08| Misdeeds Cleared Up

There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to truth; not going all the way, and not starting.
(Siddhartha Gautama Buddha)


No sooner had the coach stopped in front of the pharmacy than Thornton sprang into action. He alighted and purposefully walked into the shop, with Blake following close behind. They were in luck; Mr Jennings, who was measuring out some powders at a workspace behind the glass counter, had no other customers. He turned as soon as he heard the doorbell chime and, pushing up his thick steel-framed glasses, gave them an inquiring look.

"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" he said.

Thornton acquainted him with Lady Verinder's recent fainting spell and that—with Dr Candy presumably still ill—said lady's coach was waiting outside to take him to the manor.

Mr Jennings expression turned from vaguely amiable to gravely concerned. "Lady Verinder fainted, and hasn't quite recovered by the time you left?" he asked, adding in a soft murmur, "This doesn't bode well—" He quickly turned to pick a few powder jars and vials of murky tonics from a small cabinet and put them into a leather valise.

"You know the particulars of my aunt's condition from Dr Candy, don't you," Blake remarked, suddenly suspicious.

"You must be Lady Verinder's nephew, Mr Blake!" the apothecary said, stopping with his packing for a moment. "I saw you about town a few times in the previous weeks, but we haven't been introduced yet... Pleased to meet you, sir." He gave the young man a penetrating look. "I hope you recovered well from the dose of laudanum the good doctor slipped into your coffee a few nights ago... Any nightmares? Loss of memory? Anything?"

"What is it you are saying?" Blake exclaimed. "The doctor dosed me with laudanum on the night of Miss Verinder's birthday party?—and without my knowledge?"

"Well... At least, that's what I gathered from Dr Candy's ramblings during his fever dreams," Mr Jennings said, flustered by Blake's vehemence. "Was I mistaken to assume it was you?—is it at all likely that this might have happened to you, sir?"

"This has very probably been the case," Blake huffed, "and it explains a lot—"

"However, it doesn't change anything about your current situation, Blake," Thornton reminded his companion, in an effort to instil reason—and a sense of urgency under the present circumstances. "I believe we shouldn't keep Mr Jennings any longer from seeing Lady Verinder."

"You are right, Thornton," Blake acquiesced. "Go ahead, Mr Jennings... Go and attend to my aunt." Turning away he mumbled dejectedly, "This is doing my head in—"

"Come, Blake," Thornton said, steering the younger man out of the door so that the apothecary could lock up after them. "We have other business to attend... Lead the way to the telegraph office, if you please."

"You wish to send a message?"

"Yes. To Leeds."

"You assume that there is someone in Leeds who might be able to help with my present predicament?"

"He may not be there yet, but he will definitely be there tomorrow," Thornton said. At this moment they were coming up to the wall covered in advertisements next to the tearoom. He pointed at one of the posters. "This is the man I am trying to contact—"

"A hypnotist?"

"Exactly! The way I see it, Mr Braid might be your best chance to recover those lost memories of yours... I went to one of his lectures some time ago, and he seems genuine... No party tricks." He saw Blake reluctantly nod his consent. "I must warn you, though... His doctor's fees may be rather steep."

Blake shrugged with the unconcern of the truly rich. "Let's do this," he decided. Buoyed up by the prospect of finally getting to the bottom of the mystery that surrounded the disappearance of the Moonstone, and his own part in it, he stepped out with renewed vigour, and soon they reached their destination.


By the time the apothecary arrived, Lady Verinder was conscious again, and quite alert of her surroundings, but she was still very weak.

Mr Jennings asked the ladies to leave the room, excepting only Lady Verinder's maid, so that he could begin his examination and consultation with the patient.

Margaret gently took Miss Verinder by the arm and led her outside. "Do you wish to come downstairs with us?" she asked softly.

"No... I'd rather return to my rooms." The girl looked up to her with pleading eyes. "But will you come with me, and keep me company?—I believe I cannot bear to be alone at present!"

"Of course," Margaret agreed.

They had hardly arrived at the small sitting room with the Indian cabinet that—for a very short time—had held the Moonstone, when Penelope arrived with a tea tray. Like any good servant, the clever girl had anticipated her mistress's need for sustenance. Margaret thanked her with a grateful smile as the maid withdrew and then poured the cups; Miss Verinder was too oblivious of her surroundings to do the task. She handed the girl a cup and saucer.

Rachel Verinder looked up from her hand, and the cup therein, saying, "Mamma may die—and it shall all be my fault!"

Margaret leant forward and covered the girl's hand with her own. "Hush, Rachel... May I call you 'Rachel', Miss Verinder?" The girl nodded mutely. "I'm afraid that your mother may indeed be seriously ill. But. People have been known to live on with various ailments—and live a full life!—if well cared for, kept from worrying, and treated by a good doctor... You shall have many happy years in your mother's company yet."

"I have added so greatly to her worries of late!" Rachel cried, sobbing. "I made her ill."

"You didn't make her ill, Rachel... But I believe that it is in your power to help alleviate her anxieties." Margaret leant a little closer still, and said softly, "Will you tell me the truth of what happened that night—and then, perhaps, together we can try to find a way out of your misery... and I can see that you are using your anger to hide a great misery—"

Upon hearing Margaret's compassionate words, Rachel broke down entirely. Dropping her cup—it broke but spilled its contents harmlessly on the parquet floor—she threw herself into Margaret's arms and cried disconsolately for a long time. There was little Margaret could do but hold her and rock her gently. In many respects it was not so very different from soothing her young nephew Sholto.

Eventually Rachel sat up and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, in quite an unladylike fashion. Still sniffling, she said, "I am sorry, Miss Hale—Margaret... I shouldn't take such advantage of your kindness." She straightened a little, resuming some of her former poise. "However, you are right! I have kept this secret long enough, and it has done nothing but harm... So, let me tell you—"

"What did happen that night?" Margaret gently inquired. "Mr Blake came to your room, didn't he?"

Rachel swallowed, fidgeted in her seat for a moment, but then her face set with resolve, and she answered quite rationally, "When I finally returned to my room that night after my birthday party, I must admit that I was a little overexcited—very overexcited, to be honest. So much had happened that day; the big party with me the centre of attention and, before that, being gifted with a fabled jewel—the Moonstone! Cousin Godfrey proposing..."

"Oh?" Margaret had heard the rumours, but now she had actual confirmation of it.

"I rejected him!... and even though I was certain in my heart, it was so difficult to tell him 'no'. We grew up together, and I always thought that I might marry him one day—" She was quiet for a moment, reflecting. "—but then Franklin arrived... and all too soon I felt for him what I had never felt for anyone else before."

"You care for him very deeply, don't you?"

"I cared for him!" Rachel corrected her fiercely. "It is all in the past now."

Margaret wasn't so sure about this. In her own experience such strong reactions spoke of feelings that were still very present.

Retuning to events of the night in question, Rachel continued, "After I had gone to bed that night, I couldn't fall asleep. I was tossing and turning for what seemed like hours—until I heard a small noise from next door... from this very room." With a sweeping gesture she indicated her parlour. "Through the gap at the bottom of the door I saw a light moving about... and I don't know what made me do such a foolhardy thing, but I decided to investigate. I noiselessly opened the door a fraction—and then I saw him! Franklin!—rummaging through the drawers of my Indian cabinet where I had stored the diamond, as well he knew!... I pushed the door wide, facing him squarely—and I thought that he might flinch, being caught red-handed, and try to explain himself... but he just looked at me, with those empty eyes—as if I wasn't there—and then he turned and left, taking the diamond with him."

"How peculiar," Margaret whispered.

"The following day he acted as if nothing had happened. Even worse; he was instrumental in bringing about the police investigation... and I thought that he was playing a perverse game with us all—and I hated him for it!" She wrung her hands, agitatedly. "But in spite of everything I couldn't face him being convicted of stealing—of having his honour tainted in such a manner—"

"—and therefore you decided to deflect suspicion—by drawing it onto yourself," Margaret finished her thought. "I daresay, you had Sergeant Cuff quite convinced of your guilt."

"I kept up the charade—and what a farce it was! Why would I steal my own diamond?—until Rosanna disappeared... Then this awful accident happened, and Franklin confessed to stealing my diamond—and still I couldn't face his disgrace. So I lied... I lied!—and I broke my mother's heart." Her sobs we almost choking her last words.

While she gave Rachel time to recover, Margaret mused at the perverseness of fate. The girl had everything—youth, beauty, and wealth—and a suitor of her own class who cared as much for her as she cared for him. By all means, the course of true love should have run smoothly in their case—and yet it was all stuck in misery and heartbreak.

She thought of her own bumpy road to happiness—and she wondered if there was really nothing she could do... John seemed fond of Blake, and he seemed to believe him. So, if she, Margaret, was working on her end, while John, with his astute mind and experience as a magistrate, took matters in hand at his, they might yet get to the bottom of it all and, perhaps, still rescue the relationship of those star-crossed young lovers...


Late in the afternoon a letter from Margaret arrived for Thornton, who was sitting in the hotel lobby with Blake, and sipping a small brandy. It brought two pieces of news. Item the first was that Margaret and Mrs Clack would postpone their departure to London for another few days yet, at least until Lady Verinder had recovered, and after the inquest into Rosanna Spearman's disappearance had taken place. And secondly, she apprised him of what she had learnt from Miss Verinder.

"This confirms our theory that you were sleepwalking at the time, Blake," Thornton said excitedly. "Now we only need to retrieve your memory of where you hid the diamond—and then you will be able to clear your name."

"But what if Dr Braid doesn't consent to come?... or what if he comes but doesn't trigger those lost memories?"

"I'd say that, with the diamond most likely hidden somewhere about the house, it might simply be found by accident sooner or later... But for as long as anyone suspects the Moonstone still within Lady Verinder's home, none of its inhabitants might be safe—so, doing nothing isn't an option—"

"Perhaps I could return to the manor for an experiment," Blake suggested. "Swallow another dose of laudanum before going to bed and retrace my steps in a drug-induced trance. I'm still suffering from sleeplessness, and I'm definitely anxious enough to consider myself in a similar state of mind as I was then."

"I'm afraid the human brain isn't quite as easily tricked into compliance," Thornton cautioned.

Both men were silent for a while.

"There has been so much talk in recent days that the diamond was cursed, and that there was an Indian conspiracy at the heart of it—Murthwaite also seemed convinced of it... How did all this come about? Didn't the colonel die as an old man and of natural causes?"

"He did," Blake acknowledged. "But then, for as long as he lived in England, he never kept the Moonstone at his home, and he made quite an effort to ward off any attempts on his life... Courtesy of my father's lawyer the diamond was placed in a bank vault, and punctually once every year a letter arrived from the colonel, written in his own hand and affirming his continued good health. If the letter hadn't arrived at the appointed time, there would have been instructions in place to send the Moonstone to Amsterdam with every protection, to have it cut into four to six individual stones by a famous diamond-cutter—and those were to be sold to fund a professorship of experimental chemistry at some obscure northern university." He laughed mirthlessly. "So, you see, in his own caustic way, Colonel Herncastle was quite an eccentric."

"But he was convinced that a bunch of Indians were after him to retrieve the Moonstone for their idol?"

"He most certainly was! And earlier in his life, while still in India, he had survived two attempted assassinations in prove of his point... As a funny aside—the Moonstone would actually be worth quite a lot more cut up into those four to six individual stones than it is in its original size. There is a flaw right in the centre of it."

"So, if someone were to take it for its monetary value alone, they would be well advised to have it cut up?" Thornton asked, intrigued.

"Most definitely!"

"I wonder... would that also break the alleged curse of the Indian assassins following the stone?"

"Funny that you should ask this, Thornton," Blake said. "I asked Murthwaite the exact same question on the night of Rachel's birthday—"

"And what did he say?"

"Providing that the Indians are what he believes them to be, they'd strive to preserve the Moonstone in its entity—and they wouldn't do anything to risk it being destroyed, or cut up. They would rather wait their entire lives, biding their time. Herncastle gambled on that; and he won... But if someone were to destroy the entity of the jewel, Murthwaite was convinced that the Indians wouldn't seek immediate revenge—because they have no personal axe to grind—and they would most likely return to their Indian temple. However, if it was revealed that their deity demanded revenge, they would set forth again—and be remorseless in fulfilling their object."

"So, there is no way to possess the Moonstone—either whole or cut up—and not be afraid for one's life forthwith?"

"I should say, this sums it up pretty neatly," Blake conceded.

"Who has been aware of the colonel's original provisions?"

"Why are you asking?"

Thornton shrugged. "Just tying up loose ends, I suppose."

"Quite a few people, I should say." Blake looked introspective for a moment. "My father and his lawyer, of course. Me—obviously—, Lady Verinder, Betteredge—he has always been my confidant since childhood—, and cousin Godfrey... He was with me the day I took the diamond out of his father's bank in Frizinghall, where it had been stored ever since the day of my arrival in Yorkshire."


In the course of the evening two more messages arrived at the hotel. One was a summons from the coroner's office, citing both men to appear as witnesses at the inquest three days hence. The other was a reply to the telegram Thornton had sent to Dr Braid in Leeds.

Thornton ripped open the envelop and scanned it quickly. "He is willing to come, and he has set his fee," he said, handing over the message to Blake who raised an eyebrow at the sum mentioned therein. "If I... or, rather more... if you agree to it, he can be here by tomorrow, late in the afternoon. What do you say, Blake?"

"I'd say, 'This better works,' Thornton," Blake replied with a sigh. "Let's send him confirmation that I'll accept."

A couple of minutes later the courier was on his way back to the telegraph office.


At the following day several more messages went back and forth. One was a telegram by Dr Braid, telling them that he was due to arrive by the afternoon train. The others were two letters by Thornton, one of them a short one to Lady Verinder, inquiring after her health with his most sincere wishes for her swift recovery, and asking—in the light of newly emerged information—to return to her house in the evening and bring both Mr Blake and Dr Braid with him, describing the latter as an authority on the subject of retrieving lost items. The other, rather longer, letter was to Margaret, acquainting her with every information Thornton had gained in the meantime and asking her to exert whatever influence she might have with the lady of the house, or her daughter, in favour of their proposed visit.

It took until the early afternoon for a confirmation to arrive—however unenthusiastically worded—that they were welcome to the house, but that Lady Verinder, due to her indifferent health, would likely not be able to entertain them. There was no mention of a coach to come their way and pick them up.

Then it was time to go and meet Dr Braid at the station.

Thornton remembered the doctor perfectly for his marked resemblance with Margaret's late father Richard Hale, his erstwhile tutor and fatherly friend; and he recognised the man the moment he alighted from a first class compartment.

He stepped forward and introduced himself. "I had the pleasure of attending your lecture in Milton a couple of months ago," Thornton said by way of an explanation, "and I have been very impressed by the possibilities of hypnotism."

"Are you, perchance, a doctor, sir?" Braid inquired.

"Alas, no," Thornton admitted. "I am just a manufacturer of cotton goods... It was our family doctor—and a long-time friend—who convinced me to attend your lecture at the time." He introduced Blake. "This is the man in need of your expertise."

"Perhaps we should go to the hotel and allow Dr Braid to rest for a moment before we'll acquaint him with the matter at hand," Blake suggested. "There is still plenty of time before we are expected at Lady Verinder's place."

Braid graciously consented, and together they made their way back to the hotel, all the while talking of inconsequential things—such as the difference in the weather on both sides of the Pennines, and the dubious pleasures of travelling at the height of winter.

The similarity with Richard Hale didn't end on the outside, Thornton found when they met again in the lobby half an hour later. Dr Braid was just as softly spoken and composed as the former Hertfordshire clergyman. He did, however speak with a Scots accent, somewhat tempered by his lengthy expose to various northern English accents, but nevertheless proclaiming him as a son of the Forth estuary without a doubt. He also had a much more decisive manner than Mr Hale. Dr Braid was a forerunner in his field of expertise, and he was perfectly aware of the fact. In his own way he was quite adept at blowing his own trumpet.

Over tea Blake, with the occasional interjection by Thornton, explained his case and what he knew—or thought he knew—about events of the night in question. The doctor listened carefully, and only asked the occasional question, so as not to interrupt the young man's train of thought.

Eventually the doctor said, "And so you believe that, in a state of trance not unlike sleepwalking, but heightened by the influence of insomnia and laudanum, you took a precious gemstone and hid it somewhere about the house where you had been a guest at the time?" Blake nodded. "And you still have regained no memory of your actions?"

"None whatsoever," Blake confirmed, "which is why I am afraid that there might be no memories for you to retrieve from the depths of my mind."

"We shall only know about this once we have tested your abilities to draw from those buried recollections under hypnosis, Mr Blake... However, there is no guarantee that we might come to a result. The human mind is no machine, and hypnosis is not a precise science." He chuckled. "Unlike with your power looms, Mr Thornton, there is no manual on how to fix a brain."

"Quite." For just a moment Thornton wondered if this was meant as a slight against a mere tradesman from a member of the learned professions, but then he shrugged it off. He had moved past craving the approval of others.


When they arrived at the manor, Betteredge already stood in the open door to admit them.

"Welcome back, Mr Franklin, and Mr Thornton," the old steward said. Then, with an incline of the head in Dr Braid's direction, "Good evening, sir."

"We should like to make use of the library, Betteredge," Blake announced, "and would you be so good and tell my aunt and Miss Rachel of our arrival. We should like them to witness the procedure. Also cousin Drusilla and Miss Hale... and I would be much obliged if you were also to stay—"

"Very well," Betteredge replied. "Please go ahead while I inform her ladyship and the others." He indicated the library door. "There's a good fire waiting for you."

Inside the library Dr Braid made short shrift of rearranging the furniture at his convenience; two armchairs facing each other were set up in the centre of the room near the fireplace. The rest of the chairs were pulled back against the walls and sides of the room. Then he made the round and extinguished all candles but a few on the side tables next to the central armchairs.

Braid looked around him with evident satisfaction, noticing the drawn window curtains and the deep shadows at the edges of the room. "I believe this will do very well," he stated. Then, turning to Blake, he asked, "Are you comfortable with the atmosphere in this room?"

"I am," Blake said. "I've known this library since childhood and I've always liked it."

"Good, good," the doctor said. "Now for the people you have requested to attend... I presume you trust them?"

"Well, yes," Blake replied, but with marked reluctance. "I also hope to prove my innocence to them... or, at least, prove that I didn't act with intent."

"That's fair enough," Braid said, nodding. "Now we wait for the others to arrive and then I shall explain the procedure to all of you—"

Shortly afterwards the door was opened by Mrs Clack and Margaret, and, walking between them, Miss Verinder entered the room. Penelope who had followed them downstairs remained waiting in the hall. The daughter of the house looked much subdued, and she didn't look up to acknowledge their visitors. Compared with the previous days she seemed positively docile.

Dr Braid didn't wait to be introduced but approached Miss Verinder directly with a request which he put before her in a low voice. The young lady listened intently then nodded her consent. She beckoned her maid to come and, after a few quick words to the latter, Dr Braid followed Penelope into the hall, announcing on his way out that he would be back in no more than five minutes.

Margaret took the opportunity to go to John. She held out her hand which he took in both of his, as she bid him a good evening.

"So, this is the famous hypnotist," she said softly.

"It is," Thornton replied, "and I really hope, for their sakes—" He inclined his head in the general direction of Miss Verinder and Blake. "—that this will shed some light on the mystery of the whereabouts of the Moonstone." He looked around. "Is Lady Verinder still too unwell to attend?"

"I have seen her earlier today; she looked much improved," Margaret said. "But she is to avoid all excitement and, not knowing which way this here might go, attending could be detrimental to her recovery."

"it is a risk we are taking here," Thornton agreed. "Who knows what Blake will remember... and his not remembering anything at all might actually be the worst possible outcome—"

At that moment the door opened again.

Dr Braid was as good as his word. He came in with Betteredge, the latter bringing word that his mistress was still feeling indisposed.

"Now that I've got an impression of the locality, let us proceed." The doctor looked questioningly at Blake. "Are we complete?" he asked.

The young man said as much.

What followed was for Dr Braid to ask Blake to sit in one of the armchairs in the centre of the room. Then he requested the witnesses to take their seats by the walls of the room, asking them to remain very quiet so as not to break the proband's concentration.

Eventually he took his seat opposite Blake.

"You, sir, will listen to my voice," Braid explained to him in his soft calm tones, "and I shall take you to a state of deep relaxation. You may be able to remember past occurrences you have no access to in your present condition of heightened alertness. They are buried deep in your mind, and I shall take you there... Throughout the process you will always be yourself, and you may even remember some of our journey after I bring you back; though, perhaps, not all of it... Be aware, however, that the mind may have a good reason for suppressing certain memories, and that it can be painful to bring them back to the surface—"

Blake nodded.

Next, Braid took a bright object the size of a very short steel-nib pen between the thumb, index, and middle fingers of his left hand and held it from about ten inches from Blake's eyes, at a position above his forehead, so that he would have to strain his eyes to look at it.

"Don't raise your head... Now, keep your eyes steadily fixed on the object, and your mind riveted on the idea of this one object..."


"Where are you?"

Blake's eyes were only partially open, and his gaze was unfocussed. When he spoke his voice was slow, reluctant; it seemed as if his thoughts were travelling a long distance. "I am in my bed... something has woken me... a noise, perhaps... but when I listen there is only the sound of the wind... a dog barks outside, another one answers. It sounds playful... I remember that Betteredge has let the dogs loose—" His voice faded away, then returned. "I am covered in cold sweat... it might have been a nightmare, but I can't remember... I'm tired. So very tired... I have always been tired of late... I try to go back to sleep... I feel that I could—if it wasn't for the Moonstone—" His voice rose, and he became restless.

"What about the Moonstone?" Braid prompted in his soft voice.

"It's in Rachel's room—when the damned thing should have been in a bank vault!... better yet, at the bottom of the sea!" He moaned softly. "Why?—oh, why has the colonel's will made me take it to my aunt's house?... Cursed, cursed thing! Has it ever brought anything but misery to its owner?" His hands ran up and down the armrests of his chair.

"What are you doing?"

"I am getting up... I can't find my dressing gown in the dark... there's just the one slipper... I find the candle on my bedside table... a box of matches... I light it." His gaze seemed to focus ever so slightly on the candle at the nearby side table. "I leave my room... the floor is cold against my bare feet... I stay on the runner, follow it across the landing into the west wing... I'm outside Rachel's room—" He went quiet.

"Why are you here?" the doctor's question gently nudged him on.

"The windows!... Are her windows fastened and secured?... I go inside—" Silence again.

"Do you check the windows?"

"No... I go inside. I stare at the cabinet... the Indian cabinet, with the Indian diamond inside... the cursed thing!... It's trying to cast its spell on me—like it has cast its spell on Rachel in the afternoon!... but I won't listen... It mustn't be here! Not in this room, putting her in danger!... I open the drawer... there it is!—glaring back at me from its yellow depths—"

Another pause, another small prompt. "What do you do?"

"I take the diamond... I shall put it somewhere safe... Where shall I put it? Where?... Not here!... I must take it somewhere far away... I turn... I see Rachel... Not Rachel! Just her image... in the door... she is perfectly still... she looks at me with such loathing!" His hands flew to his face, covering his eyes. "Why hate me, Rachel?... all I'm doing is keep you safe!" He breathed heavily, then after a little while, he calmed down again. "I leave... I take the curse with me... and Rachel shall be safe—"

"Where do you go?"

"I cross the landing... I go back to the east wing, to my own room... better keep the Moonstone in my bedroom, well away from her... There!—" His gasped. "—there is movement further along the corridor... the figure of a man... tall... he comes closer, and I recognise him... Cousin Godfrey—"

There was a slight commotion amongst the onlookers. Dr Braid raised his eyes and knitted his brow in warning, but his voice held no hint of his disapproval as he said, "Does he speak to you?"

"Yes... he says that he can't sleep. That he's worried... I say, 'So am I'. He mentions Rachel... the Moonstone... that the cabinet in her room is no place to store it... I say that I have taken matters in hand... I open my hand and show him the diamond... its yellow sparks dance across the walls of the corridor... so dreadful!—so beautiful!... 'Where will you hide it?' he asks me... I don't know... I don't know!... 'Give it to me!' says he. 'I will put it somewhere safe.'... Where?... 'I shall put it back in my father's bank vault,' he says. 'Give it to me now, and I shall put it there.'... The bank vault!... Safe!—safe as can be... Yes!... I give Godfrey the Moonstone... he takes it—" A stifled gasp went through the audience. "—I go back to my room... I go to my bed... I sleep—"

Blake's expression grew entirely vacant again; his eyelids drooped.

"Mr Blake," Dr Braid gently addressed him. His voice was just as it had been throughout, but underneath it there was something that brooked no opposition. "I shall take you back now, and when I snap my fingers, you will return to the present with me."

Braid went through the motions—and Blake's eyes immediately opened, blinking owlishly.

"It didn't work, did it," he said, his voice tinged with disappointment.

"Oh, Franklin!—you have no idea," Rachel cried, rushing forward and throwing herself at his feet. "Forgive me! Please, forgive me for doubting you—"

He took her hands in his, deeply moved yet utterly puzzled. "Rachel, my darling... I beg you to calm yourself—" He looked around at the shocked faces staring at him. "—and can anyone please explain to me what just happened?"

Thornton stepped forward. "The Moonstone is in Godfrey Ablewhite's possession, and unless he did put it in his father's bank vault—which is highly debatable, considering that he never mentioned it—he is indeed a thief."


A/N: Braid as a historical figure really existed. If you are interested in the history of hypnosis, you can look him up in Wikipedia under 'James Braid (surgeon)'