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

transformed this into love's post-office. In it he regularly placed letters for Betty: Betty stuffed into it letters for him. And on this particular evening Dick had gone to Paradise to collect a possible mail, and as Bryce walked leisurely up the narrow path, enclosed by trees and old masonry which led from Friary Lane to the ancient enclosure, Dick turned a corner and ran full into him. In the light of the single lamp which illumined the path, the two recovered themselves and looked at each other.

“Hullo!” said Bryce. “What's your hurry, young Bewery?”

Dick, who was panting for breath, more from excitement than haste, drew back and looked at Bryce. Up to then he knew nothing much against Bryce, whom he had rather liked in the fashion in which boys sometimes like their seniors, and he was not indisposed to confide in him.

“Hullo!” he replied. “I say! Where are you off to?”

“Nowhere!—strolling round,” answered Bryce. “No particular purpose, why?”

“You weren't going in—there?” asked Dick, jerking a thumb towards Paradise.

“In—there!” exclaimed Bryce. “Good Lord, no!—dreary enough in the daytime! What should I be going in there for?”

Dick seized Bryce's coat-sleeve and dragged him aside.

“I say!” he whispered. “There's something up in there—a search of some sort!”

Bryce started in spite of an effort to keep unconcerned.

“A search? In there?” he said. “What do you mean?”

Dick pointed amongst the trees, and Bryce saw the faint glimmer of a light.

“I was in there—just now,” said Dick. “And some men—three or four—came along. They're in there, close up by the nave, just where you found that chap Collishaw. They're—digging—or something of that sort!”

“Digging!” muttered Bryce. “Digging?”'

“Something like it, anyhow,” replied Dick. “Listen.”

Bryce heard the ring of metal on stone. And an unpleasant conviction stole over him that he was being forestalled, that somebody was beforehand with him, and he cursed himself for not having done the previous night what he had left undone till this night.

“Who are they?” he asked. “Did you see them—their faces?”

“Not their faces,” answered Dick. “Only their figures in the gloom. But I heard Mitchington's voice.”

“Police, then!” said Bryce. “What on earth are they after?”

“Look here!” whispered Dick, pulling at Bryce's arm again. “Come on! I know how to get in there without their seeing us. You follow me.”

Bryce followed readily, and Dick stepping through the wicket-gate, seized his companion's wrist and led him amongst the bushes in the direction of the spot from whence came the metallic sounds. He walked with the step of a cat, and Bryce took pains to follow his example. And presently from behind a screen of cypresses they looked out on the expanse of flagging in the midst of which stood the tomb of Richard Jenkins.

Round about that tomb were five men whose faces were visible enough in the light thrown by a couple of strong lamps, one of which stood on the tomb itself, while the other was set on the ground. Four out of the five the two watchers recognized at once. One, kneeling on the flags, and busy with a small crowbar similar to that which Bryce carried inside his overcoat, was the master-mason of the cathedral. Another, standing near him, was Mitchington. A third was a clergyman—one of the lesser dignitaries of the Chapter. A fourth—whose presence made Bryce start for the second time that evening—was the Duke of Saxonsteade. But the fifth was a stranger—a tall man who stood between Mitchington and the Duke, evidently paying anxious attention to the master-mason's proceedings. He was no Wrychester man—Bryce was convinced of that.

And a moment later he was convinced of another equally certain fact. Whatever these five men were searching for, they had no clear or accurate idea of its exact whereabouts. The master-mason was taking up the small squares of flagstone with his crowbar one by one, from the outer edge of the foot of the old box-tomb; as he removed each, he probed the earth beneath it. And Bryce, who had instinctively realized what was happening, and knew that somebody else than himself was in possession of the secret of the scrap of paper, saw that it would be some time before they arrived at the precise spot indicated in the Latin directions. He quietly drew back and tugged at Dick Bewery.

“Stop here, and keep quiet!” he whispered when they had retreated out of all danger of being overheard. “Watch 'em! I want to fetch somebody—want to know who that stranger is. You don't know him?”

“Never seen him before,” replied Dick. “I say!—come quietly back—don't give it away. I want to know what it's all about.”

Bryce squeezed the lad's arm by way of assurance and made his way back through the bushes. He wanted to get hold of Harker, and at once, and he hurried round to the old man's house and without ceremony walked into his parlour. Harker, evidently expecting him, and meanwhile amusing himself with his pipe and book, rose from his chair as the younger man entered.

“Found anything?” he asked.

“We're done!” answered Bryce. “I was a fool not to go last night! We're forestalled, my friend!—that's about it!”

“By—whom?” inquired Harker.

“There are five of them at it, now,” replied Bryce. “Mitchington, a mason, one of the cathedral clergy, a stranger, and the Duke of Saxonsteade! What do you think of that?”

Harker suddenly started as if a new light had dawned on him.

“The Duke!” he exclaimed. “You don't say so! My conscience!—now, I wonder if that can really be? Upon my word, I'd never thought of it!”

“Thought of what?” demanded Bryce.

“Never mind! tell you later,” said Harker. “At present, is there any chance of getting a look at them?”

“That's what I came for,” retorted Bryce. “I've been watching them, with young Bewery. He put me up to it. Come on! I want to see if you know the man who's a stranger.”

Harker crossed the room to a chest of drawers, and after some rummaging pulled something out.

“Here!” he said, handing some articles to Bryce. “Put those on over your boots. Thick felt overshoes—you could walk round your own mother's bedroom in those and she'd never hear you. I'll do the same. A stranger, you say? Well, this is a proof that somebody knows the secret of that scrap of paper besides us, doctor!”

“They don't know the exact spot,” growled Bryce, who was chafing at having been done out of his discovery. “But, they'll find it, whatever may be there.”

He led Harker back to Paradise and to the place where he had left Dick Bewery, whom they approached so quietly that Bryce was by the lad's