CHAPTER V

by Wilkie Collins · 2026-03-31

As soon as we were alone, I made another attempt to get up from my spot on the sand, but Mr. Franklin stopped me.

“There’s one upside to this dreadful place,” he said. “We have it all to ourselves. Stay put, Betteredge; I need to talk to you.”

While he spoke, I studied him, trying to find a trace of the boy I once knew in the man before me. It was frustrating. No matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t see the rosy cheeks of his youth or the neat little jacket he used to wear. His complexion had faded; to my surprise and disappointment, his face was now covered with a curly brown beard and mustache. He had a lively, charming way about him, which I appreciated, but it was nothing compared to the easygoing manner he had back then. To make matters worse, he had promised to be tall, and he hadn’t kept that promise either. He was neat and slim, well-built, but he fell short of the average height by an inch or two. In short, he completely baffled me. The years had stripped away everything of his old self, except for the bright, straightforward look in his eyes. There I found the boy I remembered, and I decided to leave my search there.

“Welcome back to the old place, Mr. Franklin,” I said. “You’re even more welcome since you’ve arrived a few hours earlier than we expected.”

“I have my reasons for coming earlier,” he replied. “I suspect, Betteredge, that I’ve been followed and watched in London for the last few days. I took the morning train instead of the afternoon one because I wanted to shake off a certain dark-looking stranger.”

His words shocked me. They brought back memories of the three jugglers and Penelope’s belief that they meant some harm to Mr. Franklin Blake.

“Who’s watching you, sir—and why?” I asked.

“Tell me about the three Indians you had at the house today,” Mr. Franklin said, ignoring my question. “It’s possible, Betteredge, that my stranger and your three jugglers are connected in some way.”

“How do you know about the jugglers, sir?” I asked, piling one question on top of another, which I knew was rude. But you can’t expect much from human nature—so don’t expect much from me.

“I saw Penelope at the house,” Mr. Franklin replied. “She told me. Your daughter promised to be a pretty girl, Betteredge, and she has kept that promise. Penelope has a small ear and a small foot. Did the late Mrs. Betteredge have those lovely features?”

“The late Mrs. Betteredge had her share of flaws, sir,” I said. “One of them (if you’ll forgive me for mentioning it) was her inability to stick to the topic at hand. She was more like a fly than a woman; she couldn’t settle on anything.”

“She would have suited me perfectly,” Mr. Franklin said. “I never settle on anything either. Betteredge, your edge is sharper than ever. Your daughter said as much when I asked her about the jugglers. ‘Father will tell you, sir. He’s a remarkable man for his age, and he expresses himself beautifully.’ Those were Penelope’s exact words—blushing like mad. Not even my respect for you stopped me from—never mind; I knew her when she was a child, and she’s none the worse for it. Let’s get serious. What did the jugglers do?”

I felt a bit dissatisfied with my daughter—not because she let Mr. Franklin kiss her; he was welcome to that—but because I had to relay her silly story secondhand. There was no help for it, though; I had to share the details. Mr. Franklin’s amusement faded as I spoke. He sat there, knitting his eyebrows and twisting his beard. When I finished, he repeated two of the questions the chief juggler had asked the boy, seemingly to fix them in his mind.

“‘Is it on the road to this house, and on no other, that the English gentleman will travel today?’ ‘Does the English gentleman have it with him?’ I suspect,” he said, pulling a small sealed paper parcel from his pocket, “that ‘it’ means this. And ‘this,’ Betteredge, is my uncle Herncastle’s famous Diamond.”

“Good Lord, sir!” I exclaimed. “How do you come to be in charge of the wicked Colonel’s Diamond?”

“The wicked Colonel’s will left his Diamond as a birthday gift to my cousin Rachel,” Mr. Franklin explained. “And my father, as the wicked Colonel’s executor, has entrusted it to me to bring down here.”

If the sea had suddenly turned to dry land right before my eyes, I doubt I would have been more surprised than I was when Mr. Franklin said those words.

“The Colonel’s Diamond left to Miss Rachel!” I said. “And your father, sir, the Colonel’s executor! I would have bet anything, Mr. Franklin, that your father wouldn’t have touched the Colonel with a ten-foot pole!”

“Watch your language, Betteredge! What was the deal with the Colonel? He was from your era, not mine. Share what you know about him, and I’ll explain how my father ended up as his executor, and much more. I’ve uncovered some unsettling information in London about my uncle Herncastle and his Diamond, and I need you to confirm it. You just referred to him as the ‘wicked Colonel.’ Dig deep into your memory, my old friend, and tell me why.”

I could see he was serious, so I began to share what I knew.

Here’s what I told him, laid out clearly for your understanding. Focus on this, or you’ll be lost when we dive deeper into the story. Clear your mind of distractions—children, dinner plans, that new hat, or whatever else is on your mind. Try to forget about politics, horses, stock prices, and club grievances. I hope you don’t mind my directness; it’s just my way of reaching out to the thoughtful reader. After all, I’ve seen you with the greatest authors, and I know how easily your attention can drift when a book demands it instead of a person.

Earlier, I mentioned my lady’s father, the old lord with a short temper and a sharp tongue. He had five children in total. First, there were two sons; then, after a long pause, his wife gave birth to three daughters in quick succession, with my mistress being the youngest and the best of the trio. The eldest son, Arthur, inherited the title and the estates. The second son, the Honourable John, received a substantial fortune from a relative and joined the army.

It’s said that a bird that fouls its own nest is a bad omen. I consider the noble family of the Herncastles to be my nest, so I’d appreciate it if we could skip the details about the Honourable John. Honestly, I believe he was one of the worst scoundrels to ever walk the earth. I can’t say much more than that. He joined the army, starting in the Guards, but had to leave before he turned twenty-two—no need to dwell on the reasons. The army is strict, and he couldn’t handle it. He went to India to see if they were just as strict there and to try some active service. To give him credit, he had a mix of bulldog tenacity and gamecock spirit, with a hint of savagery. He participated in the capture of Seringapatam. Soon after, he switched to another regiment, and eventually, he moved to a third one, where he achieved the rank of lieutenant-colonel. Unfortunately, he also suffered a sunstroke and returned home to England.

When he came back, his reputation was so tarnished that his family closed their doors to him. My lady, who had just gotten married, took the lead, declaring (with Sir John’s approval, of course) that her brother would never step foot in her house. There were several rumors about the Colonel that made people wary of him, but the stain of the Diamond is all I need to mention here.

It was rumored that he had acquired his Indian jewel through means he was too bold to admit. He never tried to sell it—not that he needed the money, and to give him credit, he didn’t seem to care about wealth. He never gave it away or even showed it to anyone. Some said he feared it would land him in trouble with military authorities; others, who didn’t understand him at all, claimed he was scared it would cost him his life if he revealed it.

There might have been a grain of truth in that last rumor. It wasn’t accurate to say he was afraid, but it was true that his life had been threatened twice in India, and many believed the Moonstone was at the heart of it. When he returned to England and found himself shunned by everyone, the Moonstone was thought to be the reason yet again. The mystery surrounding the Colonel’s life became his downfall, isolating him from his own people. Men wouldn’t let him into their clubs, and women—more than one—who he hoped to marry turned him down. Friends and family pretended not to see him on the street.

Some men in his situation might have tried to redeem themselves in society. But the Honourable John wasn’t one to back down, even when he was in the wrong and faced with public scorn. He had kept the Diamond, defiantly facing threats to his life in India. He kept the Diamond, defiantly facing public opinion in England. There you have him, a man who defied everything, with a handsome face that seemed to be possessed by the devil.

We heard all sorts of rumors about him from time to time. Some said he had taken to smoking opium and collecting old books; others claimed he was experimenting with strange chemicals. There were even whispers of him drinking and mingling with the lowest of the low in the slums of London. Regardless, the Colonel lived a solitary, reckless life underground. I only saw him once after he returned to England, and that was a memorable encounter.

About two years before the time I’m writing about, and a year and a half before his death, the Colonel showed up unexpectedly at my lady’s house in London. It was Miss Rachel’s birthday, June twenty-first, and as usual, there was a party in her honor. A footman came to me with a message saying a gentleman wanted to see me. When I went to the hall, I found the Colonel—thin, worn, and shabby, looking as wild and wicked as ever.

“Go up to my sister,” he said, “and tell her I’ve come to wish my niece a happy birthday.”

He had tried to reach out to my lady through letters before, but I was convinced it was only to irritate her. This was the first time he had actually come to the house. I almost mentioned that my mistress was busy with the party, but the look in his eyes stopped me. I went upstairs with his message, leaving him in the hall as he requested. The other servants stared at him from a distance, as if he were a dangerous creature ready to explode at any moment.

My lady had just a hint of the family temper. “Tell Colonel Herncastle,” she said when I relayed his message, “that Miss Verinder is engaged, and I refuse to see him.” I tried to suggest a more polite response, knowing the Colonel didn’t adhere to the usual gentlemanly decorum. It was pointless. The family temper flared up immediately. “When I want your advice,” she said, “I’ll ask for it. I don’t ask for it now.”

I went back downstairs with her message, which I took the liberty of rephrasing: “My lady and Miss Rachel regret that they are engaged, Colonel, and ask to be excused from seeing you.”

I expected him to explode, even at my polite version. To my surprise, he remained unnaturally calm. His bright grey eyes settled on me for a moment, and he laughed—not like a normal person, but in a soft, sinister chuckle that sent chills down my spine. “Thank you, Betteredge,” he said. “I’ll remember my niece’s birthday.” With that, he turned and walked out of the house.

The following birthday came around, and we heard he was sick in bed. Six months later—just six months before the time I’m writing about—a letter arrived from a respectable clergyman addressed to my lady. It contained two astonishing pieces of family news. First, that the Colonel had forgiven his sister on his deathbed. Second, that he had forgiven everyone else and had made a most edifying end. I have a genuine respect for the Church, despite the bishops and clergy, but I firmly believe that the devil still had a hold on the Honourable John, and that the last vile act of that vile man was, if you’ll pardon my language, to deceive the clergyman!

That was the gist of what I had to share with Mr. Franklin. I noticed he listened more intently the longer I spoke. The story of the Colonel being turned away from his sister’s door on his niece’s birthday seemed to hit Mr. Franklin hard, though he didn’t show it outright. I could see the unease on his face.

“You’ve had your say, Betteredge,” he said. “Now it’s my turn. But before I tell you about the discoveries I’ve made in London and how I got involved in this Diamond affair, I need to know one thing. You look, my old friend, as if you don’t quite grasp the purpose of our meeting. Do your looks deceive you?”

“No, sir,” I replied. “On this occasion, my looks tell the truth.”

“In that case,” Mr. Franklin said, “let me share my perspective before we go any further. I see three serious questions tied to the Colonel’s birthday gift to my cousin Rachel. Follow me closely, Betteredge, and feel free to count them off on your fingers if it helps,” he added, a hint of pleasure in his voice, reminiscent of the boy he once was.

“First question: Was the Colonel’s Diamond the target of a conspiracy in India? Second question: Has that conspiracy followed the Diamond to England? Third question: Did the Colonel know that the conspiracy was tracking the Diamond, and has he deliberately left a legacy of trouble and danger for his sister through the innocent means of his sister’s child? That’s what I’m getting at, Betteredge. Don’t let me scare you.”

It was easy for him to say that, but he had indeed frightened me.

If he was correct, our quiet English home had suddenly been invaded by a sinister Indian Diamond, bringing with it a conspiracy of living rogues unleashed upon us by the vengeance of a dead man. That was the situation laid bare by Mr. Franklin’s words! Who could have imagined such a thing—in the nineteenth century, no less; in an age of progress, in a country that prides itself on the blessings of the British constitution? No one could have imagined it, and therefore, no one could be expected to believe it. Still, I would continue with my story, regardless.

When you experience a sudden shock, like the one I was feeling now, it often hits you in your stomach. When that happens, your focus drifts, and you start to fidget. I fidgeted quietly in my spot on the sand. Mr. Franklin noticed my restlessness, whether it was due to a troubled stomach or a troubled mind—either way, they felt the same—and just as he was about to dive into his part of the story, he turned to me sharply and asked, “What do you want?”

What did I want? I didn’t tell him, but I’ll share it with you, in confidence. I wanted a puff from my pipe and a chance to escape into _Robinson Crusoe_.