CHAPTER VI. BY MISADVENTURE
Old Simpson Harker, who sat near the librarian's table, his handsfolded on the crook of his stout walking stick, glanced out of a pairof unusually shrewd and bright eyes at Bryce as he crossed the room andapproached the pair of gossipers.
"I think the doctor was there when that book you're speaking of wasfound," he remarked. "So I understood from Mitchington."
"Yes, I was there," said Bryce, who was not unwilling to join in thetalk. He turned to Campany. "What makes you think there's a clue--inthat?" he asked.
"Why this," answered the librarian. "Here's a man in possession ofan old history of Barthorpe. Barthorpe is a small market-town in theMidlands--Leicestershire, I believe, of no particular importance that Iknow of, but doubtless with a story of its own. Why should any one but aBarthorpe man, past or present, be interested in that story so far as tocarry an old account of it with him? Therefore, I conclude this strangerwas a Barthorpe man. And it's at Barthorpe that I should make inquiriesabout him."
Simpson Harker made no remark, and Bryce remembered what Mr. Dellinghamhad said when the book was found.
"Oh, I don't know!" he replied carelessly. "I don't see thatthat follows. I saw the book--a curious old binding and queer oldcopper-plates. The man may have picked it up for that reason--I'vebought old books myself for less."
"All the same," retorted Campany, "I should make inquiry at Barthorpe.You've got to go on probabilities. The probabilities in this case arethat the man was interested in the book because it dealt with his owntown."
Bryce turned away towards a wall on which hung a number of charts andplans of Wrychester Cathedral and its precincts--it was to inspect oneof these that he had come to the Library. But suddenly remembering thatthere was a question which he could ask without exciting any suspicionor surmise, he faced round again on the librarian.
"Isn't there a register of burials within the Cathedral?" he inquired."Some book in which they're put down? I was looking in the Memorials ofWrychester the other day, and I saw some names I want to trace."
Campany lifted his quill pen and pointed to a case of big leather-boundvolumes in a far corner of the room.
"Third shelf from the bottom, doctor," he replied. "You'll see two booksthere--one's the register of all burials within the Cathedral itselfup to date: the other's the register of those in Paradise and thecloisters. What names are you wanting to trace?"
But Bryce affected not to hear the last question; he walked over tothe place which Campany had indicated, and taking down the second bookcarried it to an adjacent table. Campany called across the room to him.
"You'll find useful indexes at the end," he said. "They're all broughtup to the present time--from four hundred years ago, nearly."
Bryce turned to the index at the end of his book--an index written outin various styles of handwriting. And within a minute he found the namehe wanted--there it was plainly before him--Richard Jenkins, died March8th, 1715: buried, in Paradise, March 10th. He nearly laughed aloudat the ease with which he was tracing out what at first had seemed adifficult matter to investigate. But lest his task should seem too easy,he continued to turn over the leaves of the big folio, and in order tohave an excuse if the librarian should ask him any further questions, hememorized some of the names which he saw. And after a while he took thebook back to its shelf, and turned to the wall on which the charts andmaps were hung. There was one there of Paradise, whereon was marked thesite and names of all the tombs and graves in that ancient enclosure;from it he hoped to ascertain the exact position and whereabouts ofRichard Jenkins's grave.
But here Bryce met his first check. Down each side of the oldchart--dated 1850--there was a tabulated list of the tombs in Paradise.The names of families and persons were given in this list--against eachname was a number corresponding with the same number, marked on thevarious divisions of the chart. And there was no Richard Jenkins onthat list--he went over it carefully twice, thrice. It was not there.Obviously, if the tomb of Richard Jenkins, who was buried in Paradise in1715, was still there, amongst the cypresses and yew trees, the name andinscription on it had vanished, worn away by time and weather, when thatchart had been made, a hundred and thirty-five years later. And in thatcase, what did the memorandum mean which Bryce had found in the deadman's purse?
He turned away at last from the chart, at a loss--and Campany glanced athim.
"Found what you wanted?" he asked.
"Oh, yes!" replied Bryce, primed with a ready answer. "I just wanted tosee where the Spelbanks were buried--quite a lot of them, I see."
"Southeast corner of Paradise," said Campany. "Several tombs. I couldhave spared you the trouble of looking."
"You're a regular encyclopaedia about the place," laughed Bryce. "Isuppose you know every spout and gargoyle!"
"Ought to," answered the librarian. "I've been fed on it, man and boy,for five-and-forty years."
Bryce made some fitting remark and went out and home to his rooms--thereto spend most of the ensuing evening in trying to puzzle out the variousmysteries of the day. He got no more light on them then, and he wasstill exercising his brains on them when he went to the inquest nextmorning--to find the Coroner's court packed to the doors with anassemblage of townsfolk just as curious as he was. And as he satthere, listening to the preliminaries, and to the evidence of the firstwitnesses, his active and scheming mind figured to itself, not withoutmuch cynical amusement, how a word or two from his lips would go farto solve matters. He thought of what he might tell--if he told all thetruth. He thought of what he might get out of Ransford if he, Bryce,were Coroner, or solicitor, and had Ransford in that witness-box.He would ask him on his oath if he knew that dead man--if he had haddealings with him in times past--if he had met and spoken to him on thateventful morning--he would ask him, point-blank, if it was not his handthat had thrown him to his death. But Bryce had no intention of makingany revelations just then--as for himself he was going to tell just asmuch as he pleased and no more. And so he sat and heard--and knew fromwhat he heard that everybody there was in a hopeless fog, and that inall that crowd there was but one man who had any real suspicion of thetruth, and that that man was himself.
The evidence given in the first stages of the inquiry was all known toBryce, and to most people in the court, already. Mr. Dellingham toldhow he had met the dead man in the train, journeying from London toWrychester. Mrs. Partingley told how he had arrived at the Mitre,registered in her book as Mr. John Braden, and had next morning asked ifhe could get a conveyance for Saxonsteade in the afternoon, as hewished to see the Duke. Mr. Folliot testified to having seen him in theCathedral, going towards one of the stairways leading to the gallery.Varner--most important witness of all up to that point--told of what hehad seen. Bryce himself, followed by Ransford, gave medical evidence;Mitchington told of his examination of the dead man's clothing andeffects in his room at the Mitre. And Mitchington added the firstinformation which was new to Bryce.
"In consequence of finding the book about Barthorpe in the suit-case,"said Mitchington, "we sent a long telegram yesterday to the policethere, telling them what had happened, and asking them to make the mostcareful inquiries at once about any townsman of theirs of the name ofJohn Braden, and to wire us the result of such inquiries this morning.This is their reply, received by us an hour ago. Nothing whatever isknown at Barthorpe--which is a very small town--of any person of thatname."
So much for that, thought Bryce. He turned with more interest to thenext witness--the Duke of Saxonsteade, the great local magnate, a big,bluff man who had been present in court since the beginning of theproceedings, in which he was manifestly highly interested. It waspossible that he might be able to tell something of moment--he might,after all, know something of this apparently mysterious stranger, who,for anything that Mrs. Partingley or anybody else could say to thecontrary, might have had an appointment and business with him.
But his Grace knew nothing. He had never heard the name of John Bradenin his li
fe--so far as he remembered. He had just seen the body of theunfortunate man and had looked carefully at the features. He was not aman of whom he had any knowledge whatever--he could not recollect everhaving seen him anywhere at any time. He knew literally nothing ofhim--could not think of any reason at all why this Mr. John Bradenshould wish to see him.
"Your Grace has, no doubt, had business dealings with a good many peopleat one time or another," suggested the Coroner. "Some of them, perhaps,with men whom your Grace only saw for a brief space of time--a fewminutes, possibly. You don't remember ever seeing this man in that way?"
"I'm credited with having an unusually good memory for faces," answeredthe Duke. "And--if I may say so--rightly. But I don't remember thisman at all--in fact, I'd go as far as to say that I'm positive I'venever--knowingly--set eyes on him in my life."
"Can your Grace suggest any reason at all why he should wish to call onyou?" asked the Coroner.
"None! But then," replied the Duke, "there might be manyreasons--unknown to me, but at which I can make a guess. If he was anantiquary, there are lots of old things at Saxonsteade which he mightwish to see. Or he might be a lover of pictures--our collection is a bitfamous, you know. Perhaps he was a bookman--we have some rare editions.I could go on multiplying reasons--but to what purpose?"
"The fact is, your Grace doesn't know him and knows nothing about him,"observed the Coroner.
"Just so--nothing!" agreed the Duke and stepped down again.
It was at this stage that the Coroner sent the jurymen away in charge ofhis officer to make a careful personal inspection of the gallery in theclerestory. And while they were gone there was some commotion causedin the court by the entrance of a police official who conducted to theCoroner a middle-aged, well-dressed man whom Bryce at once set down asa London commercial magnate of some quality. Between the new arrivaland the Coroner an interchange of remarks was at once made, shared inpresently by some of the officials at the table. And when the jury cameback the stranger was at once ushered into the witness-box, and theCoroner turned to the jury and the court.
"We are unexpectedly able to get some evidence of identity, gentlemen,"he observed. "The gentleman who has just stepped into the witness-boxis Mr. Alexander Chilstone, manager of the London & Colonies Bank, inThreadneedle Street. Mr. Chilstone saw particulars of this matter in thenewspapers this morning, and he at once set off to Wrychester to tellus what he knows of the dead man. We are very much obliged to Mr.Chilstone--and when he has been sworn he will perhaps kindly tell uswhat he can."
In the midst of the murmur of sensation which ran round the court, Bryceindulged himself with a covert look at Ransford who was sitting oppositeto him, beyond the table in the centre of the room. He saw at once thatRansford, however strenuously he might be fighting to keep hisface under control, was most certainly agitated by the Coroner'sannouncement. His cheeks had paled, his eyes were a little dilated, hislips parted as he stared at the bank-manager--altogether, it was morethan mere curiosity that was indicated on his features. And Bryce,satisfied and secretly elated, turned to hear what Mr. AlexanderChilstone had to tell.
That was not much--but it was of considerable importance. Only twodays before, said Mr. Chilstone--that was, on the day previous to hisdeath--Mr. John Braden had called at the London & Colonies Bank, ofwhich he, Mr. Chilstone, was manager, and introducing himself as havingjust arrived in England from Australia, where, he said, he had beenliving for some years, had asked to be allowed to open an account. Heproduced some references from agents of the London & Colonies Bank, inMelbourne, which were highly satisfactory; the account being opened, hepaid into it a sum of ten thousand pounds in a draft at sight drawn byone of those agents. He drew nothing against this, remarking casuallythat he had plenty of money in his pocket for the present: he did noteven take the cheque-book which was offered him, saying that he wouldcall for it later.
"He did not give us any address in London, nor in England," continuedthe witness. "He told me that he had only arrived at Charing Cross thatvery morning, having travelled from Paris during the night. He said thathe should settle down for a time at some residential hotel in London,and in the meantime he had one or two calls, or visits, to make in thecountry: when he returned from them, he said, he would call on me again.He gave me very little information about himself: it was not necessary,for his references from our agents in Australia were quite satisfactory.But he did mention that he had been out there for some years, and hadspeculated in landed property--he also said that he was now going tosettle in England for good. That," concluded Mr. Chilstone, "is all Ican tell of my own knowledge. But," he added, drawing a newspaper fromhis pocket, "here is an advertisement which I noticed in this morning'sTimes as I came down. You will observe," he said, as he passed it tothe Coroner, "that it has certainly been inserted by our unfortunatecustomer."
The Coroner glanced at a marked passage in the personal column of theTimes, and read it aloud:
"The advertisement is as follows," he announced. "'If this meets the eyeof old friend Marco, he will learn that Sticker wishes to see himagain. Write J. Braden, c/o London & Colonies Bank, Threadneedle Street,London.'"
Bryce was keeping a quiet eye on Ransford. Was he mistaken in believingthat he saw him start; that he saw his cheek flush as he heard theadvertisement read out? He believed he was not mistaken--but if he wasright, Ransford the next instant regained full control of himself andmade no sign. And Bryce turned again to Coroner and witness.
But the witness had no more to say--except to suggest that the bank'sMelbourne agents should be cabled to for information, since it wasunlikely that much more could be got in England. And with that themiddle stage of the proceedings ended--and the last one came, watchedby Bryce with increasing anxiety. For it was soon evident, from certainremarks made by the Coroner, that the theory which Archdale had putforward at the club in Bryce's hearing the previous day had gainedfavour with the authorities, and that the visit of the jurymen to thescene of the disaster had been intended by the Coroner to predisposethem in behalf of it. And now Archdale himself, as representing thearchitects who held a retaining fee in connection with the Cathedral,was called to give his opinion--and he gave it in almost the same wordswhich Bryce had heard him use twenty-four hours previously. After himcame the master-mason, expressing the same decided conviction--that thereal truth was that the pavement of the gallery had at that particularplace become so smooth, and was inclined towards the open doorway atsuch a sharp angle, that the unfortunate man had lost his footing on it,and before he could recover it had been shot out of the arch and overthe broken head of St. Wrytha's Stair. And though, at a juryman's wish,Varner was recalled, and stuck stoutly to his original story of havingseen a hand which, he protested, was certainly not that of the deadman, it soon became plain that the jury shared the Coroner's belief thatVarner in his fright and excitement had been mistaken, and no one wassurprised when the foreman, after a very brief consultation with hisfellows, announced a verdict of death by misadventure.
"So the city's cleared of the stain of murder!" said a man who sat nextto Bryce. "That's a good job, anyway! Nasty thing, doctor, to think ofa murder being committed in a cathedral. There'd be a question ofsacrilege, of course--and all sorts of complications."
Bryce made no answer. He was watching Ransford, who was talking to theCoroner. And he was not mistaken now--Ransford's face bore all thesigns of infinite relief. From--what? Bryce turned, to leave the stuffy,rapidly-emptying court. And as he passed the centre table he saw oldSimpson Harker, who, after sitting in attentive silence for three hourshad come up to it, picked up the "History of Barthorpe" which hadbeen found in Braden's suit-case and was inquisitively peering at itstitle-page.
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