Detection by Gaslight by Douglas G. Greene Page A

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.
    â€œGenerally, 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.”
    â€œDo 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 heads 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 jessamine. 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.
    â€œWho is that person coming up the lane?” asked Loveday, her attention suddenly attracted