Bryce went back to Wrychester firmly convinced that Mark Ransford had
killed John Braden. He reckoned things up in his own fashion. Some
years must have elapsed since Braden, or rather Brake's release. He had
probably heard, on his release, that Ransford and his, Brake's, wife had
gone abroad--in that case he would certainly follow them. He might have
lost all trace of them; he might have lost his original interest in his
first schemes of revenge; he might have begun a new life for himself in
Australia, whence he had undoubtedly come to England recently. But
he had come, at last, and he had evidently tracked Ransford to
Wrychester--why, otherwise, had he presented himself at Ransford's door
on that eventful morning which was to witness his death? Nothing, in
Bryce's opinion, could be clearer. Brake had turned up. He and Ransford
had met--most likely in the precincts of the Cathedral. Ransford, who
knew all the quiet corners of the old place, had in all probability
induced Brake to walk up into the gallery with him, had noticed the
open doorway, had thrown Brake through it. All the facts pointed to
that conclusion--it was a theory which, so far as Bryce could see, was
perfect. It ought to be enough--proved--to put Ransford in a criminal
dock. Bryce resolved it in his own mind over and over again as he sped
home to Wrychester--he pictured the police listening greedily to all
that he could tell them if he liked. There was only one factor in the
whole sum of the affair which seemed against him--the advertisement in
the Times. If Brake desired to find Ransford in order to be revenged on
him, why did he insert that advertisement, as if he were longing to meet
a cherished friend again? But Bryce gaily surmounted that obstacle--full
of shifts and subtleties himself, he was ever ready to credit others
with trading in them, and he put the advertisement down as a clever ruse
to attract, not Ransford, but some person who could give information
about Ransford. Whatever its exact meaning might have been, its
existence made no difference to Bryce's firm opinion that it was Mark
Ransford who flung John Brake down St. Wrytha's Stair and killed him. He
was as sure of that as he was certain that Braden was Brake. And he was
not going to tell the police of his discoveries--he was not going to
tell anybody. The one thing that concerned him was--how best to make
use of his knowledge with a view to bringing about a marriage between
himself and Mark Ransford's ward. He had set his mind on that for twelve
months past, and he was not a man to be baulked of his purpose. By
fair means, or foul--he himself ignored the last word and would have
substituted the term skilful for it--Pemberton Bryce meant to have Mary
Bewery.
Mary Bewery herself had no thought of Bryce in her head when, the
morning after that worthy's return to Wrychester, she set out, alone,
for the Wrychester Golf Club. It was her habit to go there almost every
day, and Bryce was well acquainted with her movements and knew precisely
where to waylay her. And empty of Bryce though her mind was, she was not
surprised when, at a lonely place on Wrychester Common, Bryce turned the
corner of a spinny and met her face to face.
Mary would have passed on with no more than a silent recognition--she
had made up her mind to have no further speech with her guardian's
dismissed assistant. But she had to pass through a wicket gate at that
point, and Bryce barred the way, with unmistakable purpose. It was plain
to the girl that he had laid in wait for her. She was not without a
temper of her own, and she suddenly let it out on the offender.
“Do you call this manly conduct, Dr. Bryce?” she demanded, turning an
indignant and flushed face on him. “To waylay me here, when you know
that I don't want to have anything more to do with you. Let me through,
please--and go away!”
But Bryce kept a hand on the little gate, and when he spoke there was
that in his voice which made the girl listen in spite of herself.
“I'm not here on my own behalf,” he said quickly. “I give you my word
I won't say a thing that need offend you. It's true I waited here for
you--it's the only place in which I thought I could meet you, alone.
I want to speak to you. It's this--do you know your guardian is in
danger?”
Bryce had the gift of plausibility--he could convince people, against
their instincts, even against their wills, that he was telling the
truth. And Mary, after a swift glance, believed him.
“What danger?” she asked. “And if he is, and if you know he is--why
don't you go direct to him?”
“The most fatal thing in the world to do!” exclaimed Bryce. “You know
him--he can be nasty. That would bring matters to a crisis. And that, in
his interest, is just what mustn't happen.”
“I don't understand you,” said Mary.
Bryce leaned nearer to her--across the gate.
“You know what happened last week,” he said in a low voice. “The strange
death of that man--Braden.”
“Well?” she asked, with a sudden look of uneasiness. “What of it?”
“It's being rumoured--whispered--in the town that Dr. Ransford
had something to do with that affair,” answered Bryce.
“Unpleasant--unfortunate--but it's a fact.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Mary with a heightening colour. “What could
he have to do with it? What could give rise to such
foolish--wicked--rumours?”
“You know as well as I do how people talk, how they will talk,” said
Bryce. “You can't stop them, in a place like Wrychester, where everybody
knows everybody. There's a mystery around Braden's death--it's no use
denying it. Nobody knows who he was, where he came from, why he came.
And it's being hinted--I'm only telling you what I've gathered--that
Dr. Ransford knows more than he's ever told. There are, I'm afraid,
grounds.”
“What grounds?” demanded Mary. While Bryce had been speaking, in his
usual slow, careful fashion, she had been reflecting--and remembering
Ransford's evident agitation at the time of the Paradise affair--and his
relief when the inquest was over--and his sending her with flowers to
the dead man's grave and she began to experience a sense of uneasiness
and even of fear. “What grounds can there be?” she added. “Dr. Ransford
didn't know that man--had never seen him!”
“That's not certain,” replied Bryce. “It's said--remember, I'm only
repeating things--it's said that just before the body was discovered,
Dr. Ransford was seen--seen, mind you!--leaving the west porch of the
Cathedral, looking as if he had just been very much upset. Two persons
saw this.”
“Who are they?” asked Mary.
“That I'm not allowed to tell you,” said Bryce, who had no intention of
informing her that one person was himself and the other imaginary. “But
I can assure you that I am certain--absolutely certain!--that their
story is true. The fact is--I can corroborate it.”
“You!” she exclaimed.
“I!” replied Bryce. “I will tell you something that I have never told
anybody--up to now. I shan't ask you to respect my confidence--I've
sufficient trust in you to know that you will, without any asking.
Listen!--on that morning, Dr. Ransford went out of the surgery in the
direction of the Deanery, leaving me alone there. A few minutes later, a
tap came at the door. I opened it--and found--a man standing outside!”
“Not--that man?” asked Mary fearfully.
“That man--Braden,” replied Bryce. “He asked for Dr. Ransford. I said
he was out--would the caller leave his name? He said no--he had called
because he had once known a Dr. Ransford, years before. He added
something about calling again, and he went away--across the Close
towards the Cathedral. I saw him again--not very long afterwards--lying
in the corner of Paradise--dead!”
Mary Bewery was by this time pale and trembling--and Bryce continued to
watch her steadily. She stole a furtive look at him.
“Why didn't you tell all this at the inquest?” she asked in a whisper.
“Because I knew how damning it would be to--Ransford,” replied Bryce
promptly. “It would have excited suspicion. I was certain that no one
but myself knew that Braden had been to the surgery door--therefore, I
thought that if I kept silence, his calling there would never be known.
But--I have since found that I was mistaken. Braden was seen--going away
from Dr. Ransford's.”
“By--whom?” asked Mary.
“Mrs. Deramore--at the next house,” answered Bryce. “She happened to
be looking out of an upstairs window. She saw him go away and cross the
Close.”
“Did she tell you that?” demanded Mary, who knew Mrs. Deramore for a
gossip.
“Between ourselves,” said Bryce, “she did not! She told Mrs.
Folliot--Mrs. Folliot told me.”
“So--it is talked about!” exclaimed Mary.
“I said so,” assented Bryce. “You know what Mrs. Folliot's tongue is.”
“Then Dr. Ransford will get to hear of it,” said Mary.
“He will be the last person to get to hear of it,” affirmed Bryce.
“These things are talked of, hole-and-corner fashion, a long time before
they reach the ears of the person chiefly concerned.”
Mary hesitated a moment before she asked her next question.
“Why have you told me all this?” she demanded at last.
“Because I didn't want you to be suddenly surprised,” answered Bryce.
“This--whatever it is--may come to a sudden head--of an unpleasant sort.
These rumours spread--and the police are still keen about finding out
things concerning this dead man. If they once get it into their heads
that Dr. Ransford knew him--”
Mary laid her hand on the gate between them--and Bryce, who had done
all he wished to do at that time, instantly opened it, and she passed
through.
“I am much obliged to you,” she said. “I don't know what it all
means--but it is Dr. Ransford's affair--if there is any affair, which I
doubt. Will you let me go now, please?”
Bryce stood aside and lifted his hat, and Mary, with no more than a nod,
walked on towards the golf club-house across the Common, while Bryce
turned off to the town, highly elated with his morning's work. He had
sown the seeds of uneasiness and suspicion broadcast--some of them, he
knew, would mature.
Mary Bewery played no golf that morning. In fact, she only went on to
the club-house to rid herself of Bryce, and presently she returned home,
thinking. And indeed, she said to herself, she had abundant food for
thought. Naturally candid and honest, she did not at that moment doubt
Bryce's good faith; much as she disliked him in most ways she knew that
he had certain commendable qualities, and she was inclined to believe
him when he said that he had kept silence in order to ward off
consequences which might indirectly be unpleasant for her. But of him
and his news she thought little--what occupied her mind was the possible
connection between the stranger who had come so suddenly and disappeared
so suddenly--and for ever!--and Mark Ransford. Was it possible--really
possible--that there had been some meeting between them in or about the
Cathedral precincts that morning? She knew, after a moment's reflection,
that it was very possible--why not? And from that her thoughts followed
a natural trend--was the mystery surrounding this man connected in any
way with the mystery about herself and her brother?--that mystery
of which (as it seemed to her) Ransford was so shy of speaking. And
again--and for the hundredth time--she asked herself why he was so
reticent, so evidently full of dislike of the subject, why he could not
tell her and Dick whatever there was to tell, once for all?
She had to pass the Folliots' house in the far corner of the Close on
her way home--a fine old mansion set in well-wooded grounds, enclosed by
a high wall of old red brick. A door in that wall stood open, and inside
it, talking to one of his gardeners, was Mr. Folliot--the vistas behind
him were gay with flowers and rich with the roses which he passed all
his days in cultivating. He caught sight of Mary as she passed the open
doorway and called her back.
“Come in and have a look at some new roses I've got,” he said.
“Beauties! I'll give you a handful to carry home.”
Mary rather liked Mr. Folliot. He was a big, half-asleep sort of man,
who had few words and could talk about little else than his hobby. But
he was a passionate lover of flowers and plants, and had a positive
genius for rose-culture, and was at all times highly delighted to take
flower-lovers round his garden. She turned at once and walked in, and
Folliot led her away down the scented paths.
“It's an experiment I've been trying,” he said, leading her up to a
cluster of blooms of a colour and size which she had never seen before.
“What do you think of the results?”
“Magnificent!” exclaimed Mary. “I never saw anything so fine!”
“No!” agreed Folliot, with a quiet chuckle. “Nor anybody else--because
there's no such rose in England. I shall have to go to some of these
learned parsons in the Close to invent me a Latin name for this--it's
the result of careful experiments in grafting--took me three years to
get at it. And see how it blooms,--scores on one standard.”
He pulled out a knife and began to select a handful of the finest
blooms, which he presently pressed into Mary's hand.
“By the by,” he remarked as she thanked him and they turned away along
the path, “I wanted to have a word with you--or with Ransford. Do you
know--does he know--that that confounded silly woman who lives near
to your house--Mrs. Deramore--has been saying some things--or a
thing--which--to put it plainly--might make some unpleasantness for
him?”
Mary kept a firm hand on her wits--and gave him an answer which was true
enough, so far as she was aware.
“I'm sure he knows nothing,” she said. “What is it, Mr. Folliot?”
“Why, you know what happened last week,” continued Folliot, glancing
knowingly at her. “The accident to that stranger. This Mrs. Deramore,
who's nothing but an old chatterer, has been saying, here and there,
that it's a very queer thing Dr. Ransford doesn't know anything about
him, and can't say anything, for she herself, she says, saw the very man
going away from Dr. Ransford's house not so long before the accident.”
“I am not aware that he ever called at Dr. Ransford's,” said Mary. “I
never saw him--and I was in the garden, about that very time, with your
stepson, Mr. Folliot.”
“So Sackville told me,” remarked Folliot. “He was present--and so was
I--when Mrs. Deramore was tattling about it in our house yesterday. He
said, then, that he'd never seen the man go to your house. You never
heard your servants make any remark about it?”
“Never!” answered Mary.
“I told Mrs. Deramore she'd far better hold her tongue,” continued
Folliot. “Tittle-tattle of that sort is apt to lead to unpleasantness.
And when it came to it, it turned out that all she had seen was this
stranger strolling across the Close as if he'd just left your house.
If--there's always some if! But I'll tell you why I mentioned it to
you,” he continued, nudging Mary's elbow and glancing covertly first at
her and then at his house on the far side of the garden. “Ladies that
are--getting on a bit in years, you know--like my wife, are apt to let
their tongues wag, and between you and me, I shouldn't wonder if Mrs.
Folliot has repeated what Mrs. Deramore said--eh? And I don't want the
doctor to think that--if he hears anything, you know, which he may, and,
again, he might--to think that it originated here. So, if he should ever
mention it to you, you can say it sprang from his next-door neighbour.
Bah!--they're a lot of old gossips, these Close ladies!”
“Thank you,” said Mary. “But--supposing this man had been to our
house--what difference would that make? He might have been for half a
dozen reasons.”
Folliot looked at her out of his half-shut eyes.
“Some people would want to know why Ransford didn't tell that--at the
inquest,” he answered. “That's all. When there's a bit of mystery, you
know--eh?”
He nodded--as if reassuringly--and went off to rejoin his gardener, and
Mary walked home with her roses, more thoughtful than ever. Mystery?--a
bit of mystery? There was a vast and heavy cloud of mystery, and she
knew she could have no peace until it was lifted.