The Paradise Mystery

by J. S. Fletcher

  CHAPTER X. DIPLOMACY

  Bryce went back to Wrychester firmly convinced that Mark Ransford hadkilled John Braden. He reckoned things up in his own fashion. Someyears must have elapsed since Braden, or rather Brake's release. He hadprobably heard, on his release, that Ransford and his, Brake's, wife hadgone abroad--in that case he would certainly follow them. He might havelost all trace of them; he might have lost his original interest in hisfirst schemes of revenge; he might have begun a new life for himself inAustralia, whence he had undoubtedly come to England recently. Buthe had come, at last, and he had evidently tracked Ransford toWrychester--why, otherwise, had he presented himself at Ransford's dooron that eventful morning which was to witness his death? Nothing, inBryce's opinion, could be clearer. Brake had turned up. He and Ransfordhad met--most likely in the precincts of the Cathedral. Ransford, whoknew all the quiet corners of the old place, had in all probabilityinduced Brake to walk up into the gallery with him, had noticed theopen doorway, had thrown Brake through it. All the facts pointed tothat conclusion--it was a theory which, so far as Bryce could see, wasperfect. It ought to be enough--proved--to put Ransford in a criminaldock. Bryce resolved it in his own mind over and over again as he spedhome to Wrychester--he pictured the police listening greedily to allthat he could tell them if he liked. There was only one factor in thewhole sum of the affair which seemed against him--the advertisement inthe Times. If Brake desired to find Ransford in order to be revenged onhim, why did he insert that advertisement, as if he were longing to meeta cherished friend again? But Bryce gaily surmounted that obstacle--fullof shifts and subtleties himself, he was ever ready to credit otherswith trading in them, and he put the advertisement down as a clever ruseto attract, not Ransford, but some person who could give informationabout Ransford. Whatever its exact meaning might have been, itsexistence made no difference to Bryce's firm opinion that it was MarkRansford who flung John Brake down St. Wrytha's Stair and killed him. Hewas as sure of that as he was certain that Braden was Brake. And he wasnot going to tell the police of his discoveries--he was not going totell anybody. The one thing that concerned him was--how best to makeuse of his knowledge with a view to bringing about a marriage betweenhimself and Mark Ransford's ward. He had set his mind on that for twelvemonths past, and he was not a man to be baulked of his purpose. Byfair means, or foul--he himself ignored the last word and would havesubstituted the term skilful for it--Pemberton Bryce meant to have MaryBewery.

  Mary Bewery herself had no thought of Bryce in her head when, themorning after that worthy's return to Wrychester, she set out, alone,for the Wrychester Golf Club. It was her habit to go there almost everyday, and Bryce was well acquainted with her movements and knew preciselywhere to waylay her. And empty of Bryce though her mind was, she was notsurprised when, at a lonely place on Wrychester Common, Bryce turned thecorner of a spinny and met her face to face.

  Mary would have passed on with no more than a silent recognition--shehad made up her mind to have no further speech with her guardian'sdismissed assistant. But she had to pass through a wicket gate at thatpoint, and Bryce barred the way, with unmistakable purpose. It was plainto the girl that he had laid in wait for her. She was not without atemper of her own, and she suddenly let it out on the offender.

  "Do you call this manly conduct, Dr. Bryce?" she demanded, turning anindignant and flushed face on him. "To waylay me here, when you knowthat I don't want to have anything more to do with you. Let me through,please--and go away!"

  But Bryce kept a hand on the little gate, and when he spoke there wasthat in his voice which made the girl listen in spite of herself.

  "I'm not here on my own behalf," he said quickly. "I give you my wordI won't say a thing that need offend you. It's true I waited here foryou--it's the only place in which I thought I could meet you, alone.I want to speak to you. It's this--do you know your guardian is indanger?"

  Bryce had the gift of plausibility--he could convince people, againsttheir instincts, even against their wills, that he was telling thetruth. And Mary, after a swift glance, believed him.

  "What danger?" she asked. "And if he is, and if you know he is--whydon't you go direct to him?"

  "The most fatal thing in the world to do!" exclaimed Bryce. "You knowhim--he can be nasty. That would bring matters to a crisis. And that, inhis interest, is just what mustn't happen."

  "I don't understand you," said Mary.

  Bryce leaned nearer to her--across the gate.

  "You know what happened last week," he said in a low voice. "The strangedeath of that man--Braden."

  "Well?" she asked, with a sudden look of uneasiness. "What of it?"

  "It's being rumoured--whispered--in the town that Dr. Ransfordhad something to do with that affair," answered Bryce."Unpleasant--unfortunate--but it's a fact."

  "Impossible!" exclaimed Mary with a heightening colour. "What couldhe have to do with it? What could give rise to suchfoolish--wicked--rumours?"

  "You know as well as I do how people talk, how they will talk," saidBryce. "You can't stop them, in a place like Wrychester, where everybodyknows everybody. There's a mystery around Braden's death--it's no usedenying it. Nobody knows who he was, where he came from, why he came.And it's being hinted--I'm only telling you what I've gathered--thatDr. Ransford knows more than he's ever told. There are, I'm afraid,grounds."

  "What grounds?" demanded Mary. While Bryce had been speaking, in hisusual slow, careful fashion, she had been reflecting--and rememberingRansford's evident agitation at the time of the Paradise affair--and hisrelief when the inquest was over--and his sending her with flowers tothe dead man's grave and she began to experience a sense of uneasinessand even of fear. "What grounds can there be?" she added. "Dr. Ransforddidn't know that man--had never seen him!"

  "That's not certain," replied Bryce. "It's said--remember, I'm onlyrepeating things--it's said that just before the body was discovered,Dr. Ransford was seen--seen, mind you!--leaving the west porch of theCathedral, looking as if he had just been very much upset. Two personssaw this."

  "Who are they?" asked Mary.

  "That I'm not allowed to tell you," said Bryce, who had no intention ofinforming her that one person was himself and the other imaginary. "ButI can assure you that I am certain--absolutely certain!--that theirstory is true. The fact is--I can corroborate it."

  "You!" she exclaimed.

  "I!" replied Bryce. "I will tell you something that I have never toldanybody--up to now. I shan't ask you to respect my confidence--I'vesufficient trust in you to know that you will, without any asking.Listen!--on that morning, Dr. Ransford went out of the surgery in thedirection of the Deanery, leaving me alone there. A few minutes later, atap came at the door. I opened it--and found--a man standing outside!"

  "Not--that man?" asked Mary fearfully.

  "That man--Braden," replied Bryce. "He asked for Dr. Ransford. I saidhe was out--would the caller leave his name? He said no--he had calledbecause he had once known a Dr. Ransford, years before. He addedsomething about calling again, and he went away--across the Closetowards the Cathedral. I saw him again--not very long afterwards--lyingin the corner of Paradise--dead!"

  Mary Bewery was by this time pale and trembling--and Bryce continued towatch her steadily. She stole a furtive look at him.

  "Why didn't you tell all this at the inquest?" she asked in a whisper.

  "Because I knew how damning it would be to--Ransford," replied Brycepromptly. "It would have excited suspicion. I was certain that no onebut myself knew that Braden had been to the surgery door--therefore, Ithought that if I kept silence, his calling there would never be known.But--I have since found that I was mistaken. Braden was seen--going awayfrom Dr. Ransford's."

  "By--whom?" asked Mary.

  "Mrs. Deramore--at the next house," answered Bryce. "She happened tobe looking out of an upstairs window. She saw him go away and cross theClose."

  "Did she tell you that?" demanded Mary, who knew Mrs. Deramore for agossip.

  "Be
tween ourselves," said Bryce, "she did not! She told Mrs.Folliot--Mrs. Folliot told me."

  "So--it is talked about!" exclaimed Mary.

  "I said so," assented Bryce. "You know what Mrs. Folliot's tongue is."

  "Then Dr. Ransford will get to hear of it," said Mary.

  "He will be the last person to get to hear of it," affirmed Bryce."These things are talked of, hole-and-corner fashion, a long time beforethey reach the ears of the person chiefly concerned."

  Mary hesitated a moment before she asked her next question.

  "Why have you told me all this?" she demanded at last.

  "Because I didn't want you to be suddenly surprised," answered Bryce."This--whatever it is--may come to a sudden head--of an unpleasant sort.These rumours spread--and the police are still keen about finding outthings concerning this dead man. If they once get it into their headsthat Dr. Ransford knew him--"

  Mary laid her hand on the gate between them--and Bryce, who had doneall he wished to do at that time, instantly opened it, and she passedthrough.

  "I am much obliged to you," she said. "I don't know what it allmeans--but it is Dr. Ransford's affair--if there is any affair, which Idoubt. Will you let me go now, please?"

  Bryce stood aside and lifted his hat, and Mary, with no more than a nod,walked on towards the golf club-house across the Common, while Bryceturned off to the town, highly elated with his morning's work. He hadsown the seeds of uneasiness and suspicion broadcast--some of them, heknew, would mature.

  Mary Bewery played no golf that morning. In fact, she only went on tothe club-house to rid herself of Bryce, and presently she returned home,thinking. And indeed, she said to herself, she had abundant food forthought. Naturally candid and honest, she did not at that moment doubtBryce's good faith; much as she disliked him in most ways she knew thathe had certain commendable qualities, and she was inclined to believehim when he said that he had kept silence in order to ward offconsequences which might indirectly be unpleasant for her. But of himand his news she thought little--what occupied her mind was the possibleconnection between the stranger who had come so suddenly and disappearedso suddenly--and for ever!--and Mark Ransford. Was it possible--reallypossible--that there had been some meeting between them in or about theCathedral precincts that morning? She knew, after a moment's reflection,that it was very possible--why not? And from that her thoughts followeda natural trend--was the mystery surrounding this man connected in anyway with the mystery about herself and her brother?--that mysteryof which (as it seemed to her) Ransford was so shy of speaking. Andagain--and for the hundredth time--she asked herself why he was soreticent, so evidently full of dislike of the subject, why he could nottell her and Dick whatever there was to tell, once for all?

  She had to pass the Folliots' house in the far corner of the Close onher way home--a fine old mansion set in well-wooded grounds, enclosed bya high wall of old red brick. A door in that wall stood open, and insideit, talking to one of his gardeners, was Mr. Folliot--the vistas behindhim were gay with flowers and rich with the roses which he passed allhis days in cultivating. He caught sight of Mary as she passed the opendoorway and called her back.

  "Come in and have a look at some new roses I've got," he said."Beauties! I'll give you a handful to carry home."

  Mary rather liked Mr. Folliot. He was a big, half-asleep sort of man,who had few words and could talk about little else than his hobby. Buthe was a passionate lover of flowers and plants, and had a positivegenius for rose-culture, and was at all times highly delighted to takeflower-lovers round his garden. She turned at once and walked in, andFolliot led her away down the scented paths.

  "It's an experiment I've been trying," he said, leading her up to acluster of blooms of a colour and size which she had never seen before."What do you think of the results?"

  "Magnificent!" exclaimed Mary. "I never saw anything so fine!"

  "No!" agreed Folliot, with a quiet chuckle. "Nor anybody else--becausethere's no such rose in England. I shall have to go to some of theselearned parsons in the Close to invent me a Latin name for this--it'sthe result of careful experiments in grafting--took me three years toget at it. And see how it blooms,--scores on one standard."

  He pulled out a knife and began to select a handful of the finestblooms, which he presently pressed into Mary's hand.

  "By the by," he remarked as she thanked him and they turned away alongthe path, "I wanted to have a word with you--or with Ransford. Do youknow--does he know--that that confounded silly woman who lives nearto your house--Mrs. Deramore--has been saying some things--or athing--which--to put it plainly--might make some unpleasantness forhim?"

  Mary kept a firm hand on her wits--and gave him an answer which was trueenough, so far as she was aware.

  "I'm sure he knows nothing," she said. "What is it, Mr. Folliot?"

  "Why, you know what happened last week," continued Folliot, glancingknowingly at her. "The accident to that stranger. This Mrs. Deramore,who's nothing but an old chatterer, has been saying, here and there,that it's a very queer thing Dr. Ransford doesn't know anything abouthim, and can't say anything, for she herself, she says, saw the very mangoing away from Dr. Ransford's house not so long before the accident."

  "I am not aware that he ever called at Dr. Ransford's," said Mary. "Inever saw him--and I was in the garden, about that very time, with yourstepson, Mr. Folliot."

  "So Sackville told me," remarked Folliot. "He was present--and so wasI--when Mrs. Deramore was tattling about it in our house yesterday. Hesaid, then, that he'd never seen the man go to your house. You neverheard your servants make any remark about it?"

  "Never!" answered Mary.

  "I told Mrs. Deramore she'd far better hold her tongue," continuedFolliot. "Tittle-tattle of that sort is apt to lead to unpleasantness.And when it came to it, it turned out that all she had seen was thisstranger strolling across the Close as if he'd just left your house.If--there's always some if! But I'll tell you why I mentioned it toyou," he continued, nudging Mary's elbow and glancing covertly first ather and then at his house on the far side of the garden. "Ladies thatare--getting on a bit in years, you know--like my wife, are apt to lettheir tongues wag, and between you and me, I shouldn't wonder if Mrs.Folliot has repeated what Mrs. Deramore said--eh? And I don't want thedoctor to think that--if he hears anything, you know, which he may, and,again, he might--to think that it originated here. So, if he should evermention it to you, you can say it sprang from his next-door neighbour.Bah!--they're a lot of old gossips, these Close ladies!"

  "Thank you," said Mary. "But--supposing this man had been to ourhouse--what difference would that make? He might have been for half adozen reasons."

  Folliot looked at her out of his half-shut eyes.

  "Some people would want to know why Ransford didn't tell that--at theinquest," he answered. "That's all. When there's a bit of mystery, youknow--eh?"

  He nodded--as if reassuringly--and went off to rejoin his gardener, andMary walked home with her roses, more thoughtful than ever. Mystery?--abit of mystery? There was a vast and heavy cloud of mystery, and sheknew she could have no peace until it was lifted.