The Experiences of Loveday Brooke, Lady Detective, Catherine Louisa Pirkis [world best books to read TXT] 📗

village schoolmistress, or, rather, of the village schoolmistress’s mother, Mrs. Brown. It is only a stone’s throw from the vicarage; in fact, its windows overlook the vicarage grounds. It is a four-roomed cottage, and Mrs. Brown, who is a very respectable person, turns over a little money in the summer by receiving lady lodgers desirous of a breath of country air. There would be no difficulty in getting you in there; her spare bedroom is empty now.”

“I should have preferred being at the vicarage, but if it cannot be, I must make the most of my stay at Mrs. Brown’s. How do we get there?’”

“I drove from East Downes here in a trap I hired at the village inn where I put up last night, and where I shall stay tonight. I will drive you, if you will allow me; it is only seven miles off. It’s a lovely day for a drive; breezy and not too much dust. Could you be ready in about half an hour’s time, say?”

But this, Loveday said, would be an impossibility. She had a special engagement that afternoon; there was a religious service in the town that she particularly wished to attend. It would not be over until three o’clock, and, consequently, not until half-past three would she be ready for the drive to East Downes.

Although Mr. Clampe looked unutterable astonishment at the claims of a religious service being set before those of professional duty, he made no demur to the arrangement, and accordingly half-past three saw Loveday and the inspector in a high-wheeled dog-cart rattling along the Marina in the direction of East Downes.

Loveday made no further allusion to her ghost story, so Mr. Clampe, out of politeness, felt compelled to refer to it.

“I heard all about the Fountain Lane ghost yesterday, before I started for East Downes,” he said; “and it seemed to me, with all deference to you, Miss Brooke, an every-day sort of affair, the sort of thing to be explained by a heavy supper or an extra glass of beer.”

“There are a few points in this ghost story that separate it from the every-day ghost story,” answered Loveday. “For instance, you would expect that such emotionally religious people, as I have since found the Freers to be, would have seen a vision of angels, or at least a solitary saint. Instead, they see a soldier! A soldier, too, in the likeness of a man who is anathema maranatha to every religious mind—the great Napoleon.”

“To what denomination do the Freers belong?”

“To the Wesleyan. Their fathers and mothers before them were Wesleyans; their relatives and friends are Wesleyans, one and all, they say; and, most important item of all, the man’s boot and shoe connection lies exclusively among Wesleyan ministers. This, he told me, is the most paying connection that a small bootmaker can have. Half-a-dozen Wesleyan ministers pay better than three times the number of Church clergy, for whereas the Wesleyan minister is always on the tramp among his people, the clergyman generally contrives in the country to keep a horse, or else turns student, and shuts himself up in his study.”

“Ha, ha! Capital,” laughed Mr. Clampe; “tell that to the Church Defence Society in Wales. Isn’t this a first-rate little horse? In another ten minutes we shall be in sight of East Downes.”

The long, dusty road down which they had driven, was ending now in a narrow, sloping lane, hedged in on either side with hawthorns and wild plum trees. Through these, the August sunshine was beginning to slant now, and from a distant wood there came a faint sound of fluting and piping, as if the blackbirds were thinking of tuning up for their evening carols.

A sudden, sharp curve in this lane brought them in sight of East Downes, a tiny hamlet of about thirty cottages, dominated by the steeple of a church of early English architecture. Adjoining the church was the vicarage, a goodly-sized house, with extensive grounds, and in a lane running alongside these grounds were situated the village schools and the schoolmistress’s house. The latter was simply a four-roomed cottage, standing in a pretty garden, with cluster roses and honeysuckle, now in the fullness of their August glory, climbing upwards to its very roof.

Outside this cottage Mr. Clampe drew rein.

“If you’ll give me five minutes’ grace,” he said, “I’ll go in and tell the good woman that I have brought her, as a lodger, a friend of mine, who is anxious to get away for a time from the noise and glare of Brighton. Of course, the story of the stolen cheque is all over the place, but I don’t think anyone has, at present, connected me with the affair. I am supposed to be a gentleman from Brighton, who is anxious to buy a horse the Vicar wishes to sell, and who can’t quite arrange terms with him.”

While Loveday waited outside in the cart, an open carriage drove past and then in through the vicarage gates. In the carriage were seated a gentleman and lady whom, from the respectful greetings they received from the village children, she conjectured to be the Rev. Charles and Mrs. Turner. Mr. Turner was sanguine-complexioned, red-haired, and wore a distinctly troubled expression of countenance. With Mrs. Turner’s appearance Loveday was not favourably impressed. Although a decidedly handsome woman, she was hard-featured and had a scornful curl to her upper lip. She was dressed in the extreme of London fashion.

They threw a look of enquiry at Loveday as they passed, and she felt sure that enquiries as to the latest addition to Mrs. Brown’s ménage would soon be afloat in the village.

Mr. Clampe speedily returned, saying that Mrs. Brown was only too delighted to get her spare-room occupied. He whispered a hint as they made their way up to the cottage door between borders thickly planted with stocks and mignonette.

It was:

“Don’t ask her any questions, or she’ll draw herself up as straight as a ramrod, and say she never listens to gossip of any sort. But just let her alone, and she’ll run on like a mill-stream, and tell you as much as you’ll want to know about everyone and everything. She and the village postmistress are great friends, and between them they contrive to know pretty much what goes on inside every house in the place.”

Mrs. Brown was a stout, rosy-cheeked woman of about fifty, neatly dressed in a dark stuff gown with a big white cap and apron. She welcomed Loveday respectfully, and introduced, evidently with a little pride, her daughter, the village schoolmistress, a well-spoken young woman of about eight-and-twenty.

Mr. Clampe departed with his dog-cart to the village inn, announcing his intention of calling on Loveday at the cottage on the following morning before he returned to Brighton.

Miss Brown also departed, saying she would prepare tea. Left alone with Loveday, Mrs. Brown speedily unloosed her tongue. She had a dozen questions to ask respecting Mr. Clampe and his business in the village. Now, was it true that he had come to East Downes for the whole and sole purpose of buying one of the Vicar’s horses? She had heard it whispered that he had been sent by the police to watch the servants at the vicarage. She hoped it was not true, for a more respectable set of servants were not to be met with in any house, far or near. Had Miss Brooke heard about that lost cheque? Such a terrible affair! She had been told that the story of it had reached London. Now, had Miss Brooke seen an account of it in any of the London papers?

Here a reply from Loveday in the negative formed a sufficient excuse for relating with elaborate detail the story of the stolen cheque. Except in its elaborateness of detail, it differed but little from the one Loveday had already heard.

She listened patiently, bearing in mind Mr. Clampe’s hint, and asking no questions. And when, in about a quarter of an hour’s time, Miss Brown came in with the tea-tray in her hand, Loveday could have passed an examination in the events of the daily family life at the vicarage. She could have answered questions as to the ill-assortedness of the newly-married couple; she knew that they wrangled from morning till night; that the chief subjects of their disagreement were religion and money matters; that the Vicar was hot-tempered, and said whatever came to the tip of his tongue; that the beautiful young wife, though slower of speech, was scathing and sarcastic, and that, in addition, she was wildly extravagant and threw money away in all directions.

In addition to these interesting facts, Loveday could have undertaken to supply information respecting the number of servants at the vicarage, together with their names, ages and respective duties.

During tea, conversation flagged somewhat; Miss Brown’s presence evidently acted repressively on her mother, and it was not until the meal was over and Loveday was being shown to her room by Mrs. Brown that opportunity to continue the talk was found.

Loveday opened the ball by remarking on the fact that no Dissenting chapel was to be found in the village.

“Generally, wherever there is a handful of cottages, we find a church at one end and a chapel at the other,” she said; “but here, willy-nilly, one must go to church.”

“Do you belong to chapel, ma’am?” was Mrs. Brown’s reply. “Old Mrs. Turner, the Vicar’s mother, who died over a year ago, was so ‘low’ she was almost chapel, and used often to drive over to Brighton to attend the Countess of Huntingdon’s church. People used to say that was bad enough in the Vicar’s mother; but what was it compared with what goes on now—the Vicar’s wife driving regularly every Sunday into Brighton to a Catholic Church to say her prayers to candles and images? I’m glad you like the room, ma’am. Feather bolster, feather pillows, do you see, ma’am? I’ve nothing in the way of flock or wool on either of my beds to make people’s head ache.” Here Mrs. Brown, by way of emphasis, patted and pinched the fat pillows and bolster showing above the spotless white counterpane.

Loveday stood at the cottage window drinking in the sweetness of the country air, laden now with the heavy evening scents of carnation and essamine. Across the road, from the vicarage, came the loud clanging of a dinner-gong, and almost simultaneously the church clock chimed the hour—seven o’clock.

“Who is that person coming up the lane?” asked Loveday, her attention suddenly attracted by a tall, thin figure, dressed in shabby black, with a large, dowdyish bonnet, and carrying a basket in her hand as if she were returning from some errand. Mrs. Brown peeped over Loveday’s shoulder.

“Ah, that’s the peculiar young woman I was telling you about, ma’am—Maria Lisle, who used to be old Mrs. Turner’s maid. Not that she is over young now; she’s five-and-thirty if she’s a day. The Vicar kept her on to be his wife’s maid after the old lady died, but young Mrs. Turner will have nothing to do with her, she’s not good enough for her; so Mr. Turner is just paying her £30 a year for doing nothing. And what Maria does with all that money it would be hard to say. She doesn’t spend it on dress, that’s certain, and she hasn’t kith nor kin, not a soul belonging to her to give a penny to.”

“Perhaps she gives it to charities in Brighton. There are plenty of outlets for money there.”

“She may,” said Mrs. Brown dubiously; “she is always going to Brighton whenever she gets a chance. She used to be a Wesleyan in old Mrs. Turner’s time, and went regularly to all the revival meetings for miles round; what she is now, it