as the eye could see. On the other side, the calm ocean lay still under the night sky.

The scene was alive with tens of thousands of people, all dressed in white, cascading down the hill, spilling into the plain, and lining the banks of the rivers. The pilgrims were illuminated by the flickering flames of torches and cressets, casting wild red light that danced among the crowd. With the moonlight pouring down in unclouded brilliance, the view from the hilltop was nothing short of magical.

A haunting melody, played on stringed instruments and flutes, pulled my attention back to the hidden shrine.

I turned to see three men standing on a rocky platform. The central figure was someone I recognized—the man I had spoken to in England when the Indians appeared on the terrace at Lady Verinder’s house. The other two were likely his companions from that day.

One of the spectators beside me noticed my surprise. In a hushed voice, he explained the significance of the three figures on the rock.

“They are Brahmins,” he said, “who have lost their caste in the service of their god. The god has commanded that they purify themselves through pilgrimage. Tonight, they will part ways. Each will set out in a different direction, journeying to the shrines of India. They will never see each other again. They will wander without rest from the day they separate until the day they die.”

As he spoke, the mournful music faded away. The three men knelt on the rock before the curtain that concealed the shrine. They stood, exchanged glances, and embraced. Then, one by one, they descended into the crowd. The people parted silently to let them through. In unison, the crowd moved aside, and slowly, the mass of people closed in again. The path of the doomed men was erased, and they vanished from sight.

Suddenly, a new melody erupted from the hidden shrine—loud and jubilant. The crowd around me shivered and pressed closer together.

The curtain between the trees was pulled back, revealing the shrine.

There, elevated on a throne—seated on his characteristic antelope, with four arms reaching out to the corners of the earth—was the god of the Moon. In the center of his forehead, the yellow Diamond gleamed, the same gem that had last caught my eye in England, nestled in the folds of a woman’s dress.

Yes! After eight centuries, the Moonstone had returned to the sacred city where its story first began. How it made its way back to this wild land—through what twist of fate or act of crime the Indians reclaimed their sacred gem—might be known to you, but it remains a mystery to me. You lost track of it in England, and if I understand this people at all, you have lost it forever.

So the years go by, repeating themselves; the same events circle through time. What will happen next with the Moonstone? Who can say?

THE END