The Paradise Mystery by J. S. Fletcher (simple e reader TXT) 📗

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?”

“In the neighbourhood, yes; in the village, no longer than the time I shall spend in getting some lunch at the inn yonder,” answered Bryce, nodding through an open window at an ancient tavern which stood in the valley beneath, close to an old stone bridge. “Perhaps you will kindly lend me this book for an hour?—then, if I see anything very noteworthy in the index, I can look at the actual registers when I bring it back.”

The vicar replied that that was precisely what he had been about to suggest, and Bryce carried the book away. And while he sat in the inn parlour