CHAPTER VII. THE DOUBLE TRAIL
Pemberton Bryce was not the only person in Wrychester who was watchingRansford with keen attention during these events. Mary Bewery, a youngwoman of more than usual powers of observation and penetration, had beenquick to see that her guardian's distress over the affair in Paradisewas something out of the common. She knew Ransford for an exceedinglytender-hearted man, with a considerable spice of sentiment in hiscomposition: he was noted for his more than professional interest in thepoorer sort of his patients and had gained a deserved reputation in thetown for his care of them. But it was somewhat surprising, even to Mary,that he should be so much upset by the death of a total stranger as tolose his appetite, and, for at any rate a couple of days, be so restlessthat his conduct could not fail to be noticed by herself and herbrother. His remarks on the tragedy were conventional enough--a mostdistressing affair--a sad fate for the poor fellow--most unexplainableand mysterious, and so on--but his concern obviously went beyond that.He was ill at ease when she questioned him about the facts; almostirritable when Dick Bewery, schoolboy-like, asked him concerningprofessional details; she was sure, from the lines about his eyes and aworn look on his face, that he had passed a restless night when he camedown to breakfast on the morning of the inquest. But when he returnedfrom the inquest she noticed a change--it was evident, to her readywits, that Ransford had experienced a great relief. He spoke of relief,indeed, that night at dinner, observing that the verdict which the juryhad returned had cleared the air of a foul suspicion; it would havebeen no pleasant matter, he said, if Wrychester Cathedral had gained anunenviable notoriety as the scene of a murder.
"All the same," remarked Dick, who knew all the talk of the town,"Varner persists in sticking to what he's said all along. Varnersays--said this afternoon, after the inquest was over--that he'sabsolutely certain of what he saw, and that he not only saw a hand ina white cuff and black coat sleeve, but that he saw the sun gleam fora second on the links in the cuff, as if they were gold or diamonds.Pretty stiff evidence that, sir, isn't it?"
"In the state of mind in which Varner was at that moment," repliedRansford, "he wouldn't be very well able to decide definitely on what hereally did see. His vision would retain confused images. Probably he sawthe dead man's hand--he was wearing a black coat and white linen. Theverdict was a most sensible one."
No more was said after that, and that evening Ransford was almosthimself again. But not quite himself. Mary caught him looking verygrave, in evident abstraction, more than once; more than once she heardhim sigh heavily. But he said no more of the matter until two dayslater, when, at breakfast, he announced his intention of attending JohnBraden's funeral, which was to take place that morning.
"I've ordered the brougham for eleven," he said, "and I've arranged withDr. Nicholson to attend to any urgent call that comes in between thatand noon--so, if there is any such call, you can telephone to him. A fewof us are going to attend this poor man's funeral--it would be too badto allow a stranger to go to his grave unattended, especially aftersuch a fate. There'll be somebody representing the Dean and Chapter,and three or four principal townsmen, so he'll not be quite neglected.And"--here he hesitated and looked a little nervously at Mary, to whomhe was telling all this, Dick having departed for school--"there's alittle matter I wish you'd attend to--you'll do it better than I should.The man seems to have been friendless; here, at any rate--no relationshave come forward, in spite of the publicity--so--don't you think itwould be rather--considerate, eh?--to put a wreath, or a cross, orsomething of that sort on his grave--just to show--you know?"
"Very kind of you to think of it," said Mary. "What do you wish me todo?"
"If you'd go to Gardales', the florists, and order--something fitting,you know," replied Ransford, "and afterwards--later in the day--take itto St. Wigbert's Churchyard--he's to be buried there--take it--if youdon't mind--yourself, you know."
"Certainly," answered Mary. "I'll see that it's done."
She would do anything that seemed good to Ransford--but all the same shewondered at this somewhat unusual show of interest in a total stranger.She put it down at last to Ransford's undoubted sentimentality--theman's sad fate had impressed him. And that afternoon the sexton at St.Wigbert's pointed out the new grave to Miss Bewery and Mr. SackvilleBonham, one carrying a wreath and the other a large bunch of lilies.Sackville, chancing to encounter Mary at the florist's, whither he hadrepaired to execute a commission for his mother, had heard her business,and had been so struck by the notion--or by a desire to ingratiatehimself with Miss Bewery--that he had immediately bought flowershimself--to be put down to her account--and insisted on accompanyingMary to the churchyard.
Bryce heard of this tribute to John Braden next day--from Mrs. Folliot,Sackville Bonham's mother, a large lady who dominated certain circlesof Wrychester society in several senses. Mrs. Folliot was one of thosewomen who have been gifted by nature with capacity--she was conspicuousin many ways. Her voice was masculine; she stood nearly six feet in herstoutly-soled shoes; her breadth corresponded to her height; her eyeswere piercing, her nose Roman; there was not a curate in Wrychesterwho was not under her thumb, and if the Dean himself saw her coming, heturned hastily into the nearest shop, sweating with fear lest she shouldfollow him. Endued with riches and fortified by assurance, Mrs. Folliotwas the presiding spirit in many movements of charity and benevolence;there were people in Wrychester who were unkind enough to say--behindher back--that she was as meddlesome as she was most undoubtedlyautocratic, but, as one of her staunchest clerical defenders oncepointed out, these grumblers were what might be contemptuously dismissedas five-shilling subscribers. Mrs. Folliot, in her way, was undoubtedlya power--and for reasons of his own Pemberton Bryce, whenever he mether--which was fairly often--was invariably suave and polite.
"Most mysterious thing, this, Dr. Bryce," remarked Mrs. Folliot in herdeepest tones, encountering Bryce, the day after the funeral, at thecorner of a back street down which she was about to sail on one of hercharitable missions, to the terror of any of the women who happened tobe caught gossiping. "What, now, should make Dr. Ransford cause flowersto be laid on the grave of a total stranger? A sentimental feeling?Fiddle-de-dee! There must be some reason."
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Mrs. Folliot,"answered Bryce, whose ears had already lengthened. "Has Dr. Ransfordbeen laying flowers on a grave?--I didn't know of it. My engagement withDr. Ransford terminated two days ago--so I've seen nothing of him."
"My son, Mr. Sackville Bonham," said Mrs. Folliot, "tells methat yesterday Miss Bewery came into Gardales' and spent asovereign--actually a sovereign!--on a wreath, which, she toldSackville, she was about to carry, at her guardian's desire, tothis strange man's grave. Sackville, who is a warm-hearted boy, wastouched--he, too, bought flowers and accompanied Miss Bewery. Mostextraordinary! A perfect stranger! Dear me--why, nobody knows who theman was!"
"Except his bank-manager," remarked Bryce, "who says he's holding tenthousand pounds of his."
"That," admitted Mrs. Folliot gravely, "is certainly a consideration.But then, who knows?--the money may have been stolen. Now, really, didyou ever hear of a quite respectable man who hadn't even a visiting-cardor a letter upon him? And from Australia, too!--where all the peoplethat 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 explainthe 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 instilsome minute drop of poison into the lady's mind, there to increase inpotency and in due course to spread. "I--of course, I may have beenmistaken--I certainly thought Dr. Ransford seemed unusually agitated bythis 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 notsufficiently particular
. I said to Mr. Folliot this morning, on readingthe newspaper, that in my view that inquest should have been adjournedfor further particulars. Now I know of one particular that was nevermentioned at the inquest!"
"Oh?" said Bryce. "And what?"
"Mrs. Deramore, who lives, as you know, next to Dr. Ransford," repliedMrs. 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 feelsassured, was the mysterious stranger, crossing the Close towards theCathedral in, Mrs. Deramore is positive, a dead straight line fromDr. Ransford's garden--as if he had been there. Dr. Bryce!--a directquestion should have been asked of Dr. Ransford--had he ever seen thatman 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 oneelse," remarked Bryce, who was wondering how long Mrs. Deramore remainedat her upper window and if she saw him follow Braden. "But there arecircumstances, no doubt, which ought to be inquired into. And it'scertainly very curious that Dr. Ransford should send a wreath to thegrave of--a stranger."
He went away convinced that Mrs. Folliot's inquisitiveness had beenaroused, and that her tongue would not be idle: Mrs. Folliot, left toherself, had the gift of creating an atmosphere, and if she once gotit into her head that there was some mysterious connection between Dr.Ransford and the dead man, she would never rest until she had spread hersuspicions. But as for Bryce himself, he wanted more than suspicions--hewanted facts, particulars, data. And once more he began to go over thesum of evidence which had accrued.
The question of the scrap of paper found in Braden's purse, and of theexact whereabouts of Richard Jenkins's grave in Paradise, he leftfor the time being. What was now interesting him chiefly was theadvertisement in the Times to which the bank-manager from London haddrawn attention. He had made haste to buy a copy of the Times and tocut out the advertisement. There it was--old friend Marco was wanted by(presumably old friend) Sticker, and whoever Sticker might be he couldcertainly be found under care of J. Braden. It had never been in doubta 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 Christianname was Mark?
He reckoned up his chances of getting at the truth of the affair anewthat night. As things were, it seemed unlikely that any relations ofBraden would now turn up. The Wrychester Paradise case, as the reportershad aptly named it, had figured largely in the newspapers, London andprovincial; it could scarcely have had more publicity--yet no one, savethis bank-manager, had come forward. If there had been any one tocome forward the bank-manager's evidence would surely have proved anincentive to speed--for there was a sum of ten thousand pounds awaitingJohn Braden's next-of-kin. In Bryce's opinion the chance of putting ina claim to ten thousand pounds is not left waiting forty-eighthours--whoever saw such a chance would make instant use of telegraph ortelephone. But no message from anybody professing relationship with thedead man had so far reached the Wrychester police.
When everything had been taken into account, Bryce saw no better cluefor 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 suggestionthat a man wasn't likely to buy an old book about a little insignificanttown like Barthorpe unless he had some interest in it--Barthorpe, ifCampany's theory were true, was probably the place of John Braden'sorigin.
Therefore, information about Braden, leading to knowledge of hisassociation or connection with Ransford, might be found at Barthorpe.True, the Barthorpe police had already reported that they could tellnothing about any Braden, but that, in Bryce's opinion, was neitherhere nor there--he had already come to the conclusion that Braden was anassumed name. And if he went to Barthorpe, he was not going to troublethe police--he knew better methods than that of finding things out. Washe going?--was it worth his while? A moment's reflection decided thatmatter--anything was worth his while which would help him to get astrong hold on Mark Ransford. And always practical in his doings, hewalked round to the Free Library, obtained a gazeteer, and looked upparticulars of Barthorpe. There he learnt that Barthorpe was an ancientmarket-town of two thousand inhabitants in the north of Leicestershire,famous for nothing except that it had been the scene of a battle atthe time of the Wars of the Roses, and that its trade was mainly inagriculture and stocking-making--evidently a slow, sleepy old place.
That night Bryce packed a hand-bag with small necessaries for a fewdays' excursion, and next morning he took an early train to London; theend of that afternoon found him in a Midland northern-bound express,looking out on the undulating, green acres of Leicestershire. And whilehis train was making a three minutes' stop at Leicester itself, thepurpose of his journey was suddenly recalled to him by hearing thestrident 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 turnedto his companion as the train moved off again.
"Barthorpe?" he remarked. "That's the place that was mentioned inconnection with that very queer affair at Wrychester, that's beenreported in the papers so much these last few days. The mysteriousstranger who kept ten thousand in a London bank, and of whom nobodyseems 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, orhad known it, they say nobody at Barthorpe knows anything about anybodyof his name."
"Well, I don't know that there is anything so very odd about it, afterall," replied the other man. "He may have picked up that old book forone of many reasons that could be suggested. No--I read all that casein the papers, and I wasn't so much impressed by the old book featureof it. But I'll tell you what--there was a thing struck me. I know thisBarthorpe district--we shall be in it in a few minutes--I've been a gooddeal over it. This strange man's name was given in the papers as JohnBraden. Now close to Barthorpe--a mile or two outside it, there's avillage of that name--Braden Medworth. That's a curious coincidence--andtaken in conjunction with the man's possession of an old book aboutBarthorpe--why, perhaps there's something in it--possibly more than Ithought 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 ofit. Somebody'll be after that, you may be sure!"
Bryce left the train at Barthorpe thanking his good luck--the man inthe far corner had unwittingly given him a hint. He would pay a visit toBraden Medworth--the coincidence was too striking to be neglected. Butfirst Barthorpe itself--a quaint old-world little market-town, inwhich some of even the principal houses still wore roofs of thatch, andwherein the old custom of ringing the curfew bell was kept up. He foundan old-fashioned hotel in the marketplace, under the shadow of theparish church, and in its oak-panelled dining-room, hung about withportraits of masters of foxhounds and queer old prints of sporting andcoaching days, he dined comfortably and well.
It was too late to attempt any investigations that evening, andwhen Bryce had finished his leisurely dinner he strolled into thesmoking-room--an even older and quainter apartment than that whichhe had just left. It was one of those rooms only found in very oldhouses--a room of nooks and corners, with a great open fireplace, andold furniture and old pictures and curiosities--the sort of place towhich the old-fashioned tradesmen of the small provincial towns stillresort 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 cornerand sat down in it to smoke, promising himself some amusement from theconversation around him; it was his way to find interest and amusementin anything that offered. But he had scarcely settled down in acomfortably cushioned elbow chair when the door opened again and intothe room walked old Simpson Harker.