KIRKSTONE HALL
The day following his conversation with the little solicitor, Gebb
left Waterloo Station for Norminster in Hampshire, and arrived at that
quaint little town about midday. On making inquiries he learned that
Kirkstone Hall was a mile distant, situate amid some woods near the
banks of the Avon.
As it was a fine morning, and Gebb was fond of walking, he used his
own legs to reach his destination; and after a pleasant stroll through
rural lanes, and across flowering meadows, he reached a pair of finely
wrought iron gates which stood wide open. The gates themselves were
covered with red rust, the lodge beside them was shut up, and the
stately avenue, which curved upward between noble oak trees, was
overgrown with grass. Even on the threshold, as it were, of the
estate, Gebb espied the ruinous economy of the late Miss Gilmar.
On coming in sight of the Hall, he found the hand of Time still more
heavily laid upon the works of man. It was a quaint Jacobean building
of red brick, set upon a slight rise, and surrounded by stone
terraces. From the main body two wings spread to right and left, but
the windows of these were all closely shuttered. The hall door was
also closed, and--so far as Gebb could see--no smoke curled from the
stacks of chimneys. The terraces were grass-grown, the gardens
untended and in disorder, and the whole place had a silent, melancholy
aspect as though the soul of the house had departed. It was the palace
of the Sleeping Beauty, enchanted and spell-bound, and it seemed as
though there were a curse on the place.
"And no wonder!" said Gebb, looking at the gaunt mansion, grim even in
the sunshine, "seeing the kind of people who lived in it, and the
crimes they committed."
He ascended the steps and rang the bell, but before the sound had died
away he was aware of a brisk step approaching, and turned to see a
young lady walking along the terrace on the right.
She was tall and dark, with fine eyes and a handsome face. Her figure
was shown to perfection by the trim, tailor-made costume which she
wore. In her hand she carried a silver-headed cane, and walked smartly
towards the detective, with the air of a woman fully alive to the
importance of time. When she spoke, her voice was deep and full, but
the matter of her speech was remarkably business-like. On the whole
Gebb judged Miss Edith Wedderburn--for he guessed that this was the
young lady referred to by Prain--to be a clever, plain-spoken woman,
with few of the weaknesses of her sex to hamper what she conceived to
be her duty.
"Good day!" said the lady, with a comprehensive glance. "May I ask
what you want?"
"I wish to see Miss Wedderburn."
"Well, you see her now. I am Miss Wedderburn. Can I do anything for
you?"
"Yes," replied Gebb, becoming as curt and as business-like as herself,
"you can give me a trifle of information."
"Can I?" said Miss Wedderburn, dryly. "That entirely depends upon my
humour and what you want to know. Also, why you what to know it. Who
are you?"
"My name is Absalom Gebb."
"I am no wiser," interrupted the girl, with pointed insolence.
"Of New Scotland Yard, Detective," finished Gebb, coolly.
This time his reply made a decided impression on his hitherto cool
auditor. The rich colouring of her face vanished as by magic, and she
became pale even to the lips. Nevertheless, she forced herself to
smile with some composure, and controlled her emotion by a powerful
effort of will. Startled as she was, she even attempted to speak
lightly.
"And what does Mr. Absalom Gebb, Detective, wish with me?" she said in
a low voice, her eyes fixed on the man's face.
"He wishes to ask you a few questions," said Gebb in the same vein.
"About what? About whom?"
"About Miss Ligram."
"Ligram! I don't know the name," said Edith, calmly. "Who is Miss
Ligram?"
"The owner of this place."
"You are wrong there, Mr. Gebb; the lady who owns this place is called
Miss Gilmar."
"I am aware of the fact. But it suited her to take other names while
she lived."
"While she lived!" repeated Miss Wedderburn, raising her voice in
surprise. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that Miss Gilmar is dead!"
"Dead!"
"Murdered."
"Murdered! Oh, God! When? Where?"
"In a suburb of London called Grangebury on the twenty-fourth of last
month."
Edith looked rigidly at the detective with horror in her dark eyes,
and for the moment seemed scarcely to comprehend his news. She
appeared to be genuinely astonished and shocked; yet her next question
conveyed to Gebb a hint that she was not altogether unprepared for the
information.
"Did he kill her?" she stammered, laying her hand on Gebb's arm.
"He! Who?" asked the cunning detective, trying to trap her into a
hasty speech.
"Dean! Marmaduke Dean!" said the girl, breathlessly.
"What do you know about Marmaduke Dean?"
"Everything! No doubt I know more than you do. Have you never heard of
the murder which took place in this house?"
"In the Yellow Boudoir. Yes."
"Ah! you know the story!" cried Miss Wedderburn, suspiciously.
"I do; and I have come down to see you about it. Please take me
inside, Miss Wedderburn, and show me the Yellow Boudoir in which Dean
murdered your cousin Kirkstone."
"My cousin Kirkstone? You seem to know a great deal of our family
history, Mr. Gebb," said Edith, drawing herself up.
"I know as much as a report of the Kirkstone murder could tell me: and
as much as Prain the solicitor knows."
"You know Mr. Prain?"
"Yes! I was with him yesterday. But I'll learn no good from this
desultory conversation, Miss Wedderburn. Please take me indoors and we
can discuss the matter quietly. I am the detective in charge of the
case, so you need have no hesitation in telling me all you know."
"I know nothing!" cried Edith, vehemently, "nothing!"
"It is for me to judge of that," retorted Gebb, dryly.
The keen look he gave her, and the significance of his tone and words,
seemed to startle the girl. She glanced defiantly at his watchful
face, and strove to match his gaze with a steady look of her own; but
whether from fear or modesty, her eyes fell, and she turned away to
obey his request and lead him within doors. Gebb followed her in
silence along the terrace and round the corner of the house, until
they both paused before an open French window which led into a
pleasant, sunny apartment of no great size. Before entering, Edith,
who had evidently been considering his last speech, turned to excuse
herself.
"Mr. Gebb," she said, with an air of great dignity, "your words seem
to imply that I know more than I dare tell. I assure you that such a
suspicion is unjust and unfounded. The intelligence of Miss Gilmar's
death is terrible and unexpected to me; and any aid I can give you to
bring the assassin to justice you shall have. Whatever questions you
ask me I will answer; whatever you desire to see in this house I will
show you; but in justice to myself, I must ask you not to credit me
with guilty knowledge."
"My dear young lady, I am the last person in the world to do so," said
Gebb, quickly. "I do not for a moment suppose that you know anything
of your cousin's unhappy death. I disclaim the sentiments with which
you credit me; and I must admit that there is no necessity for you to
exculpate yourself as you are doing."
"I am not exculpating myself in the least," rejoined Miss Wedderburn,
coldly, "but you detectives seem to be so suspicious that you see ill
where none exists."
Gebb laughed. "You have been reading detective novels," said he,
indulgently; "believe me, we detectives are not so black as the
novelists paint us. But, as I said before, this desultory conversation
is not useful. I would rather see the Yellow Boudoir."
Edith nodded, and led the way into the house. Gebb followed her
through the sitting-room, which faced the terrace, and down a wide
passage, on the wall of which hung many pictures, mostly ancestral
portraits. At the end of this passage his guide unlocked a door, with
a key selected from a bunch which dangled at her girdle, and threw it
open, so that Gebb could pass into the room before her. He did so
without hesitation.
"This is the Yellow Boudoir," said Miss Wedderburn, following the
detective; "it was in this room that the unfortunate Mr. Kirkstone was
killed twenty years ago."
"By Dean!"
"Not by Dean," replied Miss Wedderburn, sharply. "From all I have
heard. Dean is as innocent of that crime as you are."
"Then who is guilty?" asked Gebb, artfully.
"I am not a detective," said Edith, moving towards the window, "so I
cannot give you an opinion. If you will permit me I will admit air and
light so that you can see the room to its fullest advantage."
When they entered, the boudoir had been in a kind of semi-darkness, as
the shutters of the one window were closed; but now Miss Wedderburn
threw these open, and the sunlight poured in. The dust raised by their
feet danced in motes and specs in the sun's rays, and Gebb, dazzled by
the strong glare, felt his eyes somewhat painful. However, they soon
became habituated to the flood of glorious light, and he looked with
deep interest at the original of the room which he had seen in
Paradise Row.
The apartment was larger than that which had been occupied by Miss
Gilmar in Grangebury, but in every respect the furnishing and
appointments were the same, as she had carried out her whim with the
utmost care. The furniture, in place of being cane, was Chippendale;
the window and door were differently placed; and the colouring of the
whole room was more subdued and mellowed by Time. But the
predominating hue was the same--the carpet was yellow, sprinkled with
bunches of pale primrose flowers, the walls were draped with costly
hangings of golden tint, and, from a domed ceiling of drawn silk
depended an exact copy of the Arabian lamp studded with knobs of
yellow glass. The furniture was cushioned and covered with yellow
silk; the vases and metal-work were of brass; there was even a brazen
tripod and chafing dish standing in the same position as its imitation
had occupied in Paradise Row. The main difference in the room lay in
the absence of books, knickknacks, flowers and magazines, which showed
that it was not in daily use; otherwise all was the same. Gebb almost
fancied that some genii of the lamp had transported the Grangebury
palace to Norminster.
"It is just the same," he said aloud, having taken in these details.
"What is the same?" asked Miss Wedderburn, who was standing near the
window.
"This room. It is similar to that in which Miss Lig--I mean in which
Miss Gilmar was murdered."
The girl looked puzzled. "You are making a mistake," she said. "It was
Kirkstone who was killed here, not Miss Gilmar."
"Oh, but I am referring to the room at Grangebury," returned Gebb,
quickly.
"Miss Gilmar's lodgings, you mean?" asked Edith, still perplexed.
"Yes. Her room was furnished like this."
"Impossible. From what I knew of my cousin she would not have spent
the money in furnishing a costly room."
"Nevertheless she did," replied Gebb, coolly. "Of course the imitation
was somewhat gimcrack, and done on a cheap scale; but, for all that, I
assure you the resemblance between the original and the copy is
marvellous."
"Strange!" muttered Edith, sitting down on a primrose-hued couch. "I
wonder why Ellen---- Tell me all about this terrible murder," she
broke off; "all---from the beginning."