The Paradise Mystery

by J. S. Fletcher

  CHAPTER IV. THE ROOM AT THE MITRE

  In the few seconds which elapsed before Ransford recognized Bryce'spresence, Bryce took a careful, if swift, observation of his lateemployer. That Ransford was visibly upset by something was plain enoughto see; his face was still pale, he was muttering to himself, oneclenched fist was pounding the open palm of the other hand--altogether,he looked like a man who is suddenly confronted with some fearfuldifficulty. And when Bryce, having looked long enough to satisfy hiswishes, coughed gently, he started in such a fashion as to suggest thathis nerves had become unstrung.

  "What is it?--what are you doing there?" he demanded almost fiercely."What do you mean by coming in like that?"

  Bryce affected to have seen nothing.

  "I came to fetch you," he answered. "There's been an accident inParadise--man fallen from that door at the head of St. Wrytha's Stair. Iwish you'd come--but I may as well tell you that he's past help--dead!"

  "Dead! A man?" exclaimed Ransford. "What man? A workman?"

  Bryce had already made up his mind about telling Ransford of thestranger's call at the surgery. He would say nothing--at that time atany rate. It was improbable that any one but himself knew of the call;the side entrance to the surgery was screened from the Close by ashrubbery; it was very unlikely that any passer-by had seen the man callor go away. No--he would keep his knowledge secret until it could bemade better use of.

  "Not a workman--not a townsman--a stranger," he answered. "Looks like awell-to-do tourist. A slightly-built, elderly man--grey-haired."

  Ransford, who had turned to his desk to master himself, looked roundwith a sudden sharp glance--and for the moment Bryce was taken aback.For he had condemned Ransford--and yet that glance was one of apparentlygenuine surprise, a glance which almost convinced him, against hiswill, against only too evident facts, that Ransford was hearing of theParadise affair for the first time.

  "An elderly man--grey-haired--slightly built?" said Ransford. "Darkclothes--silk hat?"

  "Precisely," replied Bryce, who was now considerably astonished. "Do youknow him?"

  "I saw such a man entering the Cathedral, a while ago," answeredRansford. "A stranger, certainly. Come along, then."

  He had fully recovered his self-possession by that time, and he ledthe way from the surgery and across the Close as if he were going onan ordinary professional visit. He kept silence as they walked rapidlytowards Paradise, and Bryce was silent, too. He had studied Ransforda good deal during their two years' acquaintanceship, and he knewRansford's power of repressing and commanding his feelings andconcealing his thoughts. And now he decided that the look and startwhich he had at first taken to be of the nature of genuine astonishmentwere cunningly assumed, and he was not surprised when, having reachedthe group of men gathered around the body, Ransford showed nothing butprofessional interest.

  "Have you done anything towards finding out who this unfortunateman is?" asked Ransford, after a brief examination, as he turned toMitchington. "Evidently a stranger--but he probably has papers on him."

  "There's nothing on him--except a purse, with plenty of money in it,"answered Mitchington. "I've been through his pockets myself: there isn'ta scrap of paper--not even as much as an old letter. But he's evidentlya tourist, or something of the sort, and so he'll probably have stayedin the city all night, and I'm going to inquire at the hotels."

  "There'll be an inquest, of course," remarked Ransford mechanically."Well--we can do nothing, Mitchington. You'd better have the bodyremoved to the mortuary." He turned and looked up the broken stairwayat the foot of which they were standing. "You say he fell down that?" heasked. "Whatever was he doing up there?"

  Mitchington looked at Bryce.

  "Haven't you told Dr. Ransford how it was?" he asked.

  "No," answered Bryce. He glanced at Ransford, indicating Varner, who hadcome back with the constable and was standing by. "He didn't fall," hewent on, watching Ransford narrowly. "He was violently flung out of thatdoorway. Varner here saw it."

  Ransford's cheek flushed, and he was unable to repress a slight start.He looked at the mason.

  "You actually saw it!" he exclaimed. "Why, what did you see?"

  "Him!" answered Varner, nodding at the dead man. "Flung, head and heels,clean through that doorway up there. Hadn't a chance to save himself, hehadn't! Just grabbed at--nothing!--and came down. Give a year's wages ifI hadn't seen it--and heard him scream."

  Ransford was watching Varner with a set, concentrated look.

  "Who--flung him?" he asked suddenly. "You say you saw!"

  "Aye, sir, but not as much as all that!" replied the mason. "I just sawa hand--and that was all. But," he added, turning to the police with aknowing look, "there's one thing I can swear to--it was a gentleman'shand! I saw the white shirt cuff and a bit of a black sleeve!"

  Ransford turned away. But he just as suddenly turned back to theinspector.

  "You'll have to let the Cathedral authorities know, Mitchington," hesaid. "Better get the body removed, though, first--do it now before themorning service is over. And--let me hear what you find out about hisidentity, if you can discover anything in the city."

  He went away then, without another word or a further glance at the deadman. But Bryce had already assured himself of what he was certain wasa fact--that a look of unmistakable relief had swept across Ransford'sface for the fraction of a second when he knew that there were no paperson the dead man. He himself waited after Ransford had gone; waited untilthe police had fetched a stretcher, when he personally superintendedthe removal of the body to the mortuary outside the Close. And there aconstable who had come over from the police-station gave a faint hint asto further investigation.

  "I saw that poor gentleman last night, sir," he said to the inspector."He was standing at the door of the Mitre, talking to anothergentleman--a tallish man."

  "Then I'll go across there," said Mitchington. "Come with me, if youlike, Dr. Bryce."

  This was precisely what Bryce desired--he was already anxious to acquireall the information he could get. And he walked over the way with theinspector, to the quaint old-world inn which filled almost one sideof the little square known as Monday Market, and in at the courtyard,where, looking out of the bow window which had served as an outer barin the coaching days, they found the landlady of the Mitre, Mrs.Partingley. Bryce saw at once that she had heard the news.

  "What's this, Mr. Mitchington?" she demanded as they drew near acrossthe cobble-paved yard. "Somebody's been in to say there's been anaccident to a gentleman, a stranger--I hope it isn't one of the twowe've got in the house?"

  "I should say it is, ma'am," answered the inspector. "He was seenoutside here last night by one of our men, anyway."

  The landlady uttered an expression of distress, and opening a side-door,motioned them to step into her parlour.

  "Which of them is it?" she asked anxiously. "There's two--came togetherlast night, they did--a tall one and a short one. Dear, dear me!--is ita bad accident, now, inspector?"

  "The man's dead, ma'am," replied Mitchington grimly. "And we want toknow who he is. Have you got his name--and the other gentleman's?"

  Mrs. Partingley uttered another exclamation of distress andastonishment, lifting her plump hands in horror. But her businessfaculties remained alive, and she made haste to produce a big visitors'book and to spread it open before her callers.

  "There it is!" she said, pointing to the two last entries. "That's theshort gentleman's name--Mr. John Braden, London. And that's thetall one's--Mr. Christopher Dellingham--also London. Tourists, ofcourse--we've never seen either of them before."

  "Came together, you say, Mrs. Partingley?" asked Mitchington. "When wasthat, now?"

  "Just before dinner, last night," answered the landlady. "They'devidently come in by the London train--that gets in at six-forty, as youknow. They came here together, and they'd dinner together, and spent theevening together. Of course, we took them for friends. But they didn'tgo out together this morning, though
they'd breakfast together. Afterbreakfast, Mr. Dellingham asked me the way to the old Manor Mill, andhe went off there, so I concluded. Mr. Braden, he hung about a bit,studying a local directory I'd lent him, and after a while he asked meif he could hire a trap to take him out to Saxonsteade this afternoon.Of course, I said he could, and he arranged for it to be ready attwo-thirty. Then he went out, and across the market towards theCathedral. And that," concluded Mrs. Partingley, "is about all I know,gentlemen."

  "Saxonsteade, eh?" remarked Mitchington. "Did he say anything about hisreasons for going there?"

  "Well, yes, he did," replied the landlady. "For he asked me if I thoughthe'd be likely to find the Duke at home at that time of day. I said Iknew his Grace was at Saxonsteade just now, and that I should think themiddle of the afternoon would be a good time."

  "He didn't tell you his business with the Duke?" asked Mitchington.

  "Not a word!" said the landlady. "Oh, no!--just that, and no more.But--here's Mr. Dellingham."

  Bryce turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man pass thewindow--the door opened and he walked in, to glance inquisitively at theinspector. He turned at once to Mrs. Partingley.

  "I hear there's been an accident to that gentleman I came in with lastnight?" he said. "Is it anything serious? Your ostler says--"

  "These gentlemen have just come about it, sir," answered the landlady.She glanced at Mitchington. "Perhaps you'll tell--" she began.

  "Was he a friend of yours, sir?" asked Mitchington. "A personal friend?"

  "Never saw him in my life before last night!" replied the tall man. "Wejust chanced to meet in the train coming down from London, got talking,and discovered we were both coming to the same place--Wrychester.So--we came to this house together. No--no friend of mine--not even anacquaintance--previous, of course, to last night. Is--is it anythingserious?"

  "He's dead, sir," replied Mitchington. "And now we want to know who heis."

  "God bless my soul! Dead? You don't say so!" exclaimed Mr. Dellingham."Dear, dear! Well, I can't help you--don't know him from Adam. Pleasant,well-informed man--seemed to have travelled a great deal in foreigncountries. I can tell you this much, though," he went on, as if a suddenrecollection had come to him; "I gathered that he'd only just arrived inEngland--in fact, now I come to think of it, he said as much. Made someremark in the train about the pleasantness of the English landscape,don't you know?--I got an idea that he'd recently come from some countrywhere trees and hedges and green fields aren't much in evidence. But--ifyou want to know who he is, officer, why don't you search him? He's sureto have papers, cards, and so on about him."

  "We have searched him," answered Mitchington. "There isn't a paper, aletter, or even a visiting card on him."

  Mr. Dellingham looked at the landlady.

  "Bless me!" he said. "Remarkable! But he'd a suit-case, or something ofthe sort--something light--which he carried up from the railway stationhimself. Perhaps in that--"

  "I should like to see whatever he had," said Mitchington. "We'd betterexamine his room, Mrs. Partingley."

  Bryce presently followed the landlady and the inspector upstairs--Mr.Dellingham followed him. All four went into a bedroom which lookedout on Monday Market. And there, on a side-table, lay a small leathersuit-case, one which could easily be carried, with its upper half thrownopen and back against the wall behind.

  The landlady, Mr. Dellingham and Bryce stood silently by while theinspector examined the contents of this the only piece of luggage inthe room. There was very little to see--what toilet articles the visitorbrought were spread out on the dressing-table--brushes, combs, a caseof razors, and the like. And Mitchington nodded side-wise at them as hebegan to take the articles out of the suit-case.

  "There's one thing strikes me at once," he said. "I dare say yougentlemen notice it. All these things are new! This suit-case hasn'tbeen in use very long--see, the leather's almost unworn--and thosethings on the dressing-table are new. And what there is herelooks new, too. There's not much, you see--he evidently hadno intention of a long stop. An extra pair of trousers--someshirts--socks--collars--neckties--slippers--handkerchiefs--that's aboutall. And the first thing to do is to see if the linen's marked with nameor initials."

  He deftly examined the various articles as he took them out, and in theend shook his head.

  "No name--no initials," he said. "But look here--do you see, gentlemen,where these collars were bought? Half a dozen of them, in a box. Paris!There you are--the seller's name, inside the collar, just as in England.Aristide Pujol, 82, Rue des Capucines. And--judging by the lookof 'em--I should say these shirts were bought there, too--and thehandkerchiefs--and the neckwear--they all have a foreign look. There maybe a clue in that--we might trace him in France if we can't in England.Perhaps he is a Frenchman."

  "I'll take my oath he isn't!" exclaimed Mr. Dellingham. "However longhe'd been out of England he hadn't lost a North-Country accent! He wassome sort of a North-Countryman--Yorkshire or Lancashire, I'll go bail.No Frenchman, officer--not he!"

  "Well, there's no papers here, anyway," said Mitchington, who had nowemptied the suit-case. "Nothing to show who he was. Nothing here, yousee, in the way of paper but this old book--what is it--History ofBarthorpe."

  "He showed me that in the train," remarked Mr. Dellingham. "I'minterested in antiquities and archaeology, and anybody who's long in mysociety finds it out. We got talking of such things, and he pulled outthat book, and told me with great pride, that he'd picked it up froma book-barrow in the street, somewhere in London, for one-and-six. Ithink," he added musingly, "that what attracted him in it was theold calf binding and the steel frontispiece--I'm sure he'd no greatknowledge of antiquities."

  Mitchington laid the book down, and Bryce picked it up, examined thetitle-page, and made a mental note of the fact that Barthorpe was amarket-town in the Midlands. And it was on the tip of his tongue tosay that if the dead man had no particular interest in antiquities andarchaeology, it was somewhat strange that he should have bought a bookwhich was mainly antiquarian, and that it might be that he had sobought it because of a connection between Barthorpe and himself. But heremembered that it was his own policy to keep pertinent facts for hisown private consideration, so he said nothing. And Mitchington presentlyremarking that there was no more to be done there, and ascertaining fromMr. Dellingham that it was his intention to remain in Wrychester forat any rate a few days, they went downstairs again, and Bryce and theinspector crossed over to the police-station.

  The news had spread through the heart of the city, and at thepolice-station doors a crowd had gathered. Just inside two or threeprincipal citizens were talking to the Superintendent--amongst them wasMr. Stephen Folliot, the stepfather of young Bonham--a big, heavy-facedman who had been a resident in the Close for some years, was known to beof great wealth, and had a reputation as a grower of rare roses. He wastelling the Superintendent something--and the Superintendent beckoned toMitchington.

  "Mr. Folliot says he saw this gentleman in the Cathedral," he said."Can't have been so very long before the accident happened, Mr. Folliot,from what you say."

  "As near as I can reckon, it would be five minutes to ten," answered Mr.Folliot. "I put it at that because I'd gone in for the morning service,which is at ten. I saw him go up the inside stair to the clerestorygallery--he was looking about him. Five minutes to ten--and it must havehappened immediately afterwards."

  Bryce heard this and turned away, making a calculation for himself. Ithad been on the stroke of ten when he saw Ransford hurrying out of thewest porch. There was a stairway from the gallery down to that westporch. What, then, was the inference? But for the moment he drewnone--instead, he went home to his rooms in Friary Lane, and shuttinghimself up, drew from his pocket the scrap of paper he had taken fromthe dead man.