Mitchington and the man from New Scotland Yard walked away in silence
from Ransford's house and kept the silence up until they were in the
middle of the Close and accordingly in solitude. Then Mitchington turned
to his companion.
“What d'ye think of that?” he asked, with a half laugh. “Different
complexion it puts on things, eh?”
“I think just what I said before--in there,” replied the detective.
“That man knows more than he's told, even now!”
“Why hasn't he spoken sooner, then?” demanded Mitchington. “He's had two
good chances--at the inquests.”
“From what I saw of him, just now,” said Jettison, “I should say he's
the sort of man who can keep his own counsel till he considers the right
time has come for speaking. Not the sort of man who'll care twopence
whatever's said about him, you understand? I should say he's known
a good lot all along, and is just keeping it back till he can put a
finishing touch to it. Two days, didn't he say? Aye, well, a lot can
happen in two days!”
“But about your theory?” questioned Mitchington. “What do you think of
it now--in relation to what we've just heard?”
“I'll tell you what I can see,” answered Jettison. “I can see how one
bit of this puzzle fits into another--in view of what Ransford has
just told us. Of course, one's got to do a good deal of supposing it's
unavoidable in these cases. Now supposing Braden let this man Harker
into the secret of the hidden jewels that night, and supposing that
Harker and Bryce are in collusion--as they evidently are, from what that
boy told us--and supposing they between them, together or separately,
had to do with Braden's death, and supposing that man Collishaw saw some
thing that would incriminate one or both--eh?”
“Well?” asked Mitchington.
“Bryce is a medical man,” observed Jettison. “It would be an easy thing
for a medical man to get rid of Collishaw as he undoubtedly was got rid
of. Do you see my point?”
“Aye--and I can see that Bryce is a clever hand at throwing dust in
anybody's eyes!” muttered Mitchington. “I've had some dealings with him
over this affair and I'm beginning to think--only now!--that he's been
having me for the mug! He's evidently a deep 'un--and so's the other
man.”
“I wanted to ask you that,” said Jettison. “Now, exactly who are these
two?--tell me about them--both.”
“Not so much to tell,” answered Mitchington. “Harker's a quiet old chap
who lives in a little house over there--just off that far corner of
this Close. Said to be a retired tradesman, from London. Came here a few
years ago, to settle down. Inoffensive, pleasant old chap. Potters about
the town--puts in his time as such old chaps do--bit of reading at the
libraries--bit of gossip here and--there you know the sort. Last man in
the world I should have thought would have been mixed up in an affair of
this sort!”
“And therefore all the more likely to be!” said Jettison. “Well--the
other?”
“Bryce was until the very day of Braden's appearance, Ransford's
assistant,” continued Mitchington. “Been with Ransford about two years.
Clever chap, undoubtedly, but certainly deep and, in a way, reserved,
though he can talk plenty if he's so minded and it's to his own
advantage. He left Ransford suddenly--that very morning. I don't know
why. Since then he's remained in the town. I've heard that he's pretty
keen on Ransford's ward--sister of that lad we saw tonight. I don't know
myself, if it's true--but I've wondered if that had anything to do with
his leaving Ransford so suddenly.”
“Very likely,” said Jettison. They had crossed the Close by that time
and come to a gas-lamp which stood at the entrance, and the detective
pulled out his watch and glanced at it. “Ten past eleven,” he said. “You
say you know this Bryce pretty well? Now, would it be too late--if he's
up still--to take a look at him! If you and he are on good terms, you
could make an excuse. After what I've heard, I'd like to get at close
quarters with this gentleman.”
“Easy enough,” assented Mitchington. “I've been there as late as
this--he's one of the sort that never goes to bed before midnight. Come
on!--it's close by. But--not a word of where we've been. I'll say I've
dropped in to give him a bit of news. We'll tell him about the jewel
business--and see how he takes it. And while we're there--size him up!”
Mitchington was right in his description of Bryce's habits--Bryce rarely
went to bed before one o'clock in the morning. He liked to sit up,
reading. His favourite mental food was found in the lives of statesmen
and diplomatists, most of them of the sort famous for trickery and
chicanery--he not only made a close study of the ways of these gentry
but wrote down notes and abstracts of passages which particularly
appealed to him. His lamp was burning when Mitchington and Jettison came
in view of his windows--but that night Bryce was doing no thinking about
statecraft: his mind was fixed on his own affairs. He had lighted his
fire on going home and for an hour had sat with his legs stretched out
on the fender, carefully weighing things up. The event of the night had
convinced him that he was at a critical phase of his present adventure,
and it behoved him, as a good general, to review his forces.
The forestalling of his plans about the hiding-place in Paradise had
upset Bryce's schemes--he had figured on being able to turn that
secret, whatever it was, to his own advantage. It struck him now, as he
meditated, that he had never known exactly what he expected to get out
of that secret--but he had hoped that it would have been something which
would make a few more considerable and tightly-strung meshes in the net
which he was endeavouring to weave around Ransford. Now he was faced by
the fact that it was not going to yield anything in the way of help--it
was a secret no longer, and it had yielded nothing beyond the mere
knowledge that John Braden, who was in reality John Brake, had carried
the secret to Wrychester--to reveal it in the proper quarter. That
helped Bryce in no way--so far as he could see. And therefore it was
necessary to re-state his case to himself; to take stock; to see where
he stood--and more than all, to put plainly before his own mind exactly
what he wanted.
And just before Mitchington and the detective came up the path to his
door, Bryce had put his notions into clear phraseology. His aim was
definite--he wanted to get Ransford completely into his power, through
suspicion of Ransford's guilt in the affairs of Braden and Collishaw. He
wanted, at the same time, to have the means of exonerating him--whether
by fact or by craft--so that, as an ultimate method of success for his
own projects he would be able to go to Mary Bewery and say “Ransford's
very life is at my mercy: if I keep silence, he's lost: if I speak,
he's saved: it's now for you to say whether I'm to speak or hold my
tongue--and you're the price I want for my speaking to save him!” It
was in accordance with his views of human nature that Mary Bewery would
accede to his terms: he had not known her and Ransford for nothing, and
he was aware that she had a profound gratitude for her guardian, which
might even be akin to a yet unawakened warmer feeling. The probability
was that she would willingly sacrifice herself to save Ransford--and
Bryce cared little by what means he won her, fair or foul, so long as
he was successful. So now, he said to himself, he must make a still
more definite move against Ransford. He must strengthen and deepen the
suspicions which the police already had: he must give them chapter
and verse and supply them with information, and get Ransford into the
tightest of corners, solely that, in order to win Mary Bewery, he might
have the credit of pulling him out again. That, he felt certain, he
could do--if he could make a net in which to enclose Ransford he could
also invent a two-edged sword which would cut every mesh of that net
into fragments. That would be--child's play--mere statecraft--elementary
diplomacy. But first--to get Ransford fairly bottled up--that was
the thing! He determined to lose no more time--and he was thinking
of visiting Mitchington immediately after breakfast next morning when
Mitchington knocked at his door.
Bryce was rarely taken back, and on seeing Mitchington and a companion,
he forthwith invited them into his parlour, put out his whisky and
cigars, and pressed both on them as if their late call were a matter of
usual occurrence. And when he had helped both to a drink, he took one
himself, and tumbler in hand, dropped into his easy chair again.
“We saw your light, doctor--so I took the liberty of dropping into tell
you a bit of news,” observed the inspector. “But I haven't introduced my
friend--this is Detective-Sergeant Jettison, of the Yard--we've got him
down about this business--must have help, you know.”
Bryce gave the detective a half-sharp, half-careless look and nodded.
“Mr. Jettison will have abundant opportunities for the exercise of his
talents!” he observed in his best cynical manner. “I dare say he's found
that out already.”
“Not an easy affair, sir, to be sure,” assented Jettison. “Complicated!”
“Highly so!” agreed Bryce. He yawned, and glanced at the inspector.
“What's your news, Mitchington?” he asked, almost indifferently.
“Oh, well!” answered Mitchington. “As the Herald's published tomorrow
you'll see it in there, doctor--I've supplied an account for this week's
issue; just a short one--but I thought you'd like to know. You've heard
of the famous jewel robbery at the Duke's, some years ago? Yes?--well,
we've found all the whole bundle tonight--buried in Paradise! And how do
you think the secret came out?”
“No good at guessing,” said Bryce.
“It came out,” continued Mitchington, “through a man who, with
Braden--Braden, mark you!--got in possession of it--it's a long
story--and, with Braden, was going to reveal it to the Duke that very
day Braden was killed. This man waited until this very morning and
then told his Grace--his Grace came with him to us this afternoon,
and tonight we made a search and found--everything! Buried--there in
Paradise! Dug 'em up, doctor!”
Bryce showed no great interest. He took a leisurely sip at his liquor
and set down the glass and pulled out his cigarette case. The two men,
watching him narrowly, saw that his fingers were steady as rocks as he
struck the match.
“Yes,” he said as he threw the match away. “I saw you busy.”
In spite of himself Mitchington could not repress a start nor a glance
at Jettison. But Jettison was as imperturbable as Bryce himself, and
Mitchington raised a forced laugh.
“You did!” he said, incredulously. “And we thought we had it all to
ourselves! How did you come to know, doctor?”
“Young Bewery told me what was going on,” replied Bryce, “so I took
a look at you. And I fetched old Harker to take a look, too. We all
watched you--the boy, Harker, and I--out of sheer curiosity, of course.
We saw you get up the parcel. But, naturally, I didn't know what was in
it--till now.”
Mitchington, thoroughly taken aback by this candid statement, was at a
loss for words, and again he glanced at Jettison. But Jettison gave no
help, and Mitchington fell back on himself.
“So you fetched old Harker?” he said. “What--what for, doctor? If one
may ask, you know.”
Bryce made a careless gesture with his cigarette.
“Oh--old Harker's deeply interested in what's going on,” he answered.
“And as young Bewery drew my attention to your proceedings, why, I
thought I'd draw Harker's. And Harker was--interested.”
Mitchington hesitated before saying more. But eventually he risked a
leading question.
“Any special reason why he should be, doctor?” he asked.
Bryce put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and looked
half-lazily at his questioner.
“Do you know who old Harker really is?” he inquired.
“No!” answered Mitchington. “I know nothing about him--except that he's
said to be a retired tradesman, from London, who settled down here some
time ago.”
Bryce suddenly turned on Jettison.
“Do you?” he asked.
“I, sir!” exclaimed Jettison. “I don't know this gentleman--at all!”
Bryce laughed--with his usual touch of cynical sneering.
“I'll tell you--now--who old Harker is, Mitchington,” he said. “You may
as well know. I thought Mr. Jettison might recognize the name. Harker is
no retired London tradesman--he's a retired member of your profession,
Mr. Jettison. He was in his day one of the smartest men in the service
of your department. Only he's transposed his name--ask them at the Yard
if they remember Harker Simpson? That seems to startle you, Mitchington!
Well, as you're here, perhaps I'd better startle you a bit more.”