MISS ALMA BUCKLEY
Miss Alma Buckley did not seem at all anxious for that interview so
desired by young Sellars. He had written her a very polite letter,
forwarded by her obliging agent, stating that he wished to see her for
a few minutes on a private matter which it was difficult to enter into
by correspondence, and inviting her to name a day and hour suitable to
herself. He had found out that she was appearing nightly at certain
suburban music-halls, and judged from this fact that she would appoint
a morning or an afternoon.
He waited three days for an answer, but as none came, he dispatched a
second missive expressing his fear that his first had miscarried, and
begging the favour of a reply by return.
By return it came, a very brief and curt note but well-expressed,
written in the third person. “Miss Buckley has to acknowledge the
receipt of two letters from Mr. Sellars, asking for an interview on a
private matter. She has no knowledge of the writer, and before granting
his request, would like to know the nature of the business on which he
is desirous of seeing her.”
Obviously not an ill-educated person to whom the use of the third
person would have presented numerous pitfalls. Sellars did not relish
the tone of her letter at all, and did not quite know how to proceed.
He could probably gain admittance by pretending he was engaged in some
professional enterprise in which he would be glad of her co-operation.
But he would have to abandon that attitude when he got there, and
most certainly arouse her resentment by admitting that it was a
trick to enable him to steal a march upon her. He would then, in all
probability, be unceremoniously bundled out.
Miss Buckley dated her letter from No. 5 Elvenden Mansions, Kew Bridge,
evidently a block of flats. He thought the best way would be to take
direct action by calling there without preliminary announcement,
trusting to luck to find the lady at home and willing to admit him. He
arrived there about twelve o’clock on the morning of the day after that
on which he had received her somewhat brusque letter.
He thought this would be a judicious hour. Professional ladies he had
always understood were not early risers, they preferred the day to be
well-aired before they got up. In the afternoon they probably rested
to prepare themselves for the arduous duties of the evening. He found
the place quite easily—a very extensive block of flats of respectable
appearance, the rentals of which he thought would be neither cheap nor
expensive, just suitable to persons of moderate means.
Miss Buckley opened the door herself, it was very likely she did not
keep a resident servant. She was a comely, good-looking woman of an
unrefined type, looking much younger than her years, which Sellars,
piecing together the information he had gathered at Brinkstone, put in
the region of fifty. She had a very brilliant complexion, obviously the
result of very careful art. She was a trifle inclined to stoutness,
but not by any means unbecomingly so, and she had a very pleasant
expression. Perhaps she was only brusque when she took a pen in her
hand.
As she surveyed him, taking in every detail of his immaculate get up
and elegant appearance, a twinkle appeared in her rather bold, blue
eyes, and she smiled broadly.
“I don’t think you need tell me who you are,” she said in a jolly,
rather loud voice. “I’ll lay five to one to anybody who likes to take
me on that you’re Mr. Sellars.”
This was quite a breezy reception, better than the young man had hoped
for. Miss Buckley was evidently not a mincing person nor inclined to
finnicking speech.
Sellars made his best bow, removing his hat with a grace peculiarly
his own. “I compliment you on your penetration, Miss Buckley, you have
guessed at once. I ran up here on the chance of finding you in, as I
am leaving London very shortly, and I didn’t want to waste time in
needless correspondence. Now that I am here, I hope you won’t be so
cruel as to turn me away.”
The music-hall artist looked at him not unkindly, he was a very
personable young fellow, and possessed charming manners.
She opened the door a little wider. “Well, I suppose I ought to send
you to the right about, but then you’d only pester me with more of your
polite letters. So come in, and let me know what it is you want of me.”
She led the way into a very daintily-furnished little sitting-room, the
greater portion of which was taken up with a semi-grand piano on which
she, no doubt, practised the vivacious songs that found favour with her
public. A cheerful fire burned in the grate. A fair sized round table
stood in the centre, and on this was a good sized cake and a decanter
of port wine.
“I couldn’t make much of a show at breakfast this morning,” she
explained candidly to her visitor. “Some of us were keeping it up a bit
last night late. So I’m just picking a little bit now, as I don’t have
my meal till five. The profession’s very awkward for meals. Now before
you start, Mr. Sellars, try a glass of this port. I’ve had one and I’m
going to have another—doctor’s orders, you know.” She laughed her loud,
genial laugh, and again the twinkle came into the big, blue eyes.
Sellars hastened to get on friendly terms with her by cheerfully
accepting her hospitality, and found the port very excellent. It
was evident that Miss Buckley, although a very small light of the
profession, was by no means forced to practise rigid economy. All
the furniture was elegant and costly. A handsome bronze clock and
candelabra adorned the mantelshelf, which was hung with elegant
rose-pink drapery. In a word, her surroundings were much more refined
than herself.
Yes, there was no doubt she was very comfortably off. And there was
every reason she should be, he reflected. The retired builder, her
father, must have had a decent income which, no doubt, he had left
entirely to her, she was hardly ever out of an engagement, so his club
acquaintance had told him, and she would get a decent salary from her
profession, even if she was only a star of small magnitude.
When they had drunk to each other’s health, for the lady insisted upon
this ceremony being observed, Miss Buckley came to business, speaking
in a brisk tone that rather suggested the writer of the brusque letter.
“And now, Mr. Sellars, please tell me the reason that has brought you
into this remote part of the world. Judging by what I’ve seen of you so
far, I should say you were more likely to be found in Bond Street and
Piccadilly than the wilds of Kew.”
While they had been drinking their port and chatting discursively,
the keen eyes of Sellars had been taking in the details of the dainty
little apartment. Most particularly had he directed his attention to
the half-dozen photographs on the rose-pink covered mantelpiece. Two
of them he recognized at once as those of Sir George Clayton-Brookes
and young Archie Brookes. A third was that of a young girl of about
eighteen or nineteen years of age, in which he thought he could trace
some resemblance to the present handsome and dignified Mrs. Morrice.
Ah, if only his old friend Dobbs were here he could have told him at
once. One thing was very evident, there was no portrait of the Mrs.
Morrice of the present day amongst the collection.
After putting her question, Mrs. Buckley looked at the young man very
keenly while awaiting his reply. He did not answer at once, but rose
from his chair, walked to the mantelpiece, took a leisurely survey of
the photographs and then turned to the music-hall artist.
“I see you have the likenesses of two men I know a little of, Miss
Buckley, Sir George Clayton-Brookes and his nephew. I should say your
memories must often carry you back to the old days in the little
village of Brinkstone.”
In spite of the self-possession engendered by so many years of facing
big audiences, the woman could not help giving a start of surprise
which did not escape the keen eyes of Sellars.
“What in the world do you know about Brinkstone?” she asked in a hard
voice. Her jollity had gone for the moment, she was the sharp, alert
woman of the world, ready to keep a close watch on her words, more
disposed to ask questions than answer them.
Sellars left the mantelpiece and sat himself on the chair opposite her,
putting on a very ingenuous expression of countenance.
“I know rather a lot,” he said pleasantly. “Shortly before Christmas I
took a fancy to run down there, and I put in a few very agreeable days.
I was engaged on some literary work, and I found it very quiet and
peaceful. There I made the acquaintance of a very delightful old-world
sort of fellow who had seldom stirred beyond the confines of his native
village—the head waiter, as he is now, one Dobbs. I am sure you can’t
have forgotten dear old Dobbs, Miss Buckley?”
The lady breathed a little hard. He guessed that she had half a mind to
tell a lie, disclaim all knowledge of the little village of Brinkstone
and its inhabitants, but she was afraid to because she was not sure how
much he knew.
“Perhaps I have, perhaps I haven’t. And how does it concern you, Mr.
Sellars, whether I know him or not?”
But Sellars did not answer her question, he put one himself.
“The portrait of that very pretty girl—am I not right in saying it is
one of your girl friend—Lettice Larchester?”
Again he saw that she was strongly tempted to tell a lie, to give him
another name as the original of that charming picture, and that she
refrained for the same reason.
“You seem to know all my friends, apparently. Can you tell me the other
three?” she inquired in a voice of heavy sarcasm.
“I am afraid I cannot, they do not interest me in the least,” he said
easily. “Well, to resume about good old Dobbs. In the evenings when he
was clearing the dinner things, we used to have long chats together, a
drop of whisky set his tongue going nineteen to the dozen, and he told
me lots of things about Brinkstone people.”
“Must have been very interesting, I’m sure,” said the lady, with
something like a snort. She helped herself to another glass of port,
but did not offer one to Sellars.
“It was extremely interesting,” agreed Sellars in his calm, placid
way. “I don’t know when I ever listened to a more delightful recital
of village annals. I heard all about the rather lurid doings of that
remarkable family, the Brookeses, the father and the three brothers of
whom Sir George is now the sole survivor. And equally absorbing, the
history of Miss Larchester and her derelict father, and last the story
of your arrival at Brinkstone and your subsequent friendship with the
young lady in question. Old Dobbs had a great tenderness for her, he
used to grow quite lyrical in his descriptions.”
“You went down there, of course, to spy out all this,” remarked Miss
Buckley in contemptuous tones. “I take it you are really a detective,
although I must say you haven’t got the cut of one. Well, Mr. Sellars,
what is it you want with me? Please come to the point.”
“I am not exactly a detective, not professionally I mean, only just
a rather curious person. I am very anxious to know something of the
career of your pretty friend Miss Larchester, after she left the little
village.”
And then Miss Buckley spoke. It was evident she had been thinking
pretty quickly while the young man was talking, and had made up her
mind what sort of a story she was going to tell.
“I have known Sir George on and off since the Brinkstone days, he mixes
a good deal with artists; I knew his nephew through him when he brought
him over from Australia and adopted him. I met Lettice Larchester a
few times in London—they seemed to be getting poorer and poorer. Then
suddenly they drifted away and I never heard any more of her.”
Sellars was silent for a long time. “Then it comes to this,” he said
presently, “you won’t tell me anything of your old friend.”
“I have nothing to tell,” said the woman obstinately.
“You do not know whether she is dead or alive?” persisted Sellars. “And
if alive, whether she is married or single.”
Again the same obstinate answer. “I know nothing, and now, Mr. Sellars,
I think it is time to end this interview.”
The young man was chagrined at the negative result of his visit. The
only thing he was certain of was that Mrs. Morrice had certain secrets
in her past life which this woman was resolved to guard jealously. Also
she had told a deliberate lie about Archie Brookes in saying that her
acquaintance with him had dated from his arrival from Australia.
“I will trouble you no more on that subject, Miss Buckley. Are you
disposed to be more frank with me on the subject of Archie Brookes?”
She shrugged her shoulders impatiently. “My good man, will you have the
kindness to go. I know hardly anything of him except that he is Sir
George’s nephew and came over here a few years ago from Australia.”
Sellars looked her straight in the face. “And that, pardon me for my
rudeness, is not a fact. When Sir George adopted him, he took him from
your home, and at that time he was occupying a commercial post in the
City.”
And this time the shaft went home. The woman dropped her eyes, and a
tell-tale flush spread above the rouge on her painted cheek. But she
recovered herself quickly, walked to the door and flung it open. “For
the second and last time, Mr. Sellars, I request you to bring this
interview to a close.”
He moved after her, speaking as he went. “I am sorry our acquaintance
ends so abruptly. One last word—if a certain person would give you a
handsome sum to disclose what you do know about these two people, would
you be induced to speak?”
And for the last time came the defiant answer: “I should be taking your
money under false pretences. I have no information to sell.”