Detection by Gaslight by Douglas G. Greene Page B

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.
    â€œAh, 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.”
    â€œPerhaps she gives it to charities in Brighton. There are plenty of outlets for money there.”
    â€œShe 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 would be hard to say. Where she goes to church in Brighton, no one knows. She drives over with Mrs. Turner every Sunday, but everyone knows nothing would induce her to go near the candles and images. Thomas—that’s the coachman—says he puts her down at the corner of a dirty little street in mid-Brighton, and there he picks her up again after he has fetched Mrs. Turner from her church. No, there’s something very queer in her ways.”
    Maria passed in through the lodge gates of the vicarage. She walked with her head bent, her eyes cast down to the ground.
    â€œSomething very queer in her ways,” repeated Mrs. Brown. “She never speaks to a soul unless they speak first to her, and gets by herself on every possible opportunity. Do you see that old summer-house over there in the vicarage grounds—it stands between the orchard and kitchen garden—well, every evening at sunset, out comes Maria and disappears into it, and there she stays for over an hour at a time. And what she does there goodness only knows!”
    â€œPerhaps she keeps books there, and studies.”
    â€œStudies! My daughter showed her some new books that had come down for the fifth standard the other day, and Maria turned upon her and said quite sharply that there was only one book in the whole world that people ought to study, and that book was the Bible.”
    â€œHow pretty those vicarage gardens are,” said Loveday, a little abruptly. “Does the Vicar ever allow people to see them?”
    â€œOh, yes, miss; he doesn’t at all mind people taking a walk round them. Only yesterday he said to me, ‘Mrs. Brown, if ever you feel yourself circumscribed’—yes, ‘circumscribed’ was the word—‘just walk out of your garden-gate and in at mine and enjoy yourself at your leisure among my fruit-trees.’ Not that I would like to take advantage of his kindness and make too free; but if you’d care, ma’am, to go for a walk through the grounds, I’ll go with you with pleasure. There’s a wonderful old cedar hard by the pond people have come ever so far to see.”
    â€œIt’s that old summer-house and little bit of orchard that fascinate me,” said Loveday, putting on her hat.
    â€œWe shall frighten Maria to death if she sees us so near her haunt,” said Mrs. Brown as she led the way downstairs. “This way, if you please, ma’am, the kitchen-garden leads straight into the orchard.”
    Twilight was deepening rapidly into night now. Bird notes had ceased, the whirr of insects, the croaking of a distant frog were the only sounds that broke the evening stillness.
    As Mrs. Brown swung back the gate that divided the kitchen-garden