It was towards noon of the very next day that Bryce made a forward step in the matter of solving the problem of Richard Jenkins and his tomb in Paradise. Ever since his return from Barthorpe he had been making attempts to get at the true meaning of this mystery. He had paid so many visits to the Cathedral Library that Ambrose Campany had asked him jestingly if he was going in for archaeology; Bryce had replied that having nothing to do just then he saw no reason why he shouldn't improve his knowledge of the antiquities of Wrychester. But he was scrupulously careful not to let the librarian know the real object of his prying and peeping into the old books and documents. Campany, as Bryce was very well aware, was a walking encyclopaedia of information about Wrychester Cathedral: he was, in fact, at that time, engaged in completing a history of it. And it was through that history that Bryce accidentally got his precious information. For on the day following the interview with Mary Bewery and Ransford, Bryce being in the library was treated by Campany to an inspection of certain drawings which the librarian had made for illustrating his work-drawings, most of them, of old brasses, coats of arms, and the like,—And at the foot of one of these, a drawing of a shield on which was sculptured three crows, Bryce saw the name Richard Jenkins, armiger. It was all he could do to repress a start and to check his tongue. But Campany, knowing nothing, quickly gave him the information he wanted.
“All these drawings,” he said, “are of old things in and about the Cathedral. Some of them, like that, for instance, that Jenkins shield, are of ornamentations on tombs which are so old that the inscriptions have completely disappeared—tombs in the Cloisters, and in Paradise. Some of those tombs can only be identified by these sculptures and ornaments.”
“How do you know, for instance, that any particular tomb or monument is, we'll say, Jenkins's?” asked Bryce, feeling that he was on safe ground. “Must be a matter of doubt if there's no inscription left, isn't it?”
“No!” replied Campany. “No doubt at all. In that particular case, there's no doubt that a certain tomb out there in the corner of Paradise, near the east wall of the south porch, is that of one Richard Jenkins, because it bears his coat-of-arms, which, as you see, bore these birds—intended either as crows or ravens. The inscription's clean gone from that tomb—which is why it isn't particularized in that chart of burials in Paradise—the man who prepared that chart didn't know how to trace things as we do nowadays. Richard Jenkins was, as you may guess, a Welshman, who settled here in Wrychester in the seventeenth century: he left some money to St. Hedwige's Church, outside the walls, but he was buried here. There are more instances—look at this, now—this coat-of-arms—that's the only means there is of identifying another tomb in Paradise—that of Gervase Tyrrwhit. You see his armorial bearings in this drawing? Now those—”
Bryce let the librarian go on talking and explaining, and heard all he had to say as a man hears things in a dream—what was really active in his own mind was joy at this unexpected stroke of luck: he himself might have searched for many a year and never found the last resting-place of Richard Jenkins. And when, soon after the great clock of the Cathedral had struck the hour of noon, he left Campany and quitted the Library, he walked over to Paradise and plunged in amongst its yews and cypresses, intent on seeing the Jenkins tomb for himself. No one could suspect anything from merely seeing him there, and all he wanted was one glance at the ancient monument.
But Bryce was not to give even one look at Richard Jenkins's tomb that day, nor the next, nor for many days—death met him in another form before he had taken many steps in the quiet enclosure where so much of Wrychester mortality lay sleeping.
From over the topmost branches of the old yew trees a great shaft of noontide sunlight fell full on a patch of the grey walls of the high-roofed nave. At the foot of it, his back comfortably planted against the angle of a projecting buttress, sat a man, evidently fast asleep in the warmth of those powerful rays. His head leaned down and forward over his chest, his hands were folded across his waist, his whole attitude was that of a man who, having eaten and drunken in the open air, has dropped off to sleep. That he had so dropped off while in the very act of smoking was evident from the presence of a short, well-blackened clay pipe which had fallen from his lips and lay in the grass beside him. Near the pipe, spread on a coloured handkerchief, were the remains of his dinner—Bryce's quick eye noticed fragments of bread, cheese, onions. And close by stood one of those tin bottles in which labouring men carry their drink; its cork, tied to the neck by a piece of string, dangled against the side. A few yards away, a mass of fallen rubbish and a shovel and wheelbarrow showed at what the sleeper had been working when his dinner-hour and time for rest had arrived.
Something unusual, something curiously noticeable—yet he could not exactly tell what—made Bryce go closer to the sleeping man. There was a strange stillness about him—a rigidity which seemed to suggest something more than sleep. And suddenly, with a stifled exclamation, he bent forward and lifted one of the folded hands. It dropped like a leaden weight when Bryce released it, and he pushed back the man's face and looked searchingly into it. And in that instant he knew that for the second time within a fortnight he had found a dead man in Wrychester Paradise.
There was no doubt whatever that the man was dead. His hands and body were warm enough—but there was not a flicker of breath; he was as dead as any of the folk who lay six feet beneath the old gravestones around him. And Bryce's practised touch and eye knew that he was only just dead—and that he had died in his sleep. Everything there pointed unmistakably to what had happened. The man had eaten his frugal dinner, washed it down from his tin bottle, lighted his pipe, leaned back in the warm sunlight, dropped asleep—and died as quietly as a child taken from its play to its slumbers.
After one more careful look, Bryce turned and made through the trees to the path which crossed the old graveyard. And there, going leisurely home to lunch, was Dick Bewery, who glanced at the young doctor inquisitively.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed with the freedom of youth towards something not much older. “You there? Anything on?”
Then he looked more clearly, seeing Bryce to be pale and excited. Bryce laid a hand on the lad's arm.
“Look here!” he said. “There's something wrong—again!—in here. Run down to the police-station—get hold of Mitchington—quietly, you understand!—bring him here at once. If he's not there, bring somebody else—any of the police. But—say nothing to anybody but them.”
Dick gave him another swift look, turned, and ran. And Bryce went back to the dead man—and picked up the tin bottle, and making a cup of his left hand poured out a trickle of the contents. Cold tea!—and, as far as he could judge, nothing else. He put the tip of his little finger into the weak-looking stuff, and tasted—it tasted of nothing but a super-abundance of sugar.
He stood there, watching the dead man until the sound of footsteps behind him gave warning of the return of Dick Bewery, who, in another minute, hurried through the bushes, followed by Mitchington. The boy stared in silence at the still figure, but the inspector, after a hasty glance, turned a horrified face on Bryce.
“Good Lord!” he gasped. “It's Collishaw!”
Bryce for the moment failed to comprehend this, and Mitchington shook his head.
“Collishaw!” he repeated. “Collishaw, you know! The man I told you about yesterday afternoon. The man that said—”
Mitchington suddenly checked himself, with a glance at Dick Bewery.
“I remember—now,” said Bryce. “The mason's labourer! So—this is the man, eh? Well, Mitchington, he's dead!—I found him dead, just now. I should say he'd been dead five to ten minutes—not more. You'd better get help—and I'd like another medical man to see him before he's removed.”
Mitchington looked again at Dick.
“Perhaps you'd fetch Dr. Ransford, Mr—Richard?” he asked. “He's nearest.”
“Dr. Ransford's not at home,” said Dick. “He went to Highminster—some County Council business or other—at ten this morning, and he won't be back until four—I happen to know that. Shall I run for Dr. Coates?”
“If you wouldn't mind,” said Mitchington, “and as it's close by, drop in at the station again and tell the sergeant to come here with a couple of men. I say!” he went on, when the boy had hurried off, “this is a queer business, Dr. Bryce! What do you think?”
“I think this,” answered Bryce. “That man!—look at him!—a strong, healthy-looking fellow, in the very prime of life—that man has met his death by foul means. You take particular care of those dinner things of his—the remains of his dinner, every scrap—and of that tin bottle. That, especially. Take all these things yourself, Mitchington, and lock them up—they'll be wanted for examination.”
Mitchington glanced at the simple matters which Bryce indicated. And suddenly he turned a half-frightened glance on his companion.
“You don't mean to say that—that you suspect he's been poisoned?” he asked. “Good Lord, if that is so—”
“I don't think you'll find that there's much doubt about it,” answered Bryce. “But that's a point that will soon be settled. You'd better tell the Coroner at once, Mitchington, and he'll issue a formal order to Dr. Coates to make a post-mortem. And,” he added significantly, “I shall be surprised if it isn't as I say—poison!”
“If that's so,” observed Mitchington, with a grim shake of his head, “if that really is so, then I know what I shall think! This!” he went on, pointing to the dead man, “this is—a sort of sequel to the other affair. There's been something in what the poor chap said—he did know something against somebody, and that somebody's got to hear of it—and silenced him. But, Lord, doctor, how can it have been done?”
“I can see how it can have been done, easy enough,” said Bryce. “This man has evidently been at work here, by himself, all the morning. He of course brought his dinner with him. He no doubt put his basket and his bottle down somewhere, while he did his work. What easier than for some one to approach through these trees and shrubs while the man's back was turned, or he was busy round one of these corners, and put some deadly poison into that bottle? Nothing!”
“Well,” remarked Mitchington, “if that's so, it proves something else—to my mind.”
“What!” asked Bryce.
“Why, that whoever it was who did it was somebody who had a knowledge of poison!” answered Mitchington. “And I should say there aren't many people in Wrychester who have such knowledge outside yourselves and the chemists. It's a black business, this!”
Bryce nodded silently. He waited until Dr. Coates, an elderly man who was the leading practitioner in the town, arrived, and to him he gave a careful account of his discovery. And after the police had taken the body away, and he had accompanied Mitchington to the police-station and seen the tin bottle and the remains of Collishaw's dinner safely locked up, he went home to lunch, and to wonder at this strange development. The inspector was doubtless right in saying that Collishaw had been done to death by somebody who wanted to silence him—but who could that somebody be? Bryce's thoughts immediately turned to the fact that Ransford had overheard all that Mitchington had said, in that very room in which he, Bryce, was then lunching—Ransford! Was it possible that Ransford had realized a danger in Collishaw's knowledge, and had—
He was interrupted at this stage by Mitchington, who came hurriedly in with a scared face.
“I say, I say!” he whispered as soon as Bryce's landlady had shut the door on them. “Here's a fine business! I've heard something—something I can hardly credit—but it's true. I've been to tell Collishaw's family what's happened. And—I'm fairly dazed by it—yet it's there—it is so!”
“What's so?” demanded Bryce. “What is it that's true?”
Mitchington bent closer over the table.
“Dr. Ransford was fetched to Collishaw's cottage at six o'clock this morning!” he said. “It seems that Collishaw's wife has been in a poor way about her health of late, and Dr. Ransford has attended her, off and on. She had some sort of a seizure this morning—early—and Ransford was sent for. He was there some little time—and I've heard some queer things.”
“What sort of queer things?” demanded Bryce. “Don't be afraid of speaking out, man!—there's no one to hear but myself.”
“Well, things that look suspicious, on the face of it,” continued Mitchington, who was obviously much upset. “As you'll acknowledge when you hear them. I got my information from the next-door neighbour, Mrs. Batts. Mrs. Batts says that when Ransford—who'd been fetched by Mrs. Batts's eldest lad—came to Collishaw's house, Collishaw was putting up his dinner to take to his work—”
“What on earth made Mrs. Batts tell you that?” interrupted Bryce.
“Oh, well, to tell you the truth, I put a few questions to her as to what went on while Ransford was in the house,” answered Mitchington. “When I'd once found that he had been there, you know, I naturally wanted to know all I could.”
“Well?” asked Bryce.
“Collishaw, I say, was putting up his dinner to take to his work,” continued Mitchington. “Mrs. Batts was doing a thing or two about the house. Ransford went upstairs to see Mrs. Collishaw. After a while he came down and said he would have to remain a little. Collishaw went up to speak to his wife before going out. And then Ransford asked Mrs. Batts for something—I forget what—some small matter which the Collishaw's hadn't got and she had, and she went next door to fetch it. Therefore—do you see?—Ransford was left alone with—Collishaw's tin bottle!”
Bryce, who had been listening attentively, looked steadily at the inspector.
“You're suspecting Ransford already!” he said.
Mitchington shook his head.
“What's it look like?” he answered, almost appealingly. “I put it to you, now!—what does it look like? Here's this man been poisoned without a doubt—I'm certain of it. And—there were those rumours—it's idle to deny that they centred in Ransford. And—this morning Ransford had the chance!”
“That's arguing that Ransford purposely carried a dose of poison to put into Collishaw's tin bottle!” said Bryce half-sneeringly. “Not very probable, you know, Mitchington.”
Mitchington spread out his hands.
“Well, there it is!” he said. “As I say, there's no denying the suspicious look of it. If I were only certain that those rumours about what Collishaw hinted he could say had got to Ransford's ears!—why, then—”
“What's being done about that post-mortem?” asked Bryce.
“Dr. Coates and Dr. Everest are going to do it this afternoon,” replied Mitchington. “The Coroner went to them at once, as soon as I told him.”
“They'll probably have to call in an expert from London,” said Bryce. “However, you can't do anything definite, you know, until the result's known. Don't say anything of this to anybody. I'll drop in at your place later and hear if Coates can say anything really certain.”
Mitchington went away, and Bryce spent the rest of the afternoon wondering, speculating and scheming. If Ransford had really got rid of this man who knew something—why, then, it was certainly Ransford who killed Braden.
He went round to the police-station at five o'clock. Mitchington drew him aside.
“Coates says there's no doubt about it!” he whispered. “Poisoned! Hydrocyanic acid!”
Mitchington stepped aside into a private room, motioning Bryce to follow him. He carefully closed the door, and looking significantly at his companion, repeated his last words, with a shake of the head.
“Poisoned!—without the very least doubt,” he whispered. “Hydrocyanic acid—which, I understand, is the same thing as what's commonly called prussic acid. They say then hadn't the least difficulty in finding that out! so there you are.”
“That's what Coates has told you, of course?” asked Bryce. “After the autopsy?”
“Both of 'em told me—Coates, and Everest, who helped him,” replied Mitchington. “They said it was obvious from the very start. And—I say!”
“Well?” said Bryce.
“It wasn't in that tin bottle, anyway,” remarked Mitchington, who was evidently greatly weighted with mystery.
“No!—of course it wasn't!” affirmed Bryce. “Good Heavens, man—I know that!”
“How do you know?” asked Mitchington.
“Because I poured a few drops from that bottle into my hand when I first found Collishaw and tasted the stuff,” answered Bryce readily. “Cold tea! with too much sugar in it. There was no H.C.N. in that besides, wherever it is, there's always a smell stronger or fainter—of bitter almonds. There was none about that bottle.”
“Yet you were very anxious that we should take care of the bottle?” observed Mitchington.
“Of course!—because I suspected the use of some much rarer poison than that,” retorted Bryce. “Pooh!—it's a clumsy way of poisoning anybody!—quick though it is.”
“Well, there's where it is!” said Mitchington. “That'll be the medical evidence at the inquest, anyway. That's how it was done. And the question now is—”
“Who did it?” interrupted Bryce. “Precisely! Well—I'll say this much at once, Mitchington. Whoever did it was either a big bungler—or damned clever! That's what I say!”
“I don't understand you,” said Mitchington.
“Plain enough—my meaning,” replied Bryce, smiling. “To finish anybody with that stuff is easy enough—but no poison is more easily detected. It's an amateurish way of poisoning anybody—unless you can do it in such a fashion that no suspicion can attach you to. And in this case it's here—whoever administered that poison to Collishaw must have been certain—absolutely certain, mind you!—that it was impossible for any one to find out that he'd done so. Therefore, I say what I said—the man must be damned clever. Otherwise, he'd be found out pretty quick. And all that puzzles me is—how was it administered?”
“How much would kill anybody—pretty quick?” asked Mitchington.
“How much? One drop would cause instantaneous death!” answered Bryce. “Cause paralysis of the heart, there and then, instantly!”
Mitchington remained silent awhile, looking meditatively at Bryce. Then he turned to a locked drawer, produced a key, and took something out of the drawer—a small object, wrapped in paper.
“I'm telling you a good deal, doctor,” he said. “But as you know so much already, I'll tell you a bit more. Look at this!”
He opened his hand and showed Bryce a small cardboard pill-box, across the face of which a few words were written—One after meals—Mr. Collishaw.
“Whose handwriting's that?” demanded Mitchington.
Bryce looked closer, and started.
“Ransford's!” he muttered. “Ransford—of course!”
“That box was in Collishaw's waistcoat pocket,” said Mitchington. “There are pills inside it, now. See!” He took off the lid of the box and revealed four sugar-coated pills. “It wouldn't hold more than six, this,” he observed.
Bryce extracted a pill and put his nose to it, after scratching a little of the sugar coating away.
“Mere digestive pills,” he announced.
“Could—it!—have been given in one of these?” asked Mitchington.
“Possible,” replied Bryce. He stood thinking for a moment. “Have you shown those things to Coates and Everest?” he asked at last.
“Not yet,” replied Mitchington. “I wanted to find out, first, if Ransford gave this box to Collishaw, and when. I'm going to Collishaw's house presently—I've certain inquiries to make. His widow'll know about these pills.”
“You're suspecting Ransford,” said Bryce. “That's certain!”
Mitchington carefully put away the pill-box and relocked the drawer.
“I've got some decidedly uncomfortable ideas—which I'd much rather not have—about Dr. Ransford,” he said. “When one thing seems to fit into another, what is one to think. If I were certain that that rumour which spread, about Collishaw's knowledge of something—you know, had got to Ransford's ears—why, I should say it looked very much as if Ransford wanted to stop Collishaw's tongue for good before it could say more—and next time, perhaps, something definite. If men once begin to hint that they know something, they don't stop at hinting. Collishaw might have spoken plainly before long—to us!”
Bryce asked a question about the holding of the inquest and went away. And after thinking things over, he turned in the direction of the Cathedral, and made his way through the Cloisters to the Close. He was going to make another move in his own game, while there was a good chance. Everything at this juncture was throwing excellent cards into his hand—he would be foolish, he thought, not to play them to advantage. And so he made straight for Ransford's house, and before he reached it, met Ransford and Mary Bewery, who were crossing the Close from another point, on their way from the railway station, whither Mary had gone especially to meet her guardian. They were in such deep conversation that Bryce was close upon them before they observed his presence. When Ransford saw his late assistant, he scowled unconsciously—Bryce, and the interview of the previous afternoon, had been much in his thoughts all day, and he had an uneasy feeling that Bryce was playing some game. Bryce was quick to see that scowl—and to observe the sudden start which Mary could not repress—and he was just as quick to speak.
“I was going to your house, Dr. Ransford,” he remarked quietly. “I don't want to force my presence on you, now or at any time—but I think you'd better give me a few minutes.”
They were at Ransford's garden gate by that time, and Ransford flung it open and motioned Bryce to follow. He led the way into the dining-room, closed the door on the three, and looked at Bryce. Bryce took the glance as a question, and put another, in words.
“You've heard of what's happened during the day?” he said.
“About Collishaw—yes,” answered Ransford. “Miss Bewery has just told me—what her brother told her. What of it?”
“I have just come from the police-station,” said Bryce. “Coates and Everest have carried out an autopsy this afternoon. Mitchington told me the result.”
“Well?” demanded Ransford, with no attempt to conceal his impatience. “And what then?”
“Collishaw was poisoned,” replied Bryce, watching Ransford with a closeness which Mary did not fail to observe. “H.C.N. No doubt at all about it.”
“Well—and what then?” asked Ransford, still more impatiently. “To be explicit—what's all this to do with me?”
“I came here to do you a service,” answered Bryce. “Whether you like to take it or not is your look-out. You may as well know it you're in danger. Collishaw is the man who hinted—as you heard yesterday in my rooms—that he could say something definite about the Braden affair—if he liked.”
“Well?” said Ransford.
“It's known—to the police—that you were at Collishaw's house early this morning,” said Bryce. “Mitchington knows it.”
Ransford laughed.
“Does Mitchington know that I overheard what he said to you, yesterday afternoon?” he inquired.
“No, he doesn't,” answered Bryce. “He couldn't possibly know unless I told him. I haven't told him—I'm not going to tell him. But—he's suspicious already.”
“Of me, of course,” suggested Ransford, with another laugh. He took a turn across the room and suddenly faced round on Bryce, who had remained standing near the door. “Do you really mean to tell me that Mitchington is such a fool as to believe that I would poison a poor working man—and in that clumsy fashion?” he burst out. “Of course you don't.”
“I never said I did,” answered Bryce. “I'm only telling you what Mitchington thinks his grounds for suspecting. He confided in me because—well, it was I who found Collishaw. Mitchington is in possession of a box of digestive pills which you evidently gave Collishaw.”
“Bah!” exclaimed Ransford. “The man's a fool! Let him come and talk to me.”
“He won't do that—yet,” said Bryce. “But—I'm afraid he'll bring all this out at the inquest. The fact is—he's suspicious—what with one thing or another—about the former affair. He thinks you concealed the truth—whatever it may be—as regards any knowledge of Braden which you may or mayn't have.”
“I'll tell you what it is!” said Ransford suddenly. “It just comes to this—I'm suspected of having had a hand—the hand, if you like!—in Braden's death, and now of getting rid of Collishaw because Collishaw could prove that I had that hand. That's about it!”
“A clear way of putting it, certainly,” assented Bryce. “But—there's a very clear way, too, of dissipating any such ideas.”
“What way?” demanded Ransford.
“If you do know anything about the Braden affair—why not reveal it, and be done with the whole thing,” suggested Bryce. “That would finish matters.”
Ransford took a long, silent look at his questioner. And Bryce looked steadily back—and Mary Bewery anxiously watched both men.
“That's my business,” said Ransford at last. “I'm neither to be coerced, bullied, or cajoled. I'm obliged to you for giving me a hint of my—danger, I suppose! And—I don't propose to say any more.”
“Neither do I,” said Bryce. “I only came to tell you.”
And therewith, having successfully done all that he wanted to do, he walked out of the room and the house, and Ransford, standing in the window, his hands thrust in his pockets, watched him go away across the Close.
“Guardian!” said Mary softly.
Ransford turned sharply.
“Wouldn't it be best,” she continued, speaking nervously, “if—if you do know anything about that unfortunate man—if you told it? Why have this suspicion fastening itself on you? You!”
Ransford made an effort to calm himself. He was furiously angry—angry with Bryce, angry with Mitchington, angry with the cloud of foolishness and stupidity that seemed to be gathering.
“Why should I—supposing that I do know something, which I don't admit—why should I allow myself to be coerced and frightened by these fools?” he asked. “No man can prevent suspicion falling on him—it's my bad luck in this instance. Why should I rush to the police-station and say, 'Here—I'll blurt out all I know—everything!' Why?”
“Wouldn't that be better than knowing that people are saying things?” she asked.
“As to that,” replied Ransford, “you can't prevent people saying things—especially in a town like this. If it hadn't been for the unfortunate fact that Braden came to the surgery door, nothing would have been said. But what of that?—I have known hundreds of men in my time—aye, and forgotten them! No!—I am not going to fall a victim to this device—it all springs out of curiosity. As to this last affair—it's all nonsense!”
“But—if the man was really poisoned?” suggested Mary.
“Let the police find the poisoner!” said Ransford, with a grim smile. “That's their job.”
Mary said nothing for a moment, and Ransford moved restlessly about the room.
“I don't trust that fellow Bryce,” he said suddenly. “He's up to something. I don't forget what he said when I bundled him out that morning.”
“What?” she asked.
“That he would be a bad enemy,” answered Ransford. “He's posing now as a friend—but a man's never to be so much suspected as when he comes doing what you may call unnecessary acts of friendship. I'd rather that anybody was mixed up in my affairs—your affairs—than Pemberton Bryce!”
“So would I!” she said. “But—”
She paused there a moment and then looked appealingly at Ransford.
“I do wish you'd tell me—what you promised to tell me,” she said. “You know what I mean—about me and Dick. Somehow—I don't quite know how or why—I've an uneasy feeling that Bryce knows something, and that he's mixing it all up with—this! Why not tell me—please!”
Ransford, who was still marching about the room, came to a halt, and leaning his hands on the table between them, looked earnestly at her.
“Don't ask that—now!” he said. “I can't—yet. The fact is, I'm waiting for something—some particulars. As soon as I get them, I'll speak to you—and to Dick. In the meantime—don't ask me again—and don't be afraid. And as to this affair, leave it to me—and if you meet Bryce again, refuse to discuss any thing with him. Look here!—there's only one reason why he professes friendliness and a desire to save me annoyance. He thinks he can ingratiate himself with—you!”
“Mistaken!” murmured Mary, shaking her head. “I don't trust him. And—less than ever because of yesterday. Would an honest man have done what he did? Let that police inspector talk freely, as he did, with people concealed behind a curtain? And—he laughed about it! I hated myself for being there—yet could we help it?”
“I'm not going to hate myself on Pemberton Bryce's account,” said Ransford. “Let him play his game—that he has one, I'm certain.”
Bryce had gone away to continue his game—or another line of it. The Collishaw matter had not made him forget the Richard Jenkins tomb, and now, after leaving Ransford's house, he crossed the Close to Paradise with the object of doing a little more investigation. But at the archway of the ancient enclosure he met old Simpson Harker, pottering about in his usual apparently aimless fashion. Harker smiled at sight of Bryce.
“Ah, I was wanting to have a word with you, doctor!” he said. “Something important. Have you got a minute or two to spare, sir? Come round to my little place, then—we shall be quiet there.”
Bryce had any amount of time to spare for an interesting person like Harker, and he followed the old man to his house—a tiny place set in a nest of similar old-world buildings behind the Close. Harker led him into a little parlour, comfortable and snug, wherein were several shelves of books of a curiously legal and professional-looking aspect, some old pictures, and a cabinet of odds and ends, stowed away in of dark corner. The old man motioned him to an easy chair, and going over to a cupboard, produced a decanter of whisky and a box of cigars.
“We can have a peaceful and comfortable talk here, doctor,” he remarked, as he sat down near Bryce, after fetching glasses and soda-water. “I live all alone, like a hermit—my bit of work's done by a woman who only looks in of a morning. So we're all by ourselves. Light your cigar!—same as that I gave you at Barthorpe. Um—well, now,” he continued, as Bryce settled down to listen. “There's a question I want to put to you—strictly between ourselves—strictest of confidence, you know. It was you who was called to Braden by Varner, and you were left alone with Braden's body?”
“Well?” admitted Bryce, suddenly growing suspicious. “What of it?”
Harker edged his chair a little closer to his guest's, and leaned towards him.
“What,” he asked in a whisper, “what have you done with that scrap of paper that you took out of Braden's purse?”
If any remarkably keen and able observer of the odd characteristics of humanity had been present in Harker's little parlour at that moment, watching him and his visitor, he would have been struck by what happened when the old man put this sudden and point-blank question to the young one. For Harker put the question, though in a whisper, in no more than a casual, almost friendlily-confidential way, and Bryce never showed by the start of a finger or the flicker of an eyelash that he felt it to be what he really knew it to be—the most surprising and startling question he had ever had put to him. Instead, he looked his questioner calmly in the eyes, and put a question in his turn.
“Who are you, Mr. Harker?” asked Bryce quietly.
Harker laughed—almost gleefully.
“Yes, you've a right to ask that!” he said. “Of course!—glad you take it that way. You'll do!”
“I'll qualify it, then,” added Bryce. “It's not who—it's what are you!”
Harker waved his cigar at the book-shelves in front of which his visitor sat.
“Take a look at my collection of literature, doctor,” he said. “What d'ye think of it?”
Bryce turned and leisurely inspected one shelf after another.
“Seems to consist of little else but criminal cases and legal handbooks,” he remarked quietly. “I begin to suspect you, Mr. Harker. They say here in Wrychester that you're a retired tradesman. I think you're a retired policeman—of the detective branch.”
Harker laughed again.
“No Wrychester man has ever crossed my threshold since I came to settle down here,” he said. “You're the first person I've ever asked in—with one notable exception. I've never even had Campany, the librarian, here. I'm a hermit.”
“But—you were a detective?” suggested Bryce.
“Aye, for a good five-and-twenty years!” replied Harker. “And pretty well known, too, sir. But—my question, doctor. All between ourselves!”
“I'll ask you one, then,” said Bryce. “How do you know I took a scrap of paper from Braden's purse?”
“Because I know that he had such a paper in his purse the night he came to the Mitre,” answered Harker, “and was certain to have it there next morning, and because I also know that you were left alone with the body for some minutes after Varner fetched you to it, and that when Braden's clothing and effects were searched by Mitchington, the paper wasn't there. So, of course, you took it! Doesn't matter to me that ye did—except that I know, from knowing that, that you're on a similar game to my own—which is why you went down to Leicestershire.”
“You knew Braden?” asked Bryce.
“I knew him!” answered Harker.
“You saw him—spoke with him—here in Wrychester?” suggested Bryce.
“He was here—in this room—in that chair—from five minutes past nine to close on ten o'clock the night before his death,” replied Harker.
Bryce, who was quietly appreciating the Havana cigar which the old man had given him, picked up his glass, took a drink, and settled himself in his easy chair as if he meant to stay there awhile.
“I think we'd better talk confidentially, Mr. Harker,” he said.
“Precisely what we are doing, Dr. Bryce,” replied Harker.
“All right, my friend,” said Bryce, laconically. “Now we understand each other. So—do you know who John Braden really was?”
“Yes!” replied Harker, promptly. “He was in reality John Brake, ex-bank manager, ex-convict.”
“Do you know if he's any relatives here in Wrychester?” inquired Bryce.
“Yes,” said Harker. “The boy and girl who live with Ransford—they're Brake's son and daughter.”
“Did Brake know that—when he came here?” continued Bryce.
“No, he didn't—he hadn't the least idea of it,” responded Harker.
“Had you—then?” asked Bryce.
“No—not until later—a little later,” replied Harker.
“You found it out at Barthorpe?” suggested Bryce.
“Not a bit of it; I worked it out here—after Brake was dead,” said Harker. “I went to Barthorpe on quite different business—Brake's business.”
“Ah!” said Bryce. He looked the old detective quietly in the eyes. “You'd better tell me all about it,” he added.
“If we're both going to tell each other—all about it,” stipulated Harker.
“That's settled,” assented Bryce.
Harker smoked thoughtfully for a moment and seemed to be thinking.
“I'd better go back to the beginning,” he said. “But, first—what do you know about Brake? I know you went down to Barthorpe to find out what you could—how far did your searches take you?”
“I know that Brake married a girl from Braden Medworth, that he took her to London, where he was manager of a branch bank, that he got into trouble, and was sentenced to ten years' penal servitude,” answered Bryce, “together with some small details into which we needn't go at present.”
“Well, as long as you know all that, there's a common basis and a common starting-point,” remarked Harker, “so I'll begin at Brake's trial. It was I who arrested Brake. There was no trouble, no bother. He'd been taken unawares, by an inspector of the bank. He'd a considerable deficiency—couldn't make it good—couldn't or wouldn't explain except by half-sullen hints that he'd been cruelly deceived. There was no defence—couldn't be. His counsel said that he could—”
“I've read the account of the trial,” interrupted Bryce.
“All right—then you know as much as I can tell you on that point,” said Harker. “He got, as you say, ten years. I saw him just before he was removed and asked him if there was anything I could do for him about his wife and children. I'd never seen them—I arrested him at the bank, and, of course, he was never out of custody after that. He answered in a queer, curt way that his wife and children were being looked after. I heard, incidentally, that his wife had left home, or was from home—there was something mysterious about it—either as soon as he was arrested or before. Anyway, he said nothing, and from that moment I never set eyes on him again until I met him in the street here in Wrychester, the other night, when he came to the Mitre. I knew him at once—and he knew me. We met under one of those big standard lamps in the Market Place—I was following my usual practice of having an evening walk, last thing before going to bed. And we stopped and stared at each other. Then he came forward with his hand out, and we shook hands. 'This is an odd thing!' he said. 'You're the very man I wanted to find! Come somewhere, where it's quiet, and let me have a word with you.' So—I brought him here.”
Bryce was all attention now—for once he was devoting all his faculties to tense and absorbed concentration on what another man could tell, leaving reflections and conclusions on what he heard until all had been told.
“I brought him here,” repeated Harker. “I told him I'd been retired and was living here, as he saw, alone. I asked him no questions about himself—I could see he was a well-dressed, apparently well-to-do man. And presently he began to tell me about himself. He said that after he'd finished his term he left England and for some time travelled in Canada and the United States, and had gone then—on to New Zealand and afterwards to Australia, where he'd settled down and begun speculating in wool. I said I hoped he'd done well. Yes, he said, he'd done very nicely—and then he gave me a quiet dig in the ribs. 'I'll tell you one thing I've done, Harker,' he said. 'You were very polite and considerate to me when I'd my trouble, so I don't mind telling you. I paid the bank every penny of that money they lost through my foolishness at that time—every penny, four years ago, with interest, and I've got their receipt.' 'Delighted to hear it, Mr.—Is it the same name still?' I said. 'My name ever since I left England,' he said, giving me a look, 'is Braden—John Braden.' 'Yes,' he went on, 'I paid 'em—though I never had one penny of the money I was fool enough to take for the time being—not one halfpenny!' 'Who had it, Mr. Braden?' I asked him, thinking that he'd perhaps tell after all that time. 'Never mind, my lad!' he answered. 'It'll come out—yet. Never mind that, now. I'll tell you why I wanted to see you. The fact is, I've only been a few hours in England, so to speak, but I'd thought of you, and wondered where I could get hold of you—you're the only man of your profession I ever met, you see,' he added, with a laugh. 'And I want a bit of help in that way.' 'Well, Mr. Braden,' I said, 'I've retired, but if it's an easy job—' 'It's one you can do, easy enough,' he said. 'It's just this—I met a man in Australia who's extremely anxious to get some news of another man, named Falkiner Wraye, who hails from Barthorpe, in Leicestershire. I promised to make inquiries for him. Now, I have strong reasons why I don't want to go near Barthorpe—Barthorpe has unpleasant memories and associations for me, and I don't want to be seen there. But this thing's got to be personal investigation—will you go here, for me? I'll make it worth your while. All you've got to do,' he went on, 'is to go there—see the police authorities, town officials, anybody that knows the place, and ask them if they can tell you anything of one Falkiner Wraye, who was at one time a small estate agent in Barthorpe, left the place about seventeen years ago—maybe eighteen—and is believed to have recently gone back to the neighbourhood. That's all. Get what information you can, and write it to me, care of my bankers in London. Give me a sheet of paper and I'll put down particulars for you.'”
Harker paused at this point and nodded his head at an old bureau which stood in a corner of his room.
“The sheet of paper's there,” he said. “It's got on it, in his writing, a brief memorandum of what he wanted and the address of his bankers. When he'd given it to me, he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a purse in which I could see he was carrying plenty of money. He took out some notes. 'Here's five-and-twenty pounds on account, Harker,' he said. 'You might have to spend a bit. Don't be afraid—plenty more where that comes from. You'll do it soon?' he asked. 'Yes, I'll do it, Mr. Braden,' I answered. 'It'll be a bit of a holiday for me.' 'That's all right,' he said. 'I'm delighted I came across you.' 'Well, you couldn't be more delighted than I was surprised,' I said. 'I never thought to see you in Wrychester. What brought you here, if one may ask—sight-seeing?' He laughed at that, and he pulled out his purse again. 'I'll show you something—a secret,' he said, and he took a bit of folded paper out of his purse. 'What do you make of that?' he asked. 'Can you read Latin?' 'No—except a word or two,' I said, 'but I know a man who can.' 'Ah, never mind,' said he. 'I know enough Latin for this—and it's a secret. However, it won't be a secret long, and you'll hear all about it.' And with that he put the bit of paper in his purse again, and we began talking about other matters, and before long he said he'd promised to have a chat with a gentleman at the Mitre whom he'd come along with in the train, and away he went, saying he'd see me before be left the town.”
“Did he say how long he was going to stop here?” asked Bryce.
“Two or three days,” replied Harker.
“Did he mention Ransford?” inquired Bryce.
“Never!” said Harker.
“Did he make any reference to his wife and children?”
“Not the slightest!”
“Nor to the hint that his counsel threw out at the trial?”
“Never referred to that time except in the way I told you—that he hadn't a penny of the money, himself and that he'd himself refunded it.”
Bryce meditated awhile. He was somewhat puzzled by certain points in the old detective's story, and he saw now that there was much more mystery in the Braden affair than he had at first believed.
“Well,” he asked, after a while, “did you see him again?”
“Not alive!” replied Harker. “I saw him dead—and I held my tongue, and have held it. But—something happened that day. After I heard of the accident, I went into the Crown and Cushion tavern—the fact was, I went to get a taste of whisky, for the news had upset me. And in that long bar of theirs, I saw a man whom I knew—a man whom I knew, for a fact, to have been a fellow convict of Brake's. Name of Glassdale—forgery. He got the same sentence that Brake got, about the same time, was in the same convict prison with Brake, and he and Brake would be released about the same date. There was no doubt about his identity—I never forget a face, even after thirty years I'd tell one. I saw him in that bar before he saw me, and I took a careful look at him. He, too, like Brake, was very well dressed, and very prosperous looking. He turned as he set down his glass, and caught sight of me—and he knew me. Mind you, he'd been through my hands in times past! And he instantly moved to a side-door and—vanished. I went out and looked up and down—he'd gone. I found out afterwards, by a little quiet inquiry, that he'd gone straight to the station, boarded the first train—there was one just giving out, to the junction—and left the city. But I can lay hands on him!”
“You've kept this quiet, too?” asked Bryce.
“Just so—I've my own game to play,” replied Harker. “This talk with you is part of it—you come in, now—I'll tell you why, presently. But first, as you know, I went to Barthorpe. For, though Brake was dead, I felt I must go—for this reason. I was certain that he wanted that information for himself—the man in Australia was a fiction. I went, then—and learned nothing. Except that this Falkiner Wraye had been, as Brake said, a Barthorpe man, years ago. He'd left the town eighteen years since, and nobody knew anything about him. So I came home. And now then, doctor—your turn! What were you after, down there at Barthorpe?”
Bryce meditated his answer for a good five minutes. He had always intended to play the game off his own bat, but he had heard and seen enough since entering Harker's little room to know that he was in company with an intellect which was keener and more subtle than his, and that it would be all to his advantage to go in with the man who had vast and deep experience. And so he made a clean breast of all he had done in the way of investigation, leaving his motive completely aside.
“You've got a theory, of course?” observed Harker, after listening quietly to all that Bryce could tell. “Naturally, you have! You couldn't accumulate all that without getting one.”
“Well,” admitted Bryce, “honestly, I can't say that I have. But I can see what theory there might be. This—that Ransford was the man who deceived Brake, that he ran away with Brake's wife, that she's dead, and that he's brought up the children in ignorance of all that—and therefore—”
“And therefore,” interrupted Harker with a smile, “that when he and Brake met—as you seem to think they did—Ransford flung Brake through that open doorway; that Collishaw witnessed it, that Ransford's found out about Collishaw, and that Collishaw has been poisoned by Ransford. Eh?”
“That's a theory that seems to be supported by facts,” said Bryce.
“It's a theory that would doubtless suit men like Mitchington,” said the old detective, with another smile. “But—not me, sir! Mind you, I don't say there isn't something in it—there's doubtless a lot. But—the mystery's a lot thicker than just that. And Brake didn't come here to find Ransford. He came because of the secret in that scrap of paper. And as you've got it, doctor—out with it!”
Bryce saw no reason for concealment and producing the scrap of paper laid it on the table between himself and his host. Harker peered inquisitively at it.
“Latin!” he said. “You can read it, of course. What does it say?”
Bryce repeated a literal translation.
“I've found the place,” he added. “I found it this morning. Now, what do you suppose this means?”
Harker was looking hard at the two lines of writing.
“That's a big question, doctor,” he answered. “But I'll go so far as to say this—when we've found out what it does mean, we shall know a lot more than we know now!”