FIFTH NARRATIVE
The Story Resumed by FRANKLIN BLAKE
CHAPTER I
But few words are needed, on my part, to complete the narrative that has
been presented in the Journal of Ezra Jennings.
Of myself, I have only to say that I awoke on the morning of the
twenty-sixth, perfectly ignorant of all that I had said and done under
the influence of the opium--from the time when the drug first laid its
hold on me, to the time when I opened my eyes, in Rachel's sitting-room.
Of what happened after my waking, I do not feel called upon to render an
account in detail. Confining myself merely to results, I have to report
that Rachel and I thoroughly understood each other, before a single
word of explanation had passed on either side. I decline to account,
and Rachel declines to account, for the extraordinary rapidity of our
reconciliation. Sir and Madam, look back at the time when you were
passionately attached to each other--and you will know what happened,
after Ezra Jennings had shut the door of the sitting-room, as well as I
know it myself.
I have, however, no objection to add, that we should have been certainly
discovered by Mrs. Merridew, but for Rachel's presence of mind. She
heard the sound of the old lady's dress in the corridor, and instantly
ran out to meet her; I heard Mrs. Merridew say, "What is the matter?"
and I heard Rachel answer, "The explosion!" Mrs. Merridew instantly
permitted herself to be taken by the arm, and led into the garden, out
of the way of the impending shock. On her return to the house, she met
me in the hall, and expressed herself as greatly struck by the vast
improvement in Science, since the time when she was a girl at school.
"Explosions, Mr. Blake, are infinitely milder than they were. I assure
you, I barely heard Mr. Jennings's explosion from the garden. And no
smell afterwards, that I can detect, now we have come back to the house!
I must really apologise to your medical friend. It is only due to him to
say that he has managed it beautifully!"
So, after vanquishing Betteredge and Mr. Bruff, Ezra Jennings vanquished
Mrs. Merridew herself. There is a great deal of undeveloped liberal
feeling in the world, after all!
At breakfast, Mr. Bruff made no secret of his reasons for wishing that
I should accompany him to London by the morning train. The watch kept
at the bank, and the result which might yet come of it, appealed so
irresistibly to Rachel's curiosity, that she at once decided (if Mrs.
Merridew had no objection) on accompanying us back to town--so as to be
within reach of the earliest news of our proceedings.
Mrs. Merridew proved to be all pliability and indulgence, after the
truly considerate manner in which the explosion had conducted itself;
and Betteredge was accordingly informed that we were all four to travel
back together by the morning train. I fully expected that he would have
asked leave to accompany us. But Rachel had wisely provided her faithful
old servant with an occupation that interested him. He was charged
with completing the refurnishing of the house, and was too full of his
domestic responsibilities to feel the "detective-fever" as he might have
felt it under other circumstances.
Our one subject of regret, in going to London, was the necessity of
parting, more abruptly than we could have wished, with Ezra Jennings. It
was impossible to persuade him to accompany us. I could only promise to
write to him--and Rachel could only insist on his coming to see her when
she returned to Yorkshire. There was every prospect of our meeting again
in a few months--and yet there was something very sad in seeing our best
and dearest friend left standing alone on the platform, as the train
moved out of the station.
On our arrival in London, Mr. Bruff was accosted at the terminus by a
small boy, dressed in a jacket and trousers of threadbare black cloth,
and personally remarkable in virtue of the extraordinary prominence of
his eyes. They projected so far, and they rolled about so loosely,
that you wondered uneasily why they remained in their sockets. After
listening to the boy, Mr. Bruff asked the ladies whether they would
excuse our accompanying them back to Portland Place. I had barely time
to promise Rachel that I would return, and tell her everything that had
happened, before Mr. Bruff seized me by the arm, and hurried me into a
cab. The boy with the ill-secured eyes took his place on the box by the
driver, and the driver was directed to go to Lombard Street.
"News from the bank?" I asked, as we started.
"News of Mr. Luker," said Mr. Bruff. "An hour ago, he was seen to
leave his house at Lambeth, in a cab, accompanied by two men, who were
recognised by my men as police officers in plain clothes. If Mr. Luker's
dread of the Indians is at the bottom of this precaution, the inference
is plain enough. He is going to take the Diamond out of the bank."
"And we are going to the bank to see what comes of it?"
"Yes--or to hear what has come of it, if it is all over by this time.
Did you notice my boy--on the box, there?"
"I noticed his eyes."
Mr. Bruff laughed. "They call the poor little wretch 'Gooseberry' at
the office," he said. "I employ him to go on errands--and I only wish my
clerks who have nick-named him were as thoroughly to be depended on as
he is. Gooseberry is one of the sharpest boys in London, Mr. Blake, in
spite of his eyes."
It was twenty minutes to five when we drew up before the bank in Lombard
Street. Gooseberry looked longingly at his master, as he opened the cab
door.
"Do you want to come in too?" asked Mr. Bruff kindly. "Come in then,
and keep at my heels till further orders. He's as quick as lightning,"
pursued Mr. Bruff, addressing me in a whisper. "Two words will do with
Gooseberry, where twenty would be wanted with another boy."
We entered the bank. The outer office--with the long counter, behind
which the cashiers sat--was crowded with people; all waiting their turn
to take money out, or to pay money in, before the bank closed at five
o'clock.
Two men among the crowd approached Mr. Bruff, as soon as he showed
himself.
"Well," asked the lawyer. "Have you seen him?"
"He passed us here half an hour since, sir, and went on into the inner
office."
"Has he not come out again yet?"
"No, sir."
Mr. Bruff turned to me. "Let us wait," he said.
I looked round among the people about me for the three Indians. Not a
sign of them was to be seen anywhere. The only person present with a
noticeably dark complexion was a tall man in a pilot coat, and a round
hat, who looked like a sailor. Could this be one of them in disguise?
Impossible! The man was taller than any of the Indians; and his face,
where it was not hidden by a bushy black beard, was twice the breadth of
any of their faces at least.
"They must have their spy somewhere," said Mr. Bruff, looking at the
dark sailor in his turn. "And he may be the man."
Before he could say more, his coat-tail was respectfully pulled by his
attendant sprite with the gooseberry eyes. Mr. Bruff looked where the
boy was looking. "Hush!" he said. "Here is Mr. Luker!"
The money-lender came out from the inner regions of the bank, followed
by his two guardian policemen in plain clothes.
"Keep your eye on him," whispered Mr. Bruff. "If he passes the Diamond
to anybody, he will pass it here."
Without noticing either of us, Mr. Luker slowly made his way to the
door--now in the thickest, now in the thinnest part of the crowd.
I distinctly saw his hand move, as he passed a short, stout man,
respectably dressed in a suit of sober grey. The man started a little,
and looked after him. Mr. Luker moved on slowly through the crowd. At
the door his guard placed themselves on either side of him. They were
all three followed by one of Mr. Bruff's men--and I saw them no more.
I looked round at the lawyer, and then looked significantly towards the
man in the suit of sober grey. "Yes!" whispered Mr. Bruff, "I saw it
too!" He turned about, in search of his second man. The second man
was nowhere to be seen. He looked behind him for his attendant sprite.
Gooseberry had disappeared.
"What the devil does it mean?" said Mr. Bruff angrily. "They have both
left us at the very time when we want them most."
It came to the turn of the man in the grey suit to transact his business
at the counter. He paid in a cheque--received a receipt for it--and
turned to go out.
"What is to be done?" asked Mr. Bruff. "We can't degrade ourselves by
following him."
"I can!" I said. "I wouldn't lose sight of that man for ten thousand
pounds!"
"In that case," rejoined Mr. Bruff, "I wouldn't lose sight of you,
for twice the money. A nice occupation for a man in my position," he
muttered to himself, as we followed the stranger out of the bank. "For
Heaven's sake don't mention it. I should be ruined if it was known."
The man in the grey suit got into an omnibus, going westward. We got in
after him. There were latent reserves of youth still left in Mr.
Bruff. I assert it positively--when he took his seat in the omnibus, he
blushed!
The man in the grey suit stopped the omnibus, and got out in Oxford
Street. We followed him again. He went into a chemist's shop.
Mr. Bruff started. "My chemist!" he exclaimed. "I am afraid we have made
a mistake."
We entered the shop. Mr. Bruff and the proprietor exchanged a few words
in private. The lawyer joined me again, with a very crestfallen face.
"It's greatly to our credit," he said, as he took my arm, and led me
out--"that's one comfort!"
"What is to our credit?" I asked.
"Mr. Blake! you and I are the two worst amateur detectives that ever
tried their hands at the trade. The man in the grey suit has been thirty
years in the chemist's service. He was sent to the bank to pay money
to his master's account--and he knows no more of the Moonstone than the
babe unborn."
I asked what was to be done next.
"Come back to my office," said Mr. Bruff. "Gooseberry, and my second
man, have evidently followed somebody else. Let us hope that THEY had
their eyes about them at any rate!"
When we reached Gray's Inn Square, the second man had arrived there
before us. He had been waiting for more than a quarter of an hour.
"Well!" asked Mr. Bruff. "What's your news?"
"I am sorry to say, sir," replied the man, "that I have made a mistake.
I could have taken my oath that I saw Mr. Luker pass something to an
elderly gentleman, in a light-coloured paletot. The elderly gentleman
turns out, sir, to be a most respectable master iron-monger in
Eastcheap."
"Where is Gooseberry?" asked Mr. Bruff resignedly.
The man stared. "I don't know, sir. I have seen nothing of him since I
left the bank."
Mr. Bruff dismissed the man. "One of two things," he said to me. "Either
Gooseberry has run away, or he is hunting on his own account. What do
you say to dining here, on the chance that the boy may come back in an
hour or two? I have got some good wine in the cellar, and we can get a
chop from the coffee-house."
We dined at Mr. Bruff's chambers. Before the cloth was removed, "a
person" was announced as wanting to speak to the lawyer. Was the person
Gooseberry? No: only the man who had been employed to follow Mr. Luker
when he left the bank.
The report, in this case, presented no feature of the slightest
interest. Mr. Luker had gone back to his own house, and had there
dismissed his guard. He had not gone out again afterwards. Towards dusk,
the shutters had been put up, and the doors had been bolted. The street
before the house, and the alley behind the house, had been carefully
watched. No signs of the Indians had been visible. No person whatever
had been seen loitering about the premises. Having stated these facts,
the man waited to know whether there were any further orders. Mr. Bruff
dismissed him for the night.
"Do you think Mr. Luker has taken the Moonstone home with him?" I asked.
"Not he," said Mr. Bruff. "He would never have dismissed his two
policemen, if he had run the risk of keeping the Diamond in his own
house again."
We waited another half-hour for the boy, and waited in vain. It was then
time for Mr. Bruff to go to Hampstead, and for me to return to Rachel in
Portland Place. I left my card, in charge of the porter at the chambers,
with a line written on it to say that I should be at my lodgings at half
past ten, that night. The card was to be given to the boy, if the boy
came back.
Some men have a knack of keeping appointments; and other men have a
knack of missing them. I am one of the other men. Add to this, that I
passed the evening at Portland Place, on the same seat with Rachel, in a
room forty feet long, with Mrs. Merridew at the further end of it. Does
anybody wonder that I got home at half past twelve instead of half past
ten? How thoroughly heartless that person must be! And how earnestly I
hope I may never make that person's acquaintance!
My servant handed me a morsel of paper when he let me in.
I read, in a neat legal handwriting, these words--"If you please, sir, I
am getting sleepy. I will come back to-morrow morning, between nine and
ten." Inquiry proved that a boy, with very extraordinary-looking eyes,
had called, and presented my card and message, had waited an hour, had
done nothing but fall asleep and wake up again, had written a line for
me, and had gone home--after gravely informing the servant that "he was
fit for nothing unless he got his night's rest."
At nine, the next morning, I was ready for my visitor. At half past
nine, I heard steps outside my door. "Come in, Gooseberry!" I called
out. "Thank you, sir," answered a grave and melancholy voice. The door
opened. I started to my feet, and confronted--Sergeant Cuff.
"I thought I would look in here, Mr. Blake, on the chance of your being
in town, before I wrote to Yorkshire," said the Sergeant.
He was as dreary and as lean as ever. His eyes had not lost their old
trick (so subtly noticed in Betteredge's NARRATIVE) of "looking as if
they expected something more from you than you were aware of yourself."
But, so far as dress can alter a man, the great Cuff was changed beyond
all recognition. He wore a broad-brimmed white hat, a light shooting
jacket, white trousers, and drab gaiters. He carried a stout oak stick.
His whole aim and object seemed to be to look as if he had lived in the
country all his life. When I complimented him on his Metamorphosis,
he declined to take it as a joke. He complained, quite gravely, of the
noises and the smells of London. I declare I am far from sure that he
did not speak with a slightly rustic accent! I offered him breakfast.
The innocent countryman was quite shocked. HIS breakfast hour was
half-past six--and HE went to bed with the cocks and hens!
"I only got back from Ireland last night," said the Sergeant, coming
round to the practical object of his visit, in his own impenetrable
manner. "Before I went to bed, I read your letter, telling me what has
happened since my inquiry after the Diamond was suspended last year.
There's only one thing to be said about the matter on my side. I
completely mistook my case. How any man living was to have seen things
in their true light, in such a situation as mine was at the time, I
don't profess to know. But that doesn't alter the facts as they stand.
I own that I made a mess of it. Not the first mess, Mr. Blake, which
has distinguished my professional career! It's only in books that the
officers of the detective force are superior to the weakness of making a
mistake."
"You have come in the nick of time to recover your reputation," I said.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Blake," rejoined the Sergeant. "Now I have
retired from business, I don't care a straw about my reputation. I
have done with my reputation, thank God! I am here, sir, in grateful
remembrance of the late Lady Verinder's liberality to me. I will go
back to my old work--if you want me, and if you will trust me--on that
consideration, and on no other. Not a farthing of money is to pass, if
you please, from you to me. This is on honour. Now tell me, Mr. Blake,
how the case stands since you wrote to me last."
I told him of the experiment with the opium, and of what had occurred
afterwards at the bank in Lombard Street. He was greatly struck by the
experiment--it was something entirely new in his experience. And he was
particularly interested in the theory of Ezra Jennings, relating to what
I had done with the Diamond, after I had left Rachel's sitting-room, on
the birthday night.
"I don't hold with Mr. Jennings that you hid the Moonstone," said
Sergeant Cuff. "But I agree with him, that you must certainly have taken
it back to your own room."
"Well?" I asked. "And what happened then?"
"Have you no suspicion yourself of what happened, sir?"
"None whatever."
"Has Mr. Bruff no suspicion?"
"No more than I have."
Sergeant Cuff rose, and went to my writing-table. He came back with a
sealed envelope. It was marked "Private;" it was addressed to me; and it
had the Sergeant's signature in the corner.
"I suspected the wrong person, last year," he said: "and I may be
suspecting the wrong person now. Wait to open the envelope, Mr. Blake,
till you have got at the truth. And then compare the name of the guilty
person, with the name that I have written in that sealed letter."
I put the letter into my pocket--and then asked for the Sergeant's
opinion of the measures which we had taken at the bank.
"Very well intended, sir," he answered, "and quite the right thing to
do. But there was another person who ought to have been looked after
besides Mr. Luker."
"The person named in the letter you have just given to me?"
"Yes, Mr. Blake, the person named in the letter. It can't be helped now.
I shall have something to propose to you and Mr. Bruff, sir, when the
time comes. Let's wait, first, and see if the boy has anything to tell
us that is worth hearing."
It was close on ten o'clock, and the boy had not made his appearance.
Sergeant Cuff talked of other matters. He asked after his old friend
Betteredge, and his old enemy the gardener. In a minute more, he would
no doubt have got from this, to the subject of his favourite roses, if
my servant had not interrupted us by announcing that the boy was below.
On being brought into the room, Gooseberry stopped at the threshold
of the door, and looked distrustfully at the stranger who was in my
company. I told the boy to come to me.
"You may speak before this gentleman," I said. "He is here to assist me;
and he knows all that has happened. Sergeant Cuff," I added, "this is
the boy from Mr. Bruff's office."
In our modern system of civilisation, celebrity (no matter of what kind)
is the lever that will move anything. The fame of the great Cuff had
even reached the ears of the small Gooseberry. The boy's ill-fixed
eyes rolled, when I mentioned the illustrious name, till I thought they
really must have dropped on the carpet.
"Come here, my lad," said the Sergeant, "and let's hear what you have got
to tell us."
The notice of the great man--the hero of many a famous story in every
lawyer's office in London--appeared to fascinate the boy. He placed
himself in front of Sergeant Cuff, and put his hands behind him, after
the approved fashion of a neophyte who is examined in his catechism.
"What is your name?" said the Sergeant, beginning with the first
question in the catechism.
"Octavius Guy," answered the boy. "They call me Gooseberry at the office
because of my eyes."
"Octavius Guy, otherwise Gooseberry," pursued the Sergeant, with the
utmost gravity, "you were missed at the bank yesterday. What were you
about?"
"If you please, sir, I was following a man."
"Who was he?"
"A tall man, sir, with a big black beard, dressed like a sailor."
"I remember the man!" I broke in. "Mr. Bruff and I thought he was a spy
employed by the Indians."
Sergeant Cuff did not appear to be much impressed by what Mr. Bruff and
I had thought. He went on catechising Gooseberry.
"Well?" he said--"and why did you follow the sailor?"
"If you please, sir, Mr. Bruff wanted to know whether Mr. Luker passed
anything to anybody on his way out of the bank. I saw Mr. Luker pass
something to the sailor with the black beard."
"Why didn't you tell Mr. Bruff what you saw?"
"I hadn't time to tell anybody, sir, the sailor went out in such a
hurry."
"And you ran out after him--eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Gooseberry," said the Sergeant, patting his head, "you have got
something in that small skull of yours--and it isn't cotton-wool. I am
greatly pleased with you, so far."
The boy blushed with pleasure. Sergeant Cuff went on.
"Well? and what did the sailor do, when he got into the street?"
"He called a cab, sir."
"And what did you do?"
"Held on behind, and run after it."
Before the Sergeant could put his next question, another visitor was
announced--the head clerk from Mr. Bruff's office.
Feeling the importance of not interrupting Sergeant Cuff's examination
of the boy, I received the clerk in another room. He came with bad news
of his employer. The agitation and excitement of the last two days had
proved too much for Mr. Bruff. He had awoke that morning with an attack
of gout; he was confined to his room at Hampstead; and, in the present
critical condition of our affairs, he was very uneasy at being compelled
to leave me without the advice and assistance of an experienced person.
The chief clerk had received orders to hold himself at my disposal, and
was willing to do his best to replace Mr. Bruff.
I wrote at once to quiet the old gentleman's mind, by telling him of
Sergeant Cuff's visit: adding that Gooseberry was at that moment under
examination; and promising to inform Mr. Bruff, either personally, or by
letter, of whatever might occur later in the day. Having despatched
the clerk to Hampstead with my note, I returned to the room which I had
left, and found Sergeant Cuff at the fireplace, in the act of ringing
the bell.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Blake," said the Sergeant. "I was just going to
send word by your servant that I wanted to speak to you. There isn't a
doubt on my mind that this boy--this most meritorious boy," added the
Sergeant, patting Gooseberry on the head, "has followed the right man.
Precious time has been lost, sir, through your unfortunately not being
at home at half past ten last night. The only thing to do, now, is to
send for a cab immediately."
In five minutes more, Sergeant Cuff and I (with Gooseberry on the box to
guide the driver) were on our way eastward, towards the City.
"One of these days," said the Sergeant, pointing through the front
window of the cab, "that boy will do great things in my late profession.
He is the brightest and cleverest little chap I have met with, for many
a long year past. You shall hear the substance, Mr. Blake, of what he
told me while you were out of the room. You were present, I think, when
he mentioned that he held on behind the cab, and ran after it?"
"Yes."
"Well, sir, the cab went from Lombard Street to the Tower Wharf. The
sailor with the black beard got out, and spoke to the steward of the
Rotterdam steamboat, which was to start next morning. He asked if
he could be allowed to go on board at once, and sleep in his berth
over-night. The steward said, No. The cabins, and berths, and bedding
were all to have a thorough cleaning that evening, and no passenger
could be allowed to come on board, before the morning. The sailor turned
round, and left the wharf. When he got into the street again, the boy
noticed for the first time, a man dressed like a respectable mechanic,
walking on the opposite side of the road, and apparently keeping
the sailor in view. The sailor stopped at an eating-house in the
neighbourhood, and went in. The boy--not being able to make up his mind,
at the moment--hung about among some other boys, staring at the good
things in the eating-house window. He noticed the mechanic waiting, as
he himself was waiting--but still on the opposite side of the street.
After a minute, a cab came by slowly, and stopped where the mechanic
was standing. The boy could only see plainly one person in the cab, who
leaned forward at the window to speak to the mechanic. He described that
person, Mr. Blake, without any prompting from me, as having a dark face,
like the face of an Indian."
It was plain, by this time, that Mr. Bruff and I had made another
mistake. The sailor with the black beard was clearly not a spy in the
service of the Indian conspiracy. Was he, by any possibility, the man
who had got the Diamond?
"After a little," pursued the Sergeant, "the cab moved on slowly
down the street. The mechanic crossed the road, and went into the
eating-house. The boy waited outside till he was hungry and tired--and
then went into the eating-house, in his turn. He had a shilling in his
pocket; and he dined sumptuously, he tells me, on a black-pudding, an
eel-pie, and a bottle of ginger-beer. What can a boy not digest? The
substance in question has never been found yet."
"What did he see in the eating-house?" I asked.
"Well, Mr. Blake, he saw the sailor reading the newspaper at one table,
and the mechanic reading the newspaper at another. It was dusk before
the sailor got up, and left the place. He looked about him suspiciously
when he got out into the street. The boy--BEING a boy--passed unnoticed.
The mechanic had not come out yet. The sailor walked on, looking about
him, and apparently not very certain of where he was going next. The
mechanic appeared once more, on the opposite side of the road. The
sailor went on, till he got to Shore Lane, leading into Lower Thames
Street. There he stopped before a public-house, under the sign of 'The
Wheel of Fortune,' and, after examining the place outside, went in.
Gooseberry went in too. There were a great many people, mostly of the
decent sort, at the bar. 'The Wheel of Fortune' is a very respectable
house, Mr. Blake; famous for its porter and pork-pies."
The Sergeant's digressions irritated me. He saw it; and confined himself
more strictly to Gooseberry's evidence when he went on.
"The sailor," he resumed, "asked if he could have a bed. The landlord
said 'No; they were full.' The barmaid corrected him, and said 'Number
Ten was empty.' A waiter was sent for to show the sailor to Number Ten.
Just before that, Gooseberry had noticed the mechanic among the people
at the bar. Before the waiter had answered the call, the mechanic had
vanished. The sailor was taken off to his room. Not knowing what to do
next, Gooseberry had the wisdom to wait and see if anything happened.
Something did happen. The landlord was called for. Angry voices were
heard up-stairs. The mechanic suddenly made his appearance again,
collared by the landlord, and exhibiting, to Gooseberry's great
surprise, all the signs and tokens of being drunk. The landlord thrust
him out at the door, and threatened him with the police if he came back.
From the altercation between them, while this was going on, it appeared
that the man had been discovered in Number Ten, and had declared with
drunken obstinacy that he had taken the room. Gooseberry was so struck
by this sudden intoxication of a previously sober person, that he
couldn't resist running out after the mechanic into the street. As long
as he was in sight of the public-house, the man reeled about in the most
disgraceful manner. The moment he turned the corner of the street, he
recovered his balance instantly, and became as sober a member of society
as you could wish to see. Gooseberry went back to 'The Wheel of Fortune'
in a very bewildered state of mind. He waited about again, on the chance
of something happening. Nothing happened; and nothing more was to be
heard, or seen, of the sailor. Gooseberry decided on going back to the
office. Just as he came to this conclusion, who should appear, on the
opposite side of the street as usual, but the mechanic again! He looked
up at one particular window at the top of the public-house, which was
the only one that had a light in it. The light seemed to relieve his
mind. He left the place directly. The boy made his way back to Gray's
Inn--got your card and message--called--and failed to find you. There
you have the state of the case, Mr. Blake, as it stands at the present
time."
"What is your own opinion of the case, Sergeant?"
"I think it's serious, sir. Judging by what the boy saw, the Indians are
in it, to begin with."
"Yes. And the sailor is evidently the person to whom Mr. Luker passed
the Diamond. It seems odd that Mr. Bruff, and I, and the man in Mr.
Bruff's employment, should all have been mistaken about who the person
was."
"Not at all, Mr. Blake. Considering the risk that person ran, it's
likely enough that Mr. Luker purposely misled you, by previous
arrangement between them."
"Do you understand the proceedings at the public-house?" I asked. "The
man dressed like a mechanic was acting of course in the employment
of the Indians. But I am as much puzzled to account for his sudden
assumption of drunkenness as Gooseberry himself."
"I think I can give a guess at what it means, sir," said the Sergeant.
"If you will reflect, you will see that the man must have had some
pretty strict instructions from the Indians. They were far too
noticeable themselves to risk being seen at the bank, or in the
public-house--they were obliged to trust everything to their
deputy. Very good. Their deputy hears a certain number named in the
public-house, as the number of the room which the sailor is to have for
the night--that being also the room (unless our notion is all
wrong) which the Diamond is to have for the night, too. Under those
circumstances, the Indians, you may rely on it, would insist on having a
description of the room--of its position in the house, of its capability
of being approached from the outside, and so on. What was the man to do,
with such orders as these? Just what he did! He ran up-stairs to get
a look at the room, before the sailor was taken into it. He was found
there, making his observations--and he shammed drunk, as the easiest way
of getting out of the difficulty. That's how I read the riddle. After he
was turned out of the public-house, he probably went with his report to
the place where his employers were waiting for him. And his employers,
no doubt, sent him back to make sure that the sailor was really settled
at the public-house till the next morning. As for what happened at 'The
Wheel of Fortune,' after the boy left--we ought to have discovered that
last night. It's eleven in the morning, now. We must hope for the best,
and find out what we can."
In a quarter of an hour more, the cab stopped in Shore Lane, and
Gooseberry opened the door for us to get out.
"All right?" asked the Sergeant.
"All right," answered the boy.
The moment we entered "The Wheel of Fortune" it was plain even to my
inexperienced eyes that there was something wrong in the house.
The only person behind the counter at which the liquors were served, was
a bewildered servant girl, perfectly ignorant of the business. One or
two customers, waiting for their morning drink, were tapping impatiently
on the counter with their money. The bar-maid appeared from the inner
regions of the parlour, excited and preoccupied. She answered Sergeant
Cuff's inquiry for the landlord, by telling him sharply that her master
was up-stairs, and was not to be bothered by anybody.
"Come along with me, sir," said Sergeant Cuff, coolly leading the way
up-stairs, and beckoning to the boy to follow him.
The barmaid called to her master, and warned him that strangers
were intruding themselves into the house. On the first floor we were
encountered by the Landlord, hurrying down, in a highly irritated state,
to see what was the matter.
"Who the devil are you? and what do you want here?" he asked.
"Keep your temper," said the Sergeant, quietly. "I'll tell you who I am
to begin with. I am Sergeant Cuff."
The illustrious name instantly produced its effect. The angry landlord
threw open the door of a sitting-room, and asked the Sergeant's pardon.
"I am annoyed and out of sorts, sir--that's the truth," he said.
"Something unpleasant has happened in the house this morning. A man in
my way of business has a deal to upset his temper, Sergeant Cuff."
"Not a doubt of it," said the Sergeant. "I'll come at once, if you will
allow me, to what brings us here. This gentleman and I want to trouble
you with a few inquiries, on a matter of some interest to both of us."
"Relating to what, sir?" asked the landlord.
"Relating to a dark man, dressed like a sailor, who slept here last
night."
"Good God! that's the man who is upsetting the whole house at this
moment!" exclaimed the landlord. "Do you, or does this gentleman know
anything about him?"
"We can't be certain till we see him," answered the Sergeant.
"See him?" echoed the landlord. "That's the one thing that nobody has
been able to do since seven o'clock this morning. That was the time when
he left word, last night, that he was to be called. He WAS called--and
there was no getting an answer from him, and no opening his door to see
what was the matter. They tried again at eight, and they tried again
at nine. No use! There was the door still locked--and not a sound to be
heard in the room! I have been out this morning--and I only got back a
quarter of an hour ago. I have hammered at the door myself--and all to
no purpose. The potboy has gone to fetch a carpenter. If you can wait
a few minutes, gentlemen, we will have the door opened, and see what it
means."
"Was the man drunk last night?" asked Sergeant Cuff.
"Perfectly sober, sir--or I would never have let him sleep in my house."
"Did he pay for his bed beforehand?"
"No."
"Could he leave the room in any way, without going out by the door?"
"The room is a garret," said the landlord. "But there's a trap-door in
the ceiling, leading out on to the roof--and a little lower down the
street, there's an empty house under repair. Do you think, Sergeant, the
blackguard has got off in that way, without paying?"
"A sailor," said Sergeant Cuff, "might have done it--early in the
morning, before the street was astir. He would be used to climbing, and
his head wouldn't fail him on the roofs of the houses."
As he spoke, the arrival of the carpenter was announced. We all went
up-stairs, at once, to the top story. I noticed that the Sergeant was
unusually grave, even for him. It also struck me as odd that he told the
boy (after having previously encouraged him to follow us), to wait in
the room below till we came down again.
The carpenter's hammer and chisel disposed of the resistance of the door
in a few minutes. But some article of furniture had been placed against
it inside, as a barricade. By pushing at the door, we thrust this
obstacle aside, and so got admission to the room. The landlord entered
first; the Sergeant second; and I third. The other persons present
followed us.
We all looked towards the bed, and all started.
The man had not left the room. He lay, dressed, on the bed--with a white
pillow over his face, which completely hid it from view.
"What does that mean?" said the landlord, pointing to the pillow.
Sergeant Cuff led the way to the bed, without answering, and removed the
pillow.
The man's swarthy face was placid and still; his black hair and beard
were slightly, very slightly, discomposed. His eyes stared wide-open,
glassy and vacant, at the ceiling. The filmy look and the fixed
expression of them horrified me. I turned away, and went to the open
window. The rest of them remained, where Sergeant Cuff remained, at the
bed.
"He's in a fit!" I heard the landlord say.
"He's dead," the Sergeant answered. "Send for the nearest doctor, and
send for the police."
The waiter was despatched on both errands. Some strange fascination
seemed to hold Sergeant Cuff to the bed. Some strange curiosity seemed
to keep the rest of them waiting, to see what the Sergeant would do
next.
I turned again to the window. The moment afterwards, I felt a soft pull
at my coat-tails, and a small voice whispered, "Look here, sir!"
Gooseberry had followed us into the room. His loose eyes rolled
frightfully--not in terror, but in exultation. He had made a
detective-discovery on his own account. "Look here, sir," he
repeated--and led me to a table in the corner of the room.
On the table stood a little wooden box, open, and empty. On one side of
the box lay some jewellers' cotton. On the other side, was a torn
sheet of white paper, with a seal on it, partly destroyed, and with
an inscription in writing, which was still perfectly legible. The
inscription was in these words:
"Deposited with Messrs. Bushe, Lysaught, and Bushe, by Mr. Septimus
Luker, of Middlesex Place, Lambeth, a small wooden box, sealed up in
this envelope, and containing a valuable of great price. The box, when
claimed, to be only given up by Messrs. Bushe and Co. on the personal
application of Mr. Luker."
Those lines removed all further doubt, on one point at least. The sailor
had been in possession of the Moonstone, when he had left the bank on
the previous day.
I felt another pull at my coat-tails. Gooseberry had not done with me
yet.
"Robbery!" whispered the boy, pointing, in high delight, to the empty
box.
"You were told to wait down-stairs," I said. "Go away!"
"And Murder!" added Gooseberry, pointing, with a keener relish still, to
the man on the bed.
There was something so hideous in the boy's enjoyment of the horror of
the scene, that I took him by the two shoulders and put him out of the
room.
At the moment when I crossed the threshold of the door, I heard Sergeant
Cuff's voice, asking where I was. He met me, as I returned into the
room, and forced me to go back with him to the bedside.
"Mr. Blake!" he said. "Look at the man's face. It is a face
disguised--and here's a proof of it!"
He traced with his finger a thin line of livid white, running backward
from the dead man's forehead, between the swarthy complexion, and the
slightly-disturbed black hair. "Let's see what is under this," said the
Sergeant, suddenly seizing the black hair, with a firm grip of his hand.
My nerves were not strong enough to bear it. I turned away again from
the bed.
The first sight that met my eyes, at the other end of the room, was
the irrepressible Gooseberry, perched on a chair, and looking with
breathless interest, over the heads of his elders, at the Sergeant's
proceedings.
"He's pulling off his wig!" whispered Gooseberry, compassionating my
position, as the only person in the room who could see nothing.
There was a pause--and then a cry of astonishment among the people round
the bed.
"He's pulled off his beard!" cried Gooseberry.
There was another pause--Sergeant Cuff asked for something. The landlord
went to the wash-hand-stand, and returned to the bed with a basin of
water and a towel.
Gooseberry danced with excitement on the chair. "Come up here, along
with me, sir! He's washing off his complexion now!"
The Sergeant suddenly burst his way through the people about him,
and came, with horror in his face, straight to the place where I was
standing.
"Come back to the bed, sir!" he began. He looked at me closer, and
checked himself "No!" he resumed. "Open the sealed letter first--the
letter I gave you this morning."
I opened the letter.
"Read the name, Mr. Blake, that I have written inside."
I read the name that he had written. It was GODFREY ABLEWHITE.
"Now," said the Sergeant, "come with me, and look at the man on the
bed."
I went with him, and looked at the man on the bed.
GODFREY ABLEWHITE!