CHAPTER XII. MURDER OF THE MASON'S LABOURER
It was towards noon of the very next day that Bryce made a forward stepin the matter of solving the problem of Richard Jenkins and his tombin Paradise. Ever since his return from Barthorpe he had been makingattempts to get at the true meaning of this mystery. He had paid somany visits to the Cathedral Library that Ambrose Campany had asked himjestingly if he was going in for archaeology; Bryce had replied thathaving nothing to do just then he saw no reason why he shouldn't improvehis knowledge of the antiquities of Wrychester. But he was scrupulouslycareful not to let the librarian know the real object of his prying andpeeping into the old books and documents. Campany, as Bryce was verywell aware, was a walking encyclopaedia of information about WrychesterCathedral: he was, in fact, at that time, engaged in completing ahistory of it. And it was through that history that Bryce accidentallygot his precious information. For on the day following the interviewwith Mary Bewery and Ransford, Bryce being in the library was treatedby Campany to an inspection of certain drawings which the librarian hadmade for illustrating his work-drawings, most of them, of old brasses,coats of arms, and the like,--And at the foot of one of these, a drawingof a shield on which was sculptured three crows, Bryce saw the nameRichard Jenkins, armiger. It was all he could do to repress a start andto check his tongue. But Campany, knowing nothing, quickly gave him theinformation he wanted.
"All these drawings," he said, "are of old things in and about theCathedral. Some of them, like that, for instance, that Jenkins shield,are of ornamentations on tombs which are so old that the inscriptionshave completely disappeared--tombs in the Cloisters, and in Paradise.Some of those tombs can only be identified by these sculptures andornaments."
"How do you know, for instance, that any particular tomb or monument is,we'll say, Jenkins's?" asked Bryce, feeling that he was on safe ground."Must be a matter of doubt if there's no inscription left, isn't it?"
"No!" replied Campany. "No doubt at all. In that particular case,there's no doubt that a certain tomb out there in the corner ofParadise, near the east wall of the south porch, is that of one RichardJenkins, because it bears his coat-of-arms, which, as you see, borethese birds--intended either as crows or ravens. The inscription's cleangone from that tomb--which is why it isn't particularized in that chartof burials in Paradise--the man who prepared that chart didn't knowhow to trace things as we do nowadays. Richard Jenkins was, as you mayguess, a Welshman, who settled here in Wrychester in the seventeenthcentury: he left some money to St. Hedwige's Church, outside thewalls, but he was buried here. There are more instances--look at this,now--this coat-of-arms--that's the only means there is of identifyinganother tomb in Paradise--that of Gervase Tyrrwhit. You see his armorialbearings in this drawing? Now those--"
Bryce let the librarian go on talking and explaining, and heard all hehad to say as a man hears things in a dream--what was really active inhis own mind was joy at this unexpected stroke of luck: he himself mighthave searched for many a year and never found the last resting-place ofRichard Jenkins. And when, soon after the great clock of the Cathedralhad struck the hour of noon, he left Campany and quitted the Library, hewalked over to Paradise and plunged in amongst its yews and cypresses,intent on seeing the Jenkins tomb for himself. No one could suspectanything from merely seeing him there, and all he wanted was one glanceat the ancient monument.
But Bryce was not to give even one look at Richard Jenkins's tomb thatday, nor the next, nor for many days--death met him in another formbefore he had taken many steps in the quiet enclosure where so much ofWrychester mortality lay sleeping.
From over the topmost branches of the old yew trees a great shaftof noontide sunlight fell full on a patch of the grey walls of thehigh-roofed nave. At the foot of it, his back comfortably plantedagainst the angle of a projecting buttress, sat a man, evidently fastasleep in the warmth of those powerful rays. His head leaned down andforward over his chest, his hands were folded across his waist, hiswhole attitude was that of a man who, having eaten and drunken in theopen air, has dropped off to sleep. That he had so dropped off whilein the very act of smoking was evident from the presence of a short,well-blackened clay pipe which had fallen from his lips and lay in thegrass beside him. Near the pipe, spread on a coloured handkerchief, werethe remains of his dinner--Bryce's quick eye noticed fragments of bread,cheese, onions. And close by stood one of those tin bottles in whichlabouring men carry their drink; its cork, tied to the neck by a pieceof string, dangled against the side. A few yards away, a mass of fallenrubbish and a shovel and wheelbarrow showed at what the sleeper had beenworking when his dinner-hour and time for rest had arrived.
Something unusual, something curiously noticeable--yet he could notexactly tell what--made Bryce go closer to the sleeping man. There wasa strange stillness about him--a rigidity which seemed to suggestsomething more than sleep. And suddenly, with a stifled exclamation,he bent forward and lifted one of the folded hands. It dropped like aleaden weight when Bryce released it, and he pushed back the man's faceand looked searchingly into it. And in that instant he knew that forthe second time within a fortnight he had found a dead man in WrychesterParadise.
There was no doubt whatever that the man was dead. His hands and bodywere warm enough--but there was not a flicker of breath; he was as deadas any of the folk who lay six feet beneath the old gravestones aroundhim. And Bryce's practised touch and eye knew that he was only justdead--and that he had died in his sleep. Everything there pointedunmistakably to what had happened. The man had eaten his frugal dinner,washed it down from his tin bottle, lighted his pipe, leaned back in thewarm sunlight, dropped asleep--and died as quietly as a child taken fromits play to its slumbers.
After one more careful look, Bryce turned and made through the treesto the path which crossed the old graveyard. And there, going leisurelyhome to lunch, was Dick Bewery, who glanced at the young doctorinquisitively.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed with the freedom of youth towards something notmuch older. "You there? Anything on?"
Then he looked more clearly, seeing Bryce to be pale and excited. Brycelaid a hand on the lad's arm.
"Look here!" he said. "There's something wrong--again!--in here. Rundown to the police-station--get hold of Mitchington--quietly, youunderstand!--bring him here at once. If he's not there, bring somebodyelse--any of the police. But--say nothing to anybody but them."
Dick gave him another swift look, turned, and ran. And Bryce went backto the dead man--and picked up the tin bottle, and making a cup of hisleft hand poured out a trickle of the contents. Cold tea!--and, as faras he could judge, nothing else. He put the tip of his little fingerinto the weak-looking stuff, and tasted--it tasted of nothing but asuper-abundance of sugar.
He stood there, watching the dead man until the sound of footstepsbehind him gave warning of the return of Dick Bewery, who, in anotherminute, hurried through the bushes, followed by Mitchington. The boystared in silence at the still figure, but the inspector, after a hastyglance, turned a horrified face on Bryce.
"Good Lord!" he gasped. "It's Collishaw!"
Bryce for the moment failed to comprehend this, and Mitchington shookhis head.
"Collishaw!" he repeated. "Collishaw, you know! The man I told you aboutyesterday afternoon. The man that said--"
Mitchington suddenly checked himself, with a glance at Dick Bewery.
"I remember--now," said Bryce. "The mason's labourer! So--this is theman, eh? Well, Mitchington, he's dead!--I found him dead, just now. Ishould say he'd been dead five to ten minutes--not more. You'd betterget help--and I'd like another medical man to see him before he'sremoved."
Mitchington looked again at Dick.
"Perhaps you'd fetch Dr. Ransford, Mr--Richard?" he asked. "He'snearest."
"Dr. Ransford's not at home," said Dick. "He went to Highminster--someCounty Council business or other--at ten this morning, and he won't beback until four--I happen to know that. Shall I run for Dr. Coates?"
"If you wouldn't mi
nd," said Mitchington, "and as it's close by, drop inat the station again and tell the sergeant to come here with a couple ofmen. I say!" he went on, when the boy had hurried off, "this is a queerbusiness, Dr. Bryce! What do you think?"
"I think this," answered Bryce. "That man!--look at him!--a strong,healthy-looking fellow, in the very prime of life--that man has met hisdeath by foul means. You take particular care of those dinner thingsof his--the remains of his dinner, every scrap--and of that tin bottle.That, especially. Take all these things yourself, Mitchington, and lockthem up--they'll be wanted for examination."
Mitchington glanced at the simple matters which Bryce indicated. Andsuddenly he turned a half-frightened glance on his companion.
"You don't mean to say that--that you suspect he's been poisoned?" heasked. "Good Lord, if that is so--"
"I don't think you'll find that there's much doubt about it," answeredBryce. "But that's a point that will soon be settled. You'd better tellthe Coroner at once, Mitchington, and he'll issue a formal order to Dr.Coates to make a post-mortem. And," he added significantly, "I shall besurprised if it isn't as I say--poison!"
"If that's so," observed Mitchington, with a grim shake of his head, "ifthat really is so, then I know what I shall think! This!" he wenton, pointing to the dead man, "this is--a sort of sequel to the otheraffair. There's been something in what the poor chap said--he did knowsomething against somebody, and that somebody's got to hear of it--andsilenced him. But, Lord, doctor, how can it have been done?"
"I can see how it can have been done, easy enough," said Bryce. "Thisman has evidently been at work here, by himself, all the morning. He ofcourse brought his dinner with him. He no doubt put his basket and hisbottle down somewhere, while he did his work. What easier than for someone to approach through these trees and shrubs while the man's back wasturned, or he was busy round one of these corners, and put some deadlypoison into that bottle? Nothing!"
"Well," remarked Mitchington, "if that's so, it proves somethingelse--to my mind."
"What!" asked Bryce.
"Why, that whoever it was who did it was somebody who had a knowledgeof poison!" answered Mitchington. "And I should say there aren't manypeople in Wrychester who have such knowledge outside yourselves and thechemists. It's a black business, this!"
Bryce nodded silently. He waited until Dr. Coates, an elderly man whowas the leading practitioner in the town, arrived, and to him he gavea careful account of his discovery. And after the police had taken thebody away, and he had accompanied Mitchington to the police-station andseen the tin bottle and the remains of Collishaw's dinner safely lockedup, he went home to lunch, and to wonder at this strange development.The inspector was doubtless right in saying that Collishaw had beendone to death by somebody who wanted to silence him--but who couldthat somebody be? Bryce's thoughts immediately turned to the fact thatRansford had overheard all that Mitchington had said, in that very roomin which he, Bryce, was then lunching--Ransford! Was it possible thatRansford had realized a danger in Collishaw's knowledge, and had--
He was interrupted at this stage by Mitchington, who came hurriedly inwith a scared face.
"I say, I say!" he whispered as soon as Bryce's landlady had shut thedoor on them. "Here's a fine business! I've heard something--somethingI can hardly credit--but it's true. I've been to tell Collishaw's familywhat's happened. And--I'm fairly dazed by it--yet it's there--it is so!"
"What's so?" demanded Bryce. "What is it that's true?"
Mitchington bent closer over the table.
"Dr. Ransford was fetched to Collishaw's cottage at six o'clock thismorning!" he said. "It seems that Collishaw's wife has been in a poorway about her health of late, and Dr. Ransford has attended her, off andon. She had some sort of a seizure this morning--early--and Ransfordwas sent for. He was there some little time--and I've heard some queerthings."
"What sort of queer things?" demanded Bryce. "Don't be afraid ofspeaking out, man!--there's no one to hear but myself."
"Well, things that look suspicious, on the face of it," continuedMitchington, who was obviously much upset. "As you'll acknowledge whenyou hear them. I got my information from the next-door neighbour, Mrs.Batts. Mrs. Batts says that when Ransford--who'd been fetched by Mrs.Batts's eldest lad--came to Collishaw's house, Collishaw was putting uphis dinner to take to his work--"
"What on earth made Mrs. Batts tell you that?" interrupted Bryce.
"Oh, well, to tell you the truth, I put a few questions to her as towhat went on while Ransford was in the house," answered Mitchington."When I'd once found that he had been there, you know, I naturallywanted to know all I could."
"Well?" asked Bryce.
"Collishaw, I say, was putting up his dinner to take to his work,"continued Mitchington. "Mrs. Batts was doing a thing or two about thehouse. Ransford went upstairs to see Mrs. Collishaw. After a while hecame down and said he would have to remain a little. Collishaw wentup to speak to his wife before going out. And then Ransford askedMrs. Batts for something--I forget what--some small matter which theCollishaw's hadn't got and she had, and she went next door to fetch it.Therefore--do you see?--Ransford was left alone with--Collishaw's tinbottle!"
Bryce, who had been listening attentively, looked steadily at theinspector.
"You're suspecting Ransford already!" he said.
Mitchington shook his head.
"What's it look like?" he answered, almost appealingly. "I put it toyou, now!--what does it look like? Here's this man been poisoned withouta doubt--I'm certain of it. And--there were those rumours--it's idle todeny that they centred in Ransford. And--this morning Ransford had thechance!"
"That's arguing that Ransford purposely carried a dose of poison toput into Collishaw's tin bottle!" said Bryce half-sneeringly. "Not veryprobable, you know, Mitchington."
Mitchington spread out his hands.
"Well, there it is!" he said. "As I say, there's no denying thesuspicious look of it. If I were only certain that those rumours aboutwhat Collishaw hinted he could say had got to Ransford's ears!--why,then--"
"What's being done about that post-mortem?" asked Bryce.
"Dr. Coates and Dr. Everest are going to do it this afternoon," repliedMitchington. "The Coroner went to them at once, as soon as I told him."
"They'll probably have to call in an expert from London," said Bryce."However, you can't do anything definite, you know, until the result'sknown. Don't say anything of this to anybody. I'll drop in at your placelater and hear if Coates can say anything really certain."
Mitchington went away, and Bryce spent the rest of the afternoonwondering, speculating and scheming. If Ransford had really got rid ofthis man who knew something--why, then, it was certainly Ransford whokilled Braden.
He went round to the police-station at five o'clock. Mitchington drewhim aside.
"Coates says there's no doubt about it!" he whispered. "Poisoned!Hydrocyanic acid!"
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