FICTION.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1424, 15 June 1899, Page 8

FICTION.

(BY FERGUS HUME. Author of “The Mystery of a Hansom Cab,” “The Third Volume,” “For the Defence,” “The Lone Inn,” etc., etc.

THE LADY FROM OTHERS.

CHAPTER I. THE TRAGEDY ~OF THE STRANGE ROOM. On the night of July 24th, in the year 1896, between the hours of eleven and twelve, Granbury, a little known suburb of London, was wrapped in slumber, as became a respectable neighbourhood whose inhabitants retired regularly shortly after sunset. Not that they had done so on this particular night, for the unusual excitement of a lecture on Dickens, delivered in the tiny Town Hall, had kept them from their beds later than was customary. At a quarter to eleven, a stream of instructed pleasure seekers, discussing lecture and lecturer, filled the narrow streets; but gradually the crowd diminished until highways and byways were left deserted, save by watchful poueemen and vagrant cats. The lamps were then extinguished by order of an economical municipality, the few lights still twinkling from the upped windows of various houses disappeared, and the little town lay under moon and stars as silent and almost as lonely as the spell-bound cities in eastern fables.

Every now and then the footsteps of policemen making their rounds could be heard echoing along the streets, and sometimes an official lantern would be flasneu into dark comers to search out posible burglars or homeless beggars. But no thieves or vagabonds could be discovered ; for, on the whole, Grangebury, being a comparatively new suburb, was

free from such criminal pests, and tho police force there, under the command of Mr Inspector Lackland, had a very easy time. There was nothing on this night to indicate any ending to this Arcadian Age of security and innocence; yet, shortly after eleven o’clock a yawning policeman leaning against a convenient wall heard a word cried aloud which told him of a crime and danger. The word was “Murder.” “ . -urder • ” repeated the Constable, looking up and down the street. “Murder ! ” shrieked the voice again;

and then there came the sound of running feet, cries for help, and the quick panting of an exhausted creature. Before the poiceman could decide in which direction to move, a dishevelled woman, screaming and gesticulating, came at full speed round the comer, and almost fell into his arms. Her face was pearly white in the moonlight, her eyes were filled with terror, and an almost continuous cry issued from her open mouth without any motion of the lips. “ ’Ere !' ’ere, wot’s this ? ” said the policeman, seizing the flying creature by the arm. “Wot d’ye mean, screeching out murder like a loonatic ? Come now!” Trembling violently, the woman grappled with the policeman, shrieking the while, and evidently besicle herself with terror. Not being gifted with brains, the officer of the law shook her vigorously to brighten her intellect, and she wavered limply in his grasp like a dummy figure. “ Murder ! she whimpered, clawing and clutching at the man. “Lord! its awful ! Ugh ! Ugh ! I’ve seen her dead ! ”

“ Seen co dead ? ” demanded the policeman stolidly. “My lodger ! Dead ! Strangled ! Ugh ! Ugh ! ” cried the woman breathlessly, raising her voice higher at each word. “A corpse in the Yellow Room ! Paradise Row ! Come and see—come and—oh, poor soul ! ” and she fell to wringing her hands again, quivering and panting. .. “Wait a bit ‘ ” said the jack-in-office, bound by red-tapism, “the police station is just roun’ the corner. Kim up an’ see the Inspector.” “I—-I—l am innocent ! ” gasped the woman, hanging back.' Neither ’Tilda nor I laid a finger on her.” “0 said ye did ! ” retorted the man suspiciously ; and, for his own protection he recited air official formula, “Wot y’ say now uIT be used in hevldence agin y’, Kim up, I tell y’. And grasping her arm he hurried her fighting and crying round

the near corner, and into a red brick building, over the door of which was a lamp inscribed “Police Station.” In a stuffy room, rendered almost unbearable by the heat of the flaring gas, two men were talking earnestly together, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. The one in uniform was a burly rcd-faced martinet known in Grangebury as Inspector Lackland. He was too completely hemmed in by red tapism to count for much; but the other in plain clothes was Absolom Gebb, well-known in Scotlaud Yard as a capable detective, but not so infallible as the miracle-monger of fiction. It was Gebb who brought home the theft of Lady Daleshire’s diamonds to herself; who proved Dr Mainer to be guilty o- poisoning his wife in spite of strong evidence to the contrary; who solved nine out of every ten criminal problems submitted to him, and who was the terror of all evil-doers. This tall lean man with his clean-shaven face and black observant eyes was an enthusiastic in his profession, and loved to ponder over and follow out the intricacies of criminal mysteries. At the present moment he was conversing with Lackland about a recent Anarchist conspiracy, and therefore happened to be in the Grangebury Police Office when the zealous policeman appeared with his terrified prisoner. She cried out when she was thrust into the room, and, confronted by Inspector and Detective, covered her face with her hands. “Hey ! What !” sa Lackland, in his rasping voice. “What’s all tiffs about ? ” “ Case of murder, sir,’ ’jerked out the policeman, pushing forward the prisoner. “Paradise Row ! Woman strangled. “Murder ? ” cried Gebb, pricking up his ears at the ominous word. “Murder ! ” screeched the woman, and fell into a chair. Evidently she had received a shock, and was on the verge of hysterics, for she began to babbe and weep copiously. Accustomed to deal with this sort of emotion, Lackland seized a jug of water standing near his desk, and dashed the contents into iier face. The remedy was efficacious, for with a gasp and a shiver the woman recovered her self-control and tongue, also her inherent feminie vanity. “You brute ! ” she screamed, jumping up wrathfully. “My best bonnet’s spoiled ! ” “ Attention ! ” roared the Inspector m his sternest military manner; “none of this nonsense hero. What about this murder in ” “I didn’t kill her ! ” interrupted the woman, wiping her face. “ ’Tilda and roe know nothing about it till we found her strangled when we came back from the lecture.” “Did you attend the lecture on Dickens in the Town Hall?” asked Gebb. “Yes, I did, sir; both me and ’Tilda, who is my servant, went. “ What is your name?” asked the detective with professional sharpness. “ Maria Presk.” “ Married or single ” “ Married once, single now,” sighed tho widow. “I am what you call a widow, sir ; and I let lodgings in Paradise Row.” “ Was this dead woman a lodger of yours ? ” “ Miss Lingram, you mean? Yes, Miss Lingram was in the first floor front.” “ And who killed Miss Lingram ?” asked Gebb, looking keenly at Mrs Presk. The good lady turned even paler than before. “I—l don’t know, sir,” she stammered, with a scared look. “I can take my stand in any court of ” “ Face this way, ma’am ! ” interrupted Lackland, who was indignant at the way in which Gebb was usurping his authority. “ I’m in charge of this office. I’m the officer to take your evidence. Mr Gebb ! Discipline ! ” “All right ! Go ahead ! ” replied the detective, inwardly cursing the too methodical procedure of his superior. “I don’t want to interfere. But,” he added with emphasis, “I think we should go at once and look at the corpse.” “All in good time, Mr Gebb. More haste, less speed ! ” said Lackland, crisply.

“And the more delay, the less chance of getting at the truth,” retorted Gebb. The fact was that Gebb’s sporting instincts were aroused, and he wanted to be off on the trail while it was yet fresh. Every moment was of importance. Yet, as he was not in charge of the case, he was forced to stand by and hear the blundering inspector putting a lot of irrelevant questions—good for nothing, but wasting time. However, Gebb managed to extract some grains of wheat out of a vast quantity of chaff, and in a roundabout W ay — thanks to the Inspector’s method

of questioning—learned the following facts, which were sufficient to inform him how matters stood at present.

—ss Ligram was—or rather, had been, since she no longer existed —a lodger in the house of Mrs Presk, No. 13, Paradise Row. She was a quiet, inoffensive old lady, who gave little trouble, and who remained by preference in her own room. On cue night of the 24th July, Airs Presk and her servant, Matilda Crane, had attended a lecture delivered in the Town Hall. Tlie lecture —an amusing one on Charles Dickens and his works—had afforded them much pleasure, and they returned at eleven o’clock to Paradise Row in a state of high spirits. On passing round to the back entrance they saw that a light was still burning in Miss Ligram’s sitting-room, and, wondering at the sight —for the lodger usually retired early— Mrs Presk on entering the house had gone upstairs to see if anything was wrong. To her horror she found Miss Ligram dead, with a cord round her neck. Terrified by the sight she had called up Matilda Crane, who, more impressionable and less hardened, had promptly fainted away. Mrs Presk, a woman of energy and resource, had immediately sought the aid of the police, and now insisted that Lackland and his subordinates should remove the corpse and capture the murderer.

“ That last is easier said than done,” was Gebb’s comment on this demand. “By this time the assassin is far enough away. However, there’s no time to be lost in looking at the scene of the crime, as I suggested.”

“Quite so,” said Lackland, gruffly. “No time to waste, ma’am,” to Mrs Presk. “March ! Gebb, come with me and catch the murderer ! ”

This proposition recommending itself to Mrs Presk, she left the police office with inspector and detective, and led the pair to her house, which was situated down a side street no great distance away. As the front door was closed she conducted the men round the back way, through the kitchen, and up the stairs into Miss Ligram’s sitting-room. On the mat in the passage, ’Tilda, the servant, lay still insensible, so Mrs Presk lifted her in her strong arms and carried her to the kitchen, to be revived as speedily as possible, in case, as was almost certain, her evidence might be wanted. In the meantime Lackland and Gebb had entered the room wherein the crime had been committed, and were amazed at the splendour of the apartment. For colouring and evidence of wealth it was like a scene out of the Arabian Nights. The room was of no great size, with a window' looking out on to the street, and two doors, one leading in from a narrow passage, the other giving admittance into an inner apartment, -evidently a bedroom. The walls were draped with rich hangings of satin, yellow as a buttercup in hue, and a tent-like roof of the same tint and material was drawn in many folds to a dome-iike centre, whence depended by a brass chain an Arabian lantern studded with knobs of yellow glass, which, illuminated from within, shone like pale topaz stones. Tables, chairs, and couches were framed of gilded cane, with coverlets and quilts of yellow silk, and the ground of the carpet was of the same colour, embroidered with bunches of primrose flowers. Also there were tall narrow mirrors framed in yellow satin, clusters of daffodils in grotesque Chinese vases of a deep yellow shade, and numerous candles—all lighted—in candelabra silver gilt. Near the window, from a brass chafing-dish standing on a tripod of the same metal, curled up a thin white vapour, diffusing a heavy rich perfume, and everywhere lay nick-nacks of gold and silver more or less costly; fur mats and rugs dyed yellow, and many books covered in a homely fashion with yellow paper. The prevailing colour of the room was a violent yellow ; and this, with the glare of the candle, the glitter of the mirrors, the scent of the flowers, and the strong perfume of the incense, made the heads of the onlookers reel. Even the matter-of-fact Inspector was impressed by the uncanny magnificence of the place. “By George, sir ! ” said he to Gebb, with the instincts of an old soldier, “it’s like a Mandalay Pagoda. If ’twas in Burmah, now, shouldn’t mind looting it.” Gebb was rubbing his hands, with sparkling eyes.

“ By the sight of it,” he said joyfully, “this is going to be a romantic case. I only hope I’ll be lucky enough to get charge of it. Did you furnish this room, ma’am?” lie asked, turning sharply to Mrs Presk, whose pale grey face appeared

over the shoulder of the burly, staring inspector. “No, I didn’t,” retorted the landlady. “Miss Ligram furnished it herself, and called it her Yellow Boudoir.” (To be continued.)