 CHAPTER XII. MURDER OF THE MASON'S LABERER. It was towards noon of the very next day that Bryce made a forward step in the matter of solving the problem of Richard Jenkins and his tomb in Paradise. Ever since his return from Barthorpe he had been making attempts to get at the true meaning of this mystery. He had paid so many visits to the Cathedral Library that Ambrose Campany had asked him jestingly if he was going in for archaeology. Bryce had replied that having nothing to do just then he saw no reason why he shouldn't improve his knowledge of the antiques of Reichester. But he was scrupulously careful not to let the librarian know the real object of his prying and peeping into the old books and documents. Campany, as Bryce was very well aware, was a walking encyclopedia of information about Reichester Cathedral. He was in fact at that time engaged in completing a history of it. And it was through that history that Bryce accidentally got his precious information. For on the day following the interview with Mary Burie and Ransford, Bryce, being in the library, was treated by Campany to an inspection of certain drawings which the librarian had made for illustrating his work drawings, most of them of old brasses, coats of arms, and the like. And at the foot of one of these, a drawing of a shield on which was sculptured three crows. Bryce saw the name Richard Jenkins, Armager. It was all he could do to repress a start and to check his tongue. But Campany, knowing nothing, quickly gave him the information he wanted. All these drawings, he said, are of old things in and about the cathedral. Some of them, like that for instance, that Jenkins shield, are of ornamentations on tombs which are so old that the inscriptions have completely disappeared, tombs in the cloisters and in paradise. Some of those tombs can only be identified by these sculptures and ornaments. How do you know, for instance, that any particular tomb a monument is? We'll say Jenkins's. Asked Bryce, feeling that he was on safe ground. Must be a matter of doubt if there's no inscription left, isn't it? No, replied Campany, no doubt at all. In that particular case there's no doubt that a certain tomb out there on the corner of paradise, near the east wall of the south porch, is that of one Richard Jenkins, because it bears his coat of arms, which as you see bore these birds, intended either as crows or ravens. The inscriptions clean gone from that tomb, which is why it isn't particularised in that chart of burials and paradise. The man who prepares that chart didn't know how to trace things as we do nowadays. Richard Jenkins was, as you may guess, a Welshman, who settled here in Rochester in the seventeenth century. He left some money to St. Hedwig's church, outside the walls, but he was buried here. There are more instances, look at this now, this coat of arms. That's the only means there is of identifying another tomb in paradise. That of Jervis Tirwit. You see his armoryl bearings in this drawing? Now those. Bryce let the librarian go on talking and explaining, and heard all he had to say as a man hears things in a dream. What was really active in his own mind was joy at this unexpected stroke of luck. He himself might have searched for many a year and never found the last resting place of Richard Jenkins. And when, soon after the great clock of the cathedral had struck the hour of noon, he left Campany and quitted the library. He walked over to paradise and plunged in amongst its use and cypresses, intent on seeing the Jenkins tomb for himself. No one could suspect anything from merely seeing him there, and all he wanted was one glance at the ancient monument. But Bryce was not to give even one look at Richard Jenkins' tomb that day, nor the next, nor for many days. Death met him in another form before he had taken many steps in the quiet enclosure, where so much of Rochester mortality lay sleeping. From over the topmost branches of the old yew trees, a great shaft of noontide sun fell full on a patch of the gray walls of the high-roofed nave. At the foot of it, his back comfortably planted against the angle of a projecting buttress, sat a man, evidently fast asleep in the warmth of those powerful rays. His head leaned down and forward over his chest. His hands were folded across his waist. His whole attitude was that of a man who, having eaten and drunken in the open air, has dropped off to sleep. That he had so dropped off while in the very act of smoking was evident from the presence of a short, well-blackened clay pipe which had fallen from his lips and lay in the grass beside him. Near the pipe, spread on a colored handkerchief, were the remains of his dinner. Bryce's quick eye noticed fragments of bread, cheese, onions, and closeby stood one of those tin bottles in which laboring men carry their drink. Its cork, tied to the neck by a piece of string, dangled against the side. A few yards away, a mass of fallen rubbish and a shovel and wheelbarrow showed it what the sleeper had been working when his dinner hour and time for rest had arrived. Something unusual, something curiously noticeable, yet he could not exactly tell what made Bryce go closer to the sleeping man. There is a strange stillness about him, a rigidity which seemed to suggest something more than sleep. And suddenly, with a stifled exclamation, he bent forward and lifted one of the folded hands. It dropped like a leaden weight when Bryce released it. And he pushed back the man's face and looked searchingly into it. And in that instant, he knew that for the second time within a fortnight, he had found a dead man in Rightchester Paradise. There was no doubt whatever that the man was dead. His hands and body were warm enough, but there was not a flicker of breath. He was as dead as any of the folk who lay six feet beneath the old gravestones around him. And Bryce's practiced touch and eye knew that he was only just dead, and that he had died in his sleep. Everything there pointed unmistakably to what had happened. The man had eaten his frugal dinner, washed it down from his tin bottle, lighted his pipe, leaned back in the warm sunlight, dropped to sleep, and died as quietly as a child taken from its play to its slumbers. After one more careful look, Bryce turned and made through the trees to the path which crossed the old graveyard. And there, going leisurely home to lunch, was Dick Burie, who glanced at the young doctor inquisitively. Hello! he exclaimed, with the freedom of youth towards something not much older. You there, anything on? Then he looked more clearly, seeing Bryce to be pale and excited. Bryce laid a hand on the lad's arm. Look here, he said. There's something wrong again in here. Run down to the police station. Get hold of Mitchington quietly, understand. Bring him here at once. If he's not there, bring somebody else, any of the police. But say nothing to any of them. Dick gave him another swift look, turned, and ran. And Bryce went back to the dead man and picked up the tin bottle, and making a cup of his left hand poured out a trickle of the contents. Cold tea. And as far as he could judge, nothing else. He put the tip of his little finger into the weak-looking stuff and tasted. It tasted of nothing but a super abundance of sugar. He stood there, watching the dead man, until the sound of footsteps behind him gave warning of the return of Dick Burie, who in another minute hurried through the bushes followed by Mitchington. The boy stared in silence at the still figure. But the inspector, after a hasty glance, turned a horrified face on Bryce. Good Lord! he gasped. It's Kallishaw. Bryce for the moment failed to comprehend this, and Mitchington shook his head. Kallishaw! he repeated. Kallishaw, you know! The man I told you about yesterday afternoon, the man that said... Mitchington suddenly checked himself with a glance at Dick Burie. I remember now, said Bryce. The Mason's laborer. So this is the man, eh? Well Mitchington, he's dead. I found him dead just now. I should say he'd been dead five to ten minutes, not more. You'd better get help, and I'd like another medical man to see him before he's removed. Mitchington looked again at Dick. Perhaps you'd fetch Dr. Ransford, Mr. Richard? He asked. He's nearest. Dr. Ransford's not at home, said Dick. He went to Highmanster, some county council business or other, at ten this morning, and he won't be back until four. I happen to know that. Shall I run for Dr. Coates? If you wouldn't mind, said Mitchington. And as it's close by, drop in at the station again and tell the sergeant to come here with a couple of men. I say. He went on when the boy had hurried off. This is a queer business, Dr. Bryce. What do you think? I think this, answered Bryce. That man, look at him. A strong, healthy-looking fellow in the very prime of life. That man has met his death by foul means. You take particular care of those dinner things of his, the remains of his dinner, every scrap and of that tin bottle. That especially. Take all these things yourself, Mitchington, and lock them up. They'll be wanted for examination. Mitchington glanced at the simple matters which Bryce indicated, and suddenly he turned a half-frightened glance on his companion. You don't mean to say that. That you suspect he's been poisoned? He asked. Good Lord, if that is so. I don't think you'll find that there's much doubt about it, answered Bryce. But that's a point that will soon be settled. You'd better tell the coroner at once, Mitchington, and he'll issue a formal order to Dr. Coates to make a postmortem. And, he added significantly, I shall be surprised if it isn't, as I say, poison. If that so, observed Mitchington with a grim shake of his head, if that really is so, then I know what I shall think. This. He went on pointing to the dead man. This is a sort of sequel to the other affair. There's been something in what the poor chap said. He did know something against somebody, and that somebody's got to hear of it and silenced him. But Lord, Doctor, how can it have been done? I can see how it can have been done, easy enough, said Bryce. This man has evidently been at work here by himself all the morning. He, of course, brought his dinner with him. He no doubt put his basket and his bottle down somewhere while he did his work. What easier than for someone to approach through these trees and shrubs while the man's back was turned, or he was busy round one of these corners and put some deadly poison into that bottle? Nothing. Well, remarked Mitchington, if that's so, it proves something else to my mind. What, asked Bryce, why that whoever it was who did it was somebody who had a knowledge of poison, answered Mitchington, and I should say there aren't many people in Rochester who have such knowledge outside yourselves and the chemists. It's a black business, this. Bryce nodded silently. He waited until Doctor Coates, an elderly man, who was the leading practitioner in the town, arrived. And to him he gave a careful account of his discovery. And after the police had taken the body away, and he had accompanied Mitchington to the police station, and seen the tin bottle and the remains of Kallisha's dinner safely locked up, he went home to lunch, and to wonder at this strange development. The inspector was doubtless right in saying that Kallisha had been done to death by someone who wanted to silence him. And who could that somebody be? Bryce's thoughts immediately turned to the fact that Ransford had overheard all that Mitchington had said, and in that very room in which he, Bryce, was then lunching. Ransford. Was it possible that Ransford had realized a danger in Kallisha's knowledge and had— He was interrupted at this stage by Mitchington, who came hurriedly in with a scared face. I say, I say! He whispered as soon as Bryce's landlady had shut the door on them. Here's a fine business. I've heard something, something I can hardly credit, but it's true. I've been to tell Kallisha's family what's happened, and I'm fairly dazed by it. It is so. What's so? demanded Bryce. What is it that's true? Mitchington bent closer over the table. Dr. Ransford was fetched to Kallisha's cottage at six o'clock this morning, he said. It seems that Kallisha's wife had been in a poor way about her health of late, and Dr. Ransford has attended her on and off. She had some sort of a seizure this morning early and Ransford was sent for. He was there some little time, and I've heard some queer things. What sort of queer things? demanded Bryce. Don't be afraid of speaking out, man. There's no one to hear but myself. Well, things that look suspicious on the face of it, continued Mitchington, who was obviously much upset. As you'll acknowledge when you hear them. I got my information from the next-door neighbor, Mrs. Batz. Mrs. Batz says that when Ransford, who'd been fetched by Mrs. Batz's eldest lad, came to Kallisha's house, Kallisha was putting up his dinner to take to work. What on earth made Mrs. Batz tell you that? Interrupted Bryce. Oh, well, to tell you the truth. I put a few questions to her as to what went on while Ransford was in the house. Answered Mitchington. When I once found out that he had been there, you know, I naturally wanted to know all I could. Well, asked Bryce. Kallisha, I say, was putting up his dinner to take to his work. Continued Mitchington. Mrs. Batz was doing a thing or two about the house. Ransford went upstairs to see Mrs. Kallisha. After a while he came down and said he would have to remain a little. Kallisha went up to speak to his wife before going out. And then Ransford asked Mrs. Batz for something. I forget what. Some small matter which the Kallishaws hadn't got. And she had. And she went next door to fetch it. Therefore, do you see? Ransford was left alone with Kallishaws' tin bottle. Bryce, who had been listening attentively, looked steadily at the inspector. You're suspecting Ransford already? He said. Mitchington shook his head. What's it look like? He answered almost appealingly. I put it to you now. What does it look like? Here's this man been poisoned without a doubt. I'm certain of it. And there was those rumors. It's idle to deny that they centred in Ransford. And this morning Ransford had the chance. That's arguing that Ransford purposely carried a dose of poison to put into Kallishaws' tin bottle, said Bryce, half sneeringly. Not very probable, you know, Mitchington. Mitchington spread out his hands. Well, there it is, he said. As I say, there's no denying the suspicious look of it. If I were only certain that those rumors about what Kallishaw hinted he could say had got to Ransford's ears, why then? What's being done about that post-mortem? asked Bryce. Dr. Coates and Dr. Everest are going to do it this afternoon, replied Mitchington. The coroner went to them at once, as soon as I told him. They'll probably have to call an inexpert from London, said Bryce. However, you can't do anything definite, you know, until the results known. Don't say anything of this to anybody. I'll drop in at your place later and hear if Coates can say anything really certain. Mitchington went away. And Bryce spent the rest of the afternoon wondering, speculating and scheming. If Ransford had really got rid of this man who knew something, why then, it was certainly Ransford who killed Brayden. He went round to the police station at five o'clock. Mitchington drew him aside. Coates said there's no doubt about it. He whispered. Poisoned. Hydrocyanic acid. End of Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Of the Paradise Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recorded by Gesine The Paradise Mystery by J. S. Fletcher Chapter 13 Bryce is asked a question. Mitchington stepped aside into a private room, motioning Bryce to follow him. He carefully closed the door and, looking significantly at his companion, repeated his last words with a shake of the head. Poisoned. Without the very least doubt, he whispered. Hydrocyanic acid, which I understand is the same thing as what's commonly called prosic acid. They say they hadn't the least difficulty in finding that out. So there you are. That's what Coates has told you, of course. Asked Bryce. After the autopsy? Both of them told me. Coates and Everest, who helped him, replied Mitchington. They said it was obvious from the very start, and I say. Well, said Bryce. It wasn't in that tin bottle anyway, remarked Mitchington, who was evidently greatly weighted with mystery. No, of course it wasn't. Affirmed Bryce, good heavens, man, I know that. How do you know? Asked Mitchington. Because I poured a few drops from that bottle into my hand when I first found Collishaw and tasted the stuff. Answered Bryce readily. Coated tea with too much sugar in it. There was no HCN in that, besides wherever it is. There's always a smell stronger or fainter of bitter almonds. There was none about that bottle. Yet you were very anxious that we should take care of the bottle. Observed Mitchington. Of course, because I suspected the use of some much rarer poison than that, retorted Bryce. Poo, it's a clumsy way of poisoning anybody, quick though it is. Well, there's where it is, said Mitchington. That'll be the medical evidence at the inquest anyway. That's how it was done. And the question now is, who did it? Interrupted Bryce. Precisely. Well, I'll say this much at once, Mitchington. Whoever did it was either a big bungler or damned clever. That's what I say. I don't understand you, said Mitchington. Plain enough my meaning, replied Bryce, smiling. To finish anybody with that stuff is easy enough, but no poison is more easily detected. It's an amateurish way of poisoning anybody, unless you can do it in such a fashion that no suspicion can attach you to. And in this case it's here. Whoever administered that poison to Collishore must have been certain, absolutely certain, mind you, that it was impossible for any one to find out that he'd done so. Therefore, I'd say what I said. The man must be damned clever. Otherwise he'd be found out pretty quick. And all that puzzles me is, how was it administered? How much would kill anybody pretty quick? asked Mitchington. How much? One drop would cause instantaneous death, answered Bryce. Caused paralysis of the heart there and then instantly. Mitchington remained silent a while, looking meditatively at Bryce. Then he turned to a locked drawer, produced a key, and took something out of the drawer, a small object wrapped in paper. I'm telling you a good deal, Doctor, he said, but as you know so much already, I'll tell you a bit more. Look at this. He opened his hand and showed Bryce a small cardboard pill box, across the face of which a few words were written, one after meals, Mr. Collishore. Whose handwriting's that? demanded Mitchington. Bryce looked closer and started. Ransford's, he muttered. Ransford, of course. That box was in Collishore's waistcoat pocket, said Mitchington. There are pills inside it now. See. He took off the lid of the box and revealed four sugarcoated pills. It wouldn't hold more than six this, he observed. Bryce extracted a pill and put his nose to it after scratching a little of the sugarcoating away. Mere digestive pills, he announced. Could it have been given in one of these? asked Mitchington. Possible, replied Bryce. He stood thinking for a moment. Have you shown those things to Coates and Everest? He asked at last. Not yet, replied Mitchington. I wanted to find out first if Ransford gave this box to Collishore and when. I'm going to Collishore's house presently. I have certain inquiries to make. His widow'll know about these pills. You're suspecting Ransford, said Bryce. That's certain. Mitchington carefully put away the pill box and relocked the drawer. I've got some decidedly uncomfortable ideas which I'd much rather not have. About Dr. Ransford, he said. When one thing seems to fit into another, what is one to think? If I were certain that that rumor which spread about Collishore's knowledge of something, you know, had got Ransford's ears. Why, I should say, it looked very much as if Ransford wanted to stop Collishore's tongue for good before he could say more, and next time, perhaps, something definite. If men once begin to hint that they know something, they don't stop at hinting. Collishore might have spoken plainly before long. To us. Bryce asked a question about the holding of the inquest and went away. After thinking things over, he turned in the direction of the cathedral and made his way through the cloisters to the close. He was going to make another move in his own game. While there was a good chance. Everything at this juncture was throwing excellent cards into his hand. He would be foolish, he thought, not to play them to advantage. And so he made straight for Ransford's house, and before he reached it, met Ransford and Mary Burry, who were crossing the close from another point on their way from the railway station, with the Mary had gone especially to meet her guardian. They were in such deep conversation that Bryce was close upon them before they observed his presence. When Ransford saw his late assistant, he scowled unconsciously. Bryce, and the interview of the previous afternoon, had been much in his thoughts all day, and he had an uneasy feeling that Bryce was playing some game. Bryce was quick to see that scowl, and to observe the sudden start which Mary could not repress, and he was just as quick to speak. I was going to your house, Dr. Ransford, he remarked quietly. I don't want to force my presence on you, now or at any time, but I think you'd better give me a few minutes. They were at Ransford's garden gate by that time, and Ransford flung it open and motioned Bryce to follow. He led the way into the dining room, closed the door on the three, and looked at Bryce. Bryce took the glance as a question, and put another in words. He've heard of what's happened during the day, he said. About Collishaw, yes, answered Ransford. Miss Burie has just told me what her brother told her. What of it? I have just come from the police station, said Bryce. Coats and Everest have carried out an autopsy this afternoon. Mitchington told me the result. Well, demanded Ransford, with no attempt to do so, demanded Ransford, with no attempt to conceal his impatience. And what then? Collishaw was poisoned, replied Bryce. Watching Ransford with a closeness which Mary did not fail to observe. H.C.N. No doubt at all about it. Well, and what then? Asked Ransford, still more impatiently. To be explicit, what's all this to do with me? I came here to do you a service, answered Bryce. Whether you like to take it or not is your look out. You may as well know it, you're in danger. Collishaw is the man who hinted, as you heard yesterday in my rooms, that he could say something definite about the Braden affair, if he liked. Well, said Ransford. It's known to the police that you rode Collishaw's house early this morning. Said Bryce. Mitchington knows it. Ransford laughed. Does Mitchington know that I overheard what he said to you, yesterday afternoon? He inquired. No, he doesn't, answered Bryce. He couldn't possibly know unless I told him. I haven't told him. I'm not going to tell him. But he's suspicious already. Of me, of course, suggested Ransford, with another laugh. He took a turn across the room and suddenly faced round on Bryce, who had remained standing near the door. Do you really mean to tell me that Mitchington is such a fool, as to believe that I would poison a poor working man, and in that clumsy fashion? He burst out. Of course you don't. I never said I did, answered Bryce. I'm only telling you what Mitchington thinks his ground for suspecting. He confided in me because—well, it was I who found Collishaw. Mitchington is in possession of a box of digestive pills, which you evidently gave Collishaw. Bah! exclaimed Ransford. The man's a fool. Let him come and talk to me. He won't do that yet. Said Bryce. But I'm afraid he'll bring all this out at the inquest. The fact is, he's suspicious. What was one thing or another about the former affair? He thinks you concealed the truth, whatever it may be, as regards any knowledge of Braden which you may or may not have. I'll tell you what it is, said Ransford suddenly. It just comes to this. I'm suspected of having had a hand—the hand, if you like—in Braden's death, and now of getting rid of Collishaw, because Collishaw could prove that I had that hand. That's about it. A clear way of putting it, certainly, assented Bryce. But there is a very clear way, too, of dissipating any such ideas. What way? demanded Ransford. If you do know anything about the Braden affair, why not reveal it, and be done with the whole thing? suggested Bryce. That would finish matters. Ransford took a long, silent look at his questioner, and Bryce looked steadily back, at Mary Bury anxiously watched both men. That's my business, said Ransford at last. I'm neither to be coerced, bullied, or cajoled. I'm obliged to you for giving me a hint of my danger, I suppose, and I don't propose to say any more. Neither do I, said Bryce. I only came to tell you. And therewith, having successfully done all that he wanted to do, he walked out of the room and the house, and Ransford, standing in the window, his hands thrust in his pockets, watched him go away across the clothes. Guardian, said Mary softly. Ransford turned sharply. Wouldn't it be best, she continued, speaking nervously, if you do know anything about that unfortunate man, if he told it? Why have this suspicion fastening itself on you? You. Ransford made an effort to calm himself. He was furiously angry, angry with Bryce, angry with Mitchington, angry with a cloud of foolishness and stupidity that seemed to be gathering. Why should I? Supposing that I do know something, which I don't admit, why should I allow myself to be coerced and frightened by these fools? He asked. No man can prevent suspicion falling on him. It's my bad luck in this instance. Why should I rush to the police station and say, here, I'll blurt out all I know, everything? Why? Wouldn't that be better than knowing that people are saying things? She asked. As to that, replied Ransford, you can't prevent people saying things, especially in a town like this. If it hadn't been for the unfortunate fact that Braden came to the surgery door, nothing would have been said. But what of that? I have known hundreds of men in my time, I, and forgotten them. No, I am not going to fall a victim to this device. It all springs out of curiosity. As to this last affair, it's all nonsense. But if the man was really poisoned, suggested Mary, let the police find the poisoner, said Ransford, with a grim smile. That's their job. Mary said nothing for a moment, and Ransford moved restlessly about the room. I don't trust that fellow Bryce, he said suddenly. He's up to something. I don't forget what he said, when I bundled him out that morning. What? she asked. That he would be a bad enemy, answered Ransford. He's posing now as a friend, but a man's never to be so much suspected as when he comes doing what you may call unnecessary acts of friendship. I'd rather that anybody was mixed up in my affairs, your affairs, than Pemberton Bryce. So would I, she said, but she paused there a moment and then looked appealingly at Ransford. I do wish he'd tell me what you promised to tell me, she said. He'd know what I mean about me and Dick. Somehow, I don't quite know how or why. I have an uneasy feeling that Bryce knows something, and that he's mixing it all up with this. Why not tell me, please? Ransford, who was still marching about the room, came to a halt and leaning his hands on the table between them, looked earnestly at her. Don't ask me that now. He said, I can't yet. The fact is, I'm waiting for something, some particulars. As soon as I get them, I'll speak to you and to Dick. In the meantime, don't ask me again, and don't be afraid. And as to this affair, leave it to me, and if you meet Bryce again, refuse to discuss anything with him. Look here, there's only one reason why he professes friendliness and a desire to save me annoyance. He thinks he can ingratiate himself with you. Miss Taken, murmured Mary, shaking her head, I don't trust him. And less than ever because of yesterday. Would an honest man have done what he did? Let that police inspector talk freely, as he did, with people concealed behind the curtain? And he laughed about it. I hated myself for being there, yet could we help it? I'm not going to hate myself on Pemberton Bryce's account, said Ransford. Let him play his game, that he has one, I'm certain. Bryce had gone away to continue his game, or another line of it. The Collishaw matter had not made him forget the Richard Jenkins tomb, and now, after leaving Ransford's house, he crossed the close to Paradise, with the object of doing a little more investigation. But at the archway of the ancient enclosure he met old Simpson Harker, pottering about in his usual apparently aimless fashion. Harker smiled at sight of Bryce. Ah, I was wanting to have a word with you, doctor, he said. Something important. Have you got a minute or two to spare, sir? Come round to my little place, then. We shall be quiet there. Bryce had any amount of time to spare for an interesting person like Harker, and he followed the old man to his house, a tiny place set in a nest of similar old-world buildings behind the close. Harker led him into a little parlour, comfortable and snug, wherein were several shelves of books, of a curiously legal and professional-looking aspect, some old pictures and a cabinet of odds and ends, stowed away in a dark corner. The old man motioned him to an easy chair, and going over to a cupboard, produced a decanter of whiskey and a box of cigars. We can have a peaceful and comfortable talk here, doctor, he remarked. As he sat down near Bryce, after fetching glasses and soda water. I live all alone like a hermit, my bit of work's done by a woman who looks in of a morning. So we are all here by ourselves. Light your cigar, same as that I gave you at Barthorpe. Um, well now, he continued, as Bryce settled down to listen. There's a question I want to put to you, strictly between ourselves, strictest of confidence, you know. It was you who was called to Brayden by Varna, and you were left alone with Brayden's body? Well, admitted Bryce, suddenly growing suspicious, what of it? Harker edged his chair a little closer to his guests, and leaned towards him. What? he asked in a whisper. What have he done with that scrap of paper that he took out of Brayden's purse? End of Chapter 13. Paradise Mystery by J. S. Fletcher If any remarkably keen and able observer of the odd characteristics of humanity had been present in Harker's little parlor at that moment, watching him and his visitor, he would have been struck by what happened when the old man put this sudden and point-blank question to the young one. For Harker put the question, though in a whisper, in no more than a casual, almost friendly, confidential way, and Bryce never showed by the start of a finger or the flicker of an eyelash that he felt it to be what he really knew it to be, the most surprising and startling question he had ever had put to him. Instead, he looked his questioner calmly in the eyes and put a question in his turn. Who are you, Mr. Harker? asked Bryce quietly. Harker laughed almost gleefully. Yes, you've a right to ask that, he said. Of course, glad you take it that way. You'll do. I'll qualify it then, added Bryce. It's not who, it's what are you? Harker waved his cigar at the bookshelves in front of which his visitor sat. Take a look at my collection of literature, doctor, he said. What do you think of it? Bryce turned and leisurely inspected one shelf after another. Seems to consist of little else but criminal cases and legal handbooks, he remarked quietly. I begin to suspect you, Mr. Harker. They say here in Register that you're a retired tradesman. I think you're a retired policeman of the detective branch. Harker laughed again. No righteous man has ever crossed my threshold since I came to settle down here, he said. You're the first person I've ever asked in, with one notable exception. I've never even had Campany, the librarian, here. I'm a hermit. But you were a detective, suggested Bryce. I, for a good five and twenty years, replied Harker. And pretty well known too, sir. But my question, doctor, all between ourselves. I'll ask you one then, said Bryce. How do you know I took a scrap of paper from Braden's purse? Because I know that he had such a paper in his purse the night he came to the mitre. Answered Harker. And was certain to have it there next morning and because I also know that you were left alone with the body for some minutes after Varner fetched you to it. And that when Braden's clothing and effects were searched by Mitchington, the paper wasn't there. So of course you took it. Doesn't matter to me that you did, except that I know from knowing that that you are on a similar game to my own. Which is why you went down to Lichestershire. You knew Braden, asked Bryce. I knew him, answered Harker. You saw him, spoke with him, here in Lichester? Suggested Bryce. He was here, in this room, in that chair, from five minutes past nine to close on ten o'clock. The night before his death, replied Harker. Bryce, who was quietly appreciating the Havana cigar which the old man had given him, picked up his glass, took a drink, and settled himself in his easy chair as if he meant to stay there a while. I think we'd better talk confidentially, Mr. Harker, he said. Precisely what we are doing, Dr. Bryce, replied Harker. All right, my friend, said Bryce, leconically. Now we understand each other. So, do you know who John Braden really was? Yes, replied Harker promptly. He was, in reality, John Brake, ex-bank manager, ex-convict. Do you know if he has any relatives here in Lichester? Enquired Bryce. Yes, said Harker, the boy and girl who live with Ransford, their Brake's son and daughter. Did Brake know that, when he came here? Continued Bryce. No, he didn't. He hadn't the least idea of it, responded Harker. Had you, then? Asked Bryce. No, not until later, a little later, replied Harker. You found it out at Barthorp? Suggested Bryce. Not a bit of it. I worked it out here, after Brake was dead, said Harker. I went to Barthorp on quite different business, Brake's business. Ah, said Bryce. He looked the old detective quietly in the eyes. You'd better tell me all about it, he added. If we're both going to tell each other all about it, stipulated Harker. That settled, assented Bryce. Harker smoked thoughtfully for a moment and seemed to be thinking. I'd better go back to the beginning, he said. But first, what do you know about Brake? I know you went down to Barthorp to find out what you could. How far did your searches take you? I know that Brake married a girl from Braden Medworth, that he took her to London, where he was manager of a branch bank, that he got into trouble and was sentenced to ten years' penal servitude, answered Bryce, together with some small details into which we needn't go at present. Well, as long as you know all that, there is a common basis and a common starting point, remarked Harker. So I'll begin at Brake's trial. It was I who arrested Brake. There was no trouble, no bother. He'd been taken unawares by an inspector of the bank. He'd a considerable deficiency, couldn't make it good, couldn't or wouldn't explain, except by half-sullen hints that he'd been cruelly deceived. There was no defense, couldn't be. His counsel said that he could—I've read the account of the trial, interrupted Bryce. All right, then you know as much as I can tell you on that point, said Harker. He got, as you say, ten years. I saw him, just before he was removed, and asked him if there was anything I could do for him about his wife and children. I'd never seen them. I arrested him at the bank, and of course he was never out of custody after that. He answered in a queer, curt way that his wife and children were being looked after. I heard, incidentally, that his wife had left home or was from home. There was something mysterious about it, either as soon as he was arrested or before. Anyway, he said nothing, and from that moment I never set eyes on him again until I met him in the street, here in Rochester, the other night, when he came to the mitre. I knew him at once, and he knew me. We met under one of those big, standard lamps in the marketplace. I was following my usual practice of having an evening walk, last thing before going to bed. And we stopped and stared at each other. Then he came forward with his hand out, and we shook hands. This is an odd thing, he said. You're the very man I wanted to find. Come somewhere where it's quiet, and let me have a word with you. So I brought him here. Bryce was all attention now, for once he was devoting all his faculties to tense and absorbed concentration on what another man could tell, leaving reflections and conclusions on what he heard until all had been told. I brought him here, repeated Harker. I told him I'd been retired and was living here as he saw alone. I asked him no questions about himself. I could see he was a well-dressed, apparently well-to-do man. And presently he began to tell me about himself. He said that after he'd finished his term he left England, and for some time travelled in Canada and the United States, and had gone then on to New Zealand and afterwards to Australia, where he'd settled down and begun speculating in wool. I said I hoped he'd done well. Yes, he said, he'd done very nicely. And then he gave me a quiet dig in the ribs. I'll tell you one thing I've done, Harker, he said. You were very polite and considerate to me when I had my trouble, so I don't mind telling you. I paid the bank. Every penny of that money they lost through my foolishness at that time. Every penny. Four years ago. With interest. And I've got their receipt. Delighted to hear it, Mr. Is it the same name still? I said. My name ever since I left England, he said, giving me a look. Is Braden. John Braden. Yes, he went on. I paid him. Though I never had one penny of the money I was full enough to take for the time being. Not one half penny. Who had it, Mr. Braden? I asked him. Thinking he'd perhaps tell after all that time. Never mind, my lad, he answered. It'll come out yet. Never mind that now. I'll tell you why I wanted to see you. The fact is, I've only been a few hours in England, so to speak, but I'd thought of you and wondered where I could get hold of you. You're the only man of your profession I ever met, you see, he added, with a laugh. And I want a bit of help in that way. Well, Mr. Braden, I said. I've retired, but if it's an easy job, I'll tell you why I wanted to see you. It's one you can do easy enough, he said. It's just this. I met a man in Australia who's extremely anxious to get some news of another man named Falkner Ray, who hails from Barthorpe in Leicestershire. I promised to make inquiries for him. Now I have strong reasons why I don't want to go near Barthorpe. Barthorpe has unpleasant memories and associations for me, and I don't want to be seen there. But this thing's got to be personal investigation. Will you go here for me? I'll make it worth your while. All you've got to do, he went on, is to go there, see the police authorities, town officials, anybody that knows the place, and ask them if they can tell you anything of one Falkner Ray. Who was at one time a small estate agent in Barthorpe? Left the place about seventeen years ago, maybe eighteen, and is believed to have recently gone back to the neighbourhood. That's all. Get what information you can and write it to me, care of my bankers in London. Give me a sheet of paper and I'll put down particulars for you. Harker paused at this point and nodded his head at the old bureau which stood in a corner of his room. The sheet of paper's there, he said. It's got on it, in his writing, a brief memorandum of what he wanted and the address of his bankers. When he'd given it to me, he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a purse in which I could see he was carrying plenty of money. He took out some notes. Here's five and twenty pounds on account, Harker, he said. You might have to spend a bit. Don't be afraid, plenty more where that comes from. You'll do it soon, he asked. Yes, I'll do it, Mr. Brayden, I answered. It'll be a bit of a holiday for me. That's all right, he said. I'm delighted I came across you. Well, you couldn't be more delighted than I was surprised, I said. I never thought to see you in Rochester. What brought you here, if one may ask? Sightseeing? He laughed at that, and he pulled out his purse again. I'll show you something, a secret, he said. And he took a bit of folded paper out of his purse. What do you make of that? he asked. Can you read Latin? No, except a word or two, I said, but I know a man who can. I never mind, said he. I know enough Latin for this, and it's a secret. However, it won't be a secret long, and you'll hear all about it. And with that he put the bit of paper in his purse again, and we began talking about other matters. And before long he said he'd promised to have a chat with a gentleman at the mitre, whom he'd come along with in the train, and away he went, saying he'd see me before he left the town. Did he say how long he was going to stop here? asked Bryce. Two or three days, replied Harker. Did he mention Ransford? inquired Bryce. Never, said Harker. Did he make any reference to his wife and children? Not the slightest. Nor to the hint that his counsel threw out at the trial? Never referred to that time except in the way I told you, that he hadn't a penny of the money himself, and that he'd himself refunded it. Bryce meditated a while. He was somewhat puzzled by certain points in the old detective story, and he saw that there was much more mystery in the Braden affair than he had at first believed. Well, he asked after a while. Did you see him again? Not alive, replied Harker. I saw him dead, and I held my tongue and have held it. But something happened that day after I heard of the accident I went into the crown and cushioned tavern. The fact was I went to get a taste of whiskey for the news had upset me. And in that long bar of theirs I saw a man whom I knew, a man whom I knew for a fact, to have been a fellow convict of Breaks, name of Glassdale, forgery. He got the same sentence that Break got about the same time, was in the same convict prison with Break, and he and Break would be released about the same date. There was no doubt about his identity. I'll never forget a face even after thirty years I'd tell one. I saw him in that bar before he saw me, and I took a careful look at him. He too, like Break, was very well dressed and very prosperous looking. He turned as he set down his glass, caught sight of me, and he knew me. Mind you, he'd been through my hands in times past, and he instantly moved to a side door and vanished. I went out and looked up and down, he'd gone. I found out afterwards by a little quiet inquiry that he'd gone straight to the station, boarded the first train. There was one just giving out to the junction, and left the city. But I can lay hands on him. You've kept this quiet too? asked Bryce. Just so. I have my own game to play, replied Harker. This talk with you is part of it. You come in now. I'll tell you why presently. But first, as you know, I went to Barthorpe. For though Break was dead I felt I must go, for this reason. I was certain that he wanted that information for himself. The man in Australia was a fiction. I went then, and learned nothing, except that this Falconer Ray had been, as Break said, a Barthorpe man years ago. He'd left the town eighteen years since. Nobody knew anything about him. So I came home. And now then, doctor, your turn. What were you after down there at Barthorpe? Bryce meditated his answer for a good five minutes. He had always intended to play the game off his own bat, but he had heard and seen enough, since entering Harker's little room, to know that he was in company with an intellect which was keener and more subtle than his, and that it would be all to his advantage to go in with the man who had vast and deep experience. And so he made a clean breast of all he had done in the way of investigation, leaving his motive completely aside. You've got a theory, of course, observed Harker, after listening quietly to all that Bryce could tell. Naturally you have. You couldn't accumulate all that without getting one. Well, admitted Bryce, honestly I can't say that I have. But I can see what theory there might be. This. That Ransford was the man who deceived Bryce, that he ran away with Bryce's wife, that she's dead, and that he's brought up the children in ignorance of all that, and therefore interrupted Harker with a smile, that when he and Bryce met, as you seem to think they did, Ransford flung Bryce through that open doorway that Kalashaw witnessed it, that Ransford found out about Kalashaw, and that Kalashaw has been poisoned by Ransford, eh? That's a theory that seems to be supported by facts, said Bryce. It's a theory that would doubtless suit men like Michington, said the old detective with another smile, but not me, sir. Mind you, I don't say there isn't something in it. There's doubtless a lot, but the mystery is a lot thicker than just that. And Bryce didn't come here to find Ransford. He came because of the secret in that scrap of paper. And as you've got it, doctor, out with it. Bryce saw no reason for concealment, and producing this scrap of paper laid it on the table between himself and his host. Harker peered inquisitively at it. Latin, he said. You can read it, of course. What does it say? Bryce repeated a literal translation. I've found the place, he added. I found it this morning. Now what do you suppose this means? Harker was looking hard at the two lines of writing. That's a big question, doctor, he answered. But I'll go so far as to say this. When we found out what it does mean, we shall know a lot more than we know now. End of Chapter 14, read by Anita in Boston in January 2007. Bryce, who was deriving a considerable and peculiar pleasure from his secret interview with the old detective, smiled at Harker's last remark. That's a bit of a platitude, isn't it, he suggested. Of course we shall know a lot more, when we do know a lot more. I set store by platitude, sir, retorted Harker. You can't repeat an established platitude too often. It's got the hallmark of good use on it. But now, till we do know more—you've no doubt been thinking a lot about this matter, Dr. Bryce—hasn't it struck you that there's one feature in connection with Break or Braden's visit to Rychester to which nobody's given any particular attention up to now, so far as we know at any rate? What demanded Bryce? This, replied Harker. Why did he wish to see the Duke of Saxonstead? He certainly did want to see him, and as soon as possible. You'll remember that his grace was questioned about that at the inquest and could give no explanation. He knew nothing of Break, and couldn't suggest any reason why Break should wish to have an interview with him. But I can. You, exclaimed Bryce. I answered Harker. And it's this. I spoke just now of that man Glassdale. No, you, of course, have no knowledge of him, and as you don't keep yourself posted in criminal history, you don't know what his offence was. You said Forgery, replied Bryce. Just so, Forgery, assented Harker. And the signature that he forged was The Duke of Saxonsteads. As a matter of fact, he was the Duke's London estate agent. He got wrong somehow, and he forged the Duke's name to a check. Now, then considering who Glassdale is, and that he was certainly a fellow convict of Break's, and that I myself saw him here in Rychester on the day of Break's death, what's the conclusion to be drawn? That Break wanted to see the Duke on some business of Glassdale's, without a doubt. It may have been that he and Glassdale wanted to visit the Duke together. Bryce silently considered this suggestion for a while. You said just now that Glassdale could be traced, he remarked at last. Traced? Yes, replied Harker, so long as he's in England. Why not set about it? Suggested Bryce. Not yet, said Harker. There's things to do before that. And the first thing is, let's get to know what the mystery of that scrap of paper is. You say you've found Richard Jenkins's tomb? Very well. Then the thing to do is to find out if anything is hidden there. Try it to-morrow night. Better go yourself, after dark. If you find anything, let me know. And then—then we can decide on a next step. But between now and then there'll be the inquest on this man Collishaw. And about that—a word in your ear. Say as little as ever you can. After all, you know nothing beyond what you saw. And we mustn't meet and talk in public. After you've done that bit of exploring in paradise to-morrow night, come round here and we'll consider matters. There was little that Bryce could say or could be asked to say of the inquest on the Mason's labour next morning. Public interest and excitement was as keen about Collishaw's mysterious death as about Braden's, for it was already rumoured throughout the town that if Braden had not met with his death when he came to Rochester, Collishaw would still be alive. The coroner's court was once more packed. Once more there was the same atmosphere of mystery. But the proceedings were of a very different nature to those which had attended the inquest on Braden. The foreman under whose orders Collishaw had been working gave particulars of the dead man's work on the morning of his death. He had been instructed to clear away an accumulation of rubbish which had gathered at the foot of the south wall of the nave in consequence of some recent repairs to the masonry. There was a full day's work before him. All day he would be in and out of paradise with his barrow, wheeling away the rubbish he gathered up. The foreman had looked in on him once or twice. He had seen him just before noon when he appeared to be in his usual health. He had made no complaint at any rate. Asked if he had happened to notice where Collishaw had set down his dinner-basket and his tin bottle while he worked, he replied that it so happened that he had. He remembered seeing both bottle and basket and the man's jacket deposited on one of the box-tumes under a certain utility, which he could point out if necessary. Bryce's account of his finding of Collishaw amounted to no more than a bare recital of facts, nor was much time spent in questioning the two doctors who had conducted the post-mortem examination. Their evidence, terse and particular, referred solely to the cause of death. The man had been poisoned by a dose of hydrocyanic acid, which, in their opinion, had been taken only a few minutes before his body was discovered by Dr. Bryce. It had probably been a dose which would cause instantaneous death. There were no traces of the poison in the remains of his dinner, nor in the liquid in his tin bottle, which was old tea. But of the cause of his sudden death, there was no more doubt than of the effects. Ransford had been in the court from the outset of the proceedings, and when the medical evidence had been given, he was called. Bryce, watching him narrowly, saw that he was suffering from repressed excitement, and that that excitement was as much due to anger as to anything else. His face was set and stern, and he looked at the coroner with an expression which portended something not precisely clear at that moment. Bryce, trying to analyze it, said to himself that he shouldn't be surprised if a scene followed. Ransford looked like a man who is bursting to say something in no unmistakable fashion. But, at first, he answered the questions put to him calmly and decisively. When this man's clothing was searched, observed the coroner, a box of pills was found, Dr. Ransford, on which your writing appears. Had you been attending him professionally? Yes, replied Ransford, both Collishaw and his wife, or rather, to be exact, I had been in attendance on the wife for some weeks. A day or two before his death Collishaw complained to me of indigestion following on his meals. I gave him some digestive pills, the pills you speak of, no doubt. These, asked the coroner, passing over the box which Mitchington had found. Precisely, agreed Ransford. That, at any rate, is the box, and I suppose those to be the pills. You made them up yourself, inquired the coroner? I did. I dispense all my own medicines. Is it possible that the poison we have heard of, just now, could get into one of these pills by accident? Utterly impossible, under my hands at any rate, answered Ransford. Still, I suppose it could have been administered in a pill, suggested the coroner. It might, agreed Ransford. But, he added, with a significant glance at the medical men who had just given evidence, it was not so administered in this case, as the previous witnesses very well know. The coroner looked round him, and waited a moment. You are at liberty to explain that last remark, he said at last, that is, if you wish to do so. Certainly, answered Ransford with alacrity, those pills are, as you will observe, coated, and the man would swallow them whole immediately after his food. Now it would take some little time for a pill to dissolve, to disintegrate, to be digested. If Kalashaw took one of my pills as soon as he had eaten his dinner, according to instructions, and if poison had been in that pill, he would not have died at once, as he evidently did. Death would probably have been delayed some little time, until the pill had dissolved. But according to the evidence you have had before you, he died quite suddenly while eating his dinner, or immediately after it. I am not legally represented here, I don't consider it at all necessary, but I ask you to recall Dr. Coates and to put this question to him. Did he find one of those digestive pills in this man's stomach? The coroner turned somewhat dubiously to the two doctors who had performed the autopsy. But before he could speak, the superintendent of police rose, and began to whisper to him, and after a conversation between them, he looked round at the jury, every member of which had evidently been much struck by Ransford's suggestion. At this stage, he said, it will be necessary to adjourn. I shall adjourn the inquiry for a week, gentlemen. You will—Ransford, still standing in the witness-box, suddenly lost control of himself. He uttered a sharp exclamation, and smoked the ledge before him smartly with his open hand. I protest against that, he said vehemently. Emphatically I protest. You, first of all, make a suggestion which tells against me, then, when I demand that a question shall be put, which is of immense importance to my interests, you close down the inquiry, even if only for the moment. That is grossly unfair and unjust. You are mistaken, said the coroner. At the adjourned inquiry the two medical men can be recalled, and you will have the opportunity—or your solicitor will have—of asking any questions you like for the present. For the present you have me under suspicion! Interrupted Ransford Hauntley. You know it! I say this with due respect to your office, as well as I do. Suspicion is rife in the city against me. Rumor is being spread secretly, and I am certain from the police who ought to know better. And I will not be silenced, Mr. Coroner. I take this public opportunity, as I am on oath, of saying that I know nothing whatever of the causes of the deaths of either Colishaw or of Brayden, upon my solemn oath. The inquest is adjourned to this day week, said the coroner quietly. Ransford suddenly stepped down from the witness-box, and without word or glance at any one there walked with set face and determined look out of the court. And the excited spectators, gathering into groups, immediately began to discuss his vigorous outburst, and to take sides for and against him. Bryce, judging and advisable to keep away from Mitchington just then, and for similar reasons keeping away from Harker also, went out of the crowded building alone, to be joined in the street outside by Sackville Bonham, whom he had noticed in court, in company with his stepfather, Mr. Foliot. Foliot, Bryce had observed, had stopped behind, exchanging some conversation with the coroner. Sackville came up to Bryce with a knowing shake of the head. He was one of those very young men who have a habit of suggesting that their fund of knowledge is extensive and peculiar, and Bryce waited for a manifestation. Queer business all that, Bryce? observed Sackville confidentially. Of course, Ransford is a perfect ass. Think so? remarked Bryce, with an inflection which suggested that Sackville's opinion on anything was as valuable as the attorney generals. That's how it strikes you, is it? Impossible that it could strike one in any other way, you know? Answered Sackville with fine and lofty superiority. Ransford should have taken immediate steps to clear himself of any suspicion. It's ridiculous, considering his position, guardian to—to Miss Bury, for instance, that he should allow such rumours to circulate. By God, sir, if it had been me, I'd have stopped him before they left the parish pump. Ah! said Bryce. And how? Made an example of somebody, replied Sackville with emphasis. I believe there's law in this country, isn't there? Law against libel and slander and that sort of thing, eh? Oh, yes. I've not been much time for that yet, remarked Bryce. Piles of time! retorted Sackville, swinging his stick vigorously. No, sir, Ransford is an ass. However, if a man won't do things for himself, well, his friends must do something for him. Ransford, of course, must be pulled, dragged, out of this infernal hole. Of course he's suspected. But my stepfather, he's going to take a hand. And my stepfather, Bryce, is a devilish, cute old hand at a game of this sort. Nobody doubts Mr. Foliott's abilities, I'm sure, said Bryce. But you don't mind saying. How is he going to take a hand? Stir things toward a clearing up, announced Sackville promptly. Had the whole thing gone in too thoroughly. There are matters that haven't been touched on yet. You'll see, my boy. Glad to hear it, said Bryce. But why should Mr. Foliott be so particular about clearing Ransford? Sackville swung his stick, and pulled up his collar, and jerked his nose a trifle higher. Oh, well, he said. Of course, it's a pretty well understood thing, don't you know, between myself and Miss Bury, you know. And, of course, we couldn't have any suspicions attaching to her guardian, could we now? Family interests, don't you know? Caesar's wife and all that sort of thing, eh? I see, answered Bryce quietly. Sort of family arrangement. With Ransford's consent and knowledge, of course. Ransford won't even be consulted, said Sackville, eerily. My stepfather, sharp man that, Bryce, he'll do things in his own fashion. You look out for sudden revelations. I will, replied Bryce. Bye-bye. He turned off to his rooms, wondering how much of truth there was in the fatuous Sackville's remarks, and was there some mystery still undreamt of by himself and Harker? There might be. He was still under the influence of Ransford's indignant and dramatic assertion of his innocence. Would Ransford have allowed himself an outburst of that sword if he had not been, as he said, utterly ignorant of the immediate cause of Brayden's death? Now, Bryce, all through, was calculating for his own purposes on Ransford's share, full or partial, in that death. If Ransford really knew nothing whatever about it, where did his, Bryce's, theory come in? And how would his present machinations result? And more, if Ransford's assertion were true, and if Varner's story of the hand seen for an instant in the archway were also true, and Varner was persisting in it, then who was the man who flung Brayden to his death that morning? He realized that, instead of straightening out, things were becoming more and more complicated. But he realized something else. On the surface there was a strong case of suspicion against Ransford. It had been suggested that very morning before a coroner and his jury. It would grow. The police were already permeated with suspicion and distrust. Would it not pay him, Bryce, to encourage, to help it? He had his own score to pay off against Ransford. He had his own schemes as regards Mary Bury. Anyway, he was not going to share in any attempts to clear the man who had bundled him out of his house unceremoniously. He would bide his time. And in the meantime there were other things to be done, one of them that very night. But before Bryce could engage in his secret task of excavating a small portion of Paradise in the rear of Richard Jenkins' tomb, another strange development came. As the dark fell over the old city that night, and he was thinking of setting out on his mission, Mitchington came in, carrying two sheets of paper, obviously damp from the press, in his hand. He looked at Bryce with an expression of wonder. Here's a queer go, he said. I can't make this out at all. Look at these big handbills. But perhaps you've seen them. They're being posted all over the city, without a bundle of them thrown in on us. I haven't been out since lunch, remarked Bryce. What are they? Mitchington spread out the two papers on the table, pointing from one to the other. You see, he said, five hundred pounds reward, one thousand pounds reward, and both out at the same time from different sources. What sources? asked Bryce, fending over the bills. Ah, I see. One signed by Phipps and Maynard, the other by Beechcroft. Odd, certainly. Odd, exclaimed Mitchington. I should think so. But do you see, Doctor, that one five hundred reward is offered for information of any nature relative to the deaths of John Braden and James Collishaw, both or either. That amount will be paid for satisfactory information by Phipps and Maynard. And Phipps and Maynard are Ransford solicitors. That bill, sir, comes from him. And now the other, the thousand pound one that offers the reward to anyone who can give definite information as to the circumstances attending the death of John Braden to be paid by Mr. Beechcroft. And he's Mr. Foliott's solicitor. So that comes from Mr. Foliott. What is he to do with it? And are these two putting their heads together? Or are these bills quite independent of each other? Hang me if I understand it. Bryce read and re-read the contents of the two bills. And then he thought for a while, before speaking. Well, he said at last. There's probably this in it. The Foliott's are very wealthy people. Mrs. Foliott, it's pretty well known, wants her son to marry Ms. Buery, Dr. Ransford's ward. Probably she doesn't wish any suspicion to hang over the family. That's all I can suggest. In the other case, Ransford wants to clear himself. For don't forget this, Mitchington. Somewhere, somebody may know something. Only something. But that something might clear Ransford of the suspicion that son doubtedly been cast upon him. If you're thinking to get a strong case against Ransford, you've got your work set. He gave your theory a nasty knock this morning by his few words about the pill. Did Coates and Everest find a pill now? Not at liberty to say, sir, and so Mitchington. At present, anyway. I dislike these private offers of reward. It means that those who make them get hold of information which is kept back from us, do you see? They're inconvenient. Then he went away. And Bryce, after waiting a while, until night had settled down, slipped quietly out of the house and set off for the gloom of Paradise. End of Chapter 15 CHAPTER XVI OF THE PARADISE MISTORY This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kirsten Ferrari THE PARADISE MISTORY by J. S. Fletcher CHAPTER XVI BEFOREHAND In accordance with his undeniable capacity for contriving and scheming, Bryce had made due and careful preparations for his visit to the tomb of Richard Jenkins. Even in the momentary confusion following upon his discovery of Colishaw's dead body, he had been sufficiently alive to his own immediate purposes to notice that the tomb, a very ancient and dilapidated structure, stood in the midst of a small expanse of stone pavement between the yew trees and the wall of the nave. He had noticed also that the pavement consisted of small squares of stone, some of which bore initials and dates. A sharp glance at the presumed whereabouts of the particular spot which he wanted, as indicated in the scrap of paper taken from Braden's purse, showed him that he would have to raise one of those small squares, possibly two or three of them. And so he had furnished himself with a short crowbar of tempered steel, specially purchased at the iron mongers, and with a small bullseye lantern. Had he been arrested and searched as he made his way toward the cathedral precincts, he might reasonably have been suspected of a design to break into the treasury and appropriate the various ornaments for which Rychester was famous. But Bryce feared neither arrest nor observation. During his residence in Rychester he had done a good deal of prowling about the old city at night, and he knew that paradise at any time after dark was a deserted place. Folk might cross from the close archway to the wicket gate by the outer path, but no one would penetrate within the thick screen of yew and cypress when night had fallen. And now, in early summer, the screen of trees and bushes was so thick in leaf that once within it, foliage on one side, the great walls of the nave on the other, there was little likelihood of any person overlooking his doings while he made his investigation. He anticipated a swift and quiet job to be done in a few minutes. But there was another individual in Rychester who knew just as much of the geography of paradise as Pemberton Bryce knew. Dick Brewery and Betty Campany had of late progressed out of the schoolboy and schoolgirl Hailfellow Well-Met stage to the first donnings of love, and in spite of their frequent meetings had begun a romantic correspondence between each other, the joy and mystery of which was increased a hundredfold by the secret method of exchange of these missives. Just within the wicket gate entrance of paradise there was an old monument wherein was a convenient cavity. Dick Brewery's ready wits transformed this into love's post office. In it he regularly placed letters for Betty. Betty stuffed into it letters for him. And on this particular evening Dick had gone to paradise to collect a possible mail, and as Bryce walked leisurely up the narrow path, enclosed by trees and old masonry which led from friary lane to the ancient enclosure, Dick turned a corner and ran full into him. In the light of the single lamp which illumined the path, the two recovered themselves, and looked at each other. Hello! said Bryce. What's your hurry, young Brewery? Dick, who was panting for breath, more from excitement than haste, drew back and looked at Bryce. Up to then he knew nothing much against Bryce whom he had rather liked in the fashion in which boys sometimes like their seniors, and he was not indisposed to confide in him. Hello! he replied. I say where are you off to? Nowhere. Strolling round, answered Bryce. No particular purpose, why? You weren't going in there, as Dick, jerking a thumb towards paradise. In there? exclaimed Bryce. Oh, good Lord, no! Treary enough in the daytime. What should I be going in there for? Dick seized Bryce's coat-slave and dragged him aside. I say, he whispered, there's something up in there, a search of some sort. Bryce started in spite of an effort to keep unconcerned. A search? In there, he said? What do you mean? Dick pointed amongst the trees, and Bryce saw the faint glimmer of a light. I was in there just now, said Dick, and some men, three or four, came along. They're in there close up by the nave, just where you found that chap Collishaw. They're digging or something of that sort. Digging? muttered Bryce. Digging? Something like it, anyhow, replied Dick. Listen. Bryce heard the ring of metal on stone, and an unpleasant conviction stole over him that he was being forestalled, that somebody was beforehand with him, and he cursed himself for not having done the previous night what he had left undone till this night. Who are they? he asked. Did you see them? Their faces? Not their faces, answered Dick. Only their figures in the gloom. But I heard Mitchington's voice. Police, then, said Bryce. What on earth are they after? Look here, whispered Dick, pulling at Bryce's arm again. Come on! I know how to get in there without their seeing us. You follow me. Bryce followed readily, and Dick, stepping through the wicked gate, seized his companion's wrist and led him amongst the bushes in the direction of the spot from whence came the metallic sounds. He walked with the step of a cat, and Bryce took pains to follow his example. And presently, from behind a screen of cypresses they looked out on the expanse of flagging in the midst of which stood the tomb of Richard Jenkins. Round about that tomb were five men whose faces were visible enough in the light thrown by a couple of strong lamps, one of which stood on the tomb itself, while the other was set on the ground. Four out of the five, the two watchers recognized at once. One kneeling on the flags and busy with a small crowbar similar to that which Bryce carried inside his overcoat, was the master mason of the cathedral. Another standing near him was Mitchington. A third was a clergyman, one of the lesser dignitaries of the chapter. A fourth, whose presence made Bryce start for the second time that evening, was the Duke of Saxonstead. But the fifth was a stranger. A tall man who stood between Mitchington and the Duke, evidently paying anxious attention to the master mason's proceedings. He was no Rychester man. Bryce was convinced of that. And a moment later he was convinced of another equally certain fact. Whatever these five men were searching for, they had no clear or accurate idea of its exact whereabouts. The master mason was taking up the small squares of flagstone with his crowbar one by one from the outer edge of the foot of the old box-tomb. As he removed each he probed the earth beneath it. And Bryce, who had instinctively realized what was happening, and knew that somebody else than himself was in possession of the secret of the scrap of paper, saw that it would be some time before they arrived at the precise spot indicated in the Latin directions. He quietly drew back and tugged at Dick Bury. Stop here and keep quiet, he whispered, when they had retreated out of all danger of being overheard. Watch them! I want to fetch somebody. I want to know who that stranger is. You don't know him? Never seen him before, replied Dick. I say, come quietly back. Don't give it away. I want to know what it's all about. Bryce squeezed the lad's arm by way of assurance and made his way back through the bushes. He wanted to get hold of Harker, and at once, and he hurried round to the old man's house and without ceremony, walked into his parlor. Harker, evidently expecting him and meanwhile amusing himself with his pipe and book, rose from his chair as the younger man entered. Found anything? he asked. We're done! answered Bryce. I was a fool not to go last night, wherefore stalled, my friend, that's about it. By whom? inquired Harker. There are five of them at it now, replied Bryce. Mitchington, a mason, one of the cathedral clergy, a stranger, and the Duke of Saxonstead. What do you think of that? Harker suddenly started as if a new light had dawned on him. The Duke, he exclaimed. You don't say so. My conscience! Now, I wonder if that can really be? Upon my word, I never thought of it. Thought of what, demanded Bryce? Never mind, I'll tell you later, said Harker. At present, is there any chance of getting a look at them? That's what I came for, retorted Bryce. I've been watching them with young burie. He put me up to it. Come on, I want to see if you know the man who's a stranger. Harker crossed the room to a chest of drawers, and after some rummaging pulled something out. Here, he said, handing some articles to Bryce. Put those on over your boots. Thick felt overshoes. You could walk round your own mother's bedroom in those and she'd never hear you. I'll do the same. A stranger, you say? Well, this is proof that somebody knows the secret of that scrap of paper besides us, doctor. They don't know the exact spot, growled Bryce, who was chafing at having been done out of his discovery. But they'll find it, whatever may be there. He led Harker back to Paradise and to the place where he had left Dick Burie, whom they approached so quietly that Bryce was by the lad's side before Dick knew he was there. And Harker, after one glance at the ring of faces, drew Bryce back and put his lips close to his ear, and breathed a name in an almost imperceptible yet clear whisper. Glassdale. Bryce started for the third time. Glassdale. The man whom Harker had seen in Rochester within an hour or so of Brayden's death. The ex-convict, the forger who had forged the Duke of Saxonstead's name. And there, standing apparently quite at his ease by the Duke's side. What did it all mean? There was no explanation of what it meant to be had from the man whom Bryce and Harker and Dick Burie secretly watched from behind the screen of Cypress Trees. Four of them watched in silence, or with no more than a whispered word now and then while the fifth worked. This man worked methodically, replacing each stone as he took it up and examined the soil beneath it. So far nothing had resulted. But he was by that time working at some distance from the tomb. And Bryce, who had an exceedingly accurate idea of where the spot might be, as indicated in the measurements on the scrap of paper, nudged Harker as the Master Mason began to take up the last of the small flags. And suddenly there was a movement amongst the watchers. And the Master Mason looked up from his job, and motioned Mitchington to pass him a trowel which lay at a little distance. Something here, he said, loudly enough to reach the ears of Bryce and his companions. Not so deep down neither, gentlemen! A few vigorous applications of the trowel, a few lumps of earth cast out of the cavity, and the Master Mason put in his hand and drew forth a small parcel, which in the light of the lamp held close to it by Mitchington, looked to be done up in coarse sacking, secured by great blotches of black ceiling wax. And now it was Harker who nudged Bryce, drawing his attention to the fact that the parcel, handed by the Master Mason to Mitchington, was at once passed on by Mitchington to the Duke of Saxonstead, who it was very plain to see appeared to be as much delighted as surprised at receiving it. Let us go to your office, Inspector, he said. We'll examine the contents there. Let us all go at once. The three figures behind the cypress trees remained immovable and silent until the five searchers had gone away with their lamps and tools, and the sound of their retreating footsteps in friary lane had died out. Then Dick Bury moved and began to slip off, and Bryce reached out a hand and took him by the shoulder. I say, Bury, he said. Going to tell all that? Harker got in a word before Dick could answer. No matter if he does, doctor, he remarked quietly. Whatever it is, the whole town will know of it by to-morrow. They'll not keep it back. Bryce let Dick go, and the boy immediately darted off in the direction of the close, while the two men went toward Harker's house. Neither spoke until they were safe in the old detective's little parlor. Then Harker, turning up his lamp, looked at Bryce and shook his head. It's a good job I've retired, he said, almost sadly. I'm getting too old for my trade, doctor. Once upon a time I should have been fit to kick myself for not having twigged the meaning of this business sooner than I have done. Have you twigged it? demanded Bryce almost scornfully. You're a good deal cleverer than I am if you have, for hang me if I know what it means. I do, answered Harker. He opened a drawer in his desk and drew out a scrapbook, filled, as Bryce saw a moment later, with cuttings from newspapers, all duly arranged and indexed. The old man glanced at the index, turned to a certain page, and put his finger on an entry. There you are, he said, and that's only one. There are several more. They'll tell you in detail what I can tell you in a few words and what I ought to have remembered. It's fifteen years since the famous robbery at Saxonstead, which has never been accounted for. Robbery of the Duchess's Diamonds. One of the cleverest burglaries ever known, doctor. They were got one night after a grand ball there. No arrest was ever made. They were never traced. And I'll lay all I'm worth to a penny-piece, that the Duke and those men are glatting their eyes with the sight of them just now, in Michington's office, and that the information that they were where they've just been found, was given to the Duke by—Glastail. Glastail! That man! exclaimed Bryce, who was puzzling his brain over possible developments. That man, sir, repeated Harker. That's why Glastail was in Reichester the day of Brayden's death. And that's why Brayden, or Brake, came to Reichester at all. He and Glastail, of course, had somehow got into possession of the secret, and no doubt meant to tell the Duke together, and get the reward there was ninety-five thousand offered. And as Brake's dad, Glastail's spoken, but—here the old man paused and gave his companion a shrewd look. The question still remains. How did Brake come to his end? CHAPTER XVII. Dick Bury 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 graveyards 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 turning 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 sowing 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 Rychester 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 doorbell, 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 parlor maid 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 parlor maid 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 dicks,' 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 Rochester 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 the 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 Brayden case. I daresay you've heard of the Great Jewel Robbery which took place at the Duke of Saxonstead some years ago, which has been a mystery to this very day.' "'I've 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 Brayden's visit to Rychester was to tell the Duke where those jewels were hidden. Brayden 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 to-morrow.' "'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 now know who Brayden really was. That's settled, do you understand?' "'Who was he, then?' asked Ransford quietly. "'He was one John Break, 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 Saxon state jewels has told us that much to-day. John Break.' "'What have you come here for?' asked Ransford. "'To ask you between ourselves, if you can tell us anything about Break's earlier days. Antesitence. That'll help us,' replied Mitchington. "'It may be. Jettison here, a man of experience, thinks it'll be found to be that Break, or Brayden, as we call him, was murdered because of his possession of that secret about the jewels. Our informant tells us that Brayden certainly had on him when he came to Rochester a sort of diagram showing the exact location of the spot where the jewels were hidden. That diagram was most assuredly not found on Brayden when we examined his clothing and effects. It may be that it was rested from him in the gallery of the Clariss story 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 Brayden's—Break's—Antesitence. Come now, doctor. You know that very well that Brayden, or Break, did come to your surgery that morning, and said to your assistant that he'd known a doctor, Ransford, in times past. Why not speak?' Ransford, instead of answering Mitchington's evidently genuine appeal, looked at the new Scotland Yardman. 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 Break. It seems they left England together after their time was up, emigrated together, prospered, even went so far both of them, as to make good the money they'd appropriated, and eventually came back together, in possession of this secret. Break came specially to Ryechester to tell the Duke. Glassdale was to join him on the very morning Break met his death. Glassdale did come to the town that morning, and as soon as he got here heard of Break's strange death. That upset him, and he went away, only to come back to-day, go to Sax instead, and tell everything to the Duke, with the result we've told you of. Each 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. 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 that it's the correct one—is this," replied Jettison. Break came to Ryechester 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 Break was away from the Miter 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, whom we are quite sure has told the exact truth about everything, Break had on him a scrap of paper, on which were instructions in Latin for finding the exact spot where at the missing Saxonstead jewels had been hidden years before by the actual thief, who, I may tell you, sir, never had the opportunity of returning to repossess himself of them. Now, after Break's death the police examined his clothes and effects. They never found that scrap of paper. And I work things out this way. Break 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 overstrong man. He was seized, and robbed of that paper, and flung to his death. And all that fits in with the second mystery of Colishaw, who probably knew, if not everything, then something of the exact circumstances of Break's death, and let his knowledge get to the ears of Break'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 have 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, Brayden, or Break, 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 is yours, sir. Take as long as you like.'" Ransford touched a bell, and, summoning the parlor maid, 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,' said the detective. "'Very well,' continued Ransford. "'Then this is between ourselves until such a time as I say something more about it. First of all, I'm not going to tell you anything one ever 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 Rochester. 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 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 up 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 Brice.' 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 installment.' Ransford came back with Dick Bury, clad in a loud, patterned and gaily-coloured suit of pajamas. "'Now, Dick,' said Ransford, "'tell Inspector Mitchington precisely what happened this evening, within your own knowledge.'" Dick was nothing loath 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 an 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. Brice, 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 Brice 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. Brice was left alone with the dead body of Brayden for some minutes while Varner went to fetch the police. That's one.' "'That's true,' muttered Mitchington. He was, several minutes. As it was, who discovered Kallishaw in Paradise,' said Ransford. "'That's fact two. In fact three. Brice evidently had a motive in fetching Harker to-night to overlook your operations. What was his motive? And taking things altogether, what are, or have been, these secret affairs which Brice 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 them shadowed wherever they go or are, day or night. Harker now has always been a bit of a mystery, but Brice, 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've 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.' End of chapter 17.