Collected works of j s f.., p.475
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 475
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Folliot,” answered Bryce, whose ears had already lengthened. “Has Dr. Ransford been laying flowers on a grave? — I didn’t know of it. My engagement with Dr. Ransford terminated two days ago — so I’ve seen nothing of him.”
“My son, Mr. Sackville Bonham,” said Mrs. Folliot, “tells me that yesterday Miss Bewery came into Gardales’ and spent a sovereign — actually a sovereign! — on a wreath, which, she told Sackville, she was about to carry, at her guardian’s desire, to this strange man’s grave. Sackville, who is a warm-hearted boy, was touched — he, too, bought flowers and accompanied Miss Bewery. Most extraordinary! A perfect stranger! Dear me — why, nobody knows who the man was!”
“Except his bank-manager,” remarked Bryce, “who says he’s holding ten thousand pounds of his.”
“That,” admitted Mrs. Folliot gravely, “is certainly a consideration. But then, who knows? — the money may have been stolen. Now, really, did you ever hear of a quite respectable man who hadn’t even a visiting-card or a letter upon him? And from Australia, too! — where all the people that are wanted run away to! I have actually been tempted to wonder, Dr. Bryce, if Dr. Ransford knew this man — in years gone by? He might have, you know, he might have — certainly! And that, of course, would explain the flowers.”
“There is a great deal in the matter that requires explanation, Mrs. Folliot,” said Bryce. He was wondering if it would be wise to instil some minute drop of poison into the lady’s mind, there to increase in potency and in due course to spread. “I — of course, I may have been mistaken — I certainly thought Dr. Ransford seemed unusually agitated by this affair — it appeared to upset him greatly.”
“So I have heard — from others who were at the inquest,” responded Mrs. Folliot. “In my opinion our Coroner — a worthy man otherwise — is not sufficiently particular. I said to Mr. Folliot this morning, on reading the newspaper, that in my view that inquest should have been adjourned for further particulars. Now I know of one particular that was never mentioned at the inquest!”
“Oh?” said Bryce. “And what?”
“Mrs. Deramore, who lives, as you know, next to Dr. Ransford,” replied Mrs. Folliot, “told me this morning that on the morning of the accident, happening to look out of one of her upper windows, she saw a man whom, from the description given in the newspapers, was, Mrs. Deramore feels assured, was the mysterious stranger, crossing the Close towards the Cathedral in, Mrs. Deramore is positive, a dead straight line from Dr. Ransford’s garden — as if he had been there. Dr. Bryce! — a direct question should have been asked of Dr. Ransford — had he ever seen that man before?”
“Ah, but you see, Mrs. Folliot, the Coroner didn’t know what Mrs. Deramore saw, so he couldn’t ask such a question, nor could any one else,” remarked Bryce, who was wondering how long Mrs. Deramore remained at her upper window and if she saw him follow Braden. “But there are circumstances, no doubt, which ought to be inquired into. And it’s certainly very curious that Dr. Ransford should send a wreath to the grave of — a stranger.”
He went away convinced that Mrs. Folliot’s inquisitiveness had been aroused, and that her tongue would not be idle: Mrs. Folliot, left to herself, had the gift of creating an atmosphere, and if she once got it into her head that there was some mysterious connection between Dr. Ransford and the dead man, she would never rest until she had spread her suspicions. But as for Bryce himself, he wanted more than suspicions — he wanted facts, particulars, data. And once more he began to go over the sum of evidence which had accrued.
The question of the scrap of paper found in Braden’s purse, and of the exact whereabouts of Richard Jenkins’s grave in Paradise, he left for the time being. What was now interesting him chiefly was the advertisement in the Times to which the bank-manager from London had drawn attention. He had made haste to buy a copy of the Times and to cut out the advertisement. There it was — old friend Marco was wanted by (presumably old friend) Sticker, and whoever Sticker might be he could certainly be found under care of J. Braden. It had never been in doubt a moment, in Bryce’s mind, that Sticker was J. Braden himself. Who, now, was Marco? Who — a million to one on it! — but Ransford, whose Christian name was Mark?
He reckoned up his chances of getting at the truth of the affair anew that night. As things were, it seemed unlikely that any relations of Braden would now turn up. The Wrychester Paradise case, as the reporters had aptly named it, had figured largely in the newspapers, London and provincial; it could scarcely have had more publicity — yet no one, save this bank-manager, had come forward. If there had been any one to come forward the bank-manager’s evidence would surely have proved an incentive to speed — for there was a sum of ten thousand pounds awaiting John Braden’s next-of-kin. In Bryce’s opinion the chance of putting in a claim to ten thousand pounds is not left waiting forty-eight hours — whoever saw such a chance would make instant use of telegraph or telephone. But no message from anybody professing relationship with the dead man had so far reached the Wrychester police.
When everything had been taken into account, Bryce saw no better clue for the moment than that suggested by Ambrose Campany — Barthorpe. Ambrose Campany, bookworm though he was, was a shrewd, sharp fellow, said Bryce — a man of ideas. There was certainly much in his suggestion that a man wasn’t likely to buy an old book about a little insignificant town like Barthorpe unless he had some interest in it — Barthorpe, if Campany’s theory were true, was probably the place of John Braden’s origin.
Therefore, information about Braden, leading to knowledge of his association or connection with Ransford, might be found at Barthorpe. True, the Barthorpe police had already reported that they could tell nothing about any Braden, but that, in Bryce’s opinion, was neither here nor there — he had already come to the conclusion that Braden was an assumed name. And if he went to Barthorpe, he was not going to trouble the police — he knew better methods than that of finding things out. Was he going? — was it worth his while? A moment’s reflection decided that matter — anything was worth his while which would help him to get a strong hold on Mark Ransford. And always practical in his doings, he walked round to the Free Library, obtained a gazeteer, and looked up particulars of Barthorpe. There he learnt that Barthorpe was an ancient market-town of two thousand inhabitants in the north of Leicestershire, famous for nothing except that it had been the scene of a battle at the time of the Wars of the Roses, and that its trade was mainly in agriculture and stocking-making — evidently a slow, sleepy old place.
That night Bryce packed a hand-bag with small necessaries for a few days’ excursion, and next morning he took an early train to London; the end of that afternoon found him in a Midland northern-bound express, looking out on the undulating, green acres of Leicestershire. And while his train was making a three minutes’ stop at Leicester itself, the purpose of his journey was suddenly recalled to him by hearing the strident voices of the porters on the platform.
“Barthorpe next stop! — next stop Barthorpe!”
One of two other men who shared a smoking compartment with Bryce turned to his companion as the train moved off again.
“Barthorpe?” he remarked. “That’s the place that was mentioned in connection with that very queer affair at Wrychester, that’s been reported in the papers so much these last few days. The mysterious stranger who kept ten thousand in a London bank, and of whom nobody seems to know anything, had nothing on him but a history of Barthorpe. Odd! And yet, though you’d think he’d some connection with the place, or had known it, they say nobody at Barthorpe knows anything about anybody of his name.”
“Well, I don’t know that there is anything so very odd about it, after all,” replied the other man. “He may have picked up that old book for one of many reasons that could be suggested. No — I read all that case in the papers, and I wasn’t so much impressed by the old book feature of it. But I’ll tell you what — there was a thing struck me. I know this Barthorpe district — we shall be in it in a few minutes — I’ve been a good deal over it. This strange man’s name was given in the papers as John Braden. Now close to Barthorpe — a mile or two outside it, there’s a village of that name — Braden Medworth. That’s a curious coincidence — and taken in conjunction with the man’s possession of an old book about Barthorpe — why, perhaps there’s something in it — possibly more than I thought for at first.”
“Well — it’s an odd case — a very odd case,” said the first speaker. “And — as there’s ten thousand pounds in question, more will be heard of it. Somebody’ll be after that, you may be sure!”
Bryce left the train at Barthorpe thanking his good luck — the man in the far corner had unwittingly given him a hint. He would pay a visit to Braden Medworth — the coincidence was too striking to be neglected. But first Barthorpe itself — a quaint old-world little market-town, in which some of even the principal houses still wore roofs of thatch, and wherein the old custom of ringing the curfew bell was kept up. He found an old-fashioned hotel in the marketplace, under the shadow of the parish church, and in its oak-panelled dining-room, hung about with portraits of masters of foxhounds and queer old prints of sporting and coaching days, he dined comfortably and well.
It was too late to attempt any investigations that evening, and when Bryce had finished his leisurely dinner he strolled into the smoking-room — an even older and quainter apartment than that which he had just left. It was one of those rooms only found in very old houses — a room of nooks and corners, with a great open fireplace, and old furniture and old pictures and curiosities — the sort of place to which the old-fashioned tradesmen of the small provincial towns still resort of an evening rather than patronize the modern political clubs. There were several men of this sort in the room when Bryce entered, talking local politics amongst themselves, and he found a quiet corner and sat down in it to smoke, promising himself some amusement from the conversation around him; it was his way to find interest and amusement in anything that offered. But he had scarcely settled down in a comfortably cushioned elbow chair when the door opened again and into the room walked old Simpson Harker.
CHAPTER VIII. THE BEST MAN
OLD HARKER’S SHREWD eyes, travelling round the room as if to inspect the company in which he found himself, fell almost immediately on Bryce — but not before Bryce had had time to assume an air and look of innocent and genuine surprise. Harker affected no surprise at all — he looked the astonishment he felt as the younger man rose and motioned him to the comfortable easy-chair which he himself had just previously taken.
“Dear me!” he exclaimed, nodding his thanks. “I’d no idea that I should meet you in these far-off parts, Dr. Bryce! This is a long way from Wrychester, sir, for Wrychester folk to meet in.”
“I’d no idea of meeting you, Mr. Harker,” responded Bryce. “But it’s a small world, you know, and there are a good many coincidences in it. There’s nothing very wonderful in my presence here, though — I ran down to see after a country practice — I’ve left Dr. Ransford.”
He had the lie ready as soon as he set eyes on Harker, and whether the old man believed it or not, he showed no sign of either belief or disbelief. He took the chair which Bryce drew forward and pulled out an old-fashioned cigar-case, offering it to his companion.
“Will you try one, doctor?” he asked. “Genuine stuff that, sir — I’ve a friend in Cuba who remembers me now and then. No,” he went on, as Bryce thanked him and took a cigar, “I didn’t know you’d finished with the doctor. Quietish place this to practise in, I should think — much quieter even than our sleepy old city.”
“You know it?” inquired Bryce.
“I’ve a friend lives here — old friend of mine,” answered Harker. “I come down to see him now and then — I’ve been here since yesterday. He does a bit of business for me. Stopping long, doctor?”
“Only just to look round,” answered Bryce.
“I’m off tomorrow morning — eleven o’clock,” said Harker. “It’s a longish journey to Wrychester — for old bones like mine.”
“Oh, you’re all right! — worth half a dozen younger men,” responded Bryce. “You’ll see a lot of your contemporaries out, Mr. Harker. Well — as you’ve treated me to a very fine cigar, now you’ll let me treat you to a drop of whisky? — they generally have something of pretty good quality in these old-fashioned establishments, I believe.”
The two travellers sat talking until bedtime — but neither made any mention of the affair which had recently set all Wrychester agog with excitement. But Bryce was wondering all the time if his companion’s story of having a friend at Barthorpe was no more than an excuse, and when he was alone in his own bedroom and reflecting more seriously he came to the conclusion that old Harker was up to some game of his own in connection with the Paradise mystery.
“The old chap was in the Library when Ambrose Campany said that there was a clue in that Barthorpe history,” he mused. “I saw him myself examining the book after the inquest. No, no, Mr. Harker! — the facts are too plain — the evidences too obvious. And yet — what interest has a retired old tradesman of Wrychester got in this affair? I’d give a good deal to know what Harker really is doing here — and who his Barthorpe friend is.”
If Bryce had risen earlier next morning, and had taken the trouble to track old Harker’s movements, he would have learnt something that would have made him still more suspicious. But Bryce, seeing no reason for hurry, lay in bed till well past nine o’clock, and did not present himself in the coffee-room until nearly half-past ten. And at that hour Simpson Harker, who had breakfasted before nine, was in close consultation with his friend — that friend being none other than the local superintendent of police, who was confidentially closeted with the old man in his private house, whither Harker, by previous arrangement, had repaired as soon as his breakfast was over. Had Bryce been able to see through walls or hear through windows, he would have been surprised to find that the Harker of this consultation was not the quiet, easy-going, gossipy old gentleman of Wrychester, but an eminently practical and business-like man of affairs.
“And now as regards this young fellow who’s staying across there at the Peacock,” he was saying in conclusion, at the very time that Bryce was leisurely munching his second mutton chop in the Peacock coffee-room, “he’s after something or other — his talk about coming here to see after a practice is all lies! — and you’ll keep an eye on him while he’s in your neighbourhood. Put your best plainclothes man on to him at once — he’ll easily know him from the description I gave you — and let him shadow him wherever he goes. And then let me know of his movement — he’s certainly on the track of something, and what he does may be useful to me — I can link it up with my own work. And as regards the other matter — keep me informed if you come on anything further. Now I’ll go out by your garden and down the back of the town to the station. Let me know, by the by, when this young man at the Peacock leaves here, and, if possible — and you can find out — for where.”
Bryce was all unconscious that any one was interested in his movements when he strolled out into Barthorpe market-place just after eleven. He had asked a casual question of the waiter and found that the old gentleman had departed — he accordingly believed himself free from observation. And forthwith he set about his work of inquiry in his own fashion. He was not going to draw any attention to himself by asking questions of present-day inhabitants, whose curiosity might then be aroused; he knew better methods than that. Every town, said Bryce to himself, possesses public records — parish registers, burgess rolls, lists of voters; even small towns have directories which are more or less complete — he could search these for any mention or record of anybody or any family of the name of Braden. And he spent all that day in that search, inspecting numerous documents and registers and books, and when evening came he had a very complete acquaintance with the family nomenclature of Barthorpe, and he was prepared to bet odds against any one of the name of Braden having lived there during the past half-century. In all his searching he had not once come across the name.
The man who had spent a very lazy day in keeping an eye on Bryce, as he visited the various public places whereat he made his researches, was also keeping an eye upon him next morning, when Bryce, breakfasting earlier than usual, prepared for a second day’s labours. He followed his quarry away from the little town: Bryce was walking out to Braden Medworth. In Bryce’s opinion, it was something of a wild-goose chase to go there, but the similarity in the name of the village and of the dead man at Wrychester might have its significance, and it was but a two miles’ stroll from Barthorpe. He found Braden Medworth a very small, quiet, and picturesque place, with an old church on the banks of a river which promised good sport to anglers. And there he pursued his tactics of the day before and went straight to the vicarage and its vicar, with a request to be allowed to inspect the parish registers. The vicar, having no objection to earning the resultant fees, hastened to comply with Bryce’s request, and inquired how far back he wanted to search and for what particular entry.
“No particular entry,” answered Bryce, “and as to period — fairly recent. The fact is, I am interested in names. I am thinking” — here he used one more of his easily found inventions— “of writing a book on English surnames, and am just now inspecting parish registers in the Midlands for that purpose.”
“Then I can considerably simplify your labours,” said the vicar, taking down a book from one of his shelves. “Our parish registers have been copied and printed, and here is the volume — everything is in there from 1570 to ten years ago, and there is a very full index. Are you staying in the neighbourhood — or the village?”
