It went against the grain with me, after what had passed between us, to show him that I felt any sort of interest in his proceedings2. In spite of myself, however, I felt an interest that there was no resisting. My sense of dignity sank from under me, and out came the words: “What news from Frizinghall?”
“I have seen the Indians,” answered Sergeant Cuff3. “And I have found out what Rosanna bought privately4 in the town, on Thursday last. The Indians will be set free on Wednesday in next week. There isn’t a doubt on my mind, and there isn’t a doubt on Mr. Murthwaite’s mind, that they came to this place to steal the Moonstone. Their calculations were all thrown out, of course, by what happened in the house on Wednesday night; and they have no more to do with the actual loss of the jewel than you have. But I can tell you one thing, Mr. Betteredge—if we don’t find the Moonstone, they will. You have not heard the last of the three jugglers yet.”
Mr. Franklin came back from his walk as the Sergeant said those startling words. Governing his curiosity better than I had governed mine, he passed us without a word, and went on into the house.
As for me, having already dropped my dignity, I determined5 to have the whole benefit of the sacrifice. “So much for the Indians,” I said. “What about Rosanna next?”
Sergeant Cuff shook his head.
“The mystery in that quarter is thicker than ever,” he said. “I have traced her to a shop at Frizinghall, kept by a linen6 draper named Maltby. She bought nothing whatever at any of the other drapers’ shops, or at any milliners’ or tailors’ shops; and she bought nothing at Maltby’s but a piece of long cloth. She was very particular in choosing a certain quality. As to quantity, she bought enough to make a nightgown.”
“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 the hiding of the Moonstone while all the rest of you were in bed. In going back to her own room, her nightgown must have brushed the wet paint on the door. She couldn’t wash out the stain; and she couldn’t safely destroy the night-gown without first providing another like it, to make the inventory7 of her linen complete.”
“What proves that it was Rosanna’s nightgown?” I objected.
“The material she bought for making the substitute dress,” answered the Sergeant. “If it had been Miss Verinder’s nightgown, she would have had to buy lace, and frilling, and Lord knows what besides; and she wouldn’t have had time to make it in one night. Plain long cloth means a plain servant’s nightgown. No, no, Mr. Betteredge—all that is clear enough. The pinch of the question is—why, after having provided the substitute dress, does she hide the smeared8 nightgown, instead of destroying it? If the girl won’t speak out, there is only one way of settling the difficulty. The hiding-place at the Shivering Sand must be searched—and the 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 secret which I mean to keep to myself.”
(Not to irritate your curiosity, as he irritated mine, I may here inform you that he had come back from Frizinghall provided with a search-warrant. His experience in such matters told him that Rosanna was in all probability carrying about her a memorandum9 of the hiding-place, to guide her, in case she returned to it, under changed circumstances and after a lapse10 of time. Possessed11 of this memorandum, the Sergeant would be furnished with all that he could desire.)
“Now, Mr. Betteredge,” he went on, “suppose we drop speculation12, and get to business. I told Joyce to have an eye on Rosanna. Where is Joyce?”
Joyce was the Frizinghall policeman, who had been left by Superintendent13 Seegrave at Sergeant Cuff’s disposal. The clock struck two, as he put the question; and, punctual to the moment, the carriage came round to take Miss Rachel to her aunt’s.
“One thing at a time,” said the Sergeant, stopping me as I was about to send in search of Joyce. “I must attend to Miss Verinder first.”
As the rain was still threatening, it was the close carriage that had been appointed to take Miss Rachel to Frizinghall. Sergeant Cuff beckoned14 Samuel to come down to him from the rumble15 behind.
“You will see a friend of mine waiting among the trees, on this side of the lodge16 gate,” he said. “My friend, without stopping the carriage, will get up into the rumble with you. You have nothing to do but to hold your tongue, and shut your eyes. Otherwise, you will get into trouble.”
With that advice, he sent the footman back to his place. What Samuel thought I don’t know. It was plain, to my mind, that Miss Rachel was to be privately kept in view from the time when she left our house—if she did leave it. A watch set on my young lady! A spy behind her in the rumble of her mother’s carriage! I could have cut my own tongue out for having 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 word did she say, either to the Sergeant or to me. With her lips closed, and her arms folded in the light garden cloak which she had wrapped round her 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 in some soft yellow stuff, that set off her dark complexion17, and clipped her tight (in the form of a jacket) round the waist. She had a smart little straw hat on her head, with a white veil twisted round it. She had primrose-coloured gloves that fitted her hands like a second skin. Her beautiful black hair looked as smooth as satin under her hat. Her little ears were like rosy18 shells—they had a pearl dangling19 from each of them. She came swiftly out to us, as straight as a lily on its stem, and as lithe20 and supple21 in every movement she made as a young cat. Nothing that I could discover was altered in her pretty face, but her eyes and her lips. Her eyes were brighter and fiercer than I liked to see; and her lips had so completely lost their colour and their smile that I hardly knew them again. She kissed her mother in a hasty and sudden manner on the cheek. She said, “Try to forgive me, mamma”—and then pulled down her veil over her face so vehemently22 that she tore it. In another moment she had run down the steps, and had rushed into the carriage as if it was a hiding-place.
Sergeant Cuff was just as quick on his side. He put Samuel back, and stood before Miss Rachel, with the open carriage-door in his hand, at the 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, “before you go. I can’t presume to stop your paying a visit to your aunt. I can only venture to say that your leaving us, as things are now, puts an obstacle in the way of my recovering your Diamond. Please to understand that; and now decide for yourself whether you go or stay.”
Miss Rachel never even answered him. “Drive on, James!” she called out to the coachman.
Without another word, the Sergeant shut the carriage-door. Just as he closed 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 more notice of Mr. Franklin than she had taken of Sergeant Cuff.
Mr. Franklin stepped back thunderstruck, as well he might be. The coachman, not knowing what to do, looked towards my lady, still standing23 immovable on the top step. My lady, with anger and sorrow and shame all struggling together in her face, made him a sign to start the horses, and then turned back hastily into the house. Mr. Franklin, recovering the use of his speech, called after her, as the carriage drove off, “Aunt! you were quite right. Accept my thanks for all your kindness—and let me go.”
My lady turned as though to speak to him. Then, as if distrusting herself, waved her hand kindly24. “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 you can!”
He too went his way into the house. For the moment, Miss Rachel had completely unmanned him. Judge from that, how fond he must have been of her!
Sergeant Cuff and I were left face to face, at the bottom of the steps. The Sergeant stood with his face set towards a gap in the trees, commanding a view of one of the windings25 of the drive which led from the house. He had his hands in his pockets, and he was softly whistling “The Last Rose of Summer” to himself.
“There’s a time for everything,” I said savagely26 enough. “This isn’t a time 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’s no time for whistling, Mr. Betteredge, as you say. It’s time to take this business in hand, now, without sparing anybody. We’ll begin with Rosanna Spearman. Where is Joyce?”
We both called for Joyce, and received no answer. I sent one of the stable-boys to look for him.
“You heard what I said to Miss Verinder?” remarked the Sergeant, while we were waiting. “And you saw how she received it? I tell her plainly that her leaving us will be an obstacle in the way of my recovering her Diamond—and she leaves, in the face of that statement! Your young lady 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 unwillingly27, as it appeared to me—by Joyce.
“Where is Rosanna Spearman?” asked Sergeant Cuff.
“I can’t account for it, sir,” Joyce began; “and I am very sorry. But somehow or other——”
“Before I went to Frizinghall,” said the Sergeant, cutting him short, “I told you to keep your eyes on Rosanna Spearman, without allowing her to discover that she was being watched. Do you mean to tell me that you have let her give you the slip?”
“I am afraid, sir,” says Joyce, beginning to tremble, “that I was perhaps a little too careful not to let her discover me. There are such a 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 the Sergeant, speaking just as composedly as ever, in his usual quiet and dreary28 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. Good morning.”
The man slunk off. I find it very difficult to describe how I was affected29 by the discovery that Rosanna Spearman was missing. I seemed to be in fifty different minds about it, all at the same time. In that state, I stood staring at Sergeant Cuff—and my powers of language quite failed me.
“No, Mr. Betteredge,” said the Sergeant, as if he had discovered the uppermost thought in me, and was picking it out to be answered, before all the rest. “Your young friend, Rosanna, won’t slip through my fingers so easy as you think. As long as I know where Miss Verinder is, I have the means at my disposal of tracing Miss Verinder’s accomplice30. I prevented them from communicating last night. Very good. They will get together at Frizinghall, instead of getting together here. The present inquiry31 must be simply shifted (rather sooner than I had anticipated) from this house, to the house at which Miss Verinder is visiting. In the meantime, I’m afraid I must trouble you to call the servants together again.”
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 the detective-fever, when he said those last words. I forgot that I hated Sergeant Cuff. I seized him confidentially32 by the arm. I said, “For goodness’ 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 of melancholy33 rapture34 to the empty air.
“If this man,” said the Sergeant (apparently meaning me), “only understood the growing of roses he would be the most completely perfect character on the face of creation!” After that strong expression of feeling, he sighed, and put his arm through mine. “This is how it stands,” he said, dropping down again to business. “Rosanna has done one of two things. She has either gone direct to Frizinghall (before I can get there), or she has gone first to visit her hiding-place at the Shivering Sand. The first thing to find out is, which of the servants saw the last of her before she left the house.”
On instituting this inquiry, it turned out that the last person who had set eyes on Rosanna was Nancy, the kitchenmaid.
Nancy had seen her slip out with a letter in her hand, and stop the butcher’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 to Frizinghall. The man had looked at the address, and had said it was a roundabout way of delivering a letter directed to Cobb’s Hole, to post it at Frizinghall—and that, moreover, on a Saturday, which would prevent the letter from getting to its destination until Monday morning, Rosanna had answered that the delivery of the letter being delayed till Monday was of no importance. The only thing she wished to be sure of was that the man would do what she told him. The man had promised to do it, and had driven away. Nancy had been called back to her work in the kitchen. And no other person had seen anything afterwards of Rosanna Spearman.
“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 see the address at the post-office. If it is the address I suspect, I shall pay our friend, Mrs. Yolland, another visit on Monday next.”
I went with the Sergeant to order the pony-chaise. In the stable-yard we got a new light thrown on the missing girl.
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1
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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7
inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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8
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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11
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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12
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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14
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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16
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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17
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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31
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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