The Paradise Mystery

by J. S. Fletcher

  CHAPTER VIII. THE BEST MAN

  Old Harker's shrewd eyes, travelling round the room as if to inspect thecompany in which he found himself, fell almost immediately on Bryce--butnot before Bryce had had time to assume an air and look of innocentand genuine surprise. Harker affected no surprise at all--he looked theastonishment he felt as the younger man rose and motioned him to thecomfortable easy-chair which he himself had just previously taken.

  "Dear me!" he exclaimed, nodding his thanks. "I'd no idea that I shouldmeet you in these far-off parts, Dr. Bryce! This is a long way fromWrychester, sir, for Wrychester folk to meet in."

  "I'd no idea of meeting you, Mr. Harker," responded Bryce. "But it'sa small world, you know, and there are a good many coincidences in it.There's nothing very wonderful in my presence here, though--I ran downto see after a country practice--I've left Dr. Ransford."

  He had the lie ready as soon as he set eyes on Harker, and whetherthe old man believed it or not, he showed no sign of either belief ordisbelief. He took the chair which Bryce drew forward and pulled out anold-fashioned cigar-case, offering it to his companion.

  "Will you try one, doctor?" he asked. "Genuine stuff that, sir--I've afriend in Cuba who remembers me now and then. No," he went on, as Brycethanked him and took a cigar, "I didn't know you'd finished with thedoctor. Quietish place this to practise in, I should think--much quietereven than our sleepy old city."

  "You know it?" inquired Bryce.

  "I've a friend lives here--old friend of mine," answered Harker. "I comedown to see him now and then--I've been here since yesterday. He does abit of business for me. Stopping long, doctor?"

  "Only just to look round," answered Bryce.

  "I'm off tomorrow morning--eleven o'clock," said Harker. "It's a longishjourney to Wrychester--for old bones like mine."

  "Oh, you're all right!--worth half a dozen younger men," respondedBryce. "You'll see a lot of your contemporaries out, Mr. Harker.Well--as you've treated me to a very fine cigar, now you'll let me treatyou to a drop of whisky?--they generally have something of pretty goodquality in these old-fashioned establishments, I believe."

  The two travellers sat talking until bedtime--but neither made anymention of the affair which had recently set all Wrychester agog withexcitement. But Bryce was wondering all the time if his companion'sstory of having a friend at Barthorpe was no more than an excuse, andwhen he was alone in his own bedroom and reflecting more seriously hecame to the conclusion that old Harker was up to some game of his own inconnection with the Paradise mystery.

  "The old chap was in the Library when Ambrose Campany said that therewas a clue in that Barthorpe history," he mused. "I saw him myselfexamining the book after the inquest. No, no, Mr. Harker!--the factsare too plain--the evidences too obvious. And yet--what interest has aretired old tradesman of Wrychester got in this affair? I'd give a gooddeal to know what Harker really is doing here--and who his Barthorpefriend is."

  If Bryce had risen earlier next morning, and had taken the trouble totrack old Harker's movements, he would have learnt something that wouldhave made him still more suspicious. But Bryce, seeing no reason forhurry, lay in bed till well past nine o'clock, and did not presenthimself in the coffee-room until nearly half-past ten. And at thathour Simpson Harker, who had breakfasted before nine, was in closeconsultation with his friend--that friend being none other than thelocal superintendent of police, who was confidentially closeted with theold man in his private house, whither Harker, by previous arrangement,had repaired as soon as his breakfast was over. Had Bryce been able tosee through walls or hear through windows, he would have been surprisedto find that the Harker of this consultation was not the quiet,easy-going, gossipy old gentleman of Wrychester, but an eminentlypractical and business-like man of affairs.

  "And now as regards this young fellow who's staying across there at thePeacock," he was saying in conclusion, at the very time that Bryce wasleisurely munching his second mutton chop in the Peacock coffee-room,"he's after something or other--his talk about coming here to see aftera practice is all lies!--and you'll keep an eye on him while he'sin your neighbourhood. Put your best plainclothes man on to him atonce--he'll easily know him from the description I gave you--and let himshadow him wherever he goes. And then let me know of his movement--he'scertainly on the track of something, and what he does may be usefulto me--I can link it up with my own work. And as regards the othermatter--keep me informed if you come on anything further. Now I'll goout by your garden and down the back of the town to the station. Let meknow, by the by, when this young man at the Peacock leaves here, and, ifpossible--and you can find out--for where."

  Bryce was all unconscious that any one was interested in his movementswhen he strolled out into Barthorpe market-place just after eleven.He had asked a casual question of the waiter and found that the oldgentleman had departed--he accordingly believed himself free fromobservation. And forthwith he set about his work of inquiry in his ownfashion. He was not going to draw any attention to himself by askingquestions of present-day inhabitants, whose curiosity might then bearoused; he knew better methods than that. Every town, said Bryce tohimself, possesses public records--parish registers, burgess rolls,lists of voters; even small towns have directories which are moreor less complete--he could search these for any mention or record ofanybody or any family of the name of Braden. And he spent all that dayin that search, inspecting numerous documents and registers and books,and when evening came he had a very complete acquaintance with thefamily nomenclature of Barthorpe, and he was prepared to bet oddsagainst any one of the name of Braden having lived there during the pasthalf-century. In all his searching he had not once come across the name.

  The man who had spent a very lazy day in keeping an eye on Bryce, as hevisited the various public places whereat he made his researches, wasalso keeping an eye upon him next morning, when Bryce, breakfastingearlier than usual, prepared for a second day's labours. He followedhis quarry away from the little town: Bryce was walking out to BradenMedworth. In Bryce's opinion, it was something of a wild-goose chase togo there, but the similarity in the name of the village and of the deadman at Wrychester might have its significance, and it was but a twomiles' stroll from Barthorpe. He found Braden Medworth a very small,quiet, and picturesque place, with an old church on the banks of a riverwhich promised good sport to anglers. And there he pursued his tacticsof the day before and went straight to the vicarage and its vicar, witha request to be allowed to inspect the parish registers. The vicar,having no objection to earning the resultant fees, hastened to complywith Bryce's request, and inquired how far back he wanted to search andfor what particular entry.

  "No particular entry," answered Bryce, "and as to period--fairly recent.The fact is, I am interested in names. I am thinking"--here he usedone more of his easily found inventions--"of writing a book on Englishsurnames, and am just now inspecting parish registers in the Midlandsfor that purpose."

  "Then I can considerably simplify your labours," said the vicar, takingdown a book from one of his shelves. "Our parish registers have beencopied and printed, and here is the volume--everything is in there from1570 to ten years ago, and there is a very full index. Are you stayingin the neighbourhood--or the village?"

  "In the neighbourhood, yes; in the village, no longer than the time Ishall spend in getting some lunch at the inn yonder," answered Bryce,nodding through an open window at an ancient tavern which stood in thevalley beneath, close to an old stone bridge. "Perhaps you will kindlylend me this book for an hour?--then, if I see anything very noteworthyin the index, I can look at the actual registers when I bring it back."

  The vicar replied that that was precisely what he had been about tosuggest, and Bryce carried the book away. And while he sat in the innparlour awaiting his lunch, he turned to the carefully-compiled index,glancing it through rapidly. On the third page he saw the name Bewery.

  If the man who had followed Bryce from Barthorpe to Braden Medworth hadbeen with him in the quiet inn par
lour he would have seen his quarrystart, and heard him let a stifled exclamation escape his lips. But thefollower, knowing his man was safe for an hour, was in the bar outsideeating bread and cheese and drinking ale, and Bryce's surprise waswitnessed by no one. Yet he had been so much surprised that if allWrychester had been there he could not, despite his self-training inwatchfulness, have kept back either start or exclamation.

  Bewery! A name so uncommon that here--here, in this out-of-the-wayMidland village!--there must be some connection with the object of hissearch. There the name stood out before him, to the exclusion of allothers--Bewery--with just one entry of figures against it. He turned topage 387 with a sense of sure discovery.

  And there an entry caught his eye at once--and he knew that he haddiscovered more than he had ever hoped for. He read it again and again,gloating over his wonderful luck.

  June 19th, 1891. John Brake, bachelor, of the parish of St. Pancras,London, to Mary Bewery, spinster, of this parish, by the Vicar.Witnesses, Charles Claybourne, Selina Womersley, Mark Ransford.

  Twenty-two years ago! The Mary Bewery whom Bryce knew in Wrychester wasjust about twenty--this Mary Bewery, spinster, of Braden Medworth, was,then, in all probability, her mother. But John Brake who married thatMary Bewery--who was he? Who indeed, laughed Bryce, but John Braden,who had just come by his death in Wrychester Paradise? And there was thename of Mark Ransford as witness. What was the further probability? ThatMark Ransford had been John Brake's best man; that he was the Marcoof the recent Times advertisement; that John Braden, or Brake, was theSticker of the same advertisement. Clear!--clear as noonday! And--whatdid it all mean, and imply, and what bearing had it on Braden or Brake'sdeath?

  Before he ate his cold beef, Bryce had copied the entry from thereprinted register, and had satisfied himself that Ransford was not aname known to that village--Mark Ransford was the only person of thename mentioned in the register. And his lunch done, he set off for thevicarage again, intent on getting further information, and before hereached the vicarage gates noticed, by accident, a place whereat he wasmore likely to get it than from the vicar--who was a youngish man. Atthe end of the few houses between the inn and the bridge he saw a littleshop with the name Charles Claybourne painted roughly above its openwindow. In that open window sat an old, cheery-faced man, mending shoes,who blinked at the stranger through his big spectacles.

  Bryce saw his chance and turned in--to open the book and point out themarriage entry.

  "Are you the Charles Claybourne mentioned there?" he asked, withoutceremony.

  "That's me, sir!" replied the old shoemaker briskly, after a glance."Yes--right enough!"

  "How came you to witness that marriage?" inquired Bryce.

  The old man nodded at the church across the way.

  "I've been sexton and parish clerk two-and-thirty years, sir," he said."And I took it on from my father--and he had the job from his father."

  "Do you remember this marriage?" asked Bryce, perching himself on thebench at which the shoemaker was working. "Twenty-two years since, Isee."

  "Aye, as if it was yesterday!" answered the old man with a smile. "MissBewery's marriage?--why, of course!"

  "Who was she?" demanded Bryce.

  "Governess at the vicarage," replied Claybourne. "Nice, sweet younglady."

  "And the man she married?--Mr. Brake," continued Bryce. "Who was he?"

  "A young gentleman that used to come here for the fishing, now andthen," answered Claybourne, pointing at the river. "Famous for our troutwe are here, you know, sir. And Brake had come here for three yearsbefore they were married--him and his friend Mr. Ransford."

  "You remember him, too?" asked Bryce.

  "Remember both of 'em very well indeed," said Claybourne, "though Inever set eyes on either after Miss Mary was wed to Mr. Brake. But Isaw plenty of 'em both before that. They used to put up at the innthere--that I saw you come out of just now. They came two or three timesa year--and they were a bit thick with our parson of that time--not thisone: his predecessor--and they used to go up to the vicarage and smoketheir pipes and cigars with him--and of course, Mr. Brake and thegoverness fixed it up. Though, you know, at one time it was consideredit was going to be her and the other young gentleman, Mr. Ransford--yes!But, in the end, it was Brake--and Ransford stood best man for him."

  Bruce assimilated all this information greedily--and asked for more.

  "I'm interested in that entry," he said, tapping the open book. "I knowsome people of the name of Bewery--they may be relatives."

  The shoemaker shook his head as if doubtful.

  "I remember hearing it said," he remarked, "that Miss Mary had norelations. She'd been with the old vicar some time, and I don't rememberany relations ever coming to see her, nor her going away to see any."

  "Do you know what Brake was?" asked Bryce. "As you say he came here fora good many times before the marriage, I suppose you'd hear somethingabout his profession, or trade, or whatever it was?"

  "He was a banker, that one," replied Claybourne. "A banker--that washis trade, sir. T'other gentleman, Mr. Ransford, he was a doctor--I mindthat well enough, because once when him and Mr. Brake were fishing here,Thomas Joynt's wife fell downstairs and broke her leg, and they fetchedhim to her--he'd got it set before they'd got the reg'lar doctor outfrom Barthorpe yonder."

  Bryce had now got all the information he wanted, and he made the oldparish clerk a small present and turned to go. But another questionpresented itself to his mind and he reentered the little shop.

  "Your late vicar?" he said. "The one in whose family Miss Bewery wasgoverness--where is he now? Dead?"

  "Can't say whether he's dead or alive, sir," replied Claybourne."He left this parish for another--a living in a different part ofEngland--some years since, and I haven't heard much of him from thattime to this--he never came back here once, not even to pay us afriendly visit--he was a queerish sort. But I'll tell you what, sir,"he added, evidently anxious to give his visitor good value for hishalf-crown, "our present vicar has one of those books with the namesof all the clergymen in 'em, and he'd tell you where his predecessor isnow, if he's alive--name of Reverend Thomas Gilwaters, M.A.--an Oxfordcollege man he was, and very high learned."

  Bryce went back to the vicarage, returned the borrowed book, and askedto look at the registers for the year 1891. He verified his copy andturned to the vicar.

  "I accidentally came across the record of a marriage there in which I'minterested," he said as he paid the search fees. "Celebrated by yourpredecessor, Mr. Gilwaters. I should be glad to know where Mr. Gilwatersis to be found. Do you happen to possess a clerical directory?"

  The vicar produced a "Crockford", and Bryce turned over its pages. Mr.Gilwaters, who from the account there given appeared to be an elderlyman who had now retired, lived in London, in Bayswater, and Bryce made anote of his address and prepared to depart.

  "Find any names that interested you?" asked the vicar as his callerleft. "Anything noteworthy?"

  "I found two or three names which interested me immensely," answeredBryce from the foot of the vicarage steps. "They were well worthsearching for."

  And without further explanation he marched off to Barthorpe dulyfollowed by his shadow, who saw him safely into the Peacock an hourlater--and, an hour after that, went to the police superintendent withhis report.

  "Gone, sir," he said. "Left by the five-thirty express for London."