“There’s nothing on him—except a purse, with plenty of money in it,” answered Mitchington. “I’ve been through his pockets myself: there isn’t a scrap of paper—not even as much as an old letter. But he’s evidently a tourist, or something of the sort, and so he’ll probably have stayed in the city all night, and I’m going to inquire at the hotels.”
“There’ll be an inquest, of course,” remarked Ransford mechanically. “Well—we can do nothing, Mitchington. You’d better have the body removed to the mortuary.” He turned and looked up the broken stairway at the foot of which they were standing. “You say he fell down that?” he asked. “Whatever was he doing up there?”
Mitchington looked at Bryce.
“Haven’t you told Dr. Ransford how it was?” he asked.
“No,” answered Bryce. He glanced at Ransford, indicating Varner, who had come back with the constable and was standing by. “He didn’t fall,” he went on, watching Ransford narrowly. “He was violently flung out of that doorway. Varner here saw it.”
Ransford’s cheek flushed, and he was unable to repress a slight start. He looked at the mason.
“You actually saw it!” he exclaimed. “Why, what did you see?”
“Him!” answered Varner, nodding at the dead man. “Flung, head and heels, clean through that doorway up there. Hadn’t a chance to save himself, he hadn’t! Just grabbed at—nothing!—and came down. Give a year’s wages if I hadn’t seen it—and heard him scream.”
Ransford was watching Varner with a set, concentrated look.
“Who—flung him?” he asked suddenly. “You say you saw!”
“Aye, sir, but not as much as all that!” replied the mason. “I just saw a hand—and that was all. But,” he added, turning to the police with a knowing look, “there’s one thing I can swear to—it was a gentleman’s hand! I saw the white shirt cuff and a bit of a black sleeve!”
Ransford turned away. But he just as suddenly turned back to the inspector.
“You’ll have to let the Cathedral authorities know, Mitchington,” he said. “Better get the body removed, though, first—do it now before the morning service is over. And—let me hear what you find out about his identity, if you can discover anything in the city.”
He went away then, without another word or a further glance at the dead man. But Bryce had already assured himself of what he was certain was a fact—that a look of unmistakable relief had swept across Ransford’s face for the fraction of a second when he knew that there were no papers on the dead man. He himself waited after Ransford had gone; waited until the police had fetched a stretcher, when he personally superintended the removal of the body to the mortuary outside the Close. And there a constable who had come over from the police-station gave a faint hint as to further investigation.
“I saw that poor gentleman last night, sir,” he said to the inspector. “He was standing at the door of the Mitre, talking to another gentleman—a tallish man.”
“Then I’ll go across there,” said Mitchington. “Come with me, if you like, Dr. Bryce.”
This was precisely what Bryce desired—he was already anxious to acquire all the information he could get. And he walked over the way with the inspector, to the quaint old-world inn which filled almost one side of the little square known as Monday Market, and in at the courtyard, where, looking out of the bow window which had served as an outer bar in the coaching days, they found the landlady of the Mitre, Mrs. Partingley. Bryce saw at once that she had heard the news.
“What’s this, Mr. Mitchington?” she demanded as they drew near across the cobble-paved yard. “Somebody’s been in to say there’s been an accident to a gentleman, a stranger—I hope it isn’t one of the two we’ve got in the house?”
“I should say it is, ma’am,” answered the inspector. “He was seen outside here last night by one of our men, anyway.”
The landlady uttered an expression of distress, and opening a side-door, motioned them to step into her parlour.
“Which of them is it?” she asked anxiously. “There’s two—came together last night, they did—a tall one and a short one. Dear, dear me!—is it a bad accident, now, inspector?”
“The man’s dead, ma’am,” replied Mitchington grimly. “And we want to know who he is. Have you got his name—and the other gentleman’s?”
Mrs. Partingley uttered another exclamation of distress and astonishment, lifting her plump hands in horror. But her business faculties remained alive, and she made haste to produce a big visitors’ book and to spread it open before her callers.
“There it is!” she said, pointing to the two last entries. “That’s the short gentleman’s name—Mr. John Braden, London. And that’s the tall one’s—Mr. Christopher Dellingham—also London. Tourists, of course—we’ve never seen either of them before.”
“Came together, you say, Mrs. Partingley?” asked Mitchington. “When was that, now?”
“Just before dinner, last night,” answered the landlady. “They’d evidently come in by the London train—that gets in at six-forty, as you know. They came here together, and they’d dinner together, and spent the evening together. Of course, we took them for friends. But they didn’t go out together this morning, though they’d breakfast together. After breakfast, Mr. Dellingham asked me the way to the old Manor Mill, and he went off there, so I concluded. Mr. Braden, he hung about a bit, studying a local directory I’d lent him, and after a while he asked me if he could hire a trap to take him out to Saxonsteade this afternoon. Of course, I said he could, and he arranged for it to be ready at two-thirty. Then he went out, and across the market towards the Cathedral. And that,” concluded Mrs. Partingley, “is about all I know, gentlemen.”
“Saxonsteade, eh?” remarked Mitchington. “Did he say anything about his reasons for going there?”
“Well, yes, he did,” replied the landlady. “For he asked me if I thought he’d be likely to find the Duke at home at that time of day. I said I knew his Grace was at Saxonsteade just now, and that I should think the middle of the afternoon would be a good time.”
“He didn’t tell you his business with the Duke?” asked Mitchington.
“Not a word!” said the landlady. “Oh, no!—just that, and no more. But—here’s Mr. Dellingham.”
Bryce turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man pass the window—the door opened and he walked in, to glance inquisitively at the inspector. He turned at once to Mrs. Partingley.
“I hear there’s been an accident to that gentleman I came in with last night?” he said. “Is it anything serious? Your ostler says—”
“These gentlemen have just come about it, sir,” answered the landlady. She glanced at Mitchington. “Perhaps you’ll tell—” she began.
“Was he a friend of yours, sir?” asked Mitchington. “A personal friend?”
“Never saw him in my life before last night!” replied the tall man. “We just chanced to meet in the train coming down from London, got talking, and discovered we were both coming to the same place—Wrychester. So—we came to this house together. No—no friend of mine—not even an acquaintance—previous, of course, to last night. Is—is it anything serious?”
“He’s dead, sir,” replied Mitchington. “And now we want to know who he is.”
“God bless my soul! Dead? You don’t say so!” exclaimed Mr. Dellingham. “Dear,