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

“Possible,” replied Bryce. He stood thinking for a moment. “Have you shown those things to Coates and Everest?” he asked at last.

“Not yet,” replied Mitchington. “I wanted to find out, first, if Ransford gave this box to Collishaw, and when. I'm going to Collishaw's house presently—I've certain inquiries to make. His widow'll know about these pills.”

“You're suspecting Ransford,” said Bryce. “That's certain!”

Mitchington carefully put away the pill-box and relocked the drawer.

“I've got some decidedly uncomfortable ideas—which I'd much rather not have—about Dr. Ransford,” he said. “When one thing seems to fit into another, what is one to think. If I were certain that that rumour which spread, about Collishaw's knowledge of something—you know, had got to Ransford's ears—why, I should say it looked very much as if Ransford wanted to stop Collishaw's tongue for good before it could say more—and next time, perhaps, something definite. If men once begin to hint that they know something, they don't stop at hinting. Collishaw might have spoken plainly before long—to us!”

Bryce asked a question about the holding of the inquest and went away. And after thinking things over, he turned in the direction of the Cathedral, and made his way through the Cloisters to the Close. He was going to make another move in his own game, while there was a good chance. Everything at this juncture was throwing excellent cards into his hand—he would be foolish, he thought, not to play them to advantage. And so he made straight for Ransford's house, and before he reached it, met Ransford and Mary Bewery, who were crossing the Close from another point, on their way from the railway station, whither Mary had gone especially to meet her guardian. They were in such deep conversation that Bryce was close upon them before they observed his presence. When Ransford saw his late assistant, he scowled unconsciously—Bryce, and the interview of the previous afternoon, had been much in his thoughts all day, and he had an uneasy feeling that Bryce was playing some game. Bryce was quick to see that scowl—and to observe the sudden start which Mary could not repress—and he was just as quick to speak.

“I was going to your house, Dr. Ransford,” he remarked quietly. “I don't want to force my presence on you, now or at any time—but I think you'd better give me a few minutes.”

They were at Ransford's garden gate by that time, and Ransford flung it open and motioned Bryce to follow. He led the way into the dining-room, closed the door on the three, and looked at Bryce. Bryce took the glance as a question, and put another, in words.

“You've heard of what's happened during the day?” he said.

“About Collishaw—yes,” answered Ransford. “Miss Bewery has just told me—what her brother told her. What of it?”

“I have just come from the police-station,” said Bryce. “Coates and Everest have carried out an autopsy this afternoon. Mitchington told me the result.”

“Well?” demanded Ransford, with no attempt to conceal his impatience. “And what then?”

“Collishaw was poisoned,” replied Bryce, watching Ransford with a closeness which Mary did not fail to observe. “H.C.N. No doubt at all about it.”

“Well—and what then?” asked Ransford, still more impatiently. “To be explicit—what's all this to do with me?”

“I came here to do you a service,” answered Bryce. “Whether you like to take it or not is your look-out. You may as well know it you're in danger. Collishaw is the man who hinted—as you heard yesterday in my rooms—that he could say something definite about the Braden affair—if he liked.”

“Well?” said Ransford.

“It's known—to the police—that you were at Collishaw's house early this morning,” said Bryce. “Mitchington knows it.”

Ransford laughed.

“Does Mitchington know that I overheard what he said to you, yesterday afternoon?” he inquired.

“No, he doesn't,” answered Bryce. “He couldn't possibly know unless I told him. I haven't told him—I'm not going to tell him. But—he's suspicious already.”

“Of me, of course,” suggested Ransford, with another laugh. He took a turn across the room and suddenly faced round on Bryce, who had remained standing near the door. “Do you really mean to tell me that Mitchington is such a fool as to believe that I would poison a poor working man—and in that clumsy fashion?” he burst out. “Of course you don't.”

“I never said I did,” answered Bryce. “I'm only telling you what Mitchington thinks his grounds for suspecting. He confided in me because—well, it was I who found Collishaw. Mitchington is in possession of a box of digestive pills which you evidently gave Collishaw.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Ransford. “The man's a fool! Let him come and talk to me.”

“He won't do that—yet,” said Bryce. “But—I'm afraid he'll bring all this out at the inquest. The fact is—he's suspicious—what with one thing or another—about the former affair. He thinks you concealed the truth—whatever it may be—as regards any knowledge of Braden which you may or mayn't have.”

“I'll tell you what it is!” said Ransford suddenly. “It just comes to this—I'm suspected of having had a hand—the hand, if you like!—in Braden's death, and now of getting rid of Collishaw because Collishaw could prove that I had that hand. That's about it!”

“A clear way of putting it, certainly,” assented Bryce. “But—there's a very clear way, too, of dissipating any such ideas.”

“What way?” demanded Ransford.

“If you do know anything about the Braden affair—why not reveal it, and be done with the whole thing,” suggested Bryce. “That would finish matters.”

Ransford took a long, silent look at his questioner. And Bryce looked steadily back—and Mary Bewery anxiously watched both men.

“That's my business,” said Ransford at last. “I'm neither to be coerced, bullied, or cajoled. I'm obliged to you for giving me a hint of my—danger, I suppose! And—I don't propose to say any more.”

“Neither do I,” said Bryce. “I only came to tell you.”

And therewith, having successfully done all that he wanted to do, he walked out of the room and the house, and Ransford, standing in the window, his hands thrust in his pockets, watched him go away across the Close.

“Guardian!” said Mary softly.

Ransford turned sharply.

“Wouldn't it be best,” she continued, speaking nervously, “if—if you do know anything about that unfortunate man—if you told it? Why have this suspicion fastening itself on you? You!”

Ransford made an effort to calm himself. He was furiously angry—angry with Bryce, angry with Mitchington, angry with the cloud of foolishness and stupidity that seemed to be gathering.

“Why should I—supposing that I do know something, which