CHAPTER V. THE SCRAP OF PAPER
When Bryce, in his locked room, drew that bit of paper from his pocket,it was with the conviction that in it he held a clue to the secret ofthe morning's adventure. He had only taken a mere glance at it as hewithdrew it from the dead man's purse, but he had seen enough of whatwas written on it to make him certain that it was a document--if such amere fragment could be called a document--of no ordinary importance.And now he unfolded and laid it flat on his table and looked at itcarefully, asking himself what was the real meaning of what he saw.
There was not much to see. The scrap of paper itself was evidently aquarter of a leaf of old-fashioned, stoutish notepaper, somewhat yellowwith age, and bearing evidence of having been folded and kept flat inthe dead man's purse for some time--the creases were well-defined,the edges were worn and slightly stained by long rubbing against theleather. And in its centre were a few words, or, rather abbreviations ofwords, in Latin, and some figures:
In Para. Wrycestr. juxt. tumb. Ric. Jenk. ex cap. xxiii. xv.
Bryce at first sight took them to be a copy of some inscription but hisknowledge of Latin told him, a moment later, that instead of being aninscription, it was a direction. And a very plain direction, too!--heread it easily. In Paradise, at Wrychester, next to, or near, the tombof Richard Jenkins, or, possibly, Jenkinson, from, or behind, the head,twenty-three, fifteen--inches, most likely. There was no doubt thatthere was the meaning of the words. What, now, was it that lay behindthe tomb of Richard Jenkins, or Jenkinson, in Wrychester Paradise?--inall probability twenty-three inches from the head-stone, and fifteeninches beneath the surface. That was a question which Bryce immediatelyresolved to find a satisfactory answer to; in the meantime there wereother questions which he set down in order on his mental tablets. Theywere these:
1. Who, really, was the man who had registered at the Mitre under the name of John Braden?
2. Why did he wish to make a personal call on the Duke of Saxonsteade?
3. Was he some man who had known Ransford in time past--and whom Ransford had no desire to meet again?
4. Did Ransford meet him--in the Cathedral?
5. Was it Ransford who flung him to his death down St. Wrytha's Stair?
6. Was that the real reason of the agitation in which he, Bryce, had found Ransford a few moments after the discovery of the body?
There was plenty of time before him for the due solution of thesemysteries, reflected Bryce--and for solving another problem which mightpossibly have some relationship to them--that of the exact connectionbetween Ransford and his two wards. Bryce, in telling Ransford thatmorning of what was being said amongst the tea-table circles of the oldcathedral city, had purposely only told him half a tale. He knew,and had known for months, that the society of the Close was greatlyexercised over the position of the Ransford menage. Ransford, abachelor, a well-preserved, active, alert man who was certainly of nomore than middle age and did not look his years, had come to Wrychesteronly a few years previously, and had never shown any signs of forsakinghis single state. No one had ever heard him mention his family orrelations; then, suddenly, without warning, he had brought into hishouse Mary Bewery, a handsome young woman of nineteen, who was saidto have only just left school, and her brother Richard, then a boy ofsixteen, who had certainly been at a public school of repute and wasentered at the famous Dean's School of Wrychester as soon as he cameto his new home. Dr. Ransford spoke of these two as his wards, withoutfurther explanation; the society of the Close was beginning to wantmuch more explanation. Who were they--these two young people? Was Dr.Ransford their uncle, their cousin--what was he to them? In any case,in the opinion of the elderly ladies who set the tone of society inWrychester, Miss Bewery was much too young, and far too pretty, to beleft without a chaperon. But, up to then, no one had dared to say asmuch to Dr. Ransford--instead, everybody said it freely behind his back.
Bryce had used eyes and ears in relation to the two young people. He hadbeen with Ransford a year when they arrived; admitted freely to theircompany, he had soon discovered that whatever relationship existedbetween them and Ransford, they had none with anybody else--thatthey knew of. No letters came for them from uncles, aunts, cousins,grandfathers, grandmothers. They appeared to have no memories orreminiscences of relatives, nor of father or mother; there was a curiousatmosphere of isolation about them. They had plenty of talk about whatmight be called their present--their recent schooldays, their youthfulexperiences, games, pursuits--but none of what, under any circumstances,could have been a very far-distant past. Bryce's quick and attentiveears discovered things--for instance that for many years past Ransfordhad been in the habit of spending his annual two months' holiday withthese two. Year after year--at any rate since the boy's tenth year--hehad taken them travelling; Bryce heard scraps of reminiscences of toursin France, and in Switzerland, and in Ireland, and in Scotland--even asfar afield as the far north of Norway. It was easy to see that both boyand girl had a mighty veneration for Ransford; just as easy to see thatRansford took infinite pains to make life something more than happy andcomfortable for both. And Bryce, who was one of those men whofirmly believe that no man ever does anything for nothing and thatself-interest is the mainspring of Life, asked himself over and overagain the question which agitated the ladies of the Close: Who arethese two, and what is the bond between them and this sort offairy-godfather-guardian?
And now, as he put away the scrap of paper in a safely-locked desk,Bryce asked himself another question: Had the events of that morninganything to do with the mystery which hung around Dr. Ransford's wards?If it had, then all the more reason why he should solve it. For Brycehad made up his mind that, by hook or by crook, he would marry MaryBewery, and he was only too eager to lay hands on anything that wouldhelp him to achieve that ambition. If he could only get Ransford intohis power--if he could get Mary Bewery herself into his power--well andgood. Once he had got her, he would be good enough to her--in his way.
Having nothing to do, Bryce went out after a while and strolled round tothe Wrychester Club--an exclusive institution, the members of whichwere drawn from the leisured, the professional, the clerical, and themilitary circles of the old city. And there, as he expected, he foundsmall groups discussing the morning's tragedy, and he joined one ofthem, in which was Sackville Bonham, his presumptive rival, who wasbusily telling three or four other young men what his stepfather, Mr.Folliot, had to say about the event.
"My stepfather says--and I tell you he saw the man," said Sackville, whowas noted in Wrychester circles as a loquacious and forward youth; "hesays that whatever happened must have happened as soon as ever the oldchap got up into that clerestory gallery. Look here!--it's like this.My stepfather had gone in there for the morning service--strict oldchurch-goer he is, you know--and he saw this stranger going up thestairway. He's positive, Mr. Folliot, that it was then five minutes toten. Now, then, I ask you--isn't he right, my stepfather, when he saysthat it must have happened at once--immediately?
"Because that man, Varner, the mason, says he saw the man fall beforeten. What?"
One of the group nodded at Bryce.
"I should think Bryce knows what time it happened as well as anybody,"he said. "You were first on the spot, Bryce, weren't you?"
"After Varner," answered Bryce laconically. "As to the time--I could fixit in this way--the organist was just beginning a voluntary or somethingof the sort."
"That means ten o'clock--to the minute--when he was found!" exclaimedSackville triumphantly. "Of course, he'd fallen a minute or two beforethat--which proves Mr. Folliot to be right. Now what does that prove?Why, that the old chap's assailant, whoever he was, dogged him alongthat gallery as soon as he entered, seized him when he got to the opendoorway, and flung him through! Clear as--as noonday!"
One of the group, a rather older man than the rest, who was leaningback in a tilted chair, hands in pockets, watching Sackville Bonhamsmilingly, shook his head
and laughed a little.
"You're taking something for granted, Sackie, my son!" he said. "You'readopting the mason's tale as true. But I don't believe the poor man wasthrown through that doorway at all--not I!"
Bryce turned sharply on this speaker--young Archdale, a member of awell-known firm of architects.
"You don't?" he exclaimed. "But Varner says he saw him thrown!"
"Very likely," answered Archdale. "But it would all happen so quicklythat Varner might easily be mistaken. I'm speaking of something I know.I know every inch of the Cathedral fabric--ought to, as we're alwaysgoing over it, professionally. Just at that doorway, at the head of St.Wrytha's Stair, the flooring of the clerestory gallery is worn so smooththat it's like a piece of glass--and it slopes! Slopes at a very steepangle, too, to the doorway itself. A stranger walking along there mighteasily slip, and if the door was open, as it was, he'd be shot out andinto space before he knew what was happening."
This theory produced a moment's silence--broken at last by SackvilleBonham.
"Varner says he saw--saw!--a man's hand, a gentleman's hand," insistedSackville. "He saw a white shirt cuff, a bit of the sleeve of a coat.You're not going to get over that, you know. He's certain of it!"
"Varner may be as certain of it as he likes," answered Archdale, almostindifferently, "and still he may be mistaken. The probability is thatVarner was confused by what he saw. He may have had a white shirt cuffand the sleeve of a black coat impressed upon him, as in a flash--andthey were probably those of the man who was killed. If, as I suggest,the man slipped, and was shot out of that open doorway, he would executesome violent and curious movements in the effort to save himself inwhich his arms would play an important part. For one thing, he wouldcertainly throw out an arm--to clutch at anything. That's what Varnermost probably saw. There's no evidence whatever that the man was flungdown."
Bryce turned away from the group of talkers to think over Archdale'ssuggestion. If that suggestion had a basis of fact, it destroyed his owntheory that Ransford was responsible for the stranger's death. Inthat case, what was the reason of Ransford's unmistakable agitationon leaving the west porch, and of his attack--equally unmistakable--ofnerves in the surgery? But what Archdale had said made him inquisitive,and after he had treated himself--in celebration of his freedom--to anunusually good lunch at the Club, he went round to the Cathedral to makea personal inspection of the gallery in the clerestory.
There was a stairway to that gallery in the corner of the southtransept, and Bryce made straight for it--only to find a policemanthere, who pointed to a placard on the turret door. "Closed, doctor--byorder of the Dean and Chapter," he announced. "Till further orders. Thefact was, sir," he went on confidentially, "after the news got out, somany people came crowding in here and up to that gallery that the Deanordered all the entrances to be shut up at once--nobody's been allowedup since noon."
"I suppose you haven't heard anything of any strange person being seenlurking about up there this morning?" asked Bryce.
"No, sir. But I've had a bit of a talk with some of the vergers,"replied the policeman, "and they say it's a most extraordinary thingthat none of them ever saw this strange gentleman go up there, nor evenheard any scuffle. They say--the vergers--that they were all about atthe time, getting ready for the morning service, and they neither sawnor heard. Odd, sir, ain't it?"
"The whole thing's odd," agreed Bryce, and left the Cathedral. He walkedround to the wicket gate which admitted to that side of Paradise--tofind another policeman posted there. "What!--is this closed, too?" heasked.
"And time, sir," said the man. "They'd ha' broken down all the shrubsin the place if orders hadn't been given! They were mad to see where thegentleman fell--came in crowds at dinnertime."
Bryce nodded, and was turning away, when Dick Bewery came round a cornerfrom the Deanery Walk, evidently keenly excited. With him was a girl ofabout his own age--a certain characterful young lady whom Bryce knewas Betty Campany, daughter of the librarian to the Dean and Chapter andtherefore custodian of one of the most famous cathedral libraries inthe country. She, too, was apparently brimming with excitement, and herpretty and vivacious face puckered itself into a frown as the policemansmiled and shook his head.
"Oh, I say, what's that for?" exclaimed Dick Bewery. "Shut up?--what alot of rot! I say!--can't you let us go in--just for a minute?"
"Not for a pension, sir!" answered the policeman good-naturedly. "Don'tyou see the notice? The Dean 'ud have me out of the force by tomorrow ifI disobeyed orders. No admittance, nowhere, nohow! But lor' blessyer!" he added, glancing at the two young people. "There's nothing tosee--nothing!--as Dr. Bryce there can tell you."
Dick, who knew nothing of the recent passages between his guardian andthe dismissed assistant, glanced at Bryce with interest.
"You were on the spot first, weren't you?" he asked: "Do you think itreally was murder?"
"I don't know what it was," answered Bryce. "And I wasn't first on thespot. That was Varner, the mason--he called me." He turned from the ladto glance at the girl, who was peeping curiously over the gate intothe yews and cypresses. "Do you think your father's at the Library justnow?" he asked. "Shall I find him there?"
"I should think he is," answered Betty Campany. "He generally goes downabout this time." She turned and pulled Dick Bewery's sleeve. "Let's goup in the clerestory," she said. "We can see that, anyway."
"Also closed, miss," said the policeman, shaking his head. "Noadmittance there, neither. The public firmly warned off--so to speak. 'Iwon't have the Cathedral turned into a peepshow!' that's precisely whatI heard the Dean say with my own ears. So--closed!"
The boy and the girl turned away and went off across the Close, and thepoliceman looked after them and laughed.
"Lively young couple, that, sir!" he said. "What they call healthycuriosity, I suppose? Plenty o' that knocking around in the city today."
Bryce, who had half-turned in the direction of the Library, at the otherside of the Close, turned round again.
"Do you know if your people are doing anything about identifying thedead man?" he asked. "Did you hear anything at noon?"
"Nothing but that there'll be inquiries through the newspapers, sir,"replied the policeman. "That's the surest way of finding something out.And I did hear Inspector Mitchington say that they'd have to ask theDuke if he knew anything about the poor man--I suppose he'd let fallsomething about wanting to go over to Saxonsteade."
Bryce went off in the direction of the Library thinking. Thenewspapers?--yes, no better channel for spreading the news. If Mr. JohnBraden had relations and friends, they would learn of his sad deaththrough the newspapers, and would come forward. And in that case--
"But it wouldn't surprise me," mused Bryce, "if the name given at theMitre is an assumed name. I wonder if that theory of Archdale's is acorrect one?--however, there'll be more of that at the inquest tomorrow.And in the meantime--let me find out something about the tomb of RichardJenkins, or Jenkinson--whoever he was."
The famous Library of the Dean and Chapter of Wrychester was housed inan ancient picturesque building in one corner of the Close, wherein, dayin and day out, amidst priceless volumes and manuscripts, huge foliosand weighty quartos, old prints, and relics of the mediaeval ages,Ambrose Campany, the librarian, was pretty nearly always to be found,ready to show his treasures to the visitors and tourists who came fromall parts of the world to see a collection well known to bibliophiles.And Ambrose Campany, a cheery-faced, middle-aged man, with booklover andantiquary written all over him, shockheaded, blue-spectacled, was therenow, talking to an old man whom Bryce knew as a neighbour of hisin Friary Lane--one Simpson Barker, a quiet, meditative old fellow,believed to be a retired tradesman who spent his time in gentlepottering about the city. Bryce, as he entered, caught what Campany wasjust then saying.
"The most important thing I've heard about it," said Campany, "is--thatbook they found in the man's suit-case at the Mitre. I'm not adetective--but there's a clue!"