CHAPTER IX

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."