The Paradise Mystery

by J. S. Fletcher

  CHAPTER XXV. THE OLD WELL HOUSE

  When Bryce came hurrying up to him, Folliot was standing at his gardendoor with his hands thrust under his coat-tails--the very picture of abenevolent, leisured gentleman who has nothing to do and is disposedto give his time to anybody. He glanced at Bryce as he had glanced atGlassdale--over the tops of his spectacles, and the glance had no morethan mild inquiry in it. But if Bryce had been less excited, he wouldhave seen that Folliot, as he beckoned him inside the garden, swept asharp look over the Close and ascertained that there was no one about,that Bryce's entrance was unobserved. Save for a child or two, playingunder the tall elms near one of the gates, and for a clerical figurethat stalked a path in the far distance, the Close was empty of life.And there was no one about, either, in that part of Folliot's biggarden.

  "I want a bit of talk with you," said Bryce as Folliot closed the doorand turned down a side-path to a still more retired region. "Privatetalk. Let's go where it's quiet."

  Without replying in words to this suggestion, Folliot led the waythrough his rose-trees to a far corner of his grounds, where an oldbuilding of grey stone, covered with ivy, stood amongst high trees. Heturned the key of a doorway and motioned Bryce to enter.

  "Quiet enough in here, doctor," he observed. "You've never seen thisplace--bit of a fancy of mine."

  Bryce, absorbed as he was in the thoughts of the moment, glancedcursorily at the place into which Folliot had led him. It was a squarebuilding of old stone, its walls unlined, unplastered; its floor pavedwith much worn flags of limestone, evidently set down in a long dead ageand now polished to marble-like smoothness. In its midst, set flush withthe floor, was what was evidently a trap-door, furnished with a heavyiron ring. To this Folliot pointed, with a glance of significantinterest.

  "Deepest well in all Wrychester under that," he remarked. "You'd neverthink it--it's a hundred feet deep--and more! Dry now--water gaveout some years ago. Some people would have pulled this old well-housedown--but not me! I did better--I turned it to good account." He raiseda hand and pointed upward to an obviously modern ceiling of strong oaktimbers. "Had that put in," he continued, "and turned the top of thebuilding into a little snuggery. Come up!"

  He led the way to a flight of steps in one corner of the lower room,pushed open a door at their head, and showed his companion into a smallapartment arranged and furnished in something closely approachingto luxury. The walls were hung with thick fabrics; the carpeting wasequally thick; there were pictures, books, and curiosities; the two orthree chairs were deep and big enough to lie down in; the two windowscommanded pleasant views of the Cathedral towers on one side and of theClose on the other.

  "Nice little place to be alone in, d'ye see?" said Folliot. "Cool insummer--warm in winter--modern fire-grate, you notice. Come here when Iwant to do a bit of quiet thinking, what?"

  "Good place for that--certainly," agreed Bryce.

  Folliot pointed his visitor to one of the big chairs and turning to acabinet brought out some glasses, a syphon of soda-water, and a heavycut-glass decanter. He nodded at a box of cigars which lay open on atable at Bryce's elbow as he began to mix a couple of drinks.

  "Help yourself," he said. "Good stuff, those."

  Not until he had given Bryce a drink, and had carried his own glass toanother easy chair did Folliot refer to any reason for Bryce's visit.But once settled down, he looked at him speculatively.

  "What did you want to see me about?" he asked.

  Bryce, who had lighted a cigar, looked across its smoke at theimperturbable face opposite.

  "You've just had Glassdale here," he observed quietly. "I saw him leaveyou."

  Folliot nodded--without any change of expression.

  "Aye, doctor," he said. "And--what do you know about Glassdale, now?"

  Bryce, who would have cheerfully hobnobbed with a man whom he was aboutto conduct to the scaffold, lifted his glass and drank.

  "A good deal," he answered as he set the glass down. "The fact is--Icame here to tell you so!--I know a good deal about everything."

  "A wide term!" remarked Folliot. "You've got some limitation to it, Ishould think. What do you mean by--everything?"

  "I mean about recent matters," replied Bryce. "I've interested myself inthem--for reasons of my own. Ever since Braden was found at the footof those stairs in Paradise, and I was fetched to him, I've interestedmyself. And--I've discovered a great deal--more, much more than's knownto anybody."

  Folliot threw one leg over the other and began to jog his foot.

  "Oh!" he said after a pause. "Dear me! And--what might you know, now,doctor? Aught you can tell me eh?"

  "Lots!" answered Bryce. "I came to tell you--on seeing that Glassdalehad been with you. Because--I was with Glassdale this morning."

  Folliot made no answer. But Bryce saw that his cool, almost indifferentmanner was changing--he was beginning, under the surface, to getanxious.

  "When I left Glassdale--at noon," continued Bryce, "I'd no idea--and Idon't think he had--that he was coming to see you. But I know what putthe notion into his head. I gave him copies of those two reward bills.He no doubt thought he might make a bit--and so he came in to town,and--to you."

  "Well?" asked Folliot.

  "I shouldn't wonder," remarked Bryce, reflectively, and almost as ifspeaking to himself, "I shouldn't at all wonder if Glassdale's the sortof man who can be bought. He, no doubt, has his price. But all thatGlassdale knows is nothing--to what I know."

  Folliot had allowed his cigar to go out. He threw it away, took a freshone from the box, and slowly struck a match and lighted it.

  "What might you know, now?" he asked after another pause.

  "I've a bit of a faculty for finding things out," answered Bryce boldly."And I've developed it. I wanted to know all about Braden--and aboutwho killed him--and why. There's only one way of doing all that sortof thing, you know. You've got to go back--a long way back--to the verybeginnings. I went back--to the time when Braden was married. Not asBraden, of course--but as who he really was--John Brake. That was at aplace called Braden Medworth, near Barthorpe, in Leicestershire."

  He paused there, watching Folliot. But Folliot showed no more than closeattention, and Bryce went on.

  "Not much in that--for the really important part of the story," hecontinued. "But Brake had other associations with Barthorpe--a bitlater. He got to know--got into close touch with a Barthorpe man who,about the time of Brake's marriage, left Barthorpe and settled inLondon. Brake and this man began to have some secret dealings together.There was another man in with them, too--a man who was a sort of partnerof the Barthorpe man's. Brake had evidently a belief in these men, andhe trusted them--unfortunately for himself he sometimes trusted thebank's money to them. I know what happened--he used to let them havemoney for short financial transactions--to be refunded within a verybrief space. But--he went to the fire too often, and got his fingersburned in the end. The two men did him--one of them in particular--andcleared out. He had to stand the racket. He stood it--to the tune of tenyears' penal servitude. And, naturally, when he'd finished his time, hewanted to find those two men--and began a long search for them. Like toknow the names of the men, Mr. Folliot?"

  "You might mention 'em--if you know 'em," answered Folliot.

  "The name of the particular one was Wraye--Falkiner Wraye," repliedBryce promptly. "Of the other--the man of lesser importance--Flood."

  The two men looked quietly at each other for a full moment's silence.And it was Bryce who first spoke with a ring of confidence in his tonewhich showed that he knew he had the whip hand.

  "Shall I tell you something about Falkiner Wraye?" he asked. "Iwill!--it's deeply interesting. Mr. Falkiner Wraye, after cheatingand deceiving Brake, and leaving him to pay the penalty of hisover-trustfulness, cleared out of England and carried his money-makingtalents to foreign parts. He succeeded in doing well--he would!--andeventually he came back and married a rich widow and settled himselfdown in an out-of-the-world English town to gr
ow roses. You're FalkinerWraye, you know, Mr. Folliot!"

  Bryce laughed as he made this direct accusation, and sitting forward inhis chair, pointed first to Folliot's face and then to his left hand.

  "Falkiner Wraye," he said, "had an unfortunate gun accident in his youthwhich marked him for life. He lost the middle finger of his left hand,and he got a bad scar on his left jaw. There they are, those marks!Fortunate for you, Mr. Folliot, that the police don't know all that Iknow, for if they did, those marks would have done for you days ago!"For a minute or two Folliot sat joggling his leg--a bad sign in him ofrising temper if Bryce had but known it. While he remained silent hewatched Bryce narrowly, and when he spoke, his voice was calm as ever.

  "And what use do you intend to put your knowledge to, if one may ask?"he inquired, half sneeringly. "You said just now that you'd no doubtthat man Glassdale could be bought, and I'm inclining to think thatyou're one of those men that have their price. What is it?"

  "We've not come to that," retorted Bryce. "You're a bit mistaken. If Ihave my price, it's not in the same commodity that Glassdale would want.But before we do any talking about that sort of thing, I want to add tomy stock of knowledge. Look here! We'll be candid. I don't care a snapof my fingers that Brake, or Braden's dead, or that Collishaw's dead,nor if one had his neck broken and the other was poisoned, but--whosehand was that which the mason, Varner, saw that morning, when Brake wasflung out of that doorway? Come, now!--whose?"

  "Not mine, my lad!" answered Folliot, confidently. "That's a fact?"

  Bryce hesitated, giving Folliot a searching look. And Folliot noddedsolemnly. "I tell you, not mine!" he repeated. "I'd naught to do withit!"

  "Then who had?" demanded Bryce. "Was it the other man--Flood? And if so,who is Flood?"

  Folliot got up from his chair and, cigar between his lips and handsunder the tails of his old coat, walked silently about the quiet roomfor awhile. He was evidently thinking deeply, and Bryce made no attemptto disturb him. Some minutes went by before Folliot took the cigar fromhis lips and leaning against the chimneypiece looked fixedly at hisvisitor.

  "Look here, my lad!" he said, earnestly. "You're no doubt, as you say, agood hand at finding things out, and you've doubtless done a good bit offerreting, and done it well enough in your own opinion. But there'sone thing you can't find out, and the police can't find out either, andthat's the precise truth about Braden's death. I'd no hand in it--itcouldn't be fastened on to me, anyhow."

  Bryce looked up and interjected one word.

  "Collishaw?"

  "Nor that, neither," answered Folliot, hastily. "Maybe I know somethingabout both, but neither you nor the police nor anybody could fasten meto either matter! Granting all you say to be true, where's the positivetruth?"

  "What about circumstantial evidence," asked Bryce.

  "You'd have a job to get it," retorted Folliot. "Supposing that all yousay is true about--about past matters? Nothing can prove--nothing!--thatI ever met Braden that morning. On the other hand, I can prove, easily,that I never did meet him; I can account for every minute of my timethat day. As to the other affair--not an ounce of direct evidence!"

  "Then--it was the other man!" exclaimed Bryce. "Now then, who is he?"

  Folliot replied with a shrewd glance.

  "A man who by giving away another man gave himself away would be adamned fool!" he answered. "If there is another man--"

  "As if there must be!" interrupted Bryce.

  "Then he's safe!" concluded Folliot. "You'll get nothing from me abouthim!"

  "And nobody can get at you except through him?" asked Bryce.

  "That's about it," assented Folliot laconically.

  Bryce laughed cynically.

  "A pretty coil!" he said with a sneer. "Here! You talked about my price.I'm quite content to hold my tongue if you'd tell me something aboutwhat happened seventeen years ago."

  "What?" asked Folliot.

  "You knew Brake, you must have known his family affairs," said Bryce."What became of Brake's wife and children when he went to prison?"

  Folliot shook his head, and it was plain to Bryce that his gesture ofdissent was genuine.

  "You're wrong," he answered. "I never at any time knew anything ofBrake's family affairs. So little indeed, that I never even knew he wasmarried."

  Bryce rose to his feet and stood staring.

  "What!" he exclaimed. "You mean to tell me that, even now, you don'tknow that Brake had two children, and that--that--oh, it's incredible!"

  "What's incredible?" asked Folliot. "What are you talking about?"

  Bryce in his eagerness and surprise grasped Folliot's arm and shook it.

  "Good heavens, man!" he said. "Those two wards of Ransford's are Brake'sgirl and boy! Didn't you know that, didn't you?"

  "Never!" answered Folliot. "Never! And who's Ransford, then? I neverheard Brake speak of any Ransford! What game is all this? What--"

  Before Bryce could reply, Folliot suddenly started, thrust his companionaside and went to one of the windows. A sharp exclamation from him tookBryce to his side. Folliot lifted a shaking hand and pointed into thegarden.

  "There!" he whispered. "Hell and--What's this mean?"

  Bryce looked in the direction pointed out. Behind the pergola of ramblerroses the figures of men were coming towards the old well-house led byone of Folliot's gardeners. Suddenly they emerged into full view, andin front of the rest was Mitchington and close behind him the detective,and behind him--Glassdale!