IMPORTANT INFORMATION
It was getting close to Christmas, and Sellars had got as much
information as it was possible to obtain in the little village of
Brinkstone; in fact, his visit had been particularly fruitful, thanks
to the exhaustive knowledge and retentive memory of the useful Dobbs.
It was time to pack up, return to London, and discuss matters with Lane.
But before he left he had a further chat with the head-waiter of the
Brinkstone Arms, and this proved as valuable in its results as the
previous ones.
“You say that Miss Larchester formed no acquaintances here—that she led
an isolated life?” He put his question to the old man after pressing
into his hand a very substantial tip.
Dobbs shook his head. “A very lonely, miserable life, sir, for anybody,
more especially for such a young and attractive girl. There came just
a little break in the last year of their stay here. She then did get a
little companionship with a member of her own sex, though not quite her
own class.”
And Dobbs proceeded to relate the circumstances in his usual clear
and straightforward way. An elderly man of the name of Buckley came
to reside in Brinkstone, in a cottage just a little superior to that
rented by the Larchesters. Like the artist, he brought with him a
daughter, also, like Lettice, an only child.
He was a retired builder in a small way who, by dint of thrift and
self-denial, had accumulated enough capital to bring him in an income
sufficient for their needs, but allowing no margin for luxuries. A
plain, homely man who looked exactly what he was, a small, thrifty
tradesman with no pretensions to education or refinement, but not
aggressively common. His habits were regular; about twice a week he
looked in at the Brinkstone Arms, took a modest glass of ale, and
chatted with the landlord and the other customers. He had a nice little
piece of ground attached to his cottage, and, being passionately fond
of gardening, spent most of his time in it.
The daughter was a refined edition of her father, not a lady like
Lettice Larchester, but a very good imitation of one, and fairly well
educated. The girls soon got to know each other and quickly became
great friends, constantly in and out of each other’s houses, and taking
long walks together in the fine weather.
“It must have been a boon and a blessing to both of them, sir,”
remarked Mr. Dobbs, “for although you could see with half an eye Miss
Buckley was not of the other one’s class, she was miles above the
ordinary folk about here. And naturally there are lots of things a girl
can only talk about with another girl. Of course, Buckley was a selfish
old man or he wouldn’t have buried his daughter alive in such a place
as this. You see, he was so wrapped up in his gardening that time never
grew heavy on his hands. What with cauliflowers, peas, French beans and
the other vegetables—and he was a fine gardener—the days flew by to
him; there was always something to be looked after, always something
coming up.”
They were certainly much better off than the Larchesters. Their cottage
was quite a roomy, comfortable little dwelling, they kept a small
resident maid, and lived upon the best. Alma Buckley was a good-looking
girl, rather of the buxom and dairymaid type, and just a little bit
loud in comparison with her refined friend. But neither was in a
position to pick and choose; they had to accept what companionship came
their way, and it was fortunate they met with each other.
The Larchesters left at the end of four years; the Buckleys remained
behind. The soil suited Mr. Buckley’s gardening propensities, and so
long as he could grow excellent peas and beans he had no desire to
shift his quarters.
Six months later death claimed the old man. His demise was caused by
his devotion to his hobby. He would insist on digging the ground in a
pouring rain, with the result that he caught a violent chill, pneumonia
supervened and carried him off within the week.
As soon as he was buried the daughter shook the dust of Brinkstone off
her feet; she had been profoundly unhappy ever since the Larchesters
had left.
“She was civil enough to all the folk around, but she had made no
friend in the place except Miss Lettice,” the old man explained. “So we
didn’t hear anything of her after she left any more than we did of the
other two. But I did hear from a theatrical gentleman who stayed here
for a few days a couple of years later, and with whom I used to gossip
a bit, as I’ve done with you, sir, that there was a Miss Alma Buckley
on the stage, and from the description he gave me of her I should say
it was the same. I heard from Mr. Larchester that she was very fond of
play-acting, but that the old man was a bit strict in his notions, a
regular attendant at church and all that sort of thing, and he kept a
pretty tight hand on her.”
Sellars pigeon-holed the name in his memory. This Alma Buckley might be
useful to him if he could get hold of her. On the stage, according to
Dobbs—well, she could not be a particularly well-known actress, or he
would have heard of her, as he was a great theatre-goer. And besides,
all this happened a great many years ago; it was very unlikely she was
still pursuing her theatrical career.
“Now tell me, Dobbs, after the Larchesters left, do you know if
the friendship was kept up at all—I mean, of course, in the way of
correspondence?”
Mr. Dobbs answered this question in the affirmative. Mrs. Simpson, the
then landlady, used to chat a little with Alma Buckley when they met in
the village, and he distinctly remembered being told some three months
after the Larchesters had left, that at one of these meetings the girl
had mentioned she had heard from her friend, and that Mr. Larchester
was going from bad to worse, and that things were growing very hard for
them, in a pecuniary sense.
Sellars went back to London and, of course, paid an early visit to the
detective. It had been arranged that he should not write during his
absence, but deliver his news in one budget on his return.
“Well, you’ve got some very important information,” said Lane when the
young man had finished. “Strange that I should have been suspicious
of that nephew story almost from the beginning. Now, it is evident
there is some mystery in which both Mrs. Morrice and Sir George are
concerned, which has led them to concoct this lying tale. And this
young Brookes, if he is not the relation it is pretended he is, who
and what the deuce is he?”
“That’s what we’ve got to find out,” said Sellars. “This Mrs. Morrice
is evidently a queer fish, and, of course, her pretended brother-in-law
is another. I suppose Morrice really knows very little about her; they
say he married her abroad, and, of course, she could fudge up any tale,
mixing up truth and fiction as she liked.”
“And yet Morrice must be a shrewd old bird, or he wouldn’t be where he
is,” observed the detective. “You would think before he married a woman
he would have made exhaustive inquiries about her. Unless, of course,
he does know certain facts, and winks at the nephew business, thinking
it doesn’t concern anybody but themselves. But, of course, I incline
to the belief he doesn’t know. He has the highest reputation for
integrity, and it is more than improbable he would lend his countenance
to such an imposture, even if it were an innocent one, which I very
much doubt.”
“So do I,” agreed Sellars. “Now as soon as I can I will get hold of
this Alma Buckley and see if she knows anything, and if so, if she will
impart it to me. But I am not very hopeful in that quarter. It’s a
deuce of a long time ago, and she may be out of business or dead.”
“If she’s dead, of course we are done. But as long as people are alive
we can generally get at them sooner or later,” said Lane with a knowing
smile.
“I quite agree, they can’t hide themselves for long if one is
sufficiently persevering. Well, now about this Clayton-Brookes. We have
established that he is as queer a fish as Mrs. Morrice; we want to know
a good bit about him, don’t we?”
“What is the general report about him—I mean, of course, amongst the
circles in which he moves?”
Sellars paused a moment or two before he answered. He had heard a good
deal about the man, of course, but up to the present he had not taken
any particular interest in him.
“The general impression is that he is very well-off, not from his
property, because it is well-known that was so heavily encumbered by
his father that it would take more than a lifetime to redeem it. He is
supposed to have come into a fortune from a man named Clayton, whose
name he assumed, either out of compliment or because it was a condition
imposed.”
“Have you ever heard any details of this man Clayton, who was so
obliging as to leave him a fortune?”
Sellars shook his head. “None. You know how easily people swallow a
story when it is properly prepared and ladled out in a circumstantial
way. Clayton may be as much a myth as the nephew for aught we know. You
see how readily that has been accepted. You would say, at first hand,
that a man would be afraid to invent a marriage in his own family; that
there would be dozens of people who knew Archibald Brookes had no wife,
and would come forward and say so.”
“He was helped in that case by the man having cut himself adrift for
so many years, that nobody was likely to know anything about him. But
now concerning this Clayton—if we could get to know who the man was;
there is such a place as Somerset House, there are such things as wills
there. We could soon get what we wanted.”
“I’ll try my old friend at White’s,” suggested Sellars, which in a few
days he did, but not with any brilliant results. All he could learn
was that the man Clayton was a very distant connection of the Brookes
family, that he had made his money in sheep-farming in Australia.
“Obviously he knows just what Clayton-Brookes thinks it is good for him
to know,” observed the young man when he reported to Lane; “and he has
been told in order that he may communicate his knowledge to anybody who
is a bit curious. We are done, I am afraid, in that direction.”
“I agree,” was Lane’s rejoinder. “Well, the resources of civilization
are not yet exhausted, as was once remarked by a very famous man. I
must employ other methods. Now, of course, you don’t happen to know the
name of his bank?”
“No, I don’t, but I can get it like a shot. He deals with the same
bookmaker as I do, but in a much larger way. We are great pals,
my ‘bookie’ and I; I’ve done him several good turns in the way of
information about people who want to open accounts with him. He’ll tell
me for the asking.”
That was the great utility of Sellars in such a complicated business as
that of Lane’s. If he could not give you the precise information you
required, his acquaintance was so varied, his ramifications were so
wide, that he could get it for you from somebody else in a very short
time.
Within a couple of hours the detective was informed that Sir George
Clayton-Brookes banked at the Pall Mall Branch of the International
Bank.
Mr. Lane reached for his hat. “I’ll just step down to my man and put
a little inquiry through as to the gentleman’s financial status.
Fortunately for me, the sub-manager is in charge just now, and like you
and your ‘bookie,’ we are great pals. He’ll do more for me than the
manager, who is a very orthodox person and a bit of an old stick.”
The report came in double-quick time. The wealthy Sir George, who
betted high and gambled for big stakes according to general rumour,
was considered by the custodians of his money not to be good enough for
five hundred pounds.
“Another illusion shattered,” said the detective with a grim smile when
he next saw young Sellars. “This promises to be a very interesting
case. We are unearthing a few queer things, aren’t we? The Clayton
business is a myth, of course; there never was such a person, or if
there was, he never left a fortune to our friend. It is admitted that
his income from his estates is practically nil, and the evidence of
your very useful waiter confirms that. We also know that he passes off
a spurious nephew, for some sinister purpose obviously. The man is a
‘wrong-un’ and lives by his wits, that is pretty evident.”
Sellars could not help laughing. It was a bit comical to find that the
magnificent Sir George was not good enough for five hundred pounds.
Sellars’ bankers would have given him a reference for that amount, and
he lived by his wits too. But then it was in a respectable way, and he
did not invent spurious relations.
“I think we had better set about old Morrice himself next,” he said.
“What’s the odds on finding something fishy about him, in spite of his
high reputation?”
Lane smiled. “By gad, when you’ve been in this line as long as I have,
I’m hanged if you’ve got much belief left in anybody. It is marvellous
the queer things we do unearth, many of them of little actual
importance to the case, when we once start a long investigation.”
“Well, what’s the next move on the board?” queried his colleague. He
began to feel great interest in the Morrice mystery; if it went on as
it had begun, there promised to be some surprising developments.
He was not so astonished about Sir George. He was not popular, partly,
perhaps, on account of the wildness of his youth, and Sellars himself
had been repelled by the man; he had always thought there was something
a little sinister about him.
But the discovery that Mrs. Morrice, that pleasant, gracious woman who
made such an admirable hostess in the big house in Deanery Street,
was a party to such an extraordinary fraud, had fairly taken his
breath away. He recalled the old waiter’s admiration for her as a
girl, of his pity for her lonely life, his disgust with her soddened
father. She must have changed very much from the girl who lived in the
little village of Brinkstone and ate her heart out in these sordid
surroundings.
“I hardly quite know,” was Lane’s answer to the question put by his
young lieutenant. “I want thoroughly to digest all that very important
information you got for me, and make up my mind as to how we are going
to utilize it. But certainly one of the first steps is to discover
who this so-called Archie Brookes really is. It only wants two days
to Christmas; I’m not going to work on it any more till after the
holidays. Then you’ll try to get into touch, if possible, with this
woman Alma Buckley, who is a very strong link with Mrs. Morrice’s past.”
Lane was spending his Christmas in the bosom of his family. Sellars, as
became a young man of his position, was due at a smart country house.
They would meet in the New Year.
Richard Croxton passed the festive season with his kind old nurse.
Rosabelle kept up a smiling face that hid a very aching heart in
Switzerland. It was not a cheerful Christmas for any member of the
Morrice family; they missed greatly the familiar figure that had been
with them for years.