The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins (10 ebook reader .TXT) 📕

know what the girl was about yesterday, after she was taken ill? You can’t guess? Oh dear me, it’s as plain as that strip of light there, at the end of the trees. At eleven, on Thursday morning, Superintendent Seegrave (who is a mass of human infirmity) points out to all the women servants the smear on the door. Rosanna has her own reasons for suspecting her own things; she takes the first opportunity of getting to her room, finds the paint-stain on her nightgown, or petticoat, or whatnot, shams ill and slips away to the town, gets the materials for making a new petticoat or nightgown, makes it alone in her room on the Thursday night lights a fire (not to destroy it; two of her fellow-servants are prying outside her door, and she knows better than to make a smell of burning, and to have a lot of tinder to get rid of)⁠—lights a fire, I say, to dry and iron the substitute dress after wringing it out, keeps the stained dress hidden (probably on her), and is at this moment occupied in making away with it, in some convenient place, on that lonely bit of beach ahead of us. I have traced her this evening to your fishing village, and to one particular cottage, which we may possibly have to visit, before we go back. She stopped in the cottage for some time, and she came out with (as I believe) something hidden under her cloak. A cloak (on a woman’s back) is an emblem of charity⁠—it covers a multitude of sins. I saw her set off northwards along the coast, after leaving the cottage. Is your seashore here considered a fine specimen of marine landscape, Mr. Betteredge?”

I answered, “Yes,” as shortly as might be.

“Tastes differ,” says Sergeant Cuff. “Looking at it from my point of view, I never saw a marine landscape that I admired less. If you happen to be following another person along your seacoast, and if that person happens to look round, there isn’t a scrap of cover to hide you anywhere. I had to choose between taking Rosanna in custody on suspicion, or leaving her, for the time being, with her little game in her own hands. For reasons which I won’t trouble you with, I decided on making any sacrifice rather than give the alarm as soon as tonight to a certain person who shall be nameless between us. I came back to the house to ask you to take me to the north end of the beach by another way. Sand⁠—in respect of its printing off people’s footsteps⁠—is one of the best detective officers I know. If we don’t meet with Rosanna Spearman by coming round on her in this way, the sand may tell us what she has been at, if the light only lasts long enough. Here is the sand. If you will excuse my suggesting it⁠—suppose you hold your tongue, and let me go first?”

If there is such a thing known at the doctor’s shop as a detective-fever, that disease had now got fast hold of your humble servant. Sergeant Cuff went on between the hillocks of sand, down to the beach. I followed him (with my heart in my mouth); and waited at a little distance for what was to happen next.

As it turned out, I found myself standing nearly in the same place where Rosanna Spearman and I had been talking together when Mr. Franklin suddenly appeared before us, on arriving at our house from London. While my eyes were watching the Sergeant, my mind wandered away in spite of me to what had passed, on that former occasion, between Rosanna and me. I declare I almost felt the poor thing slip her hand again into mine, and give it a little grateful squeeze to thank me for speaking kindly to her. I declare I almost heard her voice telling me again that the Shivering Sand seemed to draw her to it against her own will, whenever she went out⁠—almost saw her face brighten again, as it brightened when she first set eyes upon Mr. Franklin coming briskly out on us from among the hillocks. My spirits fell lower and lower as I thought of these things⁠—and the view of the lonesome little bay, when I looked about to rouse myself, only served to make me feel more uneasy still.

The last of the evening light was fading away; and over all the desolate place there hung a still and awful calm. The heave of the main ocean on the great sandbank out in the bay, was a heave that made no sound. The inner sea lay lost and dim, without a breath of wind to stir it. Patches of nasty ooze floated, yellow-white, on the dead surface of the water. Scum and slime shone faintly in certain places, where the last of the light still caught them on the two great spits of rock jutting out, north and south, into the sea. It was now the time of the turn of the tide: and even as I stood there waiting, the broad brown face of the quicksand began to dimple and quiver⁠—the only moving thing in all the horrid place.

I saw the Sergeant start as the shiver of the sand caught his eye. After looking at it for a minute or so, he turned and came back to me.

“A treacherous place, Mr. Betteredge,” he said; “and no signs of Rosanna Spearman anywhere on the beach, look where you may.”

He took me down lower on the shore, and I saw for myself that his footsteps and mine were the only footsteps printed off on the sand.

“How does the fishing village bear, standing where we are now?” asked Sergeant Cuff.

“Cobb’s Hole,” I answered (that being the name of the place), “bears as near as may be, due south.”

“I saw the girl this evening, walking northward along the shore, from Cobb’s Hole,” said the Sergeant. “Consequently, she must have been walking towards