Collected works of j s f.., p.491
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 491
“You might mention ’em — if you know ’em,” answered Folliot.
“The name of the particular one was Wraye — Falkiner Wraye,” replied Bryce promptly. “Of the other — the man of lesser importance — Flood.”
The two men looked quietly at each other for a full moment’s silence. And it was Bryce who first spoke with a ring of confidence in his tone which showed that he knew he had the whip hand.
“Shall I tell you something about Falkiner Wraye?” he asked. “I will! — it’s deeply interesting. Mr. Falkiner Wraye, after cheating and deceiving Brake, and leaving him to pay the penalty of his over-trustfulness, cleared out of England and carried his money-making talents to foreign parts. He succeeded in doing well — he would! — and eventually he came back and married a rich widow and settled himself down in an out-of-the-world English town to grow roses. You’re Falkiner Wraye, you know, Mr. Folliot!”
Bryce laughed as he made this direct accusation, and sitting forward in his chair, pointed first to Folliot’s face and then to his left hand.
“Falkiner Wraye,” he said, “had an unfortunate gun accident in his youth which marked him for life. He lost the middle finger of his left hand, and he got a bad scar on his left jaw. There they are, those marks! Fortunate for you, Mr. Folliot, that the police don’t know all that I know, for if they did, those marks would have done for you days ago!” For a minute or two Folliot sat joggling his leg — a bad sign in him of rising temper if Bryce had but known it. While he remained silent he watched Bryce narrowly, and when he spoke, his voice was calm as ever.
“And what use do you intend to put your knowledge to, if one may ask?” he inquired, half sneeringly. “You said just now that you’d no doubt that man Glassdale could be bought, and I’m inclining to think that you’re one of those men that have their price. What is it?”
“We’ve not come to that,” retorted Bryce. “You’re a bit mistaken. If I have my price, it’s not in the same commodity that Glassdale would want. But before we do any talking about that sort of thing, I want to add to my stock of knowledge. Look here! We’ll be candid. I don’t care a snap of my fingers that Brake, or Braden’s dead, or that Collishaw’s dead, nor if one had his neck broken and the other was poisoned, but — whose hand was that which the mason, Varner, saw that morning, when Brake was flung out of that doorway? Come, now! — whose?”
“Not mine, my lad!” answered Folliot, confidently. “That’s a fact?”
Bryce hesitated, giving Folliot a searching look. And Folliot nodded solemnly. “I tell you, not mine!” he repeated. “I’d naught to do with it!”
“Then who had?” demanded Bryce. “Was it the other man — Flood? And if so, who is Flood?”
Folliot got up from his chair and, cigar between his lips and hands under the tails of his old coat, walked silently about the quiet room for awhile. He was evidently thinking deeply, and Bryce made no attempt to disturb him. Some minutes went by before Folliot took the cigar from his lips and leaning against the chimneypiece looked fixedly at his visitor.
“Look here, my lad!” he said, earnestly. “You’re no doubt, as you say, a good hand at finding things out, and you’ve doubtless done a good bit of ferreting, and done it well enough in your own opinion. But there’s one thing you can’t find out, and the police can’t find out either, and that’s the precise truth about Braden’s death. I’d no hand in it — it couldn’t be fastened on to me, anyhow.”
Bryce looked up and interjected one word.
“Collishaw?”
“Nor that, neither,” answered Folliot, hastily. “Maybe I know something about both, but neither you nor the police nor anybody could fasten me to either matter! Granting all you say to be true, where’s the positive truth?”
“What about circumstantial evidence,” asked Bryce.
“You’d have a job to get it,” retorted Folliot. “Supposing that all you say is true about — about past matters? Nothing can prove — nothing! — that I ever met Braden that morning. On the other hand, I can prove, easily, that I never did meet him; I can account for every minute of my time that day. As to the other affair — not an ounce of direct evidence!”
“Then — it was the other man!” exclaimed Bryce. “Now then, who is he?”
Folliot replied with a shrewd glance.
“A man who by giving away another man gave himself away would be a damned fool!” he answered. “If there is another man—”
“As if there must be!” interrupted Bryce.
“Then he’s safe!” concluded Folliot. “You’ll get nothing from me about him!”
“And nobody can get at you except through him?” asked Bryce.
“That’s about it,” assented Folliot laconically.
Bryce laughed cynically.
“A pretty coil!” he said with a sneer. “Here! You talked about my price. I’m quite content to hold my tongue if you’d tell me something about what happened seventeen years ago.”
“What?” asked Folliot.
“You knew Brake, you must have known his family affairs,” said Bryce. “What became of Brake’s wife and children when he went to prison?”
Folliot shook his head, and it was plain to Bryce that his gesture of dissent was genuine.
“You’re wrong,” he answered. “I never at any time knew anything of Brake’s family affairs. So little indeed, that I never even knew he was married.”
Bryce rose to his feet and stood staring.
“What!” he exclaimed. “You mean to tell me that, even now, you don’t know that Brake had two children, and that — that — oh, it’s incredible!”
“What’s incredible?” asked Folliot. “What are you talking about?”
Bryce in his eagerness and surprise grasped Folliot’s arm and shook it.
“Good heavens, man!” he said. “Those two wards of Ransford’s are Brake’s girl and boy! Didn’t you know that, didn’t you?”
“Never!” answered Folliot. “Never! And who’s Ransford, then? I never heard Brake speak of any Ransford! What game is all this? What—”
Before Bryce could reply, Folliot suddenly started, thrust his companion aside and went to one of the windows. A sharp exclamation from him took Bryce to his side. Folliot lifted a shaking hand and pointed into the garden.
“There!” he whispered. “Hell and — What’s this mean?”
Bryce looked in the direction pointed out. Behind the pergola of rambler roses the figures of men were coming towards the old well-house led by one of Folliot’s gardeners. Suddenly they emerged into full view, and in front of the rest was Mitchington and close behind him the detective, and behind him — Glassdale!
CHAPTER XXVI. THE OTHER MAN
IT WAS CLOSE on five o’clock when Glassdale, leaving Folliot at his garden door, turned the corner into the quietness of the Precincts. He walked about there a while, staring at the queer old houses with eyes which saw neither fantastic gables nor twisted chimneys. Glassdale was thinking. And the result of his reflections was that he suddenly exchanged his idle sauntering for brisker steps and walked sharply round to the police-station, where he asked to see Mitchington.
Mitchington and the detective were just about to walk down to the railway-station to meet Ransford, in accordance with his telegram. At sight of Glassdale they went back into the inspector’s office. Glassdale closed the door and favoured them with a knowing smile.
“Something else for you, inspector!” he said. “Mixed up a bit with last night’s affair, too. About these mysteries — Braden and Collishaw — I can tell you one man who’s in them.”
“Who, then?” demanded Mitchington.
Glassdale went a step nearer to the two officials and lowered his voice.
“The man who’s known here as Stephen Folliot,” he answered. “That’s a fact!”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Mitchington. Then he laughed incredulously. “Can’t believe it!” he continued. “Mr. Folliot! Must be some mistake!”
“No mistake,” replied Glassdale. “Besides, Folliot’s only an assumed name. That man is really one Falkiner Wraye, the man Braden, or Brake, was seeking for many a year, the man who cheated Brake and got him into trouble. I tell you it’s a fact! He’s admitted it, or as good as done so, to me just now.”
“To you? And — let you come away and spread it?” exclaimed Mitchington. “That’s incredible! more astonishing than the other!”
Glassdale laughed.
“Ah, but I let him think I could be squared, do you see?” he said. “Hush-money, you know. He’s under the impression that I’m to go back to him this evening to settle matters. I knew so much — identified him, as a matter of fact — that he’d no option. I tell you he’s been in at both these affairs — certain! But — there’s another man.”
“Who’s he?” demanded Mitchington.
“Can’t say, for I don’t know, though I’ve an idea he’ll be a fellow that Brake was also wanting to find,” replied Glassdale. “But anyhow, I know what I’m talking about when I tell you of Folliot. You’d better do something before he suspects me.”
Mitchington glanced at the clock.
“Come with us down to the station,” he said. “Dr. Ransford’s coming in on this express from town; he’s got news for us. We’d better hear that first. Folliot! — good Lord! — who’d have believed or even dreamed it!”
“You’ll see,” said Glassdale as they went out.
“Maybe Dr. Ransford’s got the same information.” Ransford was out of the train as soon as it ran in, and hurried to where Mitchington and his companions were standing. And behind him, to Mitchington’s surprise, came old Simpson Harker, who had evidently travelled with him. With a silent gesture Mitchington beckoned the whole party into an empty waiting-room and closed its door on them.
“Now then, inspector,” said Ransford without preface or ceremony, “you’ve got to act quickly! You got my wire — a few words will explain it. I went up to town this morning in answer to a message from the bank where Braden lodged his money when he returned to England. To tell you the truth, the managers there and myself have, since Braden’s death, been carrying to a conclusion an investigation which I began on Braden’s behalf — though he never knew of it — years ago. At the bank I met Mr. Harker here, who had called to find something out for himself. Now I’ll sum things up in a nutshell: for years Braden, or Brake, had been wanting to find two men who cheated him. The name of one is Wraye, of the other, Flood. I’ve been trying to trace them, too. At last we’ve got them. They’re in this town, and without doubt the deaths of both Braden and Collishaw are at their door! You know both well enough. Wraye is-”
“Mr. Folliot!” interrupted Mitchington, pointing to Glassdale. “So he’s just told us; he’s identified him as Wraye. But the other — who’s he, doctor?”
Ransford glanced at Glassdale as if he wished to question him, but instead he answered Mitchington’s question.
“The other man,” he said, “the man Flood, is also a well-known man to you. Fladgate!”
Mitchington started, evidently more astonished than by the first news.
“What!” he exclaimed. “The verger! You don’t say!”
“Do you remember,” continued Ransford, “that Folliot got Fladgate his appointment as verger not so very long after he himself came here? He did, anyway, and Fladgate is Flood. We’ve traced everything through Flood. Wraye has been a difficult man to trace, because of his residence abroad for a long time and his change of name, and so on, and it was only recently that my agents struck on a line through Flood. But there’s the fact. And the probability is that when Braden came here he recognized and was recognized by these two, and that one or other of them is responsible for his death and for Collishaw’s too. Circumstantial evidence, all of it, no doubt, but irresistible! Now, what do you propose to do?”
Mitchington considered matters for a moment.
“Fladgate first, certainly,” he said. “He lives close by here; we’ll go round to his cottage. If he sees he’s in a tight place he may let things out. Let’s go there at once.”
He led the whole party out of the station and down the High Street until they came to a narrow lane of little houses which ran towards the Close. At its entrance a policeman was walking his beat. Mitchington stopped to exchange a few words with him.
“This man Fladgate,” he said, rejoining the others, “lives alone — fifth cottage down here. He’ll be about having his tea; we shall take him by surprise.” Presently the group stood around a door at which Mitchington knocked gently, and it was on their grave and watchful faces that a tall, clean-shaven, very solemn-looking man gazed in astonishment as he opened the door, and started back. He went white to the lips and his hand fell trembling from the latch as Mitchington strode in and the rest crowded behind.
“Now then, Fladgate!” said Mitchington, going straight to the point and watching his man narrowly, while the detective approached him closely on the other side. “I want you and a word with you at once. Your real name is Flood! What have you to say to that? And — it’s no use beating about the bush — what have you to say about this Braden affair, and your share with Folliot in it, whose real name is Wraye. It’s all come out about the two of you. If you’ve anything to say, you’d better say it.”
The verger, whose black gown lay thrown across the back of a chair, looked from one face to another with frightened eyes. It was very evident that the suddenness of the descent had completely unnerved him. Ransford’s practised eyes saw that he was on the verge of a collapse.
“Give him time, Mitchington,” he said. “Pull yourself together,” he added, turning to the man. “Don’t be frightened; answer these questions!”
“For God’s sake, gentlemen!” grasped the verger. “What — what is it? What am I to answer? Before God, I’m as innocent as — as any of you — about Mr. Brake’s death! Upon my soul and honour I am!”
“You know all about it;” insisted Mitchington.
“Come, now, isn’t it true that you’re Flood, and that Folliot’s Wraye, the two men whose trick on him got Brake convicted years ago? Answer that!”
Flood looked from one side to the other. He was leaning against his tea-table, set in the middle of his tidy living room. From the hearth his kettle sent out a pleasant singing that sounded strangely in contrast with the grim situation.
“Yes, that’s true,” he said at last. “But in that affair I — I wasn’t the principal. I was only — only Wraye’s agent, as it were: I wasn’t responsible. And when Mr. Brake came here, when I met him that morning—”
He paused, still looking from one to another of his audience as if entreating their belief.
“As sure as I’m a living man, gentlemen!” he suddenly burst out, “I’d no willing hand in Mr. Brake’s death! I’ll tell you the exact truth; I’ll take my oath of it whenever you like. I’d have been thankful to tell, many a time, but for — for Wraye. He wouldn’t let me at first, and afterwards it got complicated. It was this way. That morning — when Mr. Brake was found dead — I had occasion to go up into that gallery under the clerestory. I suddenly came on him face to face. He recognized me. And — I’m telling you the solemn, absolute truth, gentlemen! — he’d no sooner recognized me than he attacked me, seizing me by the arm. I hadn’t recognized him at first, I did when he laid hold of me. I tried to shake him off, tried to quiet him; he struggled — I don’t know what he wanted to do — he began to cry out — it was a wonder he wasn’t heard in the church below, and he would have been only the organ was being played rather loudly. And in the struggle he slipped — it was just by that open doorway — and before I could do more than grasp at him, he shot through the opening and fell! It was sheer, pure accident, gentlemen! Upon my soul, I hadn’t the least intention of harming him.”
“And after that?” asked Mitchington, at the end of a brief silence.
“I saw Mr. Folliot — Wraye,” continued Flood. “Just afterwards, that was. I told him; he bade me keep silence until we saw how things went. Later he forced me to be silent. What could I do? As things were, Wraye could have disclaimed me — I shouldn’t have had a chance. So I held my tongue.”
“Now, then, Collishaw?” demanded Mitchington. “Give us the truth about that. Whatever the other was, that was murder!”
Flood lifted his hand and wiped away the perspiration that had gathered on his face.
“Before God, gentlemen!” he answered. “I know no more — at least, little more — about that than you do! I’ll tell you all I do know. Wraye and I, of course, met now and then and talked about this. It got to our ears at last that Collishaw knew something. My own impression is that he saw what occurred between me and Mr. Brake — he was working somewhere up there. I wanted to speak to Collishaw. Wraye wouldn’t let me, he bade me leave it to him. A bit later, he told me he’d squared Collishaw with fifty pounds—”
Mitchington and the detective exchanged looks.
“Wraye — that’s Folliot — paid Collishaw fifty pounds, did he?” asked the detective.
“He told me so,” replied Flood. “To hold his tongue. But I’d scarcely heard that when I heard of Collishaw’s sudden death. And as to how that happened, or who — who brought it about — upon my soul, gentlemen, I know nothing! Whatever I may have thought, I never mentioned it to Wraye — never! I — I daren’t! You don’t know what a man Wraye is! I’ve been under his thumb most of my life and — and what are you going to do with me, gentlemen?”
