Pemberton Bryce was not the only person in Wrychester who was watching
Ransford with keen attention during these events. Mary Bewery, a young
woman of more than usual powers of observation and penetration, had been
quick to see that her guardian's distress over the affair in Paradise
was something out of the common. She knew Ransford for an exceedingly
tender-hearted man, with a considerable spice of sentiment in his
composition: he was noted for his more than professional interest in the
poorer sort of his patients and had gained a deserved reputation in the
town for his care of them. But it was somewhat surprising, even to Mary,
that he should be so much upset by the death of a total stranger as to
lose his appetite, and, for at any rate a couple of days, be so restless
that his conduct could not fail to be noticed by herself and her
brother. His remarks on the tragedy were conventional enough--a most
distressing affair--a sad fate for the poor fellow--most unexplainable
and mysterious, and so on--but his concern obviously went beyond that.
He was ill at ease when she questioned him about the facts; almost
irritable when Dick Bewery, schoolboy-like, asked him concerning
professional details; she was sure, from the lines about his eyes and a
worn look on his face, that he had passed a restless night when he came
down to breakfast on the morning of the inquest. But when he returned
from the inquest she noticed a change--it was evident, to her ready
wits, that Ransford had experienced a great relief. He spoke of relief,
indeed, that night at dinner, observing that the verdict which the jury
had returned had cleared the air of a foul suspicion; it would have
been no pleasant matter, he said, if Wrychester Cathedral had gained an
unenviable notoriety as the scene of a murder.
“All the same,” remarked Dick, who knew all the talk of the town,
“Varner persists in sticking to what he's said all along. Varner
says--said this afternoon, after the inquest was over--that he's
absolutely certain of what he saw, and that he not only saw a hand in
a white cuff and black coat sleeve, but that he saw the sun gleam for
a second on the links in the cuff, as if they were gold or diamonds.
Pretty stiff evidence that, sir, isn't it?”
“In the state of mind in which Varner was at that moment,” replied
Ransford, “he wouldn't be very well able to decide definitely on what he
really did see. His vision would retain confused images. Probably he saw
the dead man's hand--he was wearing a black coat and white linen. The
verdict was a most sensible one.”
No more was said after that, and that evening Ransford was almost
himself again. But not quite himself. Mary caught him looking very
grave, in evident abstraction, more than once; more than once she heard
him sigh heavily. But he said no more of the matter until two days
later, when, at breakfast, he announced his intention of attending John
Braden's funeral, which was to take place that morning.
“I've ordered the brougham for eleven,” he said, “and I've arranged with
Dr. Nicholson to attend to any urgent call that comes in between that
and noon--so, if there is any such call, you can telephone to him. A few
of us are going to attend this poor man's funeral--it would be too bad
to allow a stranger to go to his grave unattended, especially after
such a fate. There'll be somebody representing the Dean and Chapter,
and three or four principal townsmen, so he'll not be quite neglected.
And”--here he hesitated and looked a little nervously at Mary, to whom
he was telling all this, Dick having departed for school--“there's a
little matter I wish you'd attend to--you'll do it better than I should.
The man seems to have been friendless; here, at any rate--no relations
have come forward, in spite of the publicity--so--don't you think it
would be rather--considerate, eh?--to put a wreath, or a cross, or
something of that sort on his grave--just to show--you know?”
“Very kind of you to think of it,” said Mary. “What do you wish me to
do?”
“If you'd go to Gardales', the florists, and order--something fitting,
you know,” replied Ransford, “and afterwards--later in the day--take it
to St. Wigbert's Churchyard--he's to be buried there--take it--if you
don't mind--yourself, you know.”
“Certainly,” answered Mary. “I'll see that it's done.”
She would do anything that seemed good to Ransford--but all the same she
wondered at this somewhat unusual show of interest in a total stranger.
She put it down at last to Ransford's undoubted sentimentality--the
man's sad fate had impressed him. And that afternoon the sexton at St.
Wigbert's pointed out the new grave to Miss Bewery and Mr. Sackville
Bonham, one carrying a wreath and the other a large bunch of lilies.
Sackville, chancing to encounter Mary at the florist's, whither he had
repaired to execute a commission for his mother, had heard her business,
and had been so struck by the notion--or by a desire to ingratiate
himself with Miss Bewery--that he had immediately bought flowers
himself--to be put down to her account--and insisted on accompanying
Mary to the churchyard.
Bryce heard of this tribute to John Braden next day--from Mrs. Folliot,
Sackville Bonham's mother, a large lady who dominated certain circles
of Wrychester society in several senses. Mrs. Folliot was one of those
women who have been gifted by nature with capacity--she was conspicuous
in many ways. Her voice was masculine; she stood nearly six feet in her
stoutly-soled shoes; her breadth corresponded to her height; her eyes
were piercing, her nose Roman; there was not a curate in Wrychester
who was not under her thumb, and if the Dean himself saw her coming, he
turned hastily into the nearest shop, sweating with fear lest she should
follow him. Endued with riches and fortified by assurance, Mrs. Folliot
was the presiding spirit in many movements of charity and benevolence;
there were people in Wrychester who were unkind enough to say--behind
her back--that she was as meddlesome as she was most undoubtedly
autocratic, but, as one of her staunchest clerical defenders once
pointed out, these grumblers were what might be contemptuously dismissed
as five-shilling subscribers. Mrs. Folliot, in her way, was undoubtedly
a power--and for reasons of his own Pemberton Bryce, whenever he met
her--which was fairly often--was invariably suave and polite.
“Most mysterious thing, this, Dr. Bryce,” remarked Mrs. Folliot in her
deepest tones, encountering Bryce, the day after the funeral, at the
corner of a back street down which she was about to sail on one of her
charitable missions, to the terror of any of the women who happened to
be caught gossiping. “What, now, should make Dr. Ransford cause flowers
to be laid on the grave of a total stranger? A sentimental feeling?
Fiddle-de-dee! There must be some reason.”
“I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Mrs. Folliot,”
answered Bryce, whose ears had already lengthened. “Has Dr. Ransford
been laying flowers on a grave?--I didn't know of it. My engagement with
Dr. Ransford terminated two days ago--so I've seen nothing of him.”
“My son, Mr. Sackville Bonham,” said Mrs. Folliot, “tells me
that yesterday Miss Bewery came into Gardales' and spent a
sovereign--actually a sovereign!--on a wreath, which, she told
Sackville, she was about to carry, at her guardian's desire, to
this strange man's grave. Sackville, who is a warm-hearted boy, was
touched--he, too, bought flowers and accompanied Miss Bewery. Most
extraordinary! A perfect stranger! Dear me--why, nobody knows who the
man was!”
“Except his bank-manager,” remarked Bryce, “who says he's holding ten
thousand pounds of his.”
“That,” admitted Mrs. Folliot gravely, “is certainly a consideration.
But then, who knows?--the money may have been stolen. Now, really, did
you ever hear of a quite respectable man who hadn't even a visiting-card
or a letter upon him? And from Australia, too!--where all the people
that are wanted run away to! I have actually been tempted to wonder, Dr.
Bryce, if Dr. Ransford knew this man--in years gone by? He might have,
you know, he might have--certainly! And that, of course, would explain
the flowers.”
“There is a great deal in the matter that requires explanation, Mrs.
Folliot,” said Bryce. He was wondering if it would be wise to instil
some minute drop of poison into the lady's mind, there to increase in
potency and in due course to spread. “I--of course, I may have been
mistaken--I certainly thought Dr. Ransford seemed unusually agitated by
this affair--it appeared to upset him greatly.”
“So I have heard--from others who were at the inquest,” responded Mrs.
Folliot. “In my opinion our Coroner--a worthy man otherwise--is not
sufficiently particular. I said to Mr. Folliot this morning, on reading
the newspaper, that in my view that inquest should have been adjourned
for further particulars. Now I know of one particular that was never
mentioned at the inquest!”
“Oh?” said Bryce. “And what?”
“Mrs. Deramore, who lives, as you know, next to Dr. Ransford,” replied
Mrs. Folliot, “told me this morning that on the morning of the accident,
happening to look out of one of her upper windows, she saw a man whom,
from the description given in the newspapers, was, Mrs. Deramore feels
assured, was the mysterious stranger, crossing the Close towards the
Cathedral in, Mrs. Deramore is positive, a dead straight line from
Dr. Ransford's garden--as if he had been there. Dr. Bryce!--a direct
question should have been asked of Dr. Ransford--had he ever seen that
man before?”
“Ah, but you see, Mrs. Folliot, the Coroner didn't know what Mrs.
Deramore saw, so he couldn't ask such a question, nor could any one
else,” remarked Bryce, who was wondering how long Mrs. Deramore remained
at her upper window and if she saw him follow Braden. “But there are
circumstances, no doubt, which ought to be inquired into. And it's
certainly very curious that Dr. Ransford should send a wreath to the
grave of--a stranger.”
He went away convinced that Mrs. Folliot's inquisitiveness had been
aroused, and that her tongue would not be idle: Mrs. Folliot, left to
herself, had the gift of creating an atmosphere, and if she once got
it into her head that there was some mysterious connection between Dr.
Ransford and the dead man, she would never rest until she had spread her
suspicions. But as for Bryce himself, he wanted more than suspicions--he
wanted facts, particulars, data. And once more he began to go over the
sum of evidence which had accrued.
The question of the scrap of paper found in Braden's purse, and of the
exact whereabouts of Richard Jenkins's grave in Paradise, he left
for the time being. What was now interesting him chiefly was the
advertisement in the Times to which the bank-manager from London had
drawn attention. He had made haste to buy a copy of the Times and to
cut out the advertisement. There it was--old friend Marco was wanted by
(presumably old friend) Sticker, and whoever Sticker might be he could
certainly be found under care of J. Braden. It had never been in doubt
a moment, in Bryce's mind, that Sticker was J. Braden himself. Who, now,
was Marco? Who--a million to one on it!--but Ransford, whose Christian
name was Mark?
He reckoned up his chances of getting at the truth of the affair anew
that night. As things were, it seemed unlikely that any relations of
Braden would now turn up. The Wrychester Paradise case, as the reporters
had aptly named it, had figured largely in the newspapers, London and
provincial; it could scarcely have had more publicity--yet no one, save
this bank-manager, had come forward. If there had been any one to
come forward the bank-manager's evidence would surely have proved an
incentive to speed--for there was a sum of ten thousand pounds awaiting
John Braden's next-of-kin. In Bryce's opinion the chance of putting in
a claim to ten thousand pounds is not left waiting forty-eight
hours--whoever saw such a chance would make instant use of telegraph or
telephone. But no message from anybody professing relationship with the
dead man had so far reached the Wrychester police.
When everything had been taken into account, Bryce saw no better clue
for the moment than that suggested by Ambrose Campany--Barthorpe.
Ambrose Campany, bookworm though he was, was a shrewd, sharp fellow,
said Bryce--a man of ideas. There was certainly much in his suggestion
that a man wasn't likely to buy an old book about a little insignificant
town like Barthorpe unless he had some interest in it--Barthorpe, if
Campany's theory were true, was probably the place of John Braden's
origin.
Therefore, information about Braden, leading to knowledge of his
association or connection with Ransford, might be found at Barthorpe.
True, the Barthorpe police had already reported that they could tell
nothing about any Braden, but that, in Bryce's opinion, was neither
here nor there--he had already come to the conclusion that Braden was an
assumed name. And if he went to Barthorpe, he was not going to trouble
the police--he knew better methods than that of finding things out. Was
he going?--was it worth his while? A moment's reflection decided that
matter--anything was worth his while which would help him to get a
strong hold on Mark Ransford. And always practical in his doings, he
walked round to the Free Library, obtained a gazeteer, and looked up
particulars of Barthorpe. There he learnt that Barthorpe was an ancient
market-town of two thousand inhabitants in the north of Leicestershire,
famous for nothing except that it had been the scene of a battle at
the time of the Wars of the Roses, and that its trade was mainly in
agriculture and stocking-making--evidently a slow, sleepy old place.
That night Bryce packed a hand-bag with small necessaries for a few
days' excursion, and next morning he took an early train to London; the
end of that afternoon found him in a Midland northern-bound express,
looking out on the undulating, green acres of Leicestershire. And while
his train was making a three minutes' stop at Leicester itself, the
purpose of his journey was suddenly recalled to him by hearing the
strident voices of the porters on the platform.
“Barthorpe next stop!--next stop Barthorpe!”
One of two other men who shared a smoking compartment with Bryce turned
to his companion as the train moved off again.
“Barthorpe?” he remarked. “That's the place that was mentioned in
connection with that very queer affair at Wrychester, that's been
reported in the papers so much these last few days. The mysterious
stranger who kept ten thousand in a London bank, and of whom nobody
seems to know anything, had nothing on him but a history of Barthorpe.
Odd! And yet, though you'd think he'd some connection with the place, or
had known it, they say nobody at Barthorpe knows anything about anybody
of his name.”
“Well, I don't know that there is anything so very odd about it, after
all,” replied the other man. “He may have picked up that old book for
one of many reasons that could be suggested. No--I read all that case
in the papers, and I wasn't so much impressed by the old book feature
of it. But I'll tell you what--there was a thing struck me. I know this
Barthorpe district--we shall be in it in a few minutes--I've been a good
deal over it. This strange man's name was given in the papers as John
Braden. Now close to Barthorpe--a mile or two outside it, there's a
village of that name--Braden Medworth. That's a curious coincidence--and
taken in conjunction with the man's possession of an old book about
Barthorpe--why, perhaps there's something in it--possibly more than I
thought for at first.”
“Well--it's an odd case--a very odd case,” said the first speaker.
“And--as there's ten thousand pounds in question, more will be heard of
it. Somebody'll be after that, you may be sure!”
Bryce left the train at Barthorpe thanking his good luck--the man in
the far corner had unwittingly given him a hint. He would pay a visit to
Braden Medworth--the coincidence was too striking to be neglected. But
first Barthorpe itself--a quaint old-world little market-town, in
which some of even the principal houses still wore roofs of thatch, and
wherein the old custom of ringing the curfew bell was kept up. He found
an old-fashioned hotel in the marketplace, under the shadow of the
parish church, and in its oak-panelled dining-room, hung about with
portraits of masters of foxhounds and queer old prints of sporting and
coaching days, he dined comfortably and well.
It was too late to attempt any investigations that evening, and
when Bryce had finished his leisurely dinner he strolled into the
smoking-room--an even older and quainter apartment than that which
he had just left. It was one of those rooms only found in very old
houses--a room of nooks and corners, with a great open fireplace, and
old furniture and old pictures and curiosities--the sort of place to
which the old-fashioned tradesmen of the small provincial towns still
resort of an evening rather than patronize the modern political clubs.
There were several men of this sort in the room when Bryce entered,
talking local politics amongst themselves, and he found a quiet corner
and sat down in it to smoke, promising himself some amusement from the
conversation around him; it was his way to find interest and amusement
in anything that offered. But he had scarcely settled down in a
comfortably cushioned elbow chair when the door opened again and into
the room walked old Simpson Harker.