“Mrs. Killenhall? Miss Wickham?” began Drillford, looking sharply from one to the other. “Sorry to break in on you like this, ladies, but the fact is, there has been an accident to Mr. Ashton, and I’m obliged to come and tell you about it.”
Viner, who had remained a little in the background, was watching the faces of the two to whom this initial breaking of news was made. And he saw at once that there was going to be no scene. The girl by the fire looked for an instant at the inspector with an expression of surprise, but it was not the surprise of great personal concern. As for the elder woman, after one quick glance from Drillford to Viner, whom she evidently recognized, she showed absolute self-possession.
“A bad accident?” she asked.
Drillford again looked from the elder to the younger lady.
“You’ll excuse me if I ask what relation you ladies are to Mr. Ashton?” he said with a significant glance at Mrs. Killenhall.
“None!” replied Mrs. Killenhall. “Miss Wickham is Mr. Ashton’s ward. I am Miss Wickham’s chaperon—and companion.”
“Well, ma’am,” said Drillford, “then I may tell you that my news is—just about as serious as it possibly could be, you understand.”
In the silence that followed, the girl turned toward the visitors, and Viner saw her colour change a little. And it was she who first spoke.
“Don’t be afraid to tell us,” she said. “Is Mr. Ashton dead?”
Drillford inclined his head, and spoke as he was bidden.
“I’m sorry to say he is,” he replied. “And still more to be obliged to tell you that he came to his death by violence. The truth is—”
He paused, looking from one to the other, as if to gauge the effect of his words. And again it was the girl who spoke.
“What is the truth?” she asked.
“Murder!” said Drillford. “Just that!”
Mrs. Killenhall, who had remained standing until then, suddenly sat down, with a murmur of horror. But the girl was watching the inspector steadily.
“When was this? and how, and where?” she inquired.
“A little time ago, near here,” answered Drillford. “This gentleman, Mr. Viner, a neighbour of yours, found him—dead. There’s no doubt, from what we can see, that he was murdered for the sake of robbery. And I want some information about him, about his habits and—”
Miss Wickham got up from her chair and looked meaningly at Mrs. Killenhall.
“The fact is,” she said, turning to Drillford; “strange as it may seem, neither Mrs. Killenhall nor myself know very much about Mr. Ashton.”
III
Who Was Mr. Ashton?
For the first time since they had entered the room, Drillford turned and glanced at Viner; his look indicated the idea which Miss Wickham’s last words had set up in his mind. Here was a mystery! The police instinct was aroused by it.
“You don’t know very much about Mr. Ashton?” he said, turning back to the two ladies. “Yet—you’re under his roof? This is his house, isn’t it?”
“Just so,” assented Miss Wickham. “But when I say we don’t know much, I mean what I say. Mrs. Killenhall has only known Mr. Ashton a few weeks, and until two months ago I had not seen Mr. Ashton for twelve years. Therefore, neither of us can know much about him.”
“Would you mind telling me what you do know?” asked Drillford. “We’ve got to know something—who he is, and so on.”
“All that I know is this,” replied Miss Wickham. “My father died in Australia, when I was about six years old. My mother was already dead, and my father left me in charge of Mr. Ashton. He sent me, very soon after my father’s death, to school in England, and there I remained for twelve years. About two months ago Mr. Ashton came to England, took this house, fetched me from school and got Mrs. Killenhall to look after me. Here we’ve all been ever since—and beyond that I know scarcely anything.”
Drillford looked at the elder lady.
“I know, practically, no more than Miss Wickham has told you,” said Mrs. Killenhall. “Mr. Ashton and I got in touch with each other through his advertisement in the Morning Post. We exchanged references, and I came here.”
“Ah!” said Drillford. “And—what might his references be, now?”
“To his bankers, the London and Orient, in Threadneedle Street,” answered Mrs. Killenhall promptly. “And to his solicitors, Crawle, Pawle and Rattenbury, of Bedford Bow.”
“Very satisfactory they were, no doubt, ma’am?” suggested Drillford.
Mrs. Killenhall let her eye run round the appointments of the room.
“Eminently so,” she said dryly. “Mr. Ashton was a very wealthy man.”
Drillford pulled out a pocketbook and entered the names which Mrs. Killenhall had just mentioned.
“The solicitors will be able to tell something,” he murmured as he put the book back. “We’ll communicate with them first thing in the morning. But just two questions before I go. Can you tell me anything about Mr. Ashton’s usual habits? Had he any business? What did he do with his time?”
“He was out a great deal,” said Mrs. Killenhall. “He used to go down to the City. He was often out of an evening. Once, since I came here, he was away for a week in the country—he didn’t say where. He was an active man—always in and out. But he never said much as to where he went.”
“The other question,” said Drillford, “is this: Did he carry much on him in the way of valuables or money? I mean—as a rule?”
“He wore a very fine gold watch and chain,” answered Mrs. Killenhall; “and as for money—well, he always seemed to have a lot in his purse. And he wore two diamond rings—very fine stones.”
“Just so!” murmured Drillford. “Set upon for the sake of those things,
