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

a queer rumour getting out in the town, about that affair last week. Seems to have sprung from some of those old dowagers in the Close.”

“Of course!” said Bryce. He was mixing a whisky-and-soda for his caller, and his laugh mingled with the splash of the siphon. “Of course! I've heard it.”

“You've heard?” remarked Mitchington. “Um! Good health, sir!—heard, of course, that—”

“That Braden called on Dr. Ransford not long before the accident, or murder, or whatever it was, happened,” said Bryce. “That's it—eh?”

“Something of that sort,” agreed Mitchington. “It's being said, anyway, that Braden was at Ransford's house, and presumably saw him, and that Ransford, accordingly, knows something about him which he hasn't told. Now—what do you know? Do you know if Ransford and Braden did meet that morning?”

“Not at Ransford's house, anyway,” answered Bryce promptly. “I can prove that. But since this rumour has got out, I'll tell you what I do know, and what the truth is. Braden did come to Ransford's—not to the house, but to the surgery. He didn't see Ransford—Ransford had gone out, across the Close. Braden saw—me!”

“Bless me!—I didn't know that,” remarked Mitchington. “You never mentioned it.”

“You'll not wonder that I didn't,” said Bryce, laughing lightly, “when I tell you what the man wanted.”

“What did he want, then?” asked Mitchington.

“Merely to be told where the Cathedral Library was,” answered Bryce.

Ransford, watching Mary Bewery, saw her cheeks flush, and knew that Bryce was cheerfully telling lies. But Mitchington evidently had no suspicion.

“That all?” he asked. “Just a question?”

“Just a question—that question,” replied Bryce. “I pointed out the Library—and he walked away. I never saw him again until I was fetched to him—dead. And I thought so little of the matter that—well, it never even occurred to me to mention it.”

“Then—though he did call—he never saw Ransford?” asked the inspector.

“I tell you Ransford was already gone out,” answered Bryce. “He saw no one but myself. Where Mrs. Deramore made her mistake—I happen to know, Mitchington, that she started this rumour—was in trying to make two and two into five. She saw this man crossing the Close, as if from Ransford's house and she at once imagined he'd seen and been talking with Ransford.”

“Old fool!” said Mitchington. “Of course, that's how these tales get about. However, there's more than that in the air.”

The two listeners behind the curtains glanced at each other. Ransford's glance showed that he was already chafing at the unpleasantness of his position—but Mary's only betokened apprehension. And suddenly, as if she feared that Ransford would throw the curtains aside and walk into the front room, she laid a hand on his arm and motioned him to be patient—and silent.

“Oh?” said Bryce. “More in the air? About that business?”

“Just so,” assented Mitchington. “To start with, that man Varner, the mason, has never ceased talking. They say he's always at it—to the effect that the verdict of the jury at the inquest was all wrong, and that his evidence was put clean aside. He persists that he did see—what he swore he saw.”

“He'll persist in that to his dying day,” said Bryce carelessly. “If that's all there is—”

“It isn't,” interrupted the inspector. “Not by a long chalk! But Varner's is a direct affirmation—the other matter's a sort of ugly hint. There's a man named Collishaw, a townsman, who's been employed as a mason's labourer about the Cathedral of late. This Collishaw, it seems, was at work somewhere up in the galleries, ambulatories, or whatever they call those upper regions, on the very morning of the affair. And the other night, being somewhat under the influence of drink, and talking the matter over with his mates at a tavern, he let out some dark hints that he could tell something if he liked. Of course, he was pressed to tell them—and wouldn't. Then—so my informant tells me—he was dared to tell, and became surlily silent. That, of course, spread, and got to my ears. I've seen Collishaw.”

“Well?” asked Bryce.

“I believe the man does know something,” answered Mitchington. “That's the impression I carried away, anyhow. But—he won't speak. I charged him straight out with knowing something—but it was no good. I told him of what I'd heard. All he would say was that whatever he might have said when he'd got a glass of beer or so too much, he wasn't going to say anything now neither for me nor for anybody!”

“Just so!” remarked Bryce. “But—he'll be getting a glass too much again, some day, and then—then, perhaps he'll add to what he said before. And—you'll be sure to hear of it.”

“I'm not certain of that,” answered Mitchington. “I made some inquiry and I find that Collishaw is usually a very sober and retiring sort of chap—he'd been lured on to drink when he let out what he did. Besides, whether I'm right or wrong, I got the idea into my head that he'd already been—squared!”

“Squared!” exclaimed Bryce. “Why, then, if that affair was really murder, he'd be liable to being charged as an accessory after the fact!”

“I warned him of that,” replied Mitchington. “Yes, I warned him solemnly.”

“With no effect?” asked Bryce.

“He's a surly sort of man,” said Mitchington. “The sort that takes refuge in silence. He made no answer beyond a growl.”

“You really think he knows something?” suggested Bryce. “Well—if there is anything, it'll come out—in time.”

“Oh, it'll come out!” assented Mitchington. “I'm by no means satisfied with that verdict of the coroner's inquiry. I believe there was foul play—of some sort. I'm still following things up—quietly. And—I'll tell you something—between ourselves—I've made an important discovery. It's this. On the evening of Braden's arrival at the Mitre he was out, somewhere, for a whole two hours—by himself.”

“I thought we learned from Mrs. Partingley that he and the other man, Dellingham, spent the evening together?” said Bryce.

“So we did—but that was not quite so,” replied Mitchington. “Braden went out of the Mitre just before nine o'clock and he didn't return until a few minutes after eleven. Now, then, where did he go?”

“I suppose you're trying to find that out?” asked Bryce, after a pause, during which the listeners heard the caller rise and make for the door.

“Of course!” replied Mitchington, with a confident laugh. “And—I shall! Keep it to yourself, doctor.”

When Bryce had let the inspector out and returned to his sitting-room, Ransford and Mary had come from behind the curtains. He looked at them and shook his head.

“You heard—a good deal, you see,” he observed.

“Look here!” said Ransford peremptorily. “You put that man off about the