CHAPTER XVIII
Going down to the front door, I met the Sergeant on the steps.
It went against the grain with me, after what had passed between us, toshow him that I felt any sort of interest in his proceedings. In spiteof myself, however, I felt an interest that there was no resisting. Mysense of dignity sank from under me, and out came the words: "What newsfrom Frizinghall?"
"I have seen the Indians," answered Sergeant Cuff. "And I have found outwhat Rosanna bought privately in the town, on Thursday last. The Indianswill be set free on Wednesday in next week. There isn't a doubt on mymind, and there isn't a doubt on Mr. Murthwaite's mind, that they cameto this place to steal the Moonstone. Their calculations were all thrownout, of course, by what happened in the house on Wednesday night; andthey have no more to do with the actual loss of the jewel than youhave. But I can tell you one thing, Mr. Betteredge--if WE don't find theMoonstone, THEY will. You have not heard the last of the three jugglersyet."
Mr. Franklin came back from his walk as the Sergeant said thosestartling words. Governing his curiosity better than I had governedmine, he passed us without a word, and went on into the house.
As for me, having already dropped my dignity, I determined to have thewhole benefit of the sacrifice. "So much for the Indians," I said. "Whatabout Rosanna next?"
Sergeant Cuff shook his head.
"The mystery in that quarter is thicker than ever," he said. "I havetraced her to a shop at Frizinghall, kept by a linen draper namedMaltby. She bought nothing whatever at any of the other drapers' shops,or at any milliners' or tailors' shops; and she bought nothing atMaltby's but a piece of long cloth. She was very particular inchoosing a certain quality. As to quantity, she bought enough to make anightgown."
"Whose nightgown?" I asked.
"Her own, to be sure. Between twelve and three, on the Thursday morning,she must have slipped down to your young lady's room, to settle thehiding of the Moonstone while all the rest of you were in bed. In goingback to her own room, her nightgown must have brushed the wet painton the door. She couldn't wash out the stain; and she couldn't safelydestroy the night-gown without first providing another like it, to makethe inventory of her linen complete."
"What proves that it was Rosanna's nightgown?" I objected.
"The material she bought for making the substitute dress," answered theSergeant. "If it had been Miss Verinder's nightgown, she would have hadto buy lace, and frilling, and Lord knows what besides; and she wouldn'thave had time to make it in one night. Plain long cloth means a plainservant's nightgown. No, no, Mr. Betteredge--all that is clear enough.The pinch of the question is--why, after having provided the substitutedress, does she hide the smeared nightgown, instead of destroying it?If the girl won't speak out, there is only one way of settling thedifficulty. The hiding-place at the Shivering Sand must be searched--andthe true state of the case will be discovered there."
"How are you to find the place?" I inquired.
"I am sorry to disappoint you," said the Sergeant--"but that's a secretwhich I mean to keep to myself."
(Not to irritate your curiosity, as he irritated mine, I may hereinform you that he had come back from Frizinghall provided with asearch-warrant. His experience in such matters told him that Rosanna wasin all probability carrying about her a memorandum of the hiding-place,to guide her, in case she returned to it, under changed circumstancesand after a lapse of time. Possessed of this memorandum, the Sergeantwould be furnished with all that he could desire.)
"Now, Mr. Betteredge," he went on, "suppose we drop speculation, and getto business. I told Joyce to have an eye on Rosanna. Where is Joyce?"
Joyce was the Frizinghall policeman, who had been left by SuperintendentSeegrave at Sergeant Cuff's disposal. The clock struck two, as he putthe question; and, punctual to the moment, the carriage came round totake Miss Rachel to her aunt's.
"One thing at a time," said the Sergeant, stopping me as I was about tosend in search of Joyce. "I must attend to Miss Verinder first."
As the rain was still threatening, it was the close carriage thathad been appointed to take Miss Rachel to Frizinghall. Sergeant Cuffbeckoned Samuel to come down to him from the rumble behind.
"You will see a friend of mine waiting among the trees, on this sideof the lodge gate," he said. "My friend, without stopping the carriage,will get up into the rumble with you. You have nothing to do but to holdyour tongue, and shut your eyes. Otherwise, you will get into trouble."
With that advice, he sent the footman back to his place. What Samuelthought I don't know. It was plain, to my mind, that Miss Rachel was tobe privately kept in view from the time when she left our house--ifshe did leave it. A watch set on my young lady! A spy behind her in therumble of her mother's carriage! I could have cut my own tongue out forhaving forgotten myself so far as to speak to Sergeant Cuff.
The first person to come out of the house was my lady. She stood aside,on the top step, posting herself there to see what happened. Not a worddid she say, either to the Sergeant or to me. With her lips closed, andher arms folded in the light garden cloak which she had wrapped roundher on coming into the air, there she stood, as still as a statue,waiting for her daughter to appear.
In a minute more, Miss Rachel came downstairs--very nicely dressed insome soft yellow stuff, that set off her dark complexion, and clippedher tight (in the form of a jacket) round the waist. She had a smartlittle straw hat on her head, with a white veil twisted round it. Shehad primrose-coloured gloves that fitted her hands like a second skin.Her beautiful black hair looked as smooth as satin under her hat. Herlittle ears were like rosy shells--they had a pearl dangling from eachof them. She came swiftly out to us, as straight as a lily on its stem,and as lithe and supple in every movement she made as a young cat.Nothing that I could discover was altered in her pretty face, but hereyes and her lips. Her eyes were brighter and fiercer than I liked tosee; and her lips had so completely lost their colour and their smilethat I hardly knew them again. She kissed her mother in a hasty andsudden manner on the cheek. She said, "Try to forgive me, mamma"--andthen pulled down her veil over her face so vehemently that she tore it.In another moment she had run down the steps, and had rushed into thecarriage as if it was a hiding-place.
Sergeant Cuff was just as quick on his side. He put Samuel back, andstood before Miss Rachel, with the open carriage-door in his hand, atthe instant when she settled herself in her place.
"What do you want?" says Miss Rachel, from behind her veil.
"I want to say one word to you, miss," answered the Sergeant, "beforeyou go. I can't presume to stop your paying a visit to your aunt. I canonly venture to say that your leaving us, as things are now, puts anobstacle in the way of my recovering your Diamond. Please to understandthat; and now decide for yourself whether you go or stay."
Miss Rachel never even answered him. "Drive on, James!" she called outto the coachman.
Without another word, the Sergeant shut the carriage-door. Just as heclosed it, Mr. Franklin came running down the steps. "Good-bye, Rachel,"he said, holding out his hand.
"Drive on!" cried Miss Rachel, louder than ever, and taking no morenotice of Mr. Franklin than she had taken of Sergeant Cuff.
Mr. Franklin stepped back thunderstruck, as well he might be. Thecoachman, not knowing what to do, looked towards my lady, still standingimmovable on the top step. My lady, with anger and sorrow and shame allstruggling together in her face, made him a sign to start the horses,and then turned back hastily into the house. Mr. Franklin, recoveringthe use of his speech, called after her, as the carriage drove off,"Aunt! you were quite right. Accept my thanks for all your kindness--andlet me go."
My lady turned as though to speak to him. Then, as if distrustingherself, waved her hand kindly. "Let me see you, before you leave us,Franklin," she said, in a broken voice--and went on to her own room.
"Do me a last favour, Betteredge," says Mr. Franklin, turning to me,with the tears in his eyes. "Get me away to the train as soon as
youcan!"
He too went his way into the house. For the moment, Miss Rachel hadcompletely unmanned him. Judge from that, how fond he must have been ofher!
Sergeant Cuff and I were left face to face, at the bottom of thesteps. The Sergeant stood with his face set towards a gap in the trees,commanding a view of one of the windings of the drive which led from thehouse. He had his hands in his pockets, and he was softly whistling "TheLast Rose of Summer" to himself.
"There's a time for everything," I said savagely enough. "This isn't atime for whistling."
At that moment, the carriage appeared in the distance, through the gap,on its way to the lodge-gate. There was another man, besides Samuel,plainly visible in the rumble behind.
"All right!" said the Sergeant to himself. He turned round to me. "It'sno time for whistling, Mr. Betteredge, as you say. It's time to takethis business in hand, now, without sparing anybody. We'll begin withRosanna Spearman. Where is Joyce?"
We both called for Joyce, and received no answer. I sent one of thestable-boys to look for him.
"You heard what I said to Miss Verinder?" remarked the Sergeant, whilewe were waiting. "And you saw how she received it? I tell her plainlythat her leaving us will be an obstacle in the way of my recovering herDiamond--and she leaves, in the face of that statement! Your younglady has got a travelling companion in her mother's carriage, Mr.Betteredge--and the name of it is, the Moonstone."
I said nothing. I only held on like death to my belief in Miss Rachel.
The stable-boy came back, followed--very unwillingly, as it appeared tome--by Joyce.
"Where is Rosanna Spearman?" asked Sergeant Cuff.
"I can't account for it, sir," Joyce began; "and I am very sorry. Butsomehow or other----"
"Before I went to Frizinghall," said the Sergeant, cutting him short, "Itold you to keep your eyes on Rosanna Spearman, without allowing herto discover that she was being watched. Do you mean to tell me that youhave let her give you the slip?"
"I am afraid, sir," says Joyce, beginning to tremble, "that I wasperhaps a little TOO careful not to let her discover me. There are sucha many passages in the lower parts of this house----"
"How long is it since you missed her?"
"Nigh on an hour since, sir."
"You can go back to your regular business at Frizinghall," said theSergeant, speaking just as composedly as ever, in his usual quiet anddreary way. "I don't think your talents are at all in our line, Mr.Joyce. Your present form of employment is a trifle beyond you. Goodmorning."
The man slunk off. I find it very difficult to describe how I wasaffected by the discovery that Rosanna Spearman was missing. I seemedto be in fifty different minds about it, all at the same time. In thatstate, I stood staring at Sergeant Cuff--and my powers of language quitefailed me.
"No, Mr. Betteredge," said the Sergeant, as if he had discovered theuppermost thought in me, and was picking it out to be answered, beforeall the rest. "Your young friend, Rosanna, won't slip through my fingersso easy as you think. As long as I know where Miss Verinder is, Ihave the means at my disposal of tracing Miss Verinder's accomplice. Iprevented them from communicating last night. Very good. They will gettogether at Frizinghall, instead of getting together here. The presentinquiry must be simply shifted (rather sooner than I had anticipated)from this house, to the house at which Miss Verinder is visiting. In themeantime, I'm afraid I must trouble you to call the servants togetheragain."
I went round with him to the servants' hall. It is very disgraceful,but it is not the less true, that I had another attack of thedetective-fever, when he said those last words. I forgot that I hatedSergeant Cuff. I seized him confidentially by the arm. I said, "Forgoodness' sake, tell us what you are going to do with the servants now?"
The great Cuff stood stock still, and addressed himself in a kind ofmelancholy rapture to the empty air.
"If this man," said the Sergeant (apparently meaning me), "onlyunderstood the growing of roses he would be the most completely perfectcharacter on the face of creation!" After that strong expression offeeling, he sighed, and put his arm through mine. "This is how itstands," he said, dropping down again to business. "Rosanna has done oneof two things. She has either gone direct to Frizinghall (before Ican get there), or she has gone first to visit her hiding-place at theShivering Sand. The first thing to find out is, which of the servantssaw the last of her before she left the house."
On instituting this inquiry, it turned out that the last person who hadset eyes on Rosanna was Nancy, the kitchenmaid.
Nancy had seen her slip out with a letter in her hand, and stop thebutcher's man who had just been delivering some meat at the back door.Nancy had heard her ask the man to post the letter when he got back toFrizinghall. The man had looked at the address, and had said it was aroundabout way of delivering a letter directed to Cobb's Hole, topost it at Frizinghall--and that, moreover, on a Saturday, which wouldprevent the letter from getting to its destination until Monday morning,Rosanna had answered that the delivery of the letter being delayed tillMonday was of no importance. The only thing she wished to be sure of wasthat the man would do what she told him. The man had promised to doit, and had driven away. Nancy had been called back to her work in thekitchen. And no other person had seen anything afterwards of RosannaSpearman.
"Well?" I asked, when we were alone again.
"Well," says the Sergeant. "I must go to Frizinghall."
"About the letter, sir?"
"Yes. The memorandum of the hiding-place is in that letter. I must seethe address at the post-office. If it is the address I suspect, I shallpay our friend, Mrs. Yolland, another visit on Monday next."
I went with the Sergeant to order the pony-chaise. In the stable-yard wegot a new light thrown on the missing girl.