A woman's debt

by William Le Queux

The letter despatched by Mr. Lane to his lieutenant was directed to the Brinkstone Arms, Brinkstone, a small Sussex village about five miles from the sea, which Sellars had made the starting-place of his investigations.

He had chosen the place because he had learned that Brinkstone Park, situated a mile and a half from the little village, was the ancestral home of the Brookes family, of which Sir George was now the head. Acting on the assumption that the baronet stood in the relation of brother-in-law to Mrs. Morrice, he thought it probable that not only would he pick up first-hand information about the man, but might glean some equally valuable data with regard to the woman whose maiden name had been the somewhat uncommon one of Larchester.

He had only been established in his quarters a few days, but during that time fortune had favoured him, and he had picked up some very useful facts concerning both the lady and gentleman. The Brinkstone Arms, which was part public-house and part small hotel, was run by a middle-aged couple who had purchased it a few years ago, and were not likely to be deeply versed in local knowledge.

But attached to the hostelry was an ancient and very respectable-looking servitor of the name of Dobbs, who was now verging on his sixty-fifth year and had been associated with the place in various capacities from the age of fifteen. Staying guests were few and far between, but in the summer-time the pretty village of Brinkstone was a great attraction to excursionists, and in the busy season luncheons, teas and dinners were served in an attractive room which had been added on to the old-fashioned main building. In this spacious apartment Mr. Dobbs officiated as head-waiter, with a subordinate or two in the strenuous months to assist him.

This genial person, with his highly respectable appearance, his neat side-whiskers, was purely a local product. He had been born in the village, as his mother and father were before him, the latter having been an agricultural labourer, the former in domestic service, and with the exception of two excursions to London and about a dozen to Brighton and Eastbourne, he had never been farther than a few miles from Brinkstone.

Mr. Sellars posed as a literary man in search of local colour. This was not after all a very great exaggeration of the truth, as he did write a good deal in a desultory fashion. He had a nice, clear, airy bedroom which in summer would have been a delightful apartment, overlooking as it did a beautiful expanse of country, and a small but comfortably furnished sitting-room. In order to keep up his assumed character, he religiously strewed the table at judicious intervals with sheets of MS. which were in reality the opening chapters of a detective story with which he occupied himself from time to time.

He took long walks, presumably in search of the local colour he professed to be seeking. But of course the real object of his brief sojourn in this picturesque but dull little village, was to extract all the information he could from the pleasant-faced head-waiter with the neat side-whiskers.

It was an easy task. Dobbs was a genial, garrulous sort of soul with a great respect for all persons connected with the Arts. What he did not know about the local gentry for several miles round was not worth the knowing. Nearly sixty-five years of life had been passed in the close neighbourhood of Brinkstone, and there was not a piece of local gossip that was not firmly retained in his retentive memory. It was the greatest bit of luck, thought Sellars, that he should have come across the very man for his purpose, full of knowledge and ready to pour it into the ears of a listening and appreciative guest. The long winter evenings afforded an unrivalled opportunity. In this, the dull season, Mr. Dobbs descended somewhat from his exalted position of head-waiter and made himself generally useful in minor and less dignified posts. Under pressure of business, he had been known to serve occasionally in the general bar, for the contemptible failing of false pride had no place in his honest and manly nature.

Sellars used to mix the old fellow a stiff tot of whisky which he absorbed with the air of one fairly well acquainted with strong drink. It refreshed his memory while not in the least clouding his faculties. The young man heard many details of the various families in the neighbourhood in whom he was not even slightly interested. Then he got Dobbs on to the subject of Brinkstone Park and its owners by a casual observation:—

“I know Sir George Clayton-Brookes a little in London,” he said carelessly. “I understand he assumed the name of Clayton with some property he inherited. It seems a very fine place from what I can see of it from the outside. He doesn’t inhabit it now, they tell me; it’s let on a long lease to a rich retired merchant. I suppose you know all about the family?”