Gebb found it impossible to discover the owner of that third-class railway ticket. He went himself to Norminster to find out, if possible, to whom it had been issued, but all in vain. The station-master had taken another situation in Scotland, the ticket clerk was absent on his annual holidays, and none of the porters could remember any particular person who had gone up to London on that particular day. On the whole, circumstances seemed to be against Gebb in following this clue, and after several vain attempts he gave it up, at all events for the present This he confessed to Parge, who at once reproved him for faint-heartedness, and preached a lengthy sermon on the folly of being discouraged.
"You don't expect roast ducks to fly into your mouth, do you?" said Parge, indignantly. "Of course, it is no easy task to hunt down a criminal. We'd have all the bad 'uns in gaol if such was the case. You've only been a week looking after this ticket business, yet you shy off just because you can't find out about it straight away. You never were a detective, Absalom, and you never will be!"
"But just look here," cried the badgered Absalom. "What can I do? I've been----"
"I know where you've been--to Norminster," growled Parge, "and I know what you've done--nothing. You think I'm past work. I saw that the other day. Well, from nat'ral infirmity, or too much fat, so I am; but in nowise else, Absalom, so don't you believe it. If I was in your shoes, which I ain't, I'd write up to that station-master in Scotland, and ask him if he knows of any partic'ler person as left Norminster on that day. It ain't a big place, and if he's a sharp one he might remember."
"I've written to the station-master," cried Gebb, crossly.
"Oh, have you?" returned Parge, rather disappointed. "Then I'll be bound you don't know what you're going to do about that ticket clerk."
"Yes, I do. I'm going to wait till he comes back, and then question him at once. In about a week I'll know all those two know, though I dare say it won't be much. And look you here, Simon," cried Gebb, warming up, "it's all very well your pitching into me over this case; but is it an easy one? 'Cause if you say it is, it ain't. I never in my born days came across such a corker of a case as this one. Who would have thought that Ferris and the girl would be mixed up in it?--yet they were. And who would have thought them guilty? Everybody! And were they guilty? You know they weren't. Can you find Dean? No, you can't, though you tried yourself when his trail was still fresh. Then how the devil do you expect me to find him after all these years? It's very easy to sit in your chair and pick holes, Simon, but when you come to work the case for yourself, you'll be as up a tree as I am at this blessed moment."
"I don't deny that the case is hard, Absalom."
"Hard!" echoed Gebb, with scorn; "it's the most unnat'ral case as ever was. I've only got one blessed clue after all my hard work, and that's the railway ticket; which, so far as I can see, is about as much good as a clock would be to a baby."
"Why don't you question Mrs. Presk?"
"I have questioned her, and the servant too; and beyond the ticket, she don't know a blessed thing."
"Can't Basson help you, or Mr. Alder, or Mr. Ferris?"
"No, none of the three; they don't know who killed Miss Gilmar, and if it comes to a point, Simon, I don't see why they should know."
"It is queer that the lot of them, including the girl, should have been in Grangebury on the very night of the murder," said Parge, with a musing air.
"It's a coincidence, that's all," retorted Gebb, "and you know very well in our profession there's no end of coincidences, though if you write them in a book people tell you they're impossible. You can't accuse any one of the three of killing the old woman, as they were all in the lecture hall the whole evening. You know all about Ferris, and Miss Wedderburn; well, it couldn't have been them. Mr. Basson was lecturing; it couldn't have been him. Mr. Alder was looking after the money and the house, so as to get plenty of cash in for his friend; so it couldn't have been him. If not them, who is guilty?"
"Well, Dean must be the criminal."
"I don't believe it," replied Gebb, obstinately. "And if he is, he'll not be hanged; for old Nick himself couldn't hunt him out. By the way, Simon, what kind of a man was he to look at--to the naked eye, so to speak?"
"I don't know what he'll be like now," replied Parge, briskly; "but he was uncommonly good-looking in the dock, I can tell you. Just the man to take a woman's fancy: tall, and dark and smiling."
"Any particular mark?" asked Gebb, professionally.
"Well, he wasn't scarred or scratched in any way that I know of," replied Parge, reflectively, "but he had a frown."
"Get along! Every one's got a frown," said Gebb, in a disgusted tone.
"Not of his sort," was Parge's answer. "Since sitting here, Absalom, I've been reading a heap of books I never read before. Amongst others one called 'Redgauntlet,' by a baronet, Sir Walter Scott. Know it?"
"No, I don't. What has it got to do with Dean?"
"There was a fellow in it," said Parge, following his own reflections, "as had a horseshoe mark over his nose when he frowned. Quite queer it was."
"Must have been," said Gebb, derisively. "And has Dean a horseshoe?"
"No. But when he scowls, or frowns, like this"--here Parge made a hideous face--"he's got a queer mark, deep as a well and quite straight, between his eyebrows. I'd know him from among a thousand by it. Seems to cut his forehead in two like. If you see a man with a mark like that when he's in a rage, Absalom, just you nab him, for that's Dean."
"Stuff!" said Gebb, impatiently. "Lots of men wrinkle up into lines when they get out of temper. I've seen foreheads like Clapham Junction for lines."
"Not so deep," answered Parge, shaking his head, "and not straight down between the eyes. Most men frown in lines which run across the forehead when they raise their eyebrows like; but Dean draws everything up to a deep mark as dips just between the eyebrows and on to the nose. It's the queerest mark I ever saw; and whatever disguise he puts on he can't smooth that furrow out. A baby could tell him by it."
"Hum!" said Gebb, who had been thinking. "Now you come to talk of it, Simon, that young Ferris has a mark like that, but not very deep."
"He's young yet, Absalom; but I dare say he takes after his father. Well, all I say is that there's no other way in which you'll spot Dean. He may grow old, and white, and shaky, or he may disguise himself in all kinds of ways, but he can't rub out that brand of Cain as Nature has set on him. I said it before, and I say it again."
"I'll look round for a man of that sort," said Gebb, rising to take his leave, "but I can't say I've much hope of finding him. Dean's been lost for so long that I dare say he's lost for ever. Well, good-bye, Simon. I won't see you for a day or two. There's heaps for me to do."
"Where are you going?" grunted the fat man.
"I'm off to ask Mr. Alder to let me search in Kirkstone Hall for that confession of Miss Gilmar's. Then I'm going down there to look it up."
"That won't do any good towards finding out who killed her," said Parge, shaking his head.
"I don't know so much about that, Simon," replied Gebb, coolly. "I wouldn't be a bit surprised to find as the person who killed Kirkstone was some one quite different from those we suspect."
"It must be either Miss G. or Miss K.," said Parge, "and knowing the truth about them won't help you to spot the assassin. You look for Dean first, Absalom, and leave the confession alone for a while."
"No!" replied Gebb, obstinately. "I'll look for the confession, and fly round afterwards for Dean. You let me negotiate the job in my own way, Simon."
With this determination, of which Parge by no means approved, but was unable to hinder, Gebb went off to make his last venture in solving the mystery. By this time he was in a furious rage at his many failures, and swore under his breath that come what might he would hunt down and punish the unknown assassin of the wretched old woman who had been strangled in Paradise Row. He had three designs in his head, one of which he hoped might serve to attain the much-desired end. Firstly, he intended to search for the confession of Miss Gilmar, in the belief that it might throw some light on the later case. Secondly, he resolved to follow the clue of the railway ticket, and learn who had come up from Norminster on that fatal night to visit Miss Gilmar, since such person--on the evidence of the ticket found in the Yellow Boudoir--was undoubtedly her murderer. Thirdly, he was bent upon making another search round the pawnshops to see if any of the other jewels taken from the body had been turned into money. The appearance of the necklace was accounted for by Edith, as she had received it from the old woman before the assassin had arrived; but the rings, bracelets, and hair ornaments were still missing. Sooner or later, in order to benefit by his crime, the murderer would seek to turn them into cash when he thought the storm had blown over. Then was the time to trace and capture him.
The French have a proverb which runs in English, "that nothing is certain but the unforeseen," and certainly Gebb proved the truth of this when he arrived at Alder's lodgings. As yet the barrister, pending the administration of the estate, had not moved from his rooms in the Temple; but he intended to do so shortly, and already had engaged handsome chambers in Half-moon Street. These, however, he was never destined to occupy, for on the very day Gebb called to see him he met with an accident which seemed likely to result in his death. As one pleasure to be gained from his riches, Alder had purchased a horse, shortly after coming into his fortune, and every morning went riding in the Row. He was a good rider, but not having indulged in the exercise for some years, by reason of his impecuniosity, he had lost a portion of his skill, with the result that the horse, a fiery animal with tricks of which Alder was ignorant, bolted unexpectedly, and threw his rider against the rails. Alder fell across them with such force that he had injured his spine, and now was lying in his rooms in a crippled condition.
"Do you think he'll get over it?" asked Gebb, when Alder's servant was relating the occurrence.
"No, sir," answered the man, shaking his head. "The doctor says he's bound to die sooner or later. The spine is injured, and my poor master can't feel anything below his waist. It's death in life already, and the end is sure to come."
"Can I see him?" asked the detective, after some thought.
"No, sir; the doctor left word that he was to see no one."
With this Gebb was forced to be content; and as already he had obtained Alder's permission to search the Hall, he went away rather low-spirited. It seemed hard that the man should come to an untimely end, just when he inherited his kingdom. Moreover, he had behaved very well in defending Ferris in the face of all evidence, and releasing him from prison; therefore Gebb thought it just as well to send a line to the artist and Edith, so that they might come forward in their turn to do what they could for the man who had acted so generously towards them both.
"It's hard lines," said Gebb to himself, when he had posted his letter. "I do call it hard. Alder gained a fortune, it is true; but he lost the woman he wished to marry, and now he loses his life. It's a queer world, that gives a man a pleasure only to take it away from him again. I don't understand the workings of Providence nohow."
With this philosophical reflection, Gebb went home to make his plans before going down to Norminster the next day. He had little hope of success, however, and now that Alder was dying, he wondered, if he did capture the murderer, if the reward would be paid to him.
"Of course it will," he said to himself on reflection, "for if Alder dies. Miss Wedderburn becomes mistress of the Hall."
It was a bright and sunny day when Gebb found himself once more at Kirkstone Hall. In the sunshine the building looked grim and desolate. The smokeless chimneys, the closed doors, dusty windows, and grass-grown terraces, gave the place a forlorn and wretched aspect; and the absence of life, the silence broken only by the twittering of the birds, the neglected gardens, created, even to the detective's prosaic mind, an atmosphere of menace and dread. It looked like a place with a history; and Gebb wondered if Miss Wedderburn, on becoming its mistress, would care to inhabit it again.
"When she marries Ferris and begins a new life, I dare say she will seek some more cheerful abode," he thought, as he stood on the terrace, and looked on the silent house. "It would be foolish for a young couple to dwell with the ghosts of the past. I am not imaginative myself, but I should not care to live here; no, not if the house was given to me rent free. If I were Miss Wedderburn I'd pull it down and build a new place without a past or a ghost."
While Gebb soliloquized thus, he heard a hoarse voice in the distance, and saw Martin, spade on shoulder, passing across the lawn singing one of his gruesome songs. Evidently he had caught sight of the detective on the terrace, for not until he came towards him did he begin to sing. Then he danced grotesquely over the green turf, croaking his wild ditty, and looking a strange figure in the strong sunshine; yet not unsuited to the lonely place, with its grim associations:--
"When moon shines clear my shadow and IDance in the silver light;When moon lies hid in a cloudy skyMy shadow with her takes flight.And I remain, in the falling rain,Calling upon my shadow in vain:'Oh, shadow dear, I wait you here,Alone in the lonely night.'"
"When moon shines clear my shadow and I
Dance in the silver light;
When moon lies hid in a cloudy sky
My shadow with her takes flight.
And I remain, in the falling rain,Calling upon my shadow in vain:'Oh, shadow dear, I wait you here,
Alone in the lonely night.'"
When he came close to Gebb he stopped his song and dance suddenly, and looked inquiringly at the detective with his head on one side. "What do you want?" he croaked. "There is nothing here but death and misery."
"I've come to look at the house, Martin. Can you show me over it?"
"No, no," said the gardener, shaking his head. "I don't walk through the valley of dry bones. If you sit in the Yellow Room you hear the dead tell secrets."
"What kind of secrets?" asked Gebb, humouring him.
"How the sister killed the brother, and how she who killed them both laughed and laughed.
'But she died at last in deep despairWhen Satan caught her in his snare.'"
'But she died at last in deep despairWhen Satan caught her in his snare.'"
Gebb looked fixedly at the man. He had been in the house at the time of the Kirkstone murder, so it might be that his poor wits retained a memory of the tragedy. Was it possible that light could be thrown on its darkness by this madman? The detective asked himself that question once or twice as he listened to the poor creature rambling on, how Laura had killed her brother at the instigation of Miss Gilmar.
"And is Mr. Dean innocent?" he asked suddenly.
"God and His saints know that he had no hand in it!" cried Martin, with a remarkably sane look on his face. "A woman ruined one, a woman slew the other; and the poor soul lies in chains--in chains." And he fell to weeping, as though his heart would break with sorrow and pain.
"I wonder if this is the truth," thought Gebb. "Perhaps, after all, Laura did murder her brother, and Miss Gilmar to save her denounced Dean. But there is no sense to be got out of this lunatic; his evidence would not stand in a court of law. The only thing is to search for that confession, so the sooner I set to work the better.--Martin," he said, aloud, "can you show me over the house?"
"Not I! Not I! Ask old Jane. Come, and I'll take you to old Jane;" and shouldering his spade again, Martin walked off round the comer of the terrace, singing:--
"God it far away, alas!The Devil is beside us;And as we wander thro' the world,He is the one to guide us."He gives with grin, the wage of sin;And when the fiend hath paid us,We stand outside the gate of Hell,With Christ alone to aid us."
"God it far away, alas!
The Devil is beside us;
And as we wander thro' the world,
He is the one to guide us.
"He gives with grin, the wage of sin;
And when the fiend hath paid us,
We stand outside the gate of Hell,
With Christ alone to aid us."
Old Jane proved to be a grim and elderly female in a rusty black dress and a still rustier bonnet She came out of a side door, and wiping her hands on a coarse apron, curtsied to Gebb, while Martin, introducing the pair with a regal wave of the hand, danced off round the corner.
"What may you be pleased to want?" asked old Jane, when the scarecrow gardener had disappeared.
"I have received permission from Mr. Alder to look over the house," replied the detective, "and I wish you to show it to me."
"There ain't much to see, sir," croaked the ancient dame, "it's all dust and darkness. I doubt if my old legs would carry me over it."
"Oh, well, I can go by myself, Jane," said Gebb, cheerfully.
"Mrs. Grix, if you please!" snapped Jane, indignantly. "I only allows Miss Edith to call me by my first name. Poor pretty dear, and she's gone away for ever."
"I wouldn't be too sure of that," rejoined Gebb, dryly. "Mr. Alder has met with an accident and may die; in which case Miss Wedderburn will return here as mistress."
"Mr. Alder's ill, is he?" said Jane, in no very regretful tone, "and may die. Ah, well," with a lachrymose whine, "all flesh is grass, that it is; and if Miss Edith does come back I hope she'll shut up the Yeller Room."
"For what reason, Mrs. Grix?"
"'Cause it's haunted by spirits," replied Mrs. Grix, with a mysterious look. "I've heard the two of 'em quarrelling there."
"Which two? What two?" asked Gebb, who began to think that the old lady had been at the bottle.
"Miss Gilmar and the master; they 'aunts the Yeller Room and fights. I knows it; 'cause I sleeps here all alone, save for Martin as lives in the back part; an' I hears voices, that I do."
"I wonder you are not more afraid of that madman than of ghosts."
Mrs. Grix smiled in a cunning and significant manner. "Oh, I ain't afraid of Martin, sir; no one as knows him fears him."
"And why?" asked Gebb, sharply.
This question Mrs. Grix did not choose to hear; but mumbling and shaking her old head, hobbled along the passages in the direction of the Yellow Room. She ushered Gebb into this with a chuckle, and threw open the shutters to let the sunlight shine on the faded and time-worn decorations of the room.
"I s'pose you'll want to see this first," said Mrs. Grix; "most folks likes to see a room as a murder's been done in. There's a stain of blood over in that corner--master's blood, which Miss Gilmar would never let be wiped out I dessay master comes and looks at it, and wishes he had his body again. He was an awful bad one--and mean!" Mrs. Grix lifted up a pair of dirty and trembling hands. "They was both of 'em skinflints," said she, with a nod.
"Whom are you speaking of, Mrs. Grix?"
"Of Miss Gilmar and Mr. Kirkstone, sir."
"Did you know them?"
"Did I know them?" echoed the hag, with scorn. "Of course I knowed them; and a bad lot the pair of 'em was. They give Miss Laurer a fine time, I can tell you. I wonder she didn't go off with Mr. Dean, I do."
"Were you here when the murder took place?" asked Gebb.
"Lor' bless yer 'eart, I sawr the 'ole of it," croaked Mrs. Grix. "Master was a-lying over there with a knife in his 'eart, and Miss Gilmar, she was 'ollering for the police."
"Did Dean kill Kirkstone?"
"Ah, that's telling!" said Mrs. Grix, cunningly. "Don't you ask no questions, young man, and you won't be told no lies."
"You must tell me!" cried Gebb, seizing her by the wrist "I am from Scotland Yard--a detective." And he shook the beldame furiously.
Mrs. Grix raised a feeble wail of horror.
"Lor', you're perlice, are you?" she whimpered. "Jist let me go; I know nothin'."
"Did Laura Kirkstone kill her brother?"
"I dunno; I swear I dunno."
"Was Miss Gilmar the criminal?"
Mrs. Grix leered. "She never told me she was, sir, but she didn't carry the Yeller Room about with her for nothing."
"What do you mean?" said Gebb, releasing her.
Mrs. Grix rubbed her wrist, which had been somewhat bruised by his clasp, and leered again. "Miss Gilmar wrote it all down," she said.
"A confession?" cried the detective.
"I dunno what you call it, sir; but I know she wrote it down, 'cause she said to me, 'It'll be all right when I'm dead.' Well, she are dead," said Mrs. Grix, "and it ain't all right, unless she left the writin' behind her."
"Where is that confession?"
"I dunno. I wish I did. There's money in it. I've hunted all over the 'ouse, and I can't come across it nohow."
"Well, Mrs. Grix, what is your opinion? Was it Dean, or Miss Gilmar, or Miss Laura who killed the man?"
"You look about for the paper, lovey," said Mrs. Grix, coaxingly, "and it'll tell ye all."
"You tell me."
"But I don't know for certain."
"Never mind. What is your opinion?"
"Will ye give me money for it?"
"That depends upon your information."
"Then I shan't tell ye," cried Mrs. Grix, backing towards the door. "You can look for what she wrote. I shan't 'elp you. Keep me fro' the work-'ouse, and maybe I'll tell ye summat to make you wink; but not now, not now. Old Jane Grix ain't no fool, lovey. No, no!"
Gebb made a step forward to detain her, but Mrs. Grix hobbled through the door and vanished in the darkness as mysteriously as any of the ghosts she had been talking about. At all events, when the detective slipped out of the Yellow Room and into the twilight of the passage, his eyes were somewhat dazzled by the sunlight and glare of colour within, and he saw nothing for the moment, Mrs. Grix was quicker on her old feet than he supposed, and in some way hobbled out of sight into one of the numerous passages, so that when Gebb's eyes became accustomed to the gloom he did not know into which one she had gone. Also he heard rapidly retreating footsteps--not the heavy hobble of the old woman, but rather the light, dancing step of Martin. And as to confirm this impression he heard the hoarse voice of the gardener singing one of his wild songs:--
"Light shall come, but not from above,Joy shall come, but not from love,The glow of hell, the lust of hate,Impatiently for these I wait."
"Light shall come, but not from above,Joy shall come, but not from love,The glow of hell, the lust of hate,Impatiently for these I wait."
"Ha!" said Gebb to himself, as he hurried down the passage. "Martin has been listening. I wonder why? I don't believe he is mad, after all, for neither that old woman nor Miss Wedderburn is afraid of him. He must be feigning madness for some reason. Ha!" cried the detective with a sudden start, "can Martin be the murderer of----"
Before he could finish the sentence he heard a series of piercing shrieks from Mrs. Grix, and a hoarse growling from Martin. These noises sounded far in the distance, and Gebb ran down the passage, through the sitting-room into which he had been shown by Miss Wedderburn on the occasion of his first visit, and on to the terrace. Here he saw Mrs. Grix running from Martin, who was rushing after her with a furious face. Gebb stared, not at the terrified old woman, who was hurrying towards him with wonderful activity for one of her years, but at Martin's face. It wore a savage scowl, and there between the eyes was the deep mark spoken of by Parge.
"Dean!" cried Gebb, thunderstruck. "You are Dean!"
"Yes! yes!" screeched Mrs. Grix, getting behind Gebb, "he's Dean sure enough. He was going to kill me 'cause I wanted to tell ye."
Martin--or rather Dean--stopped when he heard his name, then turned, and leaping over the terrace ran like a hare down the avenue.
On seeing the pseudonymous gardener speeding down the avenue, Gebb lost no time, but, leaving Mrs. Grix to her rage and lamentation, vaulted over the terrace in his turn, and raced at top speed after the fugitive. The detective was lean and young, and an excellent runner, whereas Dean,aliasMartin, was old and scant of breath; so the only thing which equalized the contest was the despair which winged the feet of the wretched quarry. If Dean were caught by the bloodhound of the law, he would be shortly relegated to the prison whence he had escaped; so he flew wildly over the ground, running he knew not whither to escape the fate which awaited him. And Gebb, who personified Nemesis, followed hot-footed in his track.
The road to Norminster ran straight through the fields like a white ribbon laid upon green velvet, and the town itself was distant a mile from Kirkstone Hall. Down this, amid a cloud of white dust, Gebb saw Dean running some way ahead, and setting his elbows to his sides he followed steadily and surely, reserving his wind for the termination of the race, the result of which could only be the capture of the ragged figure now flying for dear life. Carters, and pedestrians, and labourers in the fields stared in amazement at the chase, and some, with that love of sport inherent in every breast, joined Gebb in his man-hunt. After Dean had covered a quarter of a mile he began to fail, and to zigzag in his course, bounding wildly from one side to the other, and wasting his strength in useless ways. Gebb with his shouting train drew steadily nearer, and the miserable, hunted wretch could hear their cries, and the beating of their feet on the hard white road. Still he endeavoured to shake off his pursuers and escape, for by a powerful effort he managed to run another quarter of a mile. Then age and fear and exhaustion told on his failing limbs, and with a wild cry Dean flung up his hands despairingly and fell amid puffs of dust. When Gebb arrived he was lying senseless in the middle of the highroad.
"So!" said the detective to himself, as he knelt beside the ragged creature. "I've found you at last, Mr. Dean. You know the truth of all these matters, at any rate; and in some way or another I'll force you into confessing it."
But at the present moment it seemed as though Dean would never speak again in this world, for he lay as still as any corpse, his white head and whiter face resting on Gebb's knee. The frowning mark between the eyes, by which the detective had known him, was smoothed away, and there was no expression on the blank countenance, no movement in the slack limbs. Gebb, however, knew that this apparent death was only a temporary faintness, and whipping out his brandy-flask, forced some drops of the fiery liquid between the white lips of his prisoner. While engaged in this kindly office, the labourers who had joined in the pursuit came up with much amazement expressed on their honest, sunburnt faces.
"What's the matter with Mad Martin, mister?" asked one, looking at the unconscious Dean.
"He's madder than usual, that's all," said Gebb, "and has nearly killed Mrs. Grix at the Hall yonder. I must take him to Norminster and get a doctor to look after him: he'll die here."
The detective made this artful speech with the intention of enlisting the sympathy of the bystanders, both for himself and Martin,aliasDean, as popular feeling generally inclines towards defiance of law and order. Moreover, a detective is not an admired character with the common people, and Gebb had no desire to render his task of capturing Dean more difficult than was necessary by stating his vocation; so for diplomatic reasons he spoke as above. The result justified his precaution, for the labourers were most anxious that the mad gardener--as they knew him to be--should be taken at once to Norminster and placed in charge of a medical man. A cart was coming along the road, and into this Dean was hoisted by friendly hands. Gebb having taken his seat beside him, the vehicle rolled slowly towards Norminster, while the labourers returned to their work, quite vivacious after the exciting episode which had broken the monotony of the day. Gebb, knowing what was at stake, felt thankful to get rid of them so easily.
As it was but half a mile to Norminster from the spot where Dean had fallen, the cart soon arrived there. The man himself had revived, thanks to Gebb's brandy, and sat staring straight before him in a kind of sullen stupor. He made one effort to escape when he was set down at the door of the gaol; but Gebb, with the assistance of a near policeman, soon overpowered him, and carried him within, while the carter drove off, wondering, in his slow-thinking mind, that a man brought to see a doctor should be taken to the county gaol for care. However, he had received five shillings from Gebb, so did not trouble his head about the matter, and spent most of it at the next public-house, where he narrated the episode with such additions as his drunken humour suggested.
To the governor of the gaol Gebb explained that Dean was an escaped prisoner, for whom the police had long been looking, and mentioned his own name and occupation. The result of this was that Dean was confined in a cell with a warder to watch him lest he should in his despair attempt suicide. Then Gebb repaired to an hotel and wrote to the governor of the gaol whence Dean had escaped, asking him to come down himself or send some responsible person in order to identify the prisoner. The detective also sent an urgent wire to Ferris, requesting him to visit Norminster at once on business connected with Martin; for he shrewdly suspected that the artist knew of the man's identity with Dean, and that the mention of the name would bring both Arthur and Edith immediately to Kirkstone Hall. It was shortly after midday when Gebb sent this telegram, so he quite expected that if matters stood as he imagined Ferris would come down, and not alone; for if Ferris knew that Martin was his father, Edith also must be in the secret, and, no doubt, she would accompany him. Then Gebb, who was really angry with the young couple for their many concealments, determined to have a thorough explanation of their strange behaviour. These important matters having been attended to, Gebb returned to the gaol and saw Dean; but the interview proved to be anything but a success. Whether the man was mad or not Gebb could not decide without evidence; but certainly his present sullen silence formed a strange contrast to his former excitement. He neither talked recklessly nor sang his wild songs. His limbs were at rest, and his eyes looked dull, although formerly they had been bright and glittering. With vacant gaze and a sullen expression, he sat huddled up in a corner of his cell and absolutely refused to speak or even notice his questioner. The man was thoroughly exhausted and worn out; but Gebb left the cell with the firm conviction that Dean was perfectly sane, and that his madness had been feigned to more effectually baffle dangerous inquiries. But, like the fox in the fable, for all his tricks the man had been caught at last, and Gebb wondered if, after all, he had murdered Miss Gilmar.
"Did that return third-class ticket dropped in the room at Paradise Row belong to Dean?" the detective asked himself. "I should not be surprised if it did. As Miss Wedderburn denies that it is hers, Dean, under the name of Martin, is the only person who could have used it. In that case he must have remained in London all night; for, as the crime was committed at ten o'clock, he could not have caught a return train so late to Norminster. Now, Mrs. Grix lives in the Hall, so she is the most likely person to let me know if Dean was absent on the twenty-fourth of July. I'll see her at once and get to know all I can, pending the arrival of Ferris and Miss Wedderburn. They may deny Dean's complicity in the crime, so I must be prepared to baffle them."
Having made up his mind to question Mrs. Grix, the detective, making a hurried meal, walked out to Kirkstone Hall, and arrived to find the old woman solacing herself with gin-and-water after the fatigues of the morning. She was excessively nervous when Gebb reappeared, as she was conscious she had said too much in her rage with Martin, and now guessed that she was about to be thoroughly examined touching all she knew concerning him. Mrs. Grix, to save her own skin, was quite prepared to equivocate, and Gebb guessed as much, for he went to work with her in a severe official way which frightened her considerably.
"Now, Mrs. Grix," said he, when they were comfortably established in the kitchen, "I've come to ask you a few questions."
"I don't know nothin', I don't," protested Mrs. Grix, beginning her tactics.
"You know a great deal," replied Gebb, sharply. "And if you don't answer me truthfully, I'll arrest you on suspicion and put you in gaol 'longside of Dean; so now you know."
"Lawk-a-mussy!" squealed Mrs. Grix, "have you put him in prison?"
"Yes, I have; so you tell me the truth, or I'll put you in also!"
"I'll speak out, sir," cried the old wretch, much terrified. "I don't want to go to prison. I've done nothing."
"You have spied and listened and searched," retorted Gebb, "all for the sake of gaining possession of other people's secrets and extracting blackmail when possible. Now you answer my questions, or it will be the worse for you."
"I'm willing, sir," said Mrs. Grix, meekly; "but I don't know as much as you think. I only suspects like."
"Can you tell me who killed Kirkstone?" asked the detective.
"That's one thing I don't know for certain," replied the dame; "but if you arsk me, sir, I bel've as Miss Gilmar did."
"On what grounds do you suspect her?"
"Becose she wrote out summat telling the truth and hid it; and she wouldn't have done that, unless she were guilty. Then she were in love with Mr. Dean, and Mr. Kirkstone wanted him to marry Miss Laura; so I thinks as Miss Ellen got 'em both out of the way. She was a clever one, was Miss Ellen."
"Do you know where the confession is?"
"No, I don't. Martin was always hunting for it to clear himself, but if he found it he didn't tell me."
"And Martin is Dean?"
"Yes, he is. It ain't no good tellin' lies, lovey! He is Dean!"
"I thought there was a gardener here at the time of the murder called Martin?"
"There was," replied Mrs. Grix, coolly. "And he was queer, too, I tell you; but not as queer as this Martin. I knowed he was Dean as soon as I clapped eyes on him, though he was sorely altered from the 'andsome man he was."
"Then he impersonated Martin to save himself from the police?"
"He did; he's no more mad than I am; but he thought it was safer to pretend being crazy. His songs was awful," said Mrs. Grix, shuddering.
"Did Miss Wedderburn know the truth?"
"Of course, sir! And when she knowed as I knowed, she tole me to 'old my tongue, and paid me for doing it; but she didn't give much, lovey!"
"Did Mr. Ferris know?"
"Seeing as Mr. Dean's his own born father--which I knowed fro' listening to 'm talking--he did."
"Did Dean kill Miss Gilmar?"
Mrs. Grix did not reply to this question with her former glibness. "I don't rightly know of that," she said slowly. "If he did, it wasn't here, for Miss Ellen was in London this long time."
"Was Dean ever in London while he stayed here under the name of Martin?"
"Yes, he was. And just about the time of the murder. It was in July Miss Ellen died, wasn't it?"
"It was," replied Gebb, eagerly, "on the twenty-fourth of July."
"Ah, well, I shouldn't be surprised if Dean did kill her. He was always talking of punishing her," continued Mrs. Grix, with relish; "but I didn't think he'd go so far as murder."
"What makes you think that he did?" asked Gebb.
"Why," said Mrs. Grix, nodding, "he was up in London in July, and he stayed there all night."
"On the twenty-fourth?"
"I can't be sure, sir, but it was at the end of the month. And when he came back he was queerer than ever. Oh, I dessay he went up to kill Miss Ellen," said Mrs. Grix, with conviction. "I can't swear to it, but I'm sure he did; and serve her right, too."
On concluding the examination of Mrs. Grix--which lasted some time, owing to the inherent objection of that lady to speak the truth--Gebb spent the afternoon in searching the house for Miss Gilmar's confession. By this time he had quite adopted the opinion of Mrs. Grix regarding the guilt of the former housekeeper, and, on the same authority, he was certain that she had written out and hidden away an account of her crime. The question was, where was it concealed? For the house was so large and rambling, and dusty and dusky, that Gebb almost despaired of finding the paper. At first he thought it might be hidden in the Yellow Room. In that fatal apartment the crime had been committed, and, to keep her perpetually in mind of Dean's threat against her life, the wretched woman had lived during her concealment in a precisely similar apartment, decorated and furnished in the same manner; so, seeing that she had attached such importance to it, the probability was that she had hidden the paper within its precincts. But a strict examination of floor, walls, carpet, hangings, and furniture proved that the confession was not there. Gebb was disgusted at this result and turned his attention to the rest of the house.
In the few hours he had to himself he examined nearly every room in the place, not forgetting the sleeping apartments of Dean and Mrs. Grix, which were situated in the back part of the house. He made several discoveries of more or less importance, but the object of his search he failed to find. Towards five o'clock he gave up hunting for this needle in a haystack--for the search was quite as difficult and impossible--and repaired hot and dusty to Mrs. Grix. From the old woman he obtained water to wash in, and a brush for his clothes, and afterwards she supplied him with a cold supper and beer. Just as Gebb finished this, feeling very refreshed, he heard the sound of voices, and stepped on to the terrace to find that Ferris and Edith had arrived. They both looked pale and nervous, and the grim way in which the detective eyed them inspired neither with confidence.
"We are here, you see," said Ferris, as Edith seemed unwilling to speak, "but neither Miss Wedderburn nor myself can guess the reason of your very peremptory telegram."
"I think you know the reason very well," said Gebb, grimly, "else you would not be here. However, there is no need to talk secrets in the open, so if you will come with me to the Yellow Boudoir, we can speak more at our ease--and perhaps more openly," finished the detective, with a dry cough.
Edith looked at her lover in a quick, terrified manner, but judged it wiser to make no remark, and the two meekly followed Gebb into the Yellow Room. Here they sat down side by side on the primrose-hued couch, while Gebb, after glancing outside to see that Mrs. Grix was not listening, closed and locked the door. Then he drew a chair in front of the couch, and surveyed the pair in no very friendly manner.
"Well, Miss Wedderburn and Mr. Ferris," he said, with much displeasure, "It seems I have to find out things for myself."
"What things?" asked Edith, flushing; for, not knowing the extent of Gebb's knowledge, neither she nor Ferris was prepared to speak freely.
"Things which you know. Miss Wedderburn, and about which you could have informed me. If I had known then what I know now," added Gebb, with emphasis, "I might have had less trouble and more result in this murder case."
"I don't understand you," faltered Ferris, doubtfully.
"You may understand me better when I tell you that your father is in prison again."
"My father? Dean?"
"Yes, Dean or Martin--whichever you like to call him."
"Do you mean to say that Mad Martin, the gardener, is really Mr. Dean?" said Edith, making a final attempt to baffle Gebb.
"Yes, Miss Wedderburn, I do; and why should you or Mr. Ferris there pretend ignorance of what you know to be true? I recognized Dean myself from a description given by Parge. No one can mistake that mark between the eyes when he frowns--which mark, I see, Mr. Ferris has at this moment. And to make sure that Martin is Dean, I have the evidence of Mrs. Grix."
"Mrs. Grix! Has she told you----"
"She has told me everything," interrupted Gebb; "and Dean tried to punish her for talking. Then he ran away, and I chased him into Norminster, where he now lies in gaol."
"But he is mad!" said Ferris, eagerly.
"Who is mad?" demanded Gebb, turning on him. "Your father, or Martin the gardener?"
Ferris made a despairing gesture. "Since you know so much," he said in low tones, "I admit that the two are one and the same. Martin is really my father, Marmaduke Dean, who has been concealed here; but he is insane."
"He is nothing of the sort, Mr. Ferris. His insanity was feigned for the better baffling of the police. Neither you nor Miss Wedderburn can deceive me any longer. You have kept silence, you have told untruths, and altogether have given me endless trouble, but now I must insist upon your speaking out, both of you. This time I know so much that you cannot deceive me; and I'll force you to speak."
"Suppose we refuse?" cried Edith, indignant at this rough speech.
"If you do I'll arrest you both as accessories after the fact to the murder of Miss Gilmar. Ah, you look afraid! But I know--I know. Dean murdered that woman, and you are both aware of it."
"My father is innocent!" cried Arthur, with a groan.
"If he is, what was he doing at Grangebury on the evening of the murder? Why did he stay in London all night? What was his return ticket to Norminster doing in Miss Gilmar's room at Paradise Row? The man is guilty, I tell you. Defend him if you can. Tell the truth if you dare, and for once both of you act honourably and straightforwardly."
The detective spoke with much vehemence, and rising from his seat walked rapidly up and down the room. Much as Edith resented his language, yet she was conscious that in a great measure it was deserved. For this reason she restrained her passion and spoke frankly and to the purpose.
"Mr. Gebb," she said, and the detective paused to listen, "I do not deny that much you say is true. Neither myself nor Mr. Ferris have spoken so openly as we might have done. But you must not forget that we had much that was dangerous to ourselves to conceal. If we had told you about the necklace, you might have suspected us of the crime, and it was dread of such danger which kept us silent."
"I know that you are both innocent," said Gebb, coldly. "But about Dean?"
"We did not speak of Dean--of my father--for the same reason," struck in Arthur, earnestly. "He was imprisoned for a crime which he did not commit, and you would not have had me--his own son--betray him."
"Perhaps not; it is a hard thing to ask," responded the detective. "But now that I know so much, perhaps you will tell me more, and inform me how it was that your father came here, and when it was that you first recognized him."
"Certainly," replied Arthur, with a glance at Edith for permission to speak. "I heard almost immediately about my father's escape from prison, and, knowing his hatred for Miss Gilmar, I came to Kirkstone Hall, thinking he might go there to revenge himself. However, although he had not come, Miss Gilmar, with a guilty conscience, no doubt, took fright, and went to hide herself in London. On my first visit I met Miss Wedderburn, and afterwards I frequently came to see her. One day while I was here, an old man arrived and asked to see Miss Gilmar. I saw him, and so did Miss Wedderburn; and when he heard my name, and had examined me carefully, he saluted me as his son. At first I could scarcely believe that he was my father, as I had not seen him for close on twenty years, and was too young to retain much recollection of him. But he soon proved to me that he was Marmaduke Dean, and told us how he had escaped."
"Did he come to the Hall to kill Miss Gilmar?" asked Gebb, anxiously.
"No!" said Ferris, with emphasis. "That threat was uttered only in his mad passion. All he wanted from her was proof of his innocence."
"And I wrote to her about it," said Edith, taking up the tale; "but she was afraid of Mr. Dean, and swore that he killed Mr. Kirkstone."
"Though I am certain," interposed Arthur, "that she killed him herself, and accused my father because she was jealous of his love for Laura."
"That may be," said Gebb, nodding; "but proceed with your story."
"Let me tell the rest," cried Miss Wedderburn. "Mr. Dean was so broken down and ill with the life he had led in prison, that I suggested he should stay here and let me look after him. The police had been to the Hall, and not having found him there, had left. I did not think they would come again, so I believed that Mr. Dean would be quite safe. So he stayed for a day or so, until Mrs. Grix recognized him, but I bribed her with money to silence. She suggested that for safety Mr. Dean should pretend to be Martin--a gardener not quite right in his head, who had left the Hall after the tragedy. It was twenty years since he had gone, and Mr. Dean was much altered from his former self; so in the end he adopted the name of Martin, and pretended to be mad. So now you know, Mr. Gebb, when you saw me first, the reason why I was not afraid of his madness. You thought it real; I knew it to be feigned."
"Did every one round here think he was really Martin come back?"
"Yes. But he kept within the Hall grounds, and saw few people. These left him alone because of his madness. So there is the truth, Mr. Gebb."
"Not all the truth," said Gebb, significantly. "You have not told me how he killed Miss Gilmar."
"He did not kill her!" cried Ferris, furiously.
"He did!" insisted Gebb. "He was in Grangebury on the twenty-fourth of July."
"Impossible!" said Edith, much alarmed. "I did not know that. But even if he was," she went on, "it does not prove that he killed the woman."
"It's pretty good as circumstantial evidence," said Gebb, coolly; "but I have another and stronger proof. Look here," and out of his pocket the detective took a canvas bag, which, when opened, displayed bracelets rings, and diamond stars.
"Miss Gilmar's jewels!" cried Edith, recognizing them at once.
"Yes," said Gebb, "Miss Gilmar's jewels, which I found concealed in Dean's bedroom."