Mr. Brotherhood’s housekeeper, Mrs. Bramston, had something of the airs of a landlady. She spoke painfully correct English, far more terrible than the native cockney which it half revealed and half concealed. She commenced where others began, closed doors where others shut them, and recollected instead of remembering. Her final consonants were all sibilant, and seemed to form part of the succeeding word. She was a merciless and largely irrelevant talker, and the opportunity of a stranger’s visit delighted her, self-importance easily triumphing over any regret she may have felt for the apparently deceased. She had no doubt that Reeves was a reporter, but it is probable that she would have opened out quite as readily if he had announced himself as the piano-tuner.
“From the Daily Mail? To be sure, sir. I’m always fond of looking at a paper myself, and as for the Daily Telegraph, I simply revel in it. Called about poor Mr. Brotherood, I suppose; well, there isn’t much doubt what’s come to him, poor soul. … Not Mr. Brotherood at all? Don’t you delude yourself, young man; that’s him, sure enough. The police, they wanted me to go and look at the corpse; but I didn’t hardly like to; battered they say it was, something shocking. His clothes? Of course they were his clothes; you don’t think he’d want to be putting somebody else’s clothes on to commit suicide in, do you? That’s the same as he always wore; plain black coat and grey striped trousers, just the same as it was in the papers. … What tailor he went to? No, I couldn’t rightly say that; though I’ve had the folding of them many a time; very neat man he was, Mr. Brotherood, in his personal habits. Oh, I dare say there’s others as have clothes like his, only you see the way I look at it is, if the clothes were on Mr. Brotherood, then it’s Mr. Brotherood’s clothes they’ll be, that’s the way I look at it.
“A single gentleman? Yes, a single gentleman he was, single and singular, if you’ll pardon the jeu de mots. Very singular in his habits. Every Saturday off he’d go, just the same as it was in the papers, and where he went to is more than I can say, though I’ve been looking after him the best part of a year now. Every afternoon from Monday to Saturday he’d come home by the five o’clock train, and then he’d go for his round of golf, and I’d have a bit of cold supper ready for him when he came home. …
“No, I can’t say that I’ve noticed anything strange about him of late. You see, he was always a very reserved gentleman, Mr. Brotherood was; very silent, if you understand what I mean, in conversation.” (Reeves felt that this was probably a characteristic common to most of Mrs. Bramston’s interlocutors.) “Time and again he’s said to me would I mind leaving him now because he’d got a great deal to do. I recollect about a fortnight ago he did seem rather put out about not being able to find his overcoat when he went out to deliver his address to the villagers; but I found it for him. … No, it isn’t much more than two months ago since he commenced exhorting. I never could see what he did it for; not that I go to church myself, but you see the way I look at it is if people want to go to church why not let them go to church? Live and let live, that’s what I say. I shouldn’t call myself a religious woman, mind you, but I like to see everyone go their own way, and not leave tracts. Miss Frobisher she used to come here with tracts, but I said to her, ‘Miss Frobisher,’ I said, ‘you’re wasting your time leaving tracts here,’ and so she was. …
“Mad, sir? Oh dear no, not what you could call mad. Of course we all have our own little ways, haven’t we, sir? and as I was telling you, Mr. Brotherood was singular, but not demented; I should never have stopped with Mr. Brotherood had he been demented. … Suicide? Of course it was suicide; and there’s some say Mr. Marryatt won’t bury him in holy ground, don’t they? Well, you take my word for it, Mr. Brotherood wouldn’t mind about a little thing like that. Some people seem not to mind what happens to them once they’re gone: Mr. Bramston was like that, while he was spared to me; never seemed to mind if we were to take a spade and bury him in the back garden, that’s the way he looked at it. But of course, I wouldn’t have that, and he was buried properly in holy ground, Mr. Bramston was, and the minister recited the service over him beautiful. … What, must you be going already, sir? Well, I’m sure it’s been a great privilege to me to afford you information. Good morning, sir.”
This is an abridged account of the interview, but it contains all the material disclosures made by Mrs. Bramston. Reeves found himself pitying the coroner who would have to face and to stem that seething torrent of conversation. He came back to the dormy-house to find that it was already nearly time for luncheon, and Gordon was waiting for him, returned from his errand at Binver.
“Well, have you found out anything?” asked Gordon.
“Yes,” said Reeves, “I’ve found a wife for Carmichael. I’ve found a woman who could give him a stroke a hole at backchat.” And he launched into a description
