Collected works of j s f.., p.485
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 485
The forestalling of his plans about the hiding-place in Paradise had upset Bryce’s schemes — he had figured on being able to turn that secret, whatever it was, to his own advantage. It struck him now, as he meditated, that he had never known exactly what he expected to get out of that secret — but he had hoped that it would have been something which would make a few more considerable and tightly-strung meshes in the net which he was endeavouring to weave around Ransford. Now he was faced by the fact that it was not going to yield anything in the way of help — it was a secret no longer, and it had yielded nothing beyond the mere knowledge that John Braden, who was in reality John Brake, had carried the secret to Wrychester — to reveal it in the proper quarter. That helped Bryce in no way — so far as he could see. And therefore it was necessary to re-state his case to himself; to take stock; to see where he stood — and more than all, to put plainly before his own mind exactly what he wanted.
And just before Mitchington and the detective came up the path to his door, Bryce had put his notions into clear phraseology. His aim was definite — he wanted to get Ransford completely into his power, through suspicion of Ransford’s guilt in the affairs of Braden and Collishaw. He wanted, at the same time, to have the means of exonerating him — whether by fact or by craft — so that, as an ultimate method of success for his own projects he would be able to go to Mary Bewery and say “Ransford’s very life is at my mercy: if I keep silence, he’s lost: if I speak, he’s saved: it’s now for you to say whether I’m to speak or hold my tongue — and you’re the price I want for my speaking to save him!” It was in accordance with his views of human nature that Mary Bewery would accede to his terms: he had not known her and Ransford for nothing, and he was aware that she had a profound gratitude for her guardian, which might even be akin to a yet unawakened warmer feeling. The probability was that she would willingly sacrifice herself to save Ransford — and Bryce cared little by what means he won her, fair or foul, so long as he was successful. So now, he said to himself, he must make a still more definite move against Ransford. He must strengthen and deepen the suspicions which the police already had: he must give them chapter and verse and supply them with information, and get Ransford into the tightest of corners, solely that, in order to win Mary Bewery, he might have the credit of pulling him out again. That, he felt certain, he could do — if he could make a net in which to enclose Ransford he could also invent a two-edged sword which would cut every mesh of that net into fragments. That would be — child’s play — mere statecraft — elementary diplomacy. But first — to get Ransford fairly bottled up — that was the thing! He determined to lose no more time — and he was thinking of visiting Mitchington immediately after breakfast next morning when Mitchington knocked at his door.
Bryce was rarely taken back, and on seeing Mitchington and a companion, he forthwith invited them into his parlour, put out his whisky and cigars, and pressed both on them as if their late call were a matter of usual occurrence. And when he had helped both to a drink, he took one himself, and tumbler in hand, dropped into his easy chair again.
“We saw your light, doctor — so I took the liberty of dropping into tell you a bit of news,” observed the inspector. “But I haven’t introduced my friend — this is Detective-Sergeant Jettison, of the Yard — we’ve got him down about this business — must have help, you know.”
Bryce gave the detective a half-sharp, half-careless look and nodded.
“Mr. Jettison will have abundant opportunities for the exercise of his talents!” he observed in his best cynical manner. “I dare say he’s found that out already.”
“Not an easy affair, sir, to be sure,” assented Jettison. “Complicated!”
“Highly so!” agreed Bryce. He yawned, and glanced at the inspector. “What’s your news, Mitchington?” he asked, almost indifferently.
“Oh, well!” answered Mitchington. “As the Herald’s published tomorrow you’ll see it in there, doctor — I’ve supplied an account for this week’s issue; just a short one — but I thought you’d like to know. You’ve heard of the famous jewel robbery at the Duke’s, some years ago? Yes? — well, we’ve found all the whole bundle tonight — buried in Paradise! And how do you think the secret came out?”
“No good at guessing,” said Bryce.
“It came out,” continued Mitchington, “through a man who, with Braden — Braden, mark you! — got in possession of it — it’s a long story — and, with Braden, was going to reveal it to the Duke that very day Braden was killed. This man waited until this very morning and then told his Grace — his Grace came with him to us this afternoon, and tonight we made a search and found — everything! Buried — there in Paradise! Dug ’em up, doctor!”
Bryce showed no great interest. He took a leisurely sip at his liquor and set down the glass and pulled out his cigarette case. The two men, watching him narrowly, saw that his fingers were steady as rocks as he struck the match.
“Yes,” he said as he threw the match away. “I saw you busy.”
In spite of himself Mitchington could not repress a start nor a glance at Jettison. But Jettison was as imperturbable as Bryce himself, and Mitchington raised a forced laugh.
“You did!” he said, incredulously. “And we thought we had it all to ourselves! How did you come to know, doctor?”
“Young Bewery told me what was going on,” replied Bryce, “so I took a look at you. And I fetched old Harker to take a look, too. We all watched you — the boy, Harker, and I — out of sheer curiosity, of course. We saw you get up the parcel. But, naturally, I didn’t know what was in it — till now.”
Mitchington, thoroughly taken aback by this candid statement, was at a loss for words, and again he glanced at Jettison. But Jettison gave no help, and Mitchington fell back on himself.
“So you fetched old Harker?” he said. “What — what for, doctor? If one may ask, you know.”
Bryce made a careless gesture with his cigarette.
“Oh — old Harker’s deeply interested in what’s going on,” he answered. “And as young Bewery drew my attention to your proceedings, why, I thought I’d draw Harker’s. And Harker was — interested.”
Mitchington hesitated before saying more. But eventually he risked a leading question.
“Any special reason why he should be, doctor?” he asked.
Bryce put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and looked half-lazily at his questioner.
“Do you know who old Harker really is?” he inquired.
“No!” answered Mitchington. “I know nothing about him — except that he’s said to be a retired tradesman, from London, who settled down here some time ago.”
Bryce suddenly turned on Jettison.
“Do you?” he asked.
“I, sir!” exclaimed Jettison. “I don’t know this gentleman — at all!”
Bryce laughed — with his usual touch of cynical sneering.
“I’ll tell you — now — who old Harker is, Mitchington,” he said. “You may as well know. I thought Mr. Jettison might recognize the name. Harker is no retired London tradesman — he’s a retired member of your profession, Mr. Jettison. He was in his day one of the smartest men in the service of your department. Only he’s transposed his name — ask them at the Yard if they remember Harker Simpson? That seems to startle you, Mitchington! Well, as you’re here, perhaps I’d better startle you a bit more.”
CHAPTER XIX. THE SUBTLETY OF THE DEVIL
THERE WAS A sudden determination and alertness in Bryce’s last words which contrasted strongly, and even strangely, with the almost cynical indifference that had characterized him since his visitors came in, and the two men recognized it and glanced questioningly at each other. There was an alteration, too, in his manner; instead of lounging lazily in his chair, as if he had no other thought than of personal ease, he was now sitting erect, looking sharply from one man to the other; his whole attitude, bearing, speech seemed to indicate that he had suddenly made up his mind to adopt some definite course of action.
“I’ll tell you more!” he repeated. “And, since you’re here — now!”
Mitchington, who felt a curious uneasiness, gave Jettison another glance. And this time it was Jettison who spoke.
“I should say,” he remarked quietly, “knowing what I’ve gathered of the matter, that we ought to be glad of any information Dr. Bryce can give us.”
“Oh, to be sure!” assented Mitchington. “You know more, then, doctor?”
Bryce motioned his visitors to draw their chairs nearer to his, and when he spoke it was in the low, concentrated tones of a man who means business — and confidential business.
“Now look here, Mitchington,” he said, “and you, too, Mr. Jettison, as you’re on this job — I’m going to talk straight to both of you. And to begin with, I’ll make a bold assertion — I know more of this Wrychester Paradise mystery — involving the deaths of both Braden and Collishaw, than any man living — because, though you don’t know it, Mitchington, I’ve gone right into it. And I’ll tell you in confidence why I went into it — I want to marry Dr. Ransford’s ward, Miss Bewery!”
Bryce accompanied this candid admission with a look which seemed to say: Here we are, three men of the world, who know what things are — we understand each other! And while Jettison merely nodded comprehendingly, Mitchington put his thoughts into words.
“To be sure, doctor, to be sure!” he said. “And accordingly — what’s their affair, is yours! Of course!”
“Something like that,” assented Bryce. “Naturally no man wishes to marry unless he knows as much as he can get to know about the woman he wants, her family, her antecedents — and all that. Now, pretty nearly everybody in Wrychester who knows them, knows that there’s a mystery about Dr. Ransford and his two wards — it’s been talked of, no end, amongst the old dowagers and gossips of the Close, particularly — you know what they are! Miss Bewery herself, and her brother, young Dick, in a lesser degree, know there’s a mystery. And if there’s one man in the world who knows the secret, it’s Ransford. And, up to now, Ransford won’t tell — he won’t even tell Miss Bewery. I know that she’s asked him — he keeps up an obstinate silence. And so — I determined to find things out for myself.”
“Aye — and when did you start on that little game, now, doctor?” asked Mitchington. “Was it before, or since, this affair developed?”
“In a really serious way — since,” replied Bryce. “What happened on the day of Braden’s death made me go thoroughly into the whole matter. Now, what did happen? I’ll tell you frankly, now, Mitchington, that when we talked once before about this affair, I didn’t tell you all I might have told. I’d my reasons for reticence. But now I’ll give you full particulars of what happened that morning within my knowledge — pay attention, both of you, and you’ll see how one thing fits into another. That morning, about half-past nine, Ransford left his surgery and went across the Close. Not long after he’d gone, this man Braden came to the door, and asked me if Dr. Ransford was in? I said he wasn’t — he’d just gone out, and I showed the man in which direction. He said he’d once known a Dr. Ransford, and went away. A little later, I followed. Near the entrance of Paradise, I saw Ransford leaving the west porch of the Cathedral. He was undeniably in a state of agitation — pale, nervous. He didn’t see me. I went on and met Varner, who told me of the accident. I went with him to the foot of St. Wrytha’s Stair and found the man who had recently called at the surgery. He died just as I reached him. I sent for you. When you came, I went back to the surgery — I found Ransford there in a state of most unusual agitation — he looked like a man who has had a terrible shock. So much for these events. Put them together.”
Bryce paused awhile, as if marshalling his facts.
“Now, after that,” he continued presently, “I began to investigate matters myself — for my own satisfaction. And very soon I found out certain things — which I’ll summarize, briefly, because some of my facts are doubtless known to you already. First of all — the man who came here as John Braden was, in reality, one John Brake. He was at one time manager of a branch of a well-known London banking company. He appropriated money from them under apparently mysterious circumstances of which I, as yet, knew nothing; he was prosecuted, convicted, and sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude. And those two wards of Ransford’s, Mary and Richard Bewery, as they are called, are, in reality, Mary and Richard Brake — his children.”
“You’ve established that as a fact?” asked Jettison, who was listening with close attention. “It’s not a surmise on your part?”
Bryce hesitated before replying to this question. After all, he reflected, it was a surmise. He could not positively prove his assertion.
“Well,” he answered after a moment’s thought, “I’ll qualify that by saying that from the evidence I have, and from what I know, I believe it to be an indisputable fact. What I do know of fact, hard, positive fact, is this: — John Brake married a Mary Bewery at the parish church of Braden Medworth, near Barthorpe, in Leicestershire: I’ve seen the entry in the register with my own eyes. His best man, who signed the register as a witness, was Mark Ransford. Brake and Ransford, as young men, had been in the habit of going to Braden Medworth to fish; Mary Bewery was governess at the vicarage there. It was always supposed she would marry Ransford; instead, she married Brake, who, of course, took her off to London. Of their married life, I know nothing. But within a few years, Brake was in trouble, for the reason I have told you. He was arrested — and Harker was the man who arrested him.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Mitchington. “Now, if I’d only known—”
“You’ll know a lot before I’m through,” said Bryce. “Now, Harker, of course, can tell a lot — yet it’s unsatisfying. Brake could make no defence — but his counsel threw out strange hints and suggestions — all to the effect that Brake had been cruelly and wickedly deceived — in fact, as it were, trapped into doing what he did. And — by a man whom he’d trusted as a close friend. So much came to Harker’s ears — but no more, and on that particular point I’ve no light. Go on from that to Brake’s private affairs. At the time of his arrest he had a wife and two very young children. Either just before, or at, or immediately after his arrest they completely disappeared — and Brake himself utterly refused to say one single word about them. Harker asked if he could do anything — Brake’s answer was that no one was to concern himself. He preserved an obstinate silence on that point. The clergyman in whose family Mrs. Brake had been governess saw Brake, after his conviction — Brake would say nothing to him. Of Mrs. Brake, nothing more is known — to me at any rate. What was known at the time is this — Brake communicated to all who came in contact with him, just then, the idea of a man who has been cruelly wronged and deceived, who takes refuge in sullen silence, and who is already planning and cherishing — revenge!”
“Aye, aye!” muttered Mitchington. “Revenge? — just So!”
“Brake, then,” continued Bryce, “goes off to his term of penal servitude, and so disappears — until he reappears here in Wrychester. Leave him for a moment, and go back. And — it’s a going back, no doubt, to supposition and to theory — but there’s reason in what I shall advance. We know — beyond doubt — that Brake had been tricked and deceived, in some money matter, by some man — some mysterious man — whom he referred to as having been his closest friend. We know, too, that there was extraordinary mystery in the disappearance of his wife and children. Now, from all that has been found out, who was Brake’s closest friend? Ransford! And of Ransford, at that time, there’s no trace. He, too, disappeared — that’s a fact which I’ve established. Years later, he reappears — here at Wrychester, where he’s bought a practice. Eventually he has two young people, who are represented as his wards, come to live with him. Their name is Bewery. The name of the young woman whom John Brake married was Bewery. What’s the inference? That their mother’s dead — that they’re known under her maiden name: that they, without a shadow of doubt, are John Brake’s children. And that leads up to my theory — which I’ll now tell you in confidence — if you wish for it.”
“It’s what I particularly wish for,” observed Jettison quietly. “The very thing!”
“Then, it’s this,” said Bryce. “Ransford was the close friend who tricked and deceived Brake:
“He probably tricked him in some money affair, and deceived him in his domestic affairs. I take it that Ransford ran away with Brake’s wife, and that Brake, sooner than air all his grievance to the world, took it silently and began to concoct his ideas of revenge. I put the whole thing this way. Ransford ran away with Mrs. Brake and the two children — mere infants — and disappeared. Brake, when he came out of prison, went abroad — possibly with the idea of tracking them. Meanwhile, as is quite evident, he engaged in business and did well. He came back to England as John Braden, and, for the reason of which you’re aware, he paid a visit to Wrychester, utterly unaware that any one known to him lived here. Now, try to reconstruct what happened. He looks round the Close that morning. He sees the name of Dr. Mark Ransford on the brass plate of a surgery door. He goes to the surgery, asks a question, makes a remark, goes away. What is the probable sequence of events? He meets Ransford near the Cathedral — where Ransford certainly was. They recognize each other — most likely they turn aside, go up to that gallery as a quiet place, to talk — there is an altercation — blows — somehow or other, probably from accident, Braden is thrown through that open doorway, to his death. And — Collishaw saw what happened!”
Bryce was watching his listeners, turning alternately from one to the other. But it needed little attention on his part to see that theirs was already closely strained; each man was eagerly taking in all that he said and suggested. And he went on emphasizing every point as he made it.
“Collishaw saw what happened?” he repeated. “That, of course, is theory — supposition. But now we pass from theory back to actual fact. I’ll tell you something now, Mitchington, which you’ve never heard of, I’m certain. I made it in my way, after Collishaw’s death, to get some information, secretly, from his widow, who’s a fairly shrewd, intelligent woman for her class. Now, the widow, in looking over her husband’s effects, in a certain drawer in which he kept various personal matters, came across the deposit book of a Friendly Society of which Collishaw had been a member for some years. It appears that he, Collishaw, was something of a saving man, and every year he managed to put by a bit of money out of his wages, and twice or thrice in the year he took these savings — never very much; merely a pound or two — to this Friendly Society, which, it seems, takes deposits in that way from its members. Now, in this book is an entry — I saw it — which shows that only two days before his death, Collishaw paid fifty pounds — fifty pounds, mark you! — into the Friendly Society. Where should Collishaw get fifty pounds, all of a sudden! He was a mason’s labourer, earning at the very outside twenty-six or eight shillings a week. According to his wife, there was no one to leave him a legacy. She never heard of his receipt of this money from any source. But — there’s the fact! What explains it? My theory — that the rumour that Collishaw, with a pint too much ale in him, had hinted that he could say something about Braden’s death if he chose, had reached Braden’s assailant; that he had made it his business to see Collishaw and had paid him that fifty pounds as hush-money — and, later, had decided to rid himself of Collishaw altogether, as he undoubtedly did, by poison.”
