The Victorian Mystery Megapack: 27 Classic Mystery Tales

by Charles Dickens

  “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 pass
enger 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 tempe
r,” 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.”