Dick Bewery burst in upon his sister and Ransford with a budget of news
such as it rarely fell to the lot of romance-loving seventeen to tell.
Secret and mysterious digging up of grave-yards by night--discovery
of sealed packets, the contents of which might only be guessed at--the
whole thing observed by hidden spectators--these were things he had read
of in fiction, but had never expected to have the luck to see in real
life. And being gifted with some powers of imagination and of narrative,
he made the most of his story to a pair of highly attentive listeners,
each of whom had his, and her, own reasons for particular attention.
“More mystery!” remarked Mary when Dick's story had come to an end.
“What a pity they didn't open the parcel!” She looked at Ransford, who
was evidently in deep thought. “I suppose it will all come out?” she
suggested.
“Sure to!” he answered, and turned to Dick. “You say Bryce fetched old
Harker--after you and Bryce had watched these operations a bit? Did he
say why he fetched him?”
“Never said anything as to his reasons,” answered Dick. “But, I rather
guessed, at the end, that Bryce wanted me to keep quiet about it, only
old Harker said there was no need.”
Ransford made no comment on this, and Dick, having exhausted his stock
of news, presently went off to bed.
“Master Bryce,” observed Ransford, after a period of silence, “is
playing a game! What it is, I don't know--but I'm certain of it. Well,
we shall see! You've been much upset by all this,” he went on, after
another pause, “and the knowledge that you have has distressed me beyond
measure! But just have a little--a very little--more patience, and
things will be cleared--I can't tell all that's in my mind, even to
you.”
Mary, who had been sewing while Ransford, as was customary with him in
an evening, read the Times to her, looked down at her work.
“I shouldn't care, if only these rumours in the town--about you--could
be crushed!” she said. “It's so cruel, so vile, that such things--”
Ransford snapped his fingers.
“I don't care that about the rumours!” he answered, contemptuously.
“They'll be crushed out just as suddenly as they arose--and then,
perhaps, I'll let certain folk in Wrychester know what I think of them.
And as regards the suspicion against me, I know already that the only
people in the town for whose opinion I care fully accept what I said
before the Coroner. As to the others, let them talk! If the thing comes
to a head before its due time--”
“You make me think that you know more--much more!--than you've ever told
me!” interrupted Mary.
“So I do!” he replied. “And you'll see in the end why I've kept silence.
Of course, if people who don't know as much will interfere--”
He was interrupted there by the ringing of the front door bell, at the
sound of which he and Mary looked at each other.
“Who can that be?” said Mary. “It's past ten o'clock.”
Ransford offered no suggestion. He sat silently waiting, until the
parlourmaid entered.
“Inspector Mitchington would be much obliged if you could give him a few
minutes, sir,” she said.
Ransford got up from his chair.
“Take Inspector Mitchington into the study,” he said. “Is he alone?”
“No, sir--there's a gentleman with him,” replied the girl.
“All right--I'll be with them presently,” answered Ransford. “Take
them both in there and light the gas. Police!” he went on, when the
parlourmaid had gone. “They get hold of the first idea that strikes
them, and never even look round for another, You're not frightened?”
“Frightened--no! Uneasy--yes!” replied Mary. “What can they want, this
time of night?”
“Probably to tell me something about this romantic tale of Dick's,”
answered Ransford, as he left the room. “It'll be nothing more serious,
I assure you.”
But he was not so sure of that. He was very well aware that the
Wrychester police authorities had a definite suspicion of his guilt
in the Braden and Collishaw matters, and he knew from experience that
police suspicion is a difficult matter to dissipate. And before he
opened the door of the little room which he used as a study he warned
himself to be careful--and silent.
The two visitors stood near the hearth--Ransford took a good look at
them as he closed the door behind him. Mitchington he knew well enough;
he was more interested in the other man, a stranger. A quiet-looking,
very ordinary individual, who might have been half a dozen things--but
Ransford instantly set him down as a detective. He turned from this man
to the inspector.
“Well?” he said, a little brusquely. “What is it?”
“Sorry to intrude so late, Dr. Ransford,” answered Mitchington, “but I
should be much obliged if you would give us a bit of information--badly
wanted, doctor, in view of recent events,” he added, with a smile which
was meant to be reassuring. “I'm sure you can--if you will.”
“Sit down,” said Ransford, pointing to chairs. He took one himself and
again glanced at the stranger. “To whom am I speaking, in addition to
yourself, Inspector?” he asked. “I'm not going to talk to strangers.”
“Oh, well!” said Mitchington, a little awkwardly. “Of course, doctor,
we've had to get a bit of professional help in these unpleasant matters.
This gentleman's Detective-Sergeant Jettison, from the Yard.”
“What information do you want?” asked Ransford.
Mitchington glanced at the door and lowered his voice. “I may as
well tell you, doctor,” he said confidentially, “there's been a most
extraordinary discovery made tonight, which has a bearing on the Braden
case. I dare say you've heard of the great jewel robbery which took
place at the Duke of Saxonsteade's some years ago, which has been a
mystery to this very day?”
“I have heard of it,” answered Ransford.
“Very well--tonight those jewels--the whole lot!--have been discovered
in Paradise yonder, where they'd been buried, at the time of the
robbery, by the thief,” continued Mitchington. “They've just been
examined, and they're now in the Duke's own hands again--after all
these years! And--I may as well tell you--we now know that the object
of Braden's visit to Wrychester was to tell the Duke where those jewels
were hidden. Braden--and another man--had learned the secret, from
the real thief, who's dead in Australia. All that I may tell you,
doctor--for it'll be public property tomorrow.”
“Well?” said Ransford.
Mitchington hesitated a moment, as if searching for his next words. He
glanced at the detective; the detective remained immobile; he glanced at
Ransford; Ransford gave him no encouragement.
“Now look here, doctor!” he exclaimed, suddenly. “Why not tell us
something? We know now who Braden really was! That's settled. Do you
understand?”
“Who was he, then?” asked Ransford, quietly.
“He was one John Brake, some time manager of a branch of a London
bank, who, seventeen years ago, got ten years' penal servitude for
embezzlement,” answered Mitchington, watching Ransford steadily. “That's
dead certain--we know it! The man who shared this secret with him about
the Saxonsteade jewels has told us that much, today. John Brake!”
“What have you come here for?” asked Ransford.
“To ask you--between ourselves--if you can tell us anything about
Brake's earlier days--antecedents--that'll help us,” replied
Mitchington. “It may be--Jettison here--a man of experience--thinks
it'll be found to be--that Brake, or Braden as we call him--was murdered
because of his possession of that secret about the jewels. Our informant
tells us that Braden certainly had on him, when he came to Wrychester, a
sort of diagram showing the exact location of the spot where the jewels
were hidden--that diagram was most assuredly not found on Braden when
we examined his clothing and effects. It may be that it was wrested
from him in the gallery of the clerestory that morning, and that
his assailant, or assailants--for there may have been two men at
the job--afterwards pitched him through that open doorway, after
half-stifling him. And if that theory's correct--and I, personally, am
now quite inclined to it--it'll help a lot if you'll tell us what you
know of Braden's--Brake's--antecedents. Come now, doctor!--you know very
well that Braden, or Brake, did come to your surgery that morning and
said to your assistant that he'd known a Dr. Ransford in times past! Why
not speak?”
Ransford, instead of answering Mitchington's evidently genuine appeal,
looked at the New Scotland Yard man.
“Is that your theory?” he asked.
Jettison nodded his head, with a movement indicative of conviction.
“Yes, sir!” he replied. “Having regard to all the circumstances of the
case, as they've been put before me since I came here, and with special
regard to the revelations which have resulted in the discovery of these
jewels, it is! Of course, today's events have altered everything. If it
hadn't been for our informant--”
“Who is your informant?” inquired Ransford.
The two callers looked at each other--the detective nodded at the
inspector.
“Oh, well!” said Mitchington. “No harm in telling you, doctor. A man
named Glassdale--once a fellow-convict with Brake. It seems they left
England together after their time was up, emigrated together, prospered,
even went so far--both of 'em!--as to make good the money they'd
appropriated, and eventually came back together--in possession of this
secret. Brake came specially to Wrychester to tell the Duke--Glassdale
was to join him on the very morning Brake met his death. Glassdale did
come to the town that morning--and as soon as he got here, heard of
Brake's strange death. That upset him--and he went away--only to come
back today, go to Saxonsteade, and tell everything to the Duke--with the
result we've told you of.”
“Which result,” remarked Ransford, steadily regarding Mitchington, “has
apparently altered all your ideas about--me!”
Mitchington laughed a little awkwardly.
“Oh, well, come, now, doctor!” he said. “Why, yes--frankly, I'm inclined
to Jettison's theory--in fact, I'm certain that's the truth.”
“And your theory,” inquired Ransford, turning to the detective, “is--put
it in a few words.”
“My theory--and I'll lay anything it's the correct one!--is this,”
replied Jettison. “Brake came to Wrychester with his secret. That secret
wasn't confined to him and Glassdale--either he let it out to somebody,
or it was known to somebody. I understand from Inspector Mitchington
here that on the evening of his arrival Brake was away from the Mitre
Hotel for two hours. During that time, he was somewhere--with whom?
Probably with somebody who got the secret out of him, or to whom he
communicated it. For, think!--according to Glassdale, who, we are quite
sure, has told the exact truth about everything, Brake had on him a
scrap of paper, on which were instructions, in Latin, for finding the
exact spot whereat the missing Saxonsteade jewels had been hidden, years
before, by the actual thief--who, I may tell you, sir, never had the
opportunity of returning to re-possess himself of them. Now, after
Brake's death, the police examined his clothes and effects--they never
found that scrap of paper! And I work things out this way. Brake was
followed into that gallery--a lonely, quiet place--by the man or men who
had got possession of the secret; he was, I'm told, a slightly-built,
not over-strong man--he was seized and robbed of that paper and flung
to his death. And all that fits in with the second mystery of
Collishaw--who probably knew, if not everything, then something, of the
exact circumstances of Brake's death, and let his knowledge get to the
ears of--Brake's assailant!--who cleverly got rid of him. That's my
notion,” concluded the detective. “And--I shall be surprised if it isn't
a correct one!”
“And, as I've said, doctor,” chimed in Mitchington, “can't you give us a
bit of information, now? You see the line we're on? Now, as it's evident
you once knew Braden, or Brake--”
“I have never said so!” interrupted Ransford sharply.
“Well--we infer it, from the undoubted fact that he called here,”
remarked Mitchington. “And if--”
“Wait!” said Ransford. He had been listening with absorbed attention to
Jettison's theory, and he now rose from his chair and began to pace the
room, hands in pockets, as if in deep thought. Suddenly he paused and
looked at Mitchington. “This needs some reflection,” he said. “Are you
pressed for time?”
“Not in the least,” answered Mitchington, readily. “Our time's yours,
sir. Take as long as you like.”
Ransford touched a bell and summoning the parlourmaid told her to
fetch whisky, soda, and cigars. He pressed these things on the two men,
lighted a cigar himself, and for a long time continued to walk up and
down his end of the room, smoking and evidently in very deep thought.
The visitors left him alone, watching him curiously now and then--until,
when quite ten minutes had gone by, he suddenly drew a chair close to
them and sat down again.
“Now, listen to me!” he said. “If I give my confidence to you, as police
officials, will you give me your word that you won't make use of my
information until I give you leave--or until you have consulted me
further? I shall rely on your word, mind!”
“I say yes to that, doctor,” answered Mitchington.
“The same here, sir,” said the detective.
“Very well,” continued Ransford. “Then--this is between ourselves, until
such time as I say something more about it. First of all, I am not going
to tell you anything whatever about Braden's antecedents--at present!
Secondly--I am not sure that your theory, Mr. Jettison, is entirely
correct, though I think it is by way of coming very near to the
right one--which is sure to be worked out before long. But--on the
understanding of secrecy for the present I can tell you something which
I should not have been able to tell you but for the events of tonight,
which have made me put together certain facts. Now attention! To begin
with, I know where Braden was for at any rate some time on the evening
of the day on which he came to Wrychester. He was with the old man whom
we all know as Simpson Harker.”
Mitchington whistled; the detective, who knew nothing of Simpson
Harker, glanced at him as if for information. But Mitchington nodded at
Ransford, and Ransford went on.
“I know this for this reason,” he continued. “You know where Harker
lives. I was in attendance for nearly two hours that evening on a
patient in a house opposite--I spent a good deal of time in looking out
of the window. I saw Harker take a man into his house: I saw the man
leave the house nearly an hour later: I recognized that man next day as
the man who met his death at the Cathedral. So much for that.”
“Good!” muttered Mitchington. “Good! Explains a lot.”
“But,” continued Ransford, “what I have to tell you now is of a much
more serious--and confidential--nature. Now, do you know--but, of
course, you don't!--that your proceedings tonight were watched?”
“Watched!” exclaimed Mitchington. “Who watched us?”
“Harker, for one,” answered Ransford. “And--for another--my late
assistant, Mr. Pemberton Bryce.”
Mitchington's jaw dropped.
“God bless my soul!” he said. “You don't mean it, doctor! Why, how did
you--”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted Ransford. He left the room, and the two
callers looked at each other.
“This chap knows more than you think,” observed Jettison in a whisper.
“More than he's telling now!”
“Let's get all we can, then,” said Mitchington, who was obviously much
surprised by Ransford's last information. “Get it while he's in the
mood.”
“Let him take his own time,” advised Jettison. “But--you mark me!--he
knows a lot! This is only an instalment.”
Ransford came back--with Dick Bewery, clad in a loud patterned and gaily
coloured suit of pyjamas.
“Now, Dick,” said Ransford. “Tell Inspector Mitchington precisely what
happened this evening, within your own knowledge.”
Dick was nothing loth to tell his story for the second time--especially
to a couple of professional listeners. And he told it in full detail,
from the moment of his sudden encounter with Bryce to that in which he
parted with Bryce and Harker. Ransford, watching the official faces, saw
what it was in the story that caught the official attention and excited
the official mind.
“Dr. Bryce went off at once to fetch Harker, did he?” asked Mitchington,
when Dick had made a end.
“At once,” answered Dick. “And was jolly quick back with him!”
“And Harker said it didn't matter about your telling as it would be
public news soon enough?” continued Mitchington.
“Just that,” said Dick.
Mitchington looked at Ransford, and Ransford nodded to his ward.
“All right, Dick,” he said. “That'll do.”
The boy went off again, and Mitchington shook his head.
“Queer!” he said. “Now what have those two been up to?--something,
that's certain. Can you tell us more, doctor?”
“Under the same conditions--yes,” answered Ransford, taking his seat
again. “The fact is, affairs have got to a stage where I consider it
my duty to tell you more. Some of what I shall tell you is hearsay--but
it's hearsay that you can easily verify for yourselves when the right
moment comes. Mr. Campany, the librarian, lately remarked to me that my
old assistant, Mr. Bryce, seemed to be taking an extraordinary interest
in archaeological matters since he left me--he was now, said Campany,
always examining documents about the old tombs and monuments of the
Cathedral and its precincts.”
“Ah--just so!” exclaimed Mitchington. “To be sure!--I'm beginning to
see!”
“And,” continued Ransford, “Campany further remarked, as a matter for
humorous comment, that Bryce was also spending much time looking
round our old tombs. Now you made this discovery near an old tomb, I
understand?”
“Close by one--yes,” assented the inspector.
“Then let me draw your attention to one or two strange facts--which are
undoubted facts,” continued Ransford. “Bryce was left alone with the
dead body of Braden for some minutes, while Varner went to fetch the
police. That's one.”
“That's true,” muttered Mitchington. “He was--several minutes!”
“Bryce it was who discovered Collishaw--in Paradise,” said Ransford.
“That's fact two. And fact three--Bryce evidently had a motive in
fetching Harker tonight--to overlook your operations. What was his
motive? And taking things altogether; what are, or have been, these
secret affairs which Bryce and Harker have evidently been engaged in?”
Jettison suddenly rose, buttoning his light overcoat. The action seemed
to indicate a newly-formed idea, a definite conclusion. He turned
sharply to Mitchington.
“There's one thing certain, inspector,” he said. “You'll keep an eye on
those two from this out! From--just now!”
“I shall!” assented Mitchington. “I'll have both of 'em shadowed
wherever they go or are, day or night. Harker, now, has always been a
bit of a mystery, but Bryce--hang me if I don't believe he's been having
me! Double game!--but, never mind. There's no more, doctor?”
“Not yet,” replied Ransford. “And I don't know the real meaning or value
of what I have told you. But--in two days from now, I can tell you more.
In the meantime--remember your promise!”
He let his visitors out then, and went back to Mary.
“You'll not have to wait long for things to clear,” he said. “The
mystery's nearly over!”