The Victorian Mystery Megapack: 27 Classic Mystery Tales

by Charles Dickens

  “Ah, but she has though!” says Mrs. Yolland. “She came in here, as I told you, this evening; and, after sitting and talking a little with my girl Lucy and me she asked to go up-stairs by herself, into Lucy’s room. It’s the only room in our place where there’s pen and ink. ‘I want to write a letter to a friend,’ she says ‘and I can’t do it for the prying and peeping of the servants up at the house.’ Who the letter was written to I can’t tell you: it must have been a mortal long one, judging by the time she stopped up-stairs over it. I offered her a postage-stamp when she came down. She hadn’t got the letter in her hand, and she didn’t accept the stamp. A little close, poor soul (as you know), about herself and her doings. But a friend she has got somewhere, I can tell you; and to that friend you may depend upon it, she will go.”

  “Soon?” asked the Sergeant.

  “As soon as she can.” says Mrs. Yolland.

  Here I stepped in again from the door. As chief of my lady’s establishment, I couldn’t allow this sort of loose talk about a servant of ours going, or not going, to proceed any longer in my presence, without noticing it.

  “You must be mistaken about Rosanna Spearman,” I said. “If she had been going to leave her present situation, she would have mentioned it, in the first place, to me.”

  “Mistaken?” cries Mrs. Yolland. “Why, only an hour ago she bought some things she wanted for travelling—of my own self, Mr. Betteredge, in this very room. And that reminds me,” says the wearisome woman, suddenly beginning to feel in her pocket, “of something I have got it on my mind to say about Rosanna and her money. Are you either of you likely to see her when you go back to the house?”

  “I’ll take a message to the poor thing, with the greatest pleasure,” answered Sergeant Cuff, before I could put in a word edgewise.

  Mrs. Yolland produced out of her pocket, a few shillings and sixpences, and counted them out with a most particular and exasperating carefulness in the palm of her hand. She offered the money to the Sergeant, looking mighty loth to part with it all the while.

  “Might I ask you to give this back to Rosanna, with my love and respects?” says Mrs. Yolland. “She insisted on paying me for the one or two things she took a fancy to this evening—and money’s welcome enough in our house, I don’t deny it. Still, I’m not easy in my mind about taking the poor thing’s little savings. And to tell you the truth, I don’t think my man would like to hear that I had taken Rosanna Spearman’s money, when he comes back tomorrow morning from his work. Please say she’s heartily welcome to the things she bought of me—as a gift. And don’t leave the money on the table,” says Mrs. Yolland, putting it down suddenly before the Sergeant, as if it burnt her fingers—“don’t, there’s a good man! For times are hard, and flesh is weak; and I might feel tempted to put it back in my pocket again.”

  “Come along!” I said, “I can’t wait any longer: I must go back to the house.”

  “I’ll follow you directly,” says Sergeant Cuff.

  For the second time, I went to the door; and, for the second time, try as I might, I couldn’t cross the threshold.

  “It’s a delicate matter, ma’am,” I heard the Sergeant say, “giving money back. You charged her cheap for the things, I’m sure?”

  “Cheap!” says Mrs. Yolland. “Come and judge for yourself.”

  She took up the candle and led the Sergeant to a corner of the kitchen. For the life of me, I couldn’t help following them. Shaken down in the corner was a heap of odds and ends (mostly old metal), which the fisherman had picked up at different times from wrecked ships, and which he hadn’t found a market for yet, to his own mind. Mrs. Yolland dived into this rubbish, and brought up an old japanned tin case, with a cover to it, and a hasp to hang it up by—the sort of thing they use, on board ship, for keeping their maps and charts, and such-like, from the wet.

  “There!” says she. “When Rosanna came in this evening, she bought the fellow to that. ‘It will just do,’ she says, ‘to put my cuffs and collars in, and keep them from being crumpled in my box.’ One and ninepence, Mr. Cuff. As I live by bread, not a halfpenny more!”

  “Dirt cheap!” says the Sergeant, with a heavy sigh.

  He weighed the case in his hand. I thought I heard a note or two of “The Last Rose of Summer” as he looked at it. There was no doubt now! He had made another discovery to the prejudice of Rosanna Spearman, in the place of all others where I thought her character was safest, and all through me! I leave you to imagine what I felt, and how sincerely I repented having been the medium of introduction between Mrs. Yolland and Sergeant Cuff.

  “That will do,” I said. “We really must go.”

  Without paying the least attention to me, Mrs. Yolland took another dive into the rubbish, and came up out of it, this time, with a dog-chain.

  “Weigh it in your hand, sir,” she said to the Sergeant. “We had three of these; and Rosanna has taken two of them. ‘What can you want, my dear, with a couple of dog’s chains?’ says I. ‘If I join them together they’ll do round my box nicely,’ says she. ‘Rope’s cheapest,’ says I. ‘Chain’s surest,’ says she. ‘Who ever heard of a box corded with chain,’ says I. ‘Oh, Mrs. Yolland, don’t make objections!’ says she; ‘let me have my chains!’ A strange girl, Mr. Cuff—good as gold, and kinder than a sister to my Lucy—but always a little strange. There! I humoured her. Three and sixpence. On the word of an honest woman, three and sixpence, Mr. Cuff!”

  “Each?” says the Sergeant.

  “Both together!” says Mrs. Yolland. “Three and sixpence for the two.”

  “Given away, ma’am,” says the Sergeant, shaking his head. “Clean given away!”

  “There’s the money,” says Mrs. Yolland, getting back sideways to the little heap of silver on the table, as if it drew her in spite of herself. “The tin case and the dog chains were all she bought, and all she took away. One and ninepence and three and sixpence—total, five and three. With my love and respects—and I can’t find it in my conscience to take a poor girl’s savings, when she may want them herself.”

  “I can’t find it in my conscience, ma’am, to give the money back,” says Sergeant Cuff. “You have as good as made her a present of the things—you have indeed.”

  “Is that your sincere opinion, sir?” says Mrs. Yolland brightening up wonderfully.

  “There can’t be a doubt about it,” answered the Sergeant. “Ask Mr. Betteredge.”

  It was no use asking me. All they got out of me was, “Good-night.”

  “Bother the money!” says Mrs. Yolland. With these words, she appeared to lose all command over herself; and, making a sudden snatch at the heap of silver, put it back, holus-bolus, in her pocket. “It upsets one’s temper, it does, to see it lying there, and nobody taking it,” cries this unreasonable woman, sitting down with a thump, and looking at Sergeant Cuff, as much as to say, “It’s in my pocket again now—get it out if you can!”

  This time, I not only went to the door, but went fairly out on the road back. Explain it how you may, I felt as if one or both of them had mortally offended me. Before I had taken three steps down the village, I heard the Sergeant behind me.

  “Thank you for your introduction, Mr. Betteredge,” he said. “I am indebted to the fisherman’s wife for an entirely new sensation. Mrs. Yolland has puzzled me.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to have given him a sharp answer, for no better reason than this—that I was out of temper with him, because I was out of temper with myself. But when he owned to being puzzled, a comforting doubt crossed my mind whether any great harm had been done after all. I waited in discreet silence to hear more.

  “Yes,” says the Sergeant, as if he was actually reading my thoughts in the dark. “Instead of putting me on the scent, it may console you to know, Mr. Betteredge (with your interest in Rosanna), that you have been the means of throwing me off. What the girl has done, tonight, is clear enough, of course. She has joined the two chains, and has fastened them to the hasp in the tin
case. She has sunk the case, in the water or in the quicksand. She has made the loose end of the chain fast to some place under the rocks, known only to herself. And she will leave the case secure at its anchorage till the present proceedings have come to an end; after which she can privately pull it up again out of its hiding-place, at her own leisure and convenience. All perfectly plain, so far. But,” says the Sergeant, with the first tone of impatience in his voice that I had heard yet, “the mystery is—what the devil has she hidden in the tin case?”

  I thought to myself, “The Moonstone!” But I only said to Sergeant Cuff, “Can’t you guess?”

  “It’s not the Diamond,” says the Sergeant. “The whole experience of my life is at fault, if Rosanna Spearman has got the Diamond.”

  On hearing those words, the infernal detective-fever began, I suppose, to burn in me again. At any rate, I forgot myself in the interest of guessing this new riddle. I said rashly, “The stained dress!”

  Sergeant Cuff stopped short in the dark, and laid his hand on my arm.

  “Is anything thrown into that quicksand of yours, ever thrown up on the surface again?” he asked.

  “Never,” I answered. “Light or heavy whatever goes into the Shivering Sand is sucked down, and seen no more.”

  “Does Rosanna Spearman know that?”

  “She knows it as well as I do.”

  “Then,” says the Sergeant, “what on earth has she got to do but to tie up a bit of stone in the stained dress and throw it into the quicksand? There isn’t the shadow of a reason why she should have hidden it—and yet she must have hidden it. Query,” says the Sergeant, walking on again, “is the paint-stained dress a petticoat or a night-gown? or is it something else which there is a reason for preserving at any risk? Mr. Betteredge, if nothing occurs to prevent it, I must go to Frizinghall tomorrow, and discover what she bought in the town, when she privately got the materials for making the substitute dress. It’s a risk to leave the house, as things are now—but it’s a worse risk still to stir another step in this matter in the dark. Excuse my being a little out of temper; I’m degraded in my own estimation—I have let Rosanna Spearman puzzle me.”

  When we got back, the servants were at supper. The first person we saw in the outer yard was the policeman whom Superintendent Seegrave had left at the Sergeant’s disposal. The Sergeant asked if Rosanna Spearman had returned. Yes. When? Nearly an hour since. What had she done? She had gone up-stairs to take off her bonnet and cloak—and she was now at supper quietly with the rest.

  Without making any remark, Sergeant Cuff walked on, sinking lower and lower in his own estimation, to the back of the house. Missing the entrance in the dark, he went on (in spite of my calling to him) till he was stopped by a wicket-gate which led into the garden. When I joined him to bring him back by the right way, I found that he was looking up attentively at one particular window, on the bed-room floor, at the back of the house.

  Looking up, in my turn, I discovered that the object of his contemplation was the window of Miss Rachel’s room, and that lights were passing backwards and forwards there as if something unusual was going on.

  “Isn’t that Miss Verinder’s room?” asked Sergeant Cuff.

  I replied that it was, and invited him to go in with me to supper. The Sergeant remained in his place, and said something about enjoying the smell of the garden at night. I left him to his enjoyment. Just as I was turning in at the door, I heard “The Last Rose of Summer” at the wicket-gate. Sergeant Cuff had made another discovery! And my young lady’s window was at the bottom of it this time!

  The latter reflection took me back again to the Sergeant, with a polite intimation that I could not find it in my heart to leave him by himself. “Is there anything you don’t understand up there?” I added, pointing to Miss Rachel’s window.

  Judging by his voice, Sergeant Cuff had suddenly risen again to the right place in his own estimation. “You are great people for betting in Yorkshire, are you not?” he asked.

  “Well?” I said. “Suppose we are?”

  “If I was a Yorkshireman,” proceeded the Sergeant, taking my arm, “I would lay you an even sovereign, Mr. Betteredge, that your young lady has suddenly resolved to leave the house. If I won on that event, I should offer to lay another sovereign, that the idea has occurred to her within the last hour.” The first of the Sergeant’s guesses startled me. The second mixed itself up somehow in my head with the report we had heard from the policeman, that Rosanna Spearman had returned from the sands with in the last hour. The two together had a curious effect on me as we went in to supper. I shook off Sergeant Cuff’s arm, and, forgetting my manners, pushed by him through the door to make my own inquiries for myself.

  Samuel, the footman, was the first person I met in the passage.

  “Her ladyship is waiting to see you and Sergeant Cuff,” he said, before I could put any questions to him.

  “How long has she been waiting?” asked the Sergeant’s voice behind me.

  “For the last hour, sir.”

  There it was again! Rosanna had come back; Miss Rachel had taken some resolution out of the common; and my lady had been waiting to see the Sergeant—all within the last hour! It was not pleasant to find these very different persons and things linking themselves together in this way. I went on upstairs, without looking at Sergeant Cuff, or speaking to him. My hand took a sudden fit of trembling as I lifted it to knock at my mistress’s door.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised,” whispered the Sergeant over my shoulder, “if a scandal was to burst up in the house tonight. Don’t be alarmed! I have put the muzzle on worse family difficulties than this, in my time.”

  As he said the words, I heard my mistress’s voice calling to us to come in.

  CHAPTER XVI

  We found my lady with no light in the room but the reading-lamp. The shade was screwed down so as to overshadow her face. Instead of looking up at us in her usual straightforward way, she sat close at the table, and kept her eyes fixed obstinately on an open book.

  “Officer,” she said, “is it important to the inquiry you are conducting, to know beforehand if any person now in this house wishes to leave it?”

  “Most important, my lady.”

  “I have to tell you, then, that Miss Verinder proposes going to stay with her aunt, Mrs. Ablewhite, of Frizinghall. She has arranged to leave us the first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Sergeant Cuff looked at me. I made a step forward to speak to my mistress—and, feeling my heart fail me (if I must own it), took a step back again, and said nothing.

  “May I ask your ladyship when Miss Verinder informed you that she was going to her aunt’s?” inquired the Sergeant.

  “About an hour since,” answered my mistress.

  Sergeant Cuff looked at me once more. They say old people’s hearts are not very easily moved. My heart couldn’t have thumped much harder than it did now, if I had been five-and-twenty again!

  “I have no claim, my lady,” says the Sergeant, “to control Miss Verinder’s actions. All I can ask you to do is to put off her departure, if possible, till later in the day. I must go to Frizinghall myself tomorrow morning—and I shall be back by two o’clock, if not before. If Miss Verinder can be kept here till that time, I should wish to say two words to her—unexpectedly—before she goes.”

  My lady directed me to give the coachman her orders, that the carriage was not to come for Miss Rachel until two o’clock. “Have you more to say?” she asked of the Sergeant, when this had been done.

  “Only one thing, your ladyship. If Miss Verinder is surprised at this change in the arrangements, please not to mention Me as being the cause of putting off her journey.”

  My mistress lifted her head suddenly from her book as if she was going to say something—checked herself by a great effort—and, looking back again at the open page, dismissed us with a sign of her hand.

  “That’s a wonderful woman,” said Sergeant Cuff, when we were out in the hall again. �
�But for her self-control, the mystery that puzzles you, Mr. Betteredge, would have been at an end tonight.”

  At those words, the truth rushed at last into my stupid old head. For the moment, I suppose I must have gone clean out of my senses. I seized the Sergeant by the collar of his coat, and pinned him against the wall.

  “Damn you!” I cried out, “there’s something wrong about Miss Rachel—and you have been hiding it from me all this time!”

  Sergeant Cuff looked up at me—flat against the wall—without stirring a hand, or moving a muscle of his melancholy face.

  “Ah,” he said, “you’ve guessed it at last.”

  My hand dropped from his collar, and my head sunk on my breast. Please to remember, as some excuse for my breaking out as I did, that I had served the family for fifty years. Miss Rachel had climbed upon my knees, and pulled my whiskers, many and many a time when she was a child. Miss Rachel, with all her faults, had been, to my mind, the dearest and prettiest and best young mistress that ever an old servant waited on, and loved. I begged Sergeant’s Cuff’s pardon, but I am afraid I did it with watery eyes, and not in a very becoming way.

  “Don’t distress yourself, Mr. Betteredge,” says the Sergeant, with more kindness than I had any right to expect from him. “In my line of life if we were quick at taking offence, we shouldn’t be worth salt to our porridge. If it’s any comfort to you, collar me again. You don’t in the least know how to do it; but I’ll overlook your awkwardness in consideration of your feelings.”

  He curled up at the corners of his lips, and, in his own dreary way, seemed to think he had delivered himself of a very good joke.

  I led him into my own little sitting-room, and closed the door.

  “Tell me the truth, Sergeant,” I said. “What do you suspect? It’s no kindness to hide it from me now.”

  “I don’t suspect,” said Sergeant Cuff. “I know.”

  My unlucky temper began to get the better of me again.

  “Do you mean to tell me, in plain English,” I said, “that Miss Rachel has stolen her own Diamond?”