In the few seconds which elapsed before Ransford recognized Bryce's
presence, Bryce took a careful, if swift, observation of his late
employer. That Ransford was visibly upset by something was plain enough
to see; his face was still pale, he was muttering to himself, one
clenched fist was pounding the open palm of the other hand--altogether,
he looked like a man who is suddenly confronted with some fearful
difficulty. And when Bryce, having looked long enough to satisfy his
wishes, coughed gently, he started in such a fashion as to suggest that
his nerves had become unstrung.
“What is it?--what are you doing there?” he demanded almost fiercely.
“What do you mean by coming in like that?”
Bryce affected to have seen nothing.
“I came to fetch you,” he answered. “There's been an accident in
Paradise--man fallen from that door at the head of St. Wrytha's Stair. I
wish you'd come--but I may as well tell you that he's past help--dead!”
“Dead! A man?” exclaimed Ransford. “What man? A workman?”
Bryce had already made up his mind about telling Ransford of the
stranger's call at the surgery. He would say nothing--at that time at
any rate. It was improbable that any one but himself knew of the call;
the side entrance to the surgery was screened from the Close by a
shrubbery; it was very unlikely that any passer-by had seen the man call
or go away. No--he would keep his knowledge secret until it could be
made better use of.
“Not a workman--not a townsman--a stranger,” he answered. “Looks like a
well-to-do tourist. A slightly-built, elderly man--grey-haired.”
Ransford, who had turned to his desk to master himself, looked round
with a sudden sharp glance--and for the moment Bryce was taken aback.
For he had condemned Ransford--and yet that glance was one of apparently
genuine surprise, a glance which almost convinced him, against his
will, against only too evident facts, that Ransford was hearing of the
Paradise affair for the first time.
“An elderly man--grey-haired--slightly built?” said Ransford. “Dark
clothes--silk hat?”
“Precisely,” replied Bryce, who was now considerably astonished. “Do you
know him?”
“I saw such a man entering the Cathedral, a while ago,” answered
Ransford. “A stranger, certainly. Come along, then.”
He had fully recovered his self-possession by that time, and he led
the way from the surgery and across the Close as if he were going on
an ordinary professional visit. He kept silence as they walked rapidly
towards Paradise, and Bryce was silent, too. He had studied Ransford
a good deal during their two years' acquaintanceship, and he knew
Ransford's power of repressing and commanding his feelings and
concealing his thoughts. And now he decided that the look and start
which he had at first taken to be of the nature of genuine astonishment
were cunningly assumed, and he was not surprised when, having reached
the group of men gathered around the body, Ransford showed nothing but
professional interest.
“Have you done anything towards finding out who this unfortunate
man is?” asked Ransford, after a brief examination, as he turned to
Mitchington. “Evidently a stranger--but he probably has papers on him.”
“There's nothing on him--except a purse, with plenty of money in it,”
answered Mitchington. “I've been through his pockets myself: there isn't
a scrap of paper--not even as much as an old letter. But he's evidently
a tourist, or something of the sort, and so he'll probably have stayed
in the city all night, and I'm going to inquire at the hotels.”
“There'll be an inquest, of course,” remarked Ransford mechanically.
“Well--we can do nothing, Mitchington. You'd better have the body
removed to the mortuary.” He turned and looked up the broken stairway
at the foot of which they were standing. “You say he fell down that?” he
asked. “Whatever was he doing up there?”
Mitchington looked at Bryce.
“Haven't you told Dr. Ransford how it was?” he asked.
“No,” answered Bryce. He glanced at Ransford, indicating Varner, who had
come back with the constable and was standing by. “He didn't fall,” he
went on, watching Ransford narrowly. “He was violently flung out of that
doorway. Varner here saw it.”
Ransford's cheek flushed, and he was unable to repress a slight start.
He looked at the mason.
“You actually saw it!” he exclaimed. “Why, what did you see?”
“Him!” answered Varner, nodding at the dead man. “Flung, head and heels,
clean through that doorway up there. Hadn't a chance to save himself, he
hadn't! Just grabbed at--nothing!--and came down. Give a year's wages if
I hadn't seen it--and heard him scream.”
Ransford was watching Varner with a set, concentrated look.
“Who--flung him?” he asked suddenly. “You say you saw!”
“Aye, sir, but not as much as all that!” replied the mason. “I just saw
a hand--and that was all. But,” he added, turning to the police with a
knowing look, “there's one thing I can swear to--it was a gentleman's
hand! I saw the white shirt cuff and a bit of a black sleeve!”
Ransford turned away. But he just as suddenly turned back to the
inspector.
“You'll have to let the Cathedral authorities know, Mitchington,” he
said. “Better get the body removed, though, first--do it now before the
morning service is over. And--let me hear what you find out about his
identity, if you can discover anything in the city.”
He went away then, without another word or a further glance at the dead
man. But Bryce had already assured himself of what he was certain was
a fact--that a look of unmistakable relief had swept across Ransford's
face for the fraction of a second when he knew that there were no papers
on the dead man. He himself waited after Ransford had gone; waited until
the police had fetched a stretcher, when he personally superintended
the removal of the body to the mortuary outside the Close. And there a
constable who had come over from the police-station gave a faint hint as
to further investigation.
“I saw that poor gentleman last night, sir,” he said to the inspector.
“He was standing at the door of the Mitre, talking to another
gentleman--a tallish man.”
“Then I'll go across there,” said Mitchington. “Come with me, if you
like, Dr. Bryce.”
This was precisely what Bryce desired--he was already anxious to acquire
all the information he could get. And he walked over the way with the
inspector, to the quaint old-world inn which filled almost one side
of the little square known as Monday Market, and in at the courtyard,
where, looking out of the bow window which had served as an outer bar
in the coaching days, they found the landlady of the Mitre, Mrs.
Partingley. Bryce saw at once that she had heard the news.
“What's this, Mr. Mitchington?” she demanded as they drew near across
the cobble-paved yard. “Somebody's been in to say there's been an
accident to a gentleman, a stranger--I hope it isn't one of the two
we've got in the house?”
“I should say it is, ma'am,” answered the inspector. “He was seen
outside here last night by one of our men, anyway.”
The landlady uttered an expression of distress, and opening a side-door,
motioned them to step into her parlour.
“Which of them is it?” she asked anxiously. “There's two--came together
last night, they did--a tall one and a short one. Dear, dear me!--is it
a bad accident, now, inspector?”
“The man's dead, ma'am,” replied Mitchington grimly. “And we want to
know who he is. Have you got his name--and the other gentleman's?”
Mrs. Partingley uttered another exclamation of distress and
astonishment, lifting her plump hands in horror. But her business
faculties remained alive, and she made haste to produce a big visitors'
book and to spread it open before her callers.
“There it is!” she said, pointing to the two last entries. “That's the
short gentleman's name--Mr. John Braden, London. And that's the
tall one's--Mr. Christopher Dellingham--also London. Tourists, of
course--we've never seen either of them before.”
“Came together, you say, Mrs. Partingley?” asked Mitchington. “When was
that, now?”
“Just before dinner, last night,” answered the landlady. “They'd
evidently come in by the London train--that gets in at six-forty, as you
know. They came here together, and they'd dinner together, and spent the
evening together. Of course, we took them for friends. But they didn't
go out together this morning, though they'd breakfast together. After
breakfast, Mr. Dellingham asked me the way to the old Manor Mill, and
he went off there, so I concluded. Mr. Braden, he hung about a bit,
studying a local directory I'd lent him, and after a while he asked me
if he could hire a trap to take him out to Saxonsteade this afternoon.
Of course, I said he could, and he arranged for it to be ready at
two-thirty. Then he went out, and across the market towards the
Cathedral. And that,” concluded Mrs. Partingley, “is about all I know,
gentlemen.”
“Saxonsteade, eh?” remarked Mitchington. “Did he say anything about his
reasons for going there?”
“Well, yes, he did,” replied the landlady. “For he asked me if I thought
he'd be likely to find the Duke at home at that time of day. I said I
knew his Grace was at Saxonsteade just now, and that I should think the
middle of the afternoon would be a good time.”
“He didn't tell you his business with the Duke?” asked Mitchington.
“Not a word!” said the landlady. “Oh, no!--just that, and no more.
But--here's Mr. Dellingham.”
Bryce turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man pass the
window--the door opened and he walked in, to glance inquisitively at the
inspector. He turned at once to Mrs. Partingley.
“I hear there's been an accident to that gentleman I came in with last
night?” he said. “Is it anything serious? Your ostler says--”
“These gentlemen have just come about it, sir,” answered the landlady.
She glanced at Mitchington. “Perhaps you'll tell--” she began.
“Was he a friend of yours, sir?” asked Mitchington. “A personal friend?”
“Never saw him in my life before last night!” replied the tall man. “We
just chanced to meet in the train coming down from London, got talking,
and discovered we were both coming to the same place--Wrychester.
So--we came to this house together. No--no friend of mine--not even an
acquaintance--previous, of course, to last night. Is--is it anything
serious?”
“He's dead, sir,” replied Mitchington. “And now we want to know who he
is.”
“God bless my soul! Dead? You don't say so!” exclaimed Mr. Dellingham.
“Dear, dear! Well, I can't help you--don't know him from Adam. Pleasant,
well-informed man--seemed to have travelled a great deal in foreign
countries. I can tell you this much, though,” he went on, as if a sudden
recollection had come to him; “I gathered that he'd only just arrived in
England--in fact, now I come to think of it, he said as much. Made some
remark in the train about the pleasantness of the English landscape,
don't you know?--I got an idea that he'd recently come from some country
where trees and hedges and green fields aren't much in evidence. But--if
you want to know who he is, officer, why don't you search him? He's sure
to have papers, cards, and so on about him.”
“We have searched him,” answered Mitchington. “There isn't a paper, a
letter, or even a visiting card on him.”
Mr. Dellingham looked at the landlady.
“Bless me!” he said. “Remarkable! But he'd a suit-case, or something of
the sort--something light--which he carried up from the railway station
himself. Perhaps in that--”
“I should like to see whatever he had,” said Mitchington. “We'd better
examine his room, Mrs. Partingley.”
Bryce presently followed the landlady and the inspector upstairs--Mr.
Dellingham followed him. All four went into a bedroom which looked
out on Monday Market. And there, on a side-table, lay a small leather
suit-case, one which could easily be carried, with its upper half thrown
open and back against the wall behind.
The landlady, Mr. Dellingham and Bryce stood silently by while the
inspector examined the contents of this the only piece of luggage in
the room. There was very little to see--what toilet articles the visitor
brought were spread out on the dressing-table--brushes, combs, a case
of razors, and the like. And Mitchington nodded side-wise at them as he
began to take the articles out of the suit-case.
“There's one thing strikes me at once,” he said. “I dare say you
gentlemen notice it. All these things are new! This suit-case hasn't
been in use very long--see, the leather's almost unworn--and those
things on the dressing-table are new. And what there is here
looks new, too. There's not much, you see--he evidently had
no intention of a long stop. An extra pair of trousers--some
shirts--socks--collars--neckties--slippers--handkerchiefs--that's about
all. And the first thing to do is to see if the linen's marked with name
or initials.”
He deftly examined the various articles as he took them out, and in the
end shook his head.
“No name--no initials,” he said. “But look here--do you see, gentlemen,
where these collars were bought? Half a dozen of them, in a box. Paris!
There you are--the seller's name, inside the collar, just as in England.
Aristide Pujol, 82, Rue des Capucines. And--judging by the look
of 'em--I should say these shirts were bought there, too--and the
handkerchiefs--and the neckwear--they all have a foreign look. There may
be a clue in that--we might trace him in France if we can't in England.
Perhaps he is a Frenchman.”
“I'll take my oath he isn't!” exclaimed Mr. Dellingham. “However long
he'd been out of England he hadn't lost a North-Country accent! He was
some sort of a North-Countryman--Yorkshire or Lancashire, I'll go bail.
No Frenchman, officer--not he!”
“Well, there's no papers here, anyway,” said Mitchington, who had now
emptied the suit-case. “Nothing to show who he was. Nothing here, you
see, in the way of paper but this old book--what is it--History of
Barthorpe.”
“He showed me that in the train,” remarked Mr. Dellingham. “I'm
interested in antiquities and archaeology, and anybody who's long in my
society finds it out. We got talking of such things, and he pulled out
that book, and told me with great pride, that he'd picked it up from
a book-barrow in the street, somewhere in London, for one-and-six. I
think,” he added musingly, “that what attracted him in it was the
old calf binding and the steel frontispiece--I'm sure he'd no great
knowledge of antiquities.”
Mitchington laid the book down, and Bryce picked it up, examined the
title-page, and made a mental note of the fact that Barthorpe was a
market-town in the Midlands. And it was on the tip of his tongue to
say that if the dead man had no particular interest in antiquities and
archaeology, it was somewhat strange that he should have bought a book
which was mainly antiquarian, and that it might be that he had so
bought it because of a connection between Barthorpe and himself. But he
remembered that it was his own policy to keep pertinent facts for his
own private consideration, so he said nothing. And Mitchington presently
remarking that there was no more to be done there, and ascertaining from
Mr. Dellingham that it was his intention to remain in Wrychester for
at any rate a few days, they went downstairs again, and Bryce and the
inspector crossed over to the police-station.
The news had spread through the heart of the city, and at the
police-station doors a crowd had gathered. Just inside two or three
principal citizens were talking to the Superintendent--amongst them was
Mr. Stephen Folliot, the stepfather of young Bonham--a big, heavy-faced
man who had been a resident in the Close for some years, was known to be
of great wealth, and had a reputation as a grower of rare roses. He was
telling the Superintendent something--and the Superintendent beckoned to
Mitchington.
“Mr. Folliot says he saw this gentleman in the Cathedral,” he said.
“Can't have been so very long before the accident happened, Mr. Folliot,
from what you say.”
“As near as I can reckon, it would be five minutes to ten,” answered Mr.
Folliot. “I put it at that because I'd gone in for the morning service,
which is at ten. I saw him go up the inside stair to the clerestory
gallery--he was looking about him. Five minutes to ten--and it must have
happened immediately afterwards.”
Bryce heard this and turned away, making a calculation for himself. It
had been on the stroke of ten when he saw Ransford hurrying out of the
west porch. There was a stairway from the gallery down to that west
porch. What, then, was the inference? But for the moment he drew
none--instead, he went home to his rooms in Friary Lane, and shutting
himself up, drew from his pocket the scrap of paper he had taken from
the dead man.